"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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sports 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, pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 a.s.sure 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 s.p.a.ce. "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.