The blush of dawn glowed on the white, glistening dome of Monte Baldo,
while the cold north wind came whistling from the valley of the Sarco,
clearing the lake of mists and the sky of clouds. Only here and there
the dismal gray veils fluttered like signals of mourning on the
mountain-tops, or hid themselves in retired clefts above the azure
water. But the sun reached them even there, as it mounted above the
mighty Altissimo di Nago, which lies clumsily between the smiling
plains of the Etsch and the Garda.
The light grew stronger, the mists disappeared, and the golden rays
fell, full and beautiful, over the deep blue of the sky and the lake,
over the pale green of the meadows and the violet-hued rocks with snowy
caps, and over the narrow, crooked streets of Riva, which they call
Regina del Garda, the old and ugly queen of a kingdom eternally young
and beautiful.
The count stood on the balcony of the ancient but well-preserved
_palazzino_, whose graceful masonry rises close to the Porto San
Michele, in the midst of the thick greenery of a well-kept garden,
gazing over the crowded houses at the blue lake and the lovely
landscape dotted with white chalets.
It was the first sunny day after endless days of rain. How he had
longed for the sun, thinking when it came that it would ease his heart
and clear his brain! But no sun could dispel these shadows. He was a
fool when, two months before, he had said to himself, on entering that
house, "It is beautiful here; so still, so peaceful, every trouble must
vanish away." For his tortured mind there was no earthly refuge. It had
been a delusion, also, when, a few days before, the nurse had placed in
his arms his new-born boy, and he had murmured, "Thanks, Merciful One,
for the angel who is to save me and lead me upwards!" He was a lovely
child, with the mother's auburn hair and the father's dark eyes, who,
the nurse assured the Signor Conte, smiled when he saw him. But it
seemed to Agenor that the dark eyes threatened him, and the tiny hand
pushed him down into deeper damnation.
Things had turned out differently from what he had imagined as he sat
by the bedside of the poor girl before he agreed to that frightful
comedy. Then he had only thought of his disgrace when his deceit should
be discovered. How his life was to take form after he had given her
soul this opiate, or what the awaking would be--of that he had not
thought. There would be time enough to consider all that. Perhaps the
step might lead into a garden surrounded with prison walls; but that
would be an Eden compared with the dark torture-cell in which he had
felt himself after his conversation with the physician, and before that
clever scoundrel had given his advice. There was always the disgrace of
a discovery! But it was not likely; and, even so, it was less of a
disgrace to the name of Baranowski than a marriage with a Jewess. He
was forced into it to save his beloved's life! Had he chosen death, she
would have followed him, and would that have been an easier solution of
the difficulty?
He had felt like a free man when Wroblewski left the castle, nor had he
repented during the last few days. On the contrary, when he saw that
his stammering promise, "Your wish shall be accomplished; the priest is
coming!" was enough to revive the invalid; as he heard the repressed
sobbing with which her overwrought mind was gaining its usual tone, and
gazed into her face, which was beginning to smile again, he said to
himself--it was good--that he had forced himself into it, and the
subterfuge appeared a braver deed than the taking of his life. Neither
of them referred to the past. Only once she said, "We will pardon our
mutual sins against each other. You, that I would leave you; I, that
you delayed so long to do me justice. But now we have to anticipate
love, fidelity, and happiness as long as God gives us life. Ah! life is
beautiful!" He bent over her hand, and covered it with kisses. He had
discovered the least evil among so many that threatened, and he would
spend his whole strength in making it of less consequence when once the
hideous ceremony was over. The nearer the hour came the more afraid of
it he became. He was like a schoolboy in the face of inevitable danger.
He shut his eyes, that he might not see it. "Why should I see the man?"
he said, when Wroblewski arrived one afternoon with the rogue, and
wished to introduce him, that they might "talk over to-morrow's
programme." The delay was painful. He supposed the creature had brought
his costume, and Jan could light up the chapel immediately. Jan knew
who was coming, and that he was to be the witness.
The magistrate smiled. "The usual impetuosity of a lover! But the
reverend gentleman must first baptize the child, and before the baptism
he ought to instruct the mother for at least one hour in the doctrines
of our holy church."
