"Oho!" said Topándy, smiling, "I understand. It may so happen that the steward will marry, and then he must have a separate lodging where he may take his wife. It will be ready in three weeks."
Lorand was quite happy.
He saw his love reciprocated, and his life freed from its dark horror.
Melanie had not merely convinced him that in him she recognized Lorand Áronffy no more, but also calmed him by the assurance that everyone believed the Lorand Áronffy of yore to be long dead and done for: no one cared about him any longer; his brother had taken his property, with the one reservation that he always sent him secretly a due portion of the income. Besides that one person, no one knew anything. And he would be silent for ever, when he knew that upon his further silence depended his brother's life.
Love had stolen the steely strength of Lorand's mind away.
He had become quite reconciled to the idea that to keep an engagement, which bound anyone to violate the laws of God, of man, and of nature, was mere folly.
Who could accuse him to his face if he did not keep it? Who could recognize him again? In this position, with this face, under this name,—was he not born again? Was that not a quite different man whose life he was now leading? Had he not already ended that life which he had played away then?
He would be a fool who carried his feeling of honor to such extremes in relations with dishonorable men; and, finally, if there were the man who would say "it is a crime," was there no God to say "it was virtue?"
He found a strong fortress for this self-defence in the walls of their family vault, in the interior of which his grandmother had uttered such an awful curse against the last inhabitant. Why, that implied an obligation upon him too. And this obligation was also strong. Two opposing obligations neutralize each other. It was his duty rather to fulfil that which he owed to a parent, than that which he owed to his murderer.
These are all fine sophisms. Lorand sought in them the means of escape.