“The unhappy baron—”
“Ah, mon Dieu! Baron Adelstan, whose name I cannot pronounce without emotion in this room, who was assassinated by the miners of Falun—or by some one else! for, after all, monsieur, who knows? Are you very certain that it was done by the workmen of the mine?”
“As to that, mademoiselle, I cannot say; if any one has a right to swear upon his honor that he does not know anything about it, it is your humble servant,” replied Cristiano, in an impressive tone, that seemed forcibly to strike the young girl, who gave his words her own interpretation.
“Oh, Monsieur Goefle,” she said earnestly, “I was perfectly sure that you shared my suspicions. No nothing will ever persuade me that all these tragic deaths that were talked about, and which are still talked about, in whispers—but are we quite alone? can no one overhear us? This is such a serious matter, Monsieur Goefle!”
“In fact it seems serious,” thought Cristiano, assuming the tottering gait of an old man, and going to see whether the outside door was shut; “the only trouble is that I don’t understand it all.”
He glanced around the room, but failed, as before, to notice the door of the guard-chamber, which was closed between M. Goefle and our two friends.
“Well, monsieur,” resumed the young lady, “can you believe that my aunt wants to make me marry a man whom I cannot help regarding as the assassin of his family?”
As Cristiano knew nothing at all about the facts in question, he tried to draw out an explanation by chiming in with the views of his new client.
“Your aunt must be a mad-woman,” he said, a little cavalierly, “or something worse.”
“Excuse me, Monsieur Goefle, she is my aunt, and it is my duty to respect her! I only accuse her of being blind or prejudiced.”