The count drew back in horror. He was neither bigot nor atheist. He had
simply never thought of religion at all. He believed in God, and kept
the Catholic feast-days because he had been taught to do so, and it was
the proper-thing for a Baranowski. Heretofore he had only thought of
the affair as a crime against the state, not against Judith; much less
had he thought of it as blasphemous. It was only now he saw it in this
light.
Well, it must be borne; the sacrament of marriage must be dishonored,
but how about that of baptism? It was equally holy; yea, holier. He
knew his catechism.
"What baptism?" he exclaimed, finally, struggling to appear impassive.
"Let her remain a Jewess."
Wroblewski laughed out loud. "So she will, my dear count. But if we
don't carry out this hocus-pocus first, she will not credit what comes
after. She is a clever little girl, and knows very well that she must
be baptized or the marriage is not valid. No sentimentality! And, since
all is in working order, we had best hurry up affairs."
The count acquiesced, gave Jan his orders, and went up to Judith. This
expected ceremony had been present to her mind from hour to hour, and
had really cured her. Still she trembled, and burst into a fit of wild
weeping. He took her hand, and tried to comfort her. But she sobbed on.
"I know I can only become your wife as a Christian. And I will be
grateful to you for making me one my whole life long. It will be a
heaven on earth into which your kind hand leads me. But what goes
before is a hell. Don't be angry. It is not because I hate your creed,
or because it is strange to me. Even my father, who is an orthodox Jew,
always said, 'We are all children of the same Father in heaven.' But
this step cuts me off forever from him and from Raphael. Henceforth I
have only you in the whole world. I do not weep out of pity for myself,
but for them. They have lost daughter and sister; for, as a Christian,
I am dead to them. What they will suffer from their own hearts and from
our people! I must think of Miriam Gold, whose daughter became a
Christian."
He stood beside her as she stammered these words, and he felt he had
never before seen such emotion. He was dumb, unable to say a word; for
what could he say? That he would spare her this pain? Then his whole
game would be lost. The scene had so shaken him that he could hardly
stand upright as he led her to the chapel.
The late candidate for holy orders made it very short, and both
ceremonies were concluded in very few minutes. To the count it was as
though he saw everything through a veil and heard everything muffled by
distance.
How many times since had he seen this picture: the dim, faintly lit
chapel; the pale woman by his side; the gallows-face of the scoundrel
in his cape; Wroblewski stuffing his handkerchief into his mouth to
keep from laughing; and poor, faithful old Jan weeping bitterly because
a Baranowski was marrying a Jewess!
As he stood this day on the balcony, surrounded on all sides with
sunshine and the vivid coloring of the Southern landscape, suddenly it
vanished, and in its place was the chapel at Borky, and instead of the
twittering of birds in the garden was a whining voice which said, "And
hereby I declare you man and wife, in the name of--"
"Ah!" he groaned. "It was frightful. It was the worst thing that could
have happened."
It was not because of his blasphemy that he said this after more than a
year had passed away. He realized now that his sin against God, not to
speak of that against the civil law, had not been his most grievous
offence. He made this discovery the morning after the sad farce.
Wroblewski, on taking leave, had said, "Hurry up, and get away as soon
as you can. Go to Italy, or even farther. Think of the danger if that
revengeful fellow, Raphael, should sue you for abduction, and one fine
day you were summoned before the courts. Her most gracious Lady
Countess would be brought up as witness."
Agenor immediately informed Judith they would leave Borky the following
day. She was ready, she answered, but their route must be through her
native town.
"Why?"
"So I can beg my father's pardon."
He started. The news of her father's death would certainly affect her
keenly, and if she was once in the town the news of the marriage would
be sure to leak out. So he entreated her to spare herself that
excitement.
"You know it will be useless; that he will never forgive the
Christian."
"I must try," she answered. "I owe it both to myself and to him. My
father shall not think of your wife as a dishonored and light-minded
creature. If he chases the Countess Baranowski from his doors, then at
least my conscience will be clear."
In vain he tried to dissuade her, without giving some plausible reason.
