“Some soldier of the garrison?” said Musdœmon, laughing heartily.
“What, my son!” exclaimed the countess in her turn. “Are you sure that she loves a rustic, a serf? What luck, if you are sure of it!”
“Oh, of course I am sure. But it’s not one of the soldiers of the garrison,” added the lieutenant, with an offended air. “I am sure enough of what I say, however, to beg you, mother, to cut short my very unnecessary exile at that confounded castle.”
The countess’s face brightened on hearing of the young girl’s fall. Ordener Guldenlew’s eagerness to visit Munkholm now appeared to her in very different colors. She gave her son the benefit of them.
“You must give us an account, Frederic, of Ethel Schumacker’s loves. I am not surprised; the daughter of a boor can only love a boor. Meantime, do not curse that castle which yesterday afforded you the honor of the first advances towards an acquaintance, from a certain distinguished personage.”
“What, mother!” said the lieutenant, staring at her,—“what distinguished personage?”
“A truce to jests, my son. Did no one visit you yesterday? You see that I know all about it.”
“I’ faith, more than I do, Mother. Deuce take me if I saw a face yesterday, except those of the masks carved beneath the cornices of those old towers.”
“What, Frederic! You saw nobody?”
“No one, mother!”