“Ah! that is entirely out of the question!” cried M. Goefle. “The idea really tormented me, so much has been said about it; but Stenson, who assuredly would never have allowed such a thing to happen, gave me his word of honor that he had served and waited upon the baroness to the last, and was with her during her last moments. She did really die of inanition, but it was because her stomach refused to retain food. The baron spared no pains to furnish her with whatever she desired.”
“No doubt,” replied Christian; “if he is as adroit as your story indicates, he would be unlikely to commit a useless murder. All that he needed was to kill the poor lady with fear or grief. But there is still another explanation, M. Goefle; my own version!”
“What is that?”
“That she is not dead.”
“That is impossible. And still, no one ever knew what was done with her body.”
“There—you see!”
“The pastor refused it burial in the parish cemetery. There is no Catholic cemetery here, and it would seem that she must have been buried by night in Stenson’s orchard, or elsewhere.”
“Why, did Stenson never tell you?”
“Stenson will not be questioned on this point. The memory of the baroness is at once dear and awful to him. He loved her sincerely, and served her zealously; but he refuses to say anything about her religious belief, whatever it may have been, and it both terrifies and distresses him to have the subject even referred to.”
“Very well; but what does he say of the baron?”