Finally he conceived an idea which might avail. "The Countess
Baranowski must not run a risk of being chased from any door," he
declared. "You owe that to me." The effect of this speech was such that
he repeated it, urging her to have regard for the honor of his name.
She wept bitterly. "This is worth more to you than the peace of my
soul." Yet she submitted, only begging permission to send a letter to
her father. A few hours after she brought the letter, praying him, on
his word of honor, to send it.
"My word of honor!" he repeated, with pale lips. A few seconds after
she had left the room he watched the letter shrivelling up in the fire,
and he asked himself, "In what do I differ from those creatures I
despise?"
But, away, away! was his one desire, until he was in the carriage.
Learning caution by the words of Wroblewski, he chose a way that took
him out of the province quickly, going through Southern Hungary to
Fiume, and thence by steamer to Ancona. What comforts money could
secure they had. A courier travelled in advance, caring for everything.
But, nevertheless, it was a dreary journey, over snowy roads and
through barren, thinly populated mountainous districts, and no amount
of money could make the miserable inns comfortable.
The travelling was slow, not only because of the almost impassable
roads, but also because of Judith's state of health. She was so weak
and pale, and her thin face looked so tired and sad. "If we were only
at Klausenberg!" she kept sighing. He had told her this was the place
where they could first expect letters from home. When they were there,
how could he comfort her for not having a letter from her father?
Wroblewski wrote that Raphael had begun an action for abduction, and
had bribed the judges to extraordinary energy. He hoped to pacify them,
but it would demand great sacrifices. The count sent him the sum he
demanded, but asked himself, nervously, "Will it do any good?"
At the commencement of the journey he had assumed the name of Count
Nogile; quite a proper name, as it was one of the minor titles of the
Baranowskis. He gave orders to his attendants, however, never to betray
his new name to Judith or his old one to strangers. Accidentally,
Judith discovered it during their stay in Klausenberg, and inquired the
reason. To her surprise, he had no answer ready, and he was not
accustomed to lying. Her anxiety was very apparent, and at length he
said: "You shall know all. We hoped in vain for a letter from your
relatives; but they are angry, and are prosecuting me for having made
you my wife while you are still under age. The punishment will not be
heavy, but you cannot wonder if I wish to avoid it for the sake of
all."
Again she believed him; her tears proved it, and her despairing cry,
"Then we must be homeless forever."
He reassured her by saying that such would be the case only until her
people's anger was pacified, which he hoped would be soon.
"Perhaps God will be merciful!" she answered. "How dreadful would be my
lot, and how could I endure life, if I knew you had sacrificed home,
peace, and happiness for me!"
This plaint cut him to the heart even more than her suspicions. She was
speaking the truth, and it was all his own fault. Again, there was the
necessity of lying, daily and hourly, and the incessant dread of
discovery. Once during their journey they were overtaken by a
snow-storm, and forced to seek shelter in a castle by the wayside,
where they were kindly welcomed by the proprietress, an old Hungarian
aristocrat.
"What is your name?" she asked Judith, in the course of conversation
after supper. Judith blushed deeply.
"Nogile," she stammered.
"I know that," said the old lady; "I meant your Christian name." Judith
became confused, and she looked at Agenor for help.
"But, Judith," he exclaimed, with a forced laugh; "surely you know your
own name."
When they were alone she burst into tears. "Alas!" she sobbed, "I am
not sure of my name. You always call me Judith, but the priest baptized
me Marie, and so I fancied I must give this name to strangers, and yet
I was in doubt."
This confession affected him more than her tears, and pity filled his
heart--pity for her and pity for himself.
At that time he had been able to master his emotions; and as he had
thought the shadows must flee when the farce was over, so he had
expected, when they quitted gloomy Borky, great things from Italy. He
had spent some months there when a gay young officer. The country was,
in his memory, a paradise of light and joy; surely there must be an end
of sorrow when once they were there.
