“No,” he cried, “no one. I can say no more.”
“Then,” replied the countess, “I suppose the baron did not go to Munkholm.”
Musdœmon, at first surprised like Frederic, had listened attentively. He interrupted the countess.
“Allow me, noble lady. Master Frederic, pray tell me the name of the dependent loved by Schumacker’s daughter.”
He repeated his question; for Frederic, who for some moments had been lost in thought, did not hear him.
“I do not know; or rather—no, I do not know.”
“And how, sir, do you know that she loves a dependent?”
“Did I say so? A dependent?—well, yes; he is a dependent.”
The awkwardness of the lieutenant’s position increased momentarily. This series of questions, the ideas to which they gave rise, his enforced silence, threw him into a confusion which he feared he could not much longer control.
“Upon my word, Mr. Musdœmon, and you, my lady mother, if a mania for asking questions be the latest fashion, you may amuse yourselves by questioning each other. For my part, I’ll have nothing more to say to you.”