Musdœmon had shared his master’s fears regarding Ethel Schumacker, and had struggled against them without overcoming them quite so readily. However, charmed to see his master smile, he took care not to disturb his peace of mind, but rather sought to add to it, that he might increase that serene temper so necessary in the great for the well-being of their favorites.
“Noble Count, your son has failed with Schumacker’s daughter; but it seems that another has been more fortunate.”
The count interrupted him eagerly.
“Another! What other?”
“Oh, I don’t know,—some peasant, serf, or vassal.”
“Do you speak the truth?” cried the count, his stern, dark face beaming.
“Mr. Frederic declares that it is so, and he told the countess the same story.”
The count rose and paced the room, rubbing his hands.
“Musdœmon, dear Musdœmon, but one more effort, and our end is gained. The young shoot is blasted. We have only to uproot the parent tree. Have you any other good news?”
“Dispolsen has been murdered.”