This time hope did not entirely deceive him. They went to Florence
first, and rented one of the splendid villas before the Porta del
Prato; and the mild air of the South invigorated Judith to such an
extent that her cheeks grew more rosy, her eyes brighter, and hours
came when she laughed and jested as befitted one of her years. This
reacted on Agenor, and he, too, was happier, or seemed to be; and when
they went, to Fiesole one beautiful day she fell on his neck, and
blushingly confided to him a great secret. He rejoiced, because he
loved her, and because he desired, from the bottom of his heart, she
should have that new, pure delight which would bind her to life with
strongest chains.
Now he could read Wroblewski's letters, which came more and more
frequently--always containing dark, mysterious hints at dangers
threatened by Raphael, or complaints that Tondka was growing unblushing
in his demands--with lighter heart. He knew the man as an extortioner,
who made a mole-hill into a mountain; but this painful story might be
hushed up with money, and he was wealthy, though perhaps not so wealthy
as he thought.
His position became more difficult at the beginning of summer, when
travellers began to come north from Rome and Naples, and when every now
and again he saw a well-known face in the street or in the chestnut
avenues, generally one of the Galician nobles or an old army comrade.
Married gentlemen, who drove by in dignified state with wives and
daughters by their side, stared at him curiously, but without sign of
recognition. The only ones who greeted him were either bachelors or
husbands whose wives were not with them. The number of acquaintances
kept increasing, and his position became more and more uncomfortable,
although he delayed his departure because Judith liked the place and
required rest.
One day a card was brought him--Baron Victor Oginski. It was one of the
friends of his youth. He welcomed his old friend with delight, and
Oginski returned the greeting cordially, though he said, gravely: "As
you are travelling incognito, of course you wish to pass unnoticed; so
even my desire to see you would not have made me so indiscreet as to
have called upon you. But, as your friend, I felt it my duty. There is
much gossip in the city about you and your companion."
"Whose business is it, I should like to know," cried Agenor, "how and
in whose company I live?"
"Nobody's," was the answer, "as long as there is no supposition of a
way of life which throws a shadow on you. One knows your ideas as to
the requirements of rank, and the origin of the lady is known.
Therefore, no one believes you are married to her; and they explain the
circumstance of your servants designating her countess as a proof of
your too punctilious delicacy. But when some lackey jeered at your
servant Jan because of his credulity, he swore by all that was holy
that he had himself witnessed baptism and marriage. Of course the story
has been bruited about, and though as yet it is not credited fully,
still many are doubtful, and I felt called upon, for the sake of our
old friendship, to inquire for myself."
"Thank you for your good-will," replied Agenor, "but I must refuse any
explanation."
"That is worse than an outright 'yes,'" said Oginski. "The affair
remains accordingly a fit subject for gossip."
"I cannot help it."
Oginski took his hat. "Well, as your friend, I counsel you to go as
soon as possible to some remote place, since you are unwilling to give
an open answer."
Two days later Agenor followed this advice. It was the end of
April, and his route lay through Milan to the lakes. There were
color, odor, and beauty wherever his eye rested, but Italy was no
longer the paradise he had pictured it. Under the influence of that
conversation, he had directed that all his letters should be sent to
his banking-house in Vienna, so that no one in Galicia should know his
address. Indeed, he felt his humiliation so keenly that he left
Bellagio after a very brief stay--although he had met no acquaintance
there--for a small village seldom visited by tourists. At Iseo, on the
lake of the same name, they paused; "for how long?" he asked himself in
despair.
As week after week passed quietly and without interruption, he pulled
himself together, enough at least to hide his state of mind from
Judith, though he did not entirely succeed. It was, however, not a mere
reflection from his mind which caused her to pass whole days in gloomy
brooding after their departure from Florence.
She did not weep, but this silent grief was deeper than the louder one,
and her fever came again. The Austrian physician, who came from Brescia
occasionally at Agenor's request, looked grave.
"I am afraid I cannot order your wife to be happy. Speak seriously with
her. Perhaps she is afraid of her hour of trial; that is often the case
with young wives."
Agenor hesitated some time before he asked her this question. She was
silent, and it was only after repeated inquiries she said: "And if it
were so, is it not natural for a woman, burdened by her father's curse,
to tremble at the thought of the hour which is to make her a mother?"
