“Good God!” cried Cristiano, in amazement, “I have accepted the hospitality of an agreeable person!”
“You are laughing at me, Monsieur Goefle! You don’t believe in his guilt, and you were jesting when you said just now—”
“All that I said I am ready to repeat. But I should like to know of what crimes you accuse my host?”
“I don’t accuse him; public rumor has accustomed me to regard him as the assassin of his father, his brother, and his sister-in law, the unhappy Hilda—”
“Nothing more than that?”
“You know what is said, Monsieur Goefle; you were commissioned, were you not?—Oh, no, it must have been your father, who was Baron Olaus’s lawyer at that time. The baron brought forward deeds of some sort. Nothing could ever be proved against him; but the truth was never known, and never will be known,—at least until the dead come from the tomb to tell it.”
“That sometimes happens,” replied Cristiano, smiling.
“Really, do you believe?—”
“Oh, that is one of our professional phrases, when an unexpected proof is discovered, you know—a lost letter, a chance word, long forgotten.”
“Yes, I know, but nothing was ever found, and for fifteen or twenty years the whole thing has been buried in silence and forgetfulness. Baron Olaus was suspected and hated at first, but he has succeeded in making himself feared, and that tells the whole story. At present, he carries his presumption and confidence so far that he wishes to marry again. Ah! may God preserve me from being the object of his pursuit! It is said that he loved his wife devotedly; but as for the Baroness Hilda, it is generally believed—”