The baron’s countenance fell. He began to look gloomy and disappointed once more—was the clue to escape him after all? He roused himself again, as with one flash of hope.
“Did no one help you to make it?”
(“If I tell that she had any part in it, it is obvious, from the tone he takes, he will give the whole merit to her. No, I’ll not mention her; and besides, she didn’t help me to make it.”)
“Oh, baron, it don’t want two people to make a pancake! I’ve always made pancakes for this castle these three and thirty years without help;” and she tried to talk as if she felt hurt, and thus bring the conversation to an end.
The baron passed his hand roughly across his forehead, and stamped his foot in despair.
Once more a hopeful thought flashed across his mind.
“These rings! tell me, how did they get into the pancake, if you made it?” he exclaimed, in peremptory accents.
“Those rings? I never saw those rings before,” stammered the cook, beginning to get a little confused.
“And what did you mutter as you passed the Hennenpfösl coming along, about it’s being all her fault, and making her suffer for it?” interposed the body-servant.
“Ha! said she so?” cried the baron. “Speak, woman, what meant you by those words? Beware, and speak the truth this time, for it is matter of terrible consequence!”