He attempted to comfort her, and spoke of God's mercy.
"God?" she exclaimed, passionately. "Yes! if I could speak to him,
could implore him, could pray to him! But I cannot, Agenor. Formerly,
when a grief oppressed me, a care or sorrow, I took my prayer-book and
prayed to the God of my fathers. Now I have no prayer-book--"
"We have the same God, and forms are unimportant."
She shook her head gloomily. "I have said that myself, but it is of no
use. How can I explain to you what goes around and around in my poor
head? One must have a language to pray in. I have forgotten the old
one, and do not know the new. You have taken me into many churches to
admire the exquisite paintings and the loftiness of the ceilings, but
you never asked how they affected me. I shivered when I stepped into
those cool halls out of the sunshine; I shivered through and through.
It was so strange, so ghostly, how could I ever learn to pray in a
church? Perhaps it would have been easier for me if I had been better
instructed in your faith; but I cannot even make the sign of the cross,
and if I could, how dare I do it? All I know about the Crucified One is
that he was a renegade rabbi, for whose sake all my race, even to the
present day, have to endure disgrace and persecution."
Agenor bowed his head, and said nothing. Now he understood that that
baptism was not merely a sin against the God of his catechism, but a
crime against a young, anxious, thirsting human soul. What could he
say? how was he to console her? There was only one thing to which he
could exhort her--her duty towards the tiny creature budding under her
heart. When he mentioned that, the rigidity left her face, and the
tears flowed again.
"Will the child be a pleasure to you?" she asked. "Will it never be a
burden?"
When his lips answered for his heart, the effect was what he wished. "I
will be strong," she promised. And she kept her word.
The days came again when she smiled and rejoiced in nature. He himself
shook off his fear of the world so far as to take short excursions with
her--to Brescia, to Lake Garda, and to Verona. In this city, in the
Garden of the Franciscans, where they were expected to admire an old
stone coffin, the Tomba di Giulietta, they passed the pleasantest hour
since that memorable day in Fiesole.
But it was to end sadly enough; for as they were wandering through the
gardens containing the sarcophagus, Agenor suddenly started, and
insisted on returning to the hotel, even on their departure from the
city, urging as a plea that he was not well. But as Judith, a half-hour
afterwards, looked on to the street, where her carriage was being made
ready, she discovered the reason. A gentleman was speaking to Jan in
Polish, who replied very curtly; the same gentleman she had seen,
without paying much attention to him, in the garden.
She grew pale, but made no remark; but when, a day or two after,
Agenor, observing her moodiness, proposed another excursion, she
declined, saying, sarcastically: "It might make you unwell again.
Pardon me," she then sobbed, "I know you are not happy, either. You,
who are so sought for at home, dare not go out abroad lest your
fellow-countrymen should see you and tell that the Jewess is your wife.
I will not say that it is a disgrace, such as you regard it, but it is
sufficient for me to know you are unhappy for my sake. How miserable
that makes me!"
"Think of the child!" he begged. This was his last resource, and even
that had now lost its effect.
"It is because I do think of it," she cried in despair, "that I am
doubly wretched. How can you love the child of the woman who is a
burden to you, and which will bind you still closer? As yet, you have
only cursed the hour of our marriage. Soon you will curse the hour of
its birth."
They were both wretched, and there seemed no end to this misery, ever
new.
"I was a villain! I was mad!" the young man said to himself, as he
watched the sunshine playing on the autumnal landscape. "What shall I
say when she asks where the child is to be baptized?"
That was his closest and most pressing care, but it was not the only
one that burdened him. As yet he paid little attention to the exactions
of Wroblewski, but now he began to appreciate the dangers threatening
his future and honor by this vampire. What would be the end?
He would never desert Judith, nor yet waken her from her dream. But
could he pass his life in this way, in idleness and disgrace, a
fugitive startled at the sight of a gendarme, dreading lest he should
be asked to show the passports of Count and Countess Nogile,
compressing himself into the closest quarters possible when driving
through the streets, for fear of recognition by an old acquaintance. It
could not continue; was there any chance of escape?
