Agenor wrung his hands, saying:

"I will do anything to quiet her. She looks at everything in too black a light--perhaps I may prove it to her. I shall never desert her, never leave her to her fate, never! I shall watch her carefully, and have her watched."

The doctor shook his head.

"Nonsense!" he said, harshly; "if and how you can convince her is your own affair; but don't attempt supervision. I have my own experiences of that sort of thing. And if it succeeded, it would only be verifying the manner of her death. For if she did not die in the pond, she would in her bed. There is no such thing, my dear sir, as a broken heart; it is only to be found in novels. But there is such a thing as consumptive fever. I saw Judith six weeks ago, and now again, and I can a.s.sure you she is in a fair way for it. As affects my conscience, the difference in the manner of death would not be considerable, but I must leave to you which you prefer to adopt."

He opened his medicine-chest, and began to prepare a drink.

The count sighed profoundly.

"Dear Dr. Reiser, you judge me severely. A man like you ought to know life. These affairs rarely end tragically. I a.s.sure you I look at my duties to Judith very seriously. But a marriage would be a moral suicide. That you must acknowledge."

The doctor turned around sharply and looked into the count's face. It was very gloomy.

"I admit it. But can one commit a physical murder to save one's self from moral suicide?"

"What am I to do?" groaned the young man.

Dr. Reiser shrugged his shoulders. "Choose that which seems easiest.

Consider the case--you look ill--go and have a sleep. I will be guarantee for tonight. Good-night."

He pa.s.sed into the sick-room. Agenor gazed after him, sighing deeply, and then went into his bedroom, where he threw himself on a sofa, in the dark. There he remained for an hour, racking his brain--murder or suicide--was there, indeed, no third alternative?

A knock on the door aroused him thoroughly. It was the butler.

"Herr von Wroblewski wishes to know if you will speak to him to-day. If not, he will go to bed."

In his trouble he had forgotten this man--a scoundrel who had always given him evil counsel, yet who was in the matter his only confidant, and for this reason he had turned to him this morning in his helplessness. "I will come," he hastily answered.

He found his guest in the dining-room on the ground-floor. The latter had enjoyed the meal which had been served, and was now comfortably stretched out, with wine and cigars. "Excuse me," the count began.

"Pray, pray don't mention it. You have heavy cares just now. I only sent for you because I am really somewhat tired. Just sit down and let me know how I can help you. You must surely see that I am your friend.

'Pon my honor, it was not easy to leave my office and family to come here. But have courage, and tell me."

"Thanks. What happened here this morning--"

"I already know," said Wroblewski, "though I do not quite comprehend it. I do not wish to blame you, but you do not seem to have acted quite prudently. When you suggested, the evening before the elopement, that Judith might take it tragically, and therefore your conscience would not allow it, what did I say? 'Your conscience? That is your affair.

Consider it well.' Now, thought I, 'the count knows Judith better than I, and his position to her; either he will not consider his scruples justified and will come, or they will, after consideration, seem well founded; and then, out of pure friendship, I will catch cold at the open window.' You came, consequently your conscience was clear, and that sufficed for me."

"Dare yon speak so to me?" cried the count.

The magistrate evidently thought it more politic to misconstrue this insulting e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. He said, innocently, "Of course! Who else than I, your only faithful friend? But it is not intended as a complaint; as I have once before said, you made a mistake. You ought to have disillusionized the girl carefully and delicately. Everything has its way, and much depends on that. You ought never to have permitted such a brutal affair as that fight in the water to have occurred. You have found maids to-day. Why didn't you yesterday?"

"We will not speak of that," said the count. "Nor will we argue as to whether you aroused my conscience or not, or whether you always did as I wished. Your conduct does not lessen my guilt; at least, not in my sight. I have acted basely and cruelly and carelessly. The first few weeks we pa.s.sed in a delirium. I thought of nothing in the world but her, and she only of me. Then came the wakening. She asked and urged, never dreaming I would refuse to marry her. She only wondered why the priest was so long in coming to baptize her and to marry us. You can believe I expiated a large portion of my sin in the three days I tried to kiss away her fears while I dissembled and lied. It was in vain.

Yesterday she remained in her room a long time; and when she at last appeared, I read in her face that she no longer believed me. Then, while she listened quietly, I confessed all, and swore I would never forsake her, and I really thought she would get over it in a few days.

So, at her request, I left her quite alone. That evening, when I saw her again, I was startled--such tearless, inexpressible sorrow was in every line of her face. She begged and implored: 'Make me your wife, for only three days, and then I will commit suicide, and you shall be free again.' It was frightful."

He was silent.

"Cheer up!" said Wroblewski, encouragingly. "Of course, you tried to pacify her."

The count shook his head. "I said to her: 'I can die with you, but I cannot make you my wife. If you like, this shall be our last hour. But if you decline this, and commit suicide, I will follow you.' I meant it seriously."

"I do not doubt it. And then you let her alone."

"I watched by her bedside till break of day. She was so still, I thought she had gone to sleep, and I gave way to my fatigue. It was the shouting of the servants in the court-yard that woke me. Fedko had observed her, and, following, staved off this calamity."

"Pray G.o.d forever!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the magistrate, solemnly. "What does the doctor think?"

The count repeated the doctor's opinion. "It is frightful!" he groaned, clasping his hands.

"Hm! then she does not know her father is dead?"

"Dead!" repeated Agenor, starting up.

The magistrate told the particulars indifferently. "But we need not take that into account just now, for she must not hear of it. You must take her away to Paris or Italy, though I do not suppose it will avail much. Consumptive fever! suicide! why, it gives one cold shivers down the back. That is, if we credit the doctor. But need we? For, I can tell you, he is a sentimentalist--a philanthropist"--here his face wore a contemptuous sneer--"and perhaps a friend of the Jews."

"I believe him; and if you had seen the poor thing you would not have doubted, either."

"That's bad. But now we must be sensible. What you said yesterday, excuse me, was sheer nonsense. That is the way a counter-jumper would talk if he could not marry a seamstress. But a Baranowski has obligations. What good would it do you, or the girl, or the world in general, if you committed suicide together? There are two courses open to you. Either let things remain as they are--"

"No, no!" cried the count.

"You need not shout! I am not a barbarian myself. I only meant for you to go South with a physician who would watch her carefully. But, of course, if you believe in a catastrophe notwithstanding, we will not speak of it again."

"No, not of that."

"Well, there is nothing else for us to talk about, for you can find the way to the nearest priest without my help."

The count stood still, with averted face. "You know of no other way?"

"No. I am sorry it must be so, but here are my heartiest congratu--"

He stopped, frightened at the gloom and pallor which overspread the count's face.

"Of course," he murmured, "how could there be an alternative? Pardon me, I only asked because, when one is in a fix like this--I will do it.

Please arrange with the nearest priest. It can take place to-morrow."

Here Von Wroblewski looked at him sharply. A shudder pa.s.sed through him.

"After the wedding you will kill yourself?"

The count was silent.

"He will do it," thought the magistrate, "certainly, or very probably.

That cannot be allowed. Since the Jews have become insubordinate, he is my only reliance, and, besides, it is my duty to save him."