“Yes, monsieur, perfectly.”
“The reasons of your long silence are indicated in it,” resumed the minister; “but before being accepted as true, they must be more clearly explained. The manner in which the baron has treated you up to the present time does not seem compatible either with the fear with which you have regarded him, or with the terrible designs upon other persons attributed to him in this declaration.”
Stenson’s only answer was to lift up the sleeve of his coat. Every one could see, upon his thin and trembling arms, the marks of the cords that had been tied so tightly about his wrists as to draw blood.
“See,” he said, “with what sort of sport the baron was amusing himself, when the agony of death closed his eyes, and terminated my torture; but I did not acknowledge anything. They might have broken my old bones! I would not have said a word. What is it to die at my age?”
“You shall not die yet, Stenson!” cried M. Goefle; “you shall live to experience a great joy. You can speak freely now; Baron Olaus is no more.”
“I know it, monsieur,” said Stenson, “since I am here; but there is no more happiness for me in this world, for he whom I saved has perished!”
“Are you quite sure of that, Stenson?” said Monsieur Goefle.
Stenson looked through the room, which was very brilliantly lighted. He fixed his eyes upon Christian, who repressed every sign of emotion, so as to avoid attracting his attention in any way, and who even pretended not to see him, although he was burning to throw himself into his arms.
“Well!” said M. Goefle to the old man, “what is the matter, Stenson? Why do you weep?”
“Because I fear that I am dreaming,” said Stenson, “because I believed I was dreaming two days ago, when I saw him here; because I do not know him any longer, and yet I recognize him.”