A shrill little voice woke him from his reverie. Down in the garden,
in front of the house, the fat Italian nurse, Annunciata, paced
up and down, trying to still the crying of the child by her songs. He
heard Judith's voice calling her; very probably she was in the
breakfast-room, waiting for him. He drew himself up, passed his hand
over his face, as if to smooth out all traces of sadness, and then went
to the ground-floor.
At the breakfast-room door he was met by the nurse. He bent over and
kissed the boy, who stared at him out of his dark, wide-open eyes
soberly, even thoughtfully. When he lifted his eyes, he met Judith's
fixed inquiringly upon him. He understood. "Poor thing," he thought,
"she is watching to see with what expression I kiss the child." He bade
her good-morning as naturally as possible. But he could tell by her
eyes and the pallor of her complexion that she had cried during the
night. And why? Ah! he had no need to ask.
He took his seat opposite her, sipped his tea, and praised the
loveliness of the morning. "It is like a spring day, and yet it is late
in the autumn."
"Yes," she responded, with a quiver in her voice. "It is the 30th of
November."
"Already?" he said, indifferently. "How time--" He did not finish the
sentence. Her peculiar intonation struck him, and as he looked at her,
"_Mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed, and, sitting beside her, he put his arms
around her. "Pardon me! How could I forget it. Why, it is the
anniversary of our wedding-day."
She made no answer, but put her arms around his neck and wept quietly.
"Let it be," she whispered, as he tried to soothe her, pressing her
face more closely against his shoulder. "It is best so."
She soon dried her tears, and loosed herself gently from his arms. "Sit
down opposite me, and let us talk sensibly. We will not make our hearts
heavier than they really are, Agenor. We will not ask how the year has
passed, and if it were necessary it should have been as it has. But how
about the future? Do you intend to remain here?"
"Certainly; for the winter at least. That is, if it pleases you," he
answered, quickly. "Otherwise we could go south, to Sicily, perhaps."
She shook her head. "How about going north, home, Agenor?"
"You know," he replied, with forced composure, "that that is
impossible."
"No, I do not know it, but I believe you. But are you quite certain
about that? You say my father's suit against you, on account of my
marriage under age, would bring you under the law. But the punishment
cannot be severe, and there is no dishonor attached."
"For a man of my position?"
She lifted her hand expostulatingly. "For a man in your position it is
best to manage your own estates, and, above all, it is seemly to be
able to look every one in the face, and not to hide one's self in the
most secret corners of a foreign land. If it is only fear of
punishment, let me entreat of you to go home, for your own sake."
"I have made inquiries," he said, hesitatingly. "If the punishment is
really trifling--"
"You are a poor liar," she interrupted. "If you had made inquiries, the
answer would have been here long ago. It is not so much the dread of
punishment as of taking home a Jewish wife."
"No, no! how often must I assure you of that?"
"What else is it? We are both being ruined by it, Agenor. Cannot you
comprehend what I feel when I think we are not able to go home while my
father lives, because of his anger. I know he must be very angry,
because he has not answered my second letter."
"Have you written him?" the count asked, growing very pale.
"Yes, a few days before my delivery. I could not restrain my fears.
There are words in that letter which, if he does not answer, he must be
angry indeed. I implore you, let me try it by word of mouth."
He did not hear her. His face became gray, as he thought of the results
of this letter. "Everything is lost," he thought. "By this time they
know of the fraud."
"How could you do this?" he suddenly asked.
"What!" she cried, and her eyes flashed. "Do you dare reproach me with
that letter? Are you not human? have you never had parents? And yet you
say you love me!"
"I did not mean it so," he replied. "You are right. We must commence to
think of going home. But not before spring. A winter journey from Lake
Garda to Galicia, with that delicate child, would be madness. Remember
our journey to Fiume!"
"That is an especially difficult road. We can go _via_ Vienna."
"The Alps are very unpleasant in winter. Think if anything should
happen to the boy. We must not have that on our conscience."
"When, then, do you propose to leave?"
"As soon as it is spring."
"In April. Very well, then. Your word of honor, Agenor."
"They will have arrested me before then," was his thought. "My word of
honor," were his words.
"Once more, when is the baby to be baptized? It is six weeks old, and
nurse complains she is laughed at on account of the little heathen."
"As soon as possible," he promised. "I have no papers with me to prove
my authentic name. I wrote for them, but they have not yet arrived. It
is so far."
"Yes, it is far," she sighed, gazing into space. "But you had better
make the most of this beautiful day. Go for a row on the lake."
"Won't you go with me?" She declined. He took her cold hand in his, and
said, tremulously, "Judith, whatever happens--" but his throat seemed
to contract so as to forbid speech, and he left the room.
Mechanically he seized his hat and went to the lake. As he walked
slowly along, one thought was ever present--how could he escape the
dangers brought about by this letter? Perhaps by a speedy flight to
Egypt or Sicily. But no, if the authorities had really been informed
and were determined to prosecute, flight would be useless. The police
would already be on his track, and only one thing remained--a bullet in
his brain, or a jump into the clear water.
Sitting in the boat and pondering upon these things, he was recalled to
himself by the boatman's voice: "Do not lean over so far, Signor Conte.
It throws the boat out of its balance." No, he must not do that, unless
it should be absolutely necessary, if only for the sake of Judith.
"Turn back!" he ordered; and as the little town rose to meet him out of
the waves, he made an effort to collect his thoughts.
There was but one course to pursue; to order Wroblewski to spare no
trouble to stop further proceedings in the courts. "He has influence in
this regard, and will do it to save his own skin," he said to himself.
That Herr von Wroblewski had lost his position, and in what manner, the
count knew not, the ex-magistrate having considered it wiser to keep
the matter to himself; and Herr Stiegle never wrote a line more than
was necessary.
The count hastened home and began a letter. But after a few lines the
pen dropped from his hand. "How abominable this is!" he thought. "How
cowardly! Had any one told me I was capable of this"--and he clenched
his fists so that the nails pierced the flesh. But he took the pen
again--for it must be done. It was long, however, before he found words
in which to make the dubious proposal.
He sealed the letter, wrote another to Stiegle, ordering him to pay
Wroblewski ten thousand gulden, and, putting both into a large
envelope, addressed it to his Viennese banker. "That, too, is cowardly
and knavish," he said to himself, in painful self-condemnation. "When
is this lying and cheating to have an end?"
The thought of his child's baptism weighed heavily upon him. The
illegitimate child of Judith Trachtenberg, according to the existing
imperial law, must be a Jew, and no priest could baptize it till the
mother had given her written consent; nor could a priest enter the boy
in a register as Count Nogile, or Baranowski, until the marriage
certificate of the parents had been produced. What should he do--commit
another crime, or tell the truth? Neither was possible. And how long
would he be able to resist the importunities of the mother?
That magnificent day was the saddest he had ever known; and as he
watched the sun sinking gloriously behind the hills of Tarbole, land
and sea aflame in a deep-red light, he looked forward to the morrow
with apprehension. It was late before he retired, and his sleep was
disturbed by hideous dreams.
When the count woke up, the sun was high in the heavens. His servant,
Jan, stood before him. The old man looked frightened. "Pardon me for
waking you," he stammered, "but our gracious countess is in a dead
faint, and I, old donkey that I am, am to blame."
"What has happened?" exclaimed Agenor, dressing hastily.
"It's because I cannot read," continued the old fellow, whimpering,
"otherwise I should have noticed the address and post-office notice,
and would not have given her the letter."
"What letter?" cried the count, seizing him by the shoulder, in his
excitement.
"A few weeks ago she gave me a letter, just before our little prince
was born. 'Jan,' said she, 'take this letter to the post and have it
registered.' So I did. Well, I went this morning to fetch the letters,
but there was only the paper. I was about to go, when the postmaster
says, 'Ah, Jan,' says he, 'you get this back again, for as yet there is
no post to the country where this person is.' I asked no questions, but
took the letter, and when I went into the breakfast-room where the
countess was sitting, and she saw the letter, she cried, 'My father!'
and fell down in a swoon. For the letter was addressed to him, and on
the other side was written, 'The person addressed is dead.' Hamia, who
can read, told me that, and I, old fool that I am--"
The count had heard enough, and was already on his way to the
breakfast-room. The maid, Hamia, stood at the door. "Madame la Comtesse
is fully conscious again, but wishes to be alone, and has forbidden me
to admit any one, even you." But he pushed her aside and entered.
Judith was stretched out on the floor. Her hair hung in confused masses
over her pale, rigid face. He went to her; she slowly raised herself on
her elbow and looked at him, so that he stood still involuntarily, and
dropped his eyelids. He could not look into those glazed eyes.
"Go!" she said, in a low voice, but so distinct that it went through
him. Like a man condemned to death, he tottered from the room.
She kept to her own room all day, refusing food and drink. The count
was almost beside himself; but Hamia, who was devoted to her mistress,
conceived a good idea. In the evening she took the child, and, going to
her mistress, urged her to be sensible, trusting in this way to break
up the hardness of Judith's grief. She did not entirely succeed,
however, though Judith fondled the baby and was coaxed into taking a
little food. Some hours after--it was nearly midnight--she sent for
Agenor.
He quickly answered the summons and went to her couch. Looking at her,
his heart seemed to stand still with pity and penitence. "Judith, if
you only knew what I, too, have to suffer!"
She nodded. "It certainly cannot be pleasant," she said, callously.
"But I won't reproach you. I sent for you because I must know
something. You will tell me the truth, Agenor. You believe in God and
will not lie to me in such an hour."
"Judith," he implored, "do not excite yourself any more to-day. Think
of the child."
"So I do," she answered. "I should go mad if I did not. Tell me,
Agenor, when did my father die?"
He would have given an equivocal answer, but he could not under the
influence of those eyes. "About a year ago."
"Oh!" It was one word, in a tone indicating fearful mental anguish. She
shut her eyes and lay still, breathing hard.
"Judith!" he attempted to take her hand.
"Be still!" she hissed. "I am his murderess. Tell me the truth, Agenor.
Did he die the day after I fled?"
"No," he assured her. "Some weeks after."
"It is all the same. It was from sorrow about me. Why did you lie in
saying he was prosecuting us?"
"It was no lie. He began proceedings and Raphael has carried them on.
So I have heard from home."
"It is quite likely. Raphael is a good son, and will avenge his
father's death. If he only knew how superfluous it was! 'Revenge is
mine,' saith the Lord. If he only knew how God himself has begun the
work--and he will carry it out; I feel it. My poor, innocent baby!"
He fell at the foot of her couch, and lifted his hands towards her.
"Just because of the child, Judith, it may turn out well."
She shook her head gloomily. "No happiness can be built on curses and
lies. Was he dead when I was married to you?"
He made no answer.
"Then, that was the reason I could not go home. But you allowed me to
write, and gave me your word of honor you would send the letter. Your
word of honor, Count Agenor Baranowski!"
"Consider my position, Judith. You had hardly recovered. The doctor
warned me to avoid any fresh excitement. You cannot, you must not,
despise me for that."
"But has this been your only lie? Get up. Look me in the face. Am I
your wife--am I a Christian?"
His blood rushed to his heart. "Remember--"
"Yes, I know. But the ground is shaking under my feet. It seems as if I
must doubt my very eyes and ears. Besides, what do I know of your
usages? Perhaps it was only a blind to keep me alive. It is possible,
for your friend and counsellor was a scoundrel. If it was a trick,
confess it now. I promise you, I will not kill myself, for then my
child would have no father, and he must not be left motherless. But I
must know the truth. For if I am not a Christian, I shall be able to
pray again, and mourn for my father after the manner of my nation.
Agenor, you will be the vilest of men if you can lie to me now. Answer!
I ask you again--am I a Christian, and am I your wife?"
He felt his knees giving way, and he seized the bedpost to keep himself
steady. There was a roaring in his ears, and his heart almost stopped
beating. Though he hesitated but a second, it seemed an eternity. When
at last he spoke, it was as though he heard some other voice saying,
"You are a Christian, and you are my wife!"