"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 ma.s.ses 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sured 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 G.o.d 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!"

CHAPTER IX.

Three weeks had slipped by, and Christmas was close at hand. Day after day the same glowing sunshine flooded lake and mountain. Every one said it was the loveliest December ever known on Lake Garda. And yet in the midst of this beauty of nature, the two in the palazzo by the Porta San Michele walked in the dull, uncertain twilight life.

Judith had recovered quickly. She came to table as formerly, and neither sigh nor reproach pa.s.sed her lips. The count, too, adapting himself to the new conditions, never spoke of the past. But both felt acutely that a wide, wide gulf had opened between them. They lived as in a cloud, seeing each other dimly, and neither stretched out a hand to the other in compa.s.sion or in love.

Only twice during this week had they spoken of anything more than was necessary. The _Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung_ at that time the only large newspaper permitted in Austria, contained one day a lengthy leader concerning the new civil marriage law of the grand duchy of Saxe-Weimar. It was the first of those laws in Europe allowing marriage between Christians and Jews, without a change of faith on the part of the Jews. Judith had just finished reading it as Agenor entered the room. She asked if he knew of it.

He said, "Yes," adding, "it is very curious."

"Truly, and any one educated with us at home would be inclined to think it impossible. But since this miracle has been accomplished in one country, I suppose the others will follow. Perhaps the time will come when it will not be counted a crime for one to have a heart and to follow the mandates of that heart. May I keep this paper? If I had a prayer-book, I would put this in it."

He made no answer, but presently said, "The people in Weimar are rather given to innovation." She had hardly heard it, when an expression of deep pain overspread her countenance.

"Do you believe there is a prayer-book," she asked, "that would do for all mankind, no matter what their confession?"

"I don't know, but I will inquire."

"It would be useless, I suppose. As yet there is no occasion for such a book, but the time may come."

The second conversation, relating to something besides the dinner, the weather, or the health of the baby, took place just after a call from the podesta of Riva. Agenor paled when the chief official of the town was announced. But it was a harmless business he had called about.

New-Year's Eve there was to be a festival in Trent for the benefit of the poor of Southern Tyrol. The podesta brought cards of invitation to the wealthy _forestieri_ in person, so as to secure a handsome gift. As the stout, olive-complexioned gentleman bowed himself out of the room, elated with the splendid donation he had received, Judith said, "Are you not going?"

"No," was the somewhat surprised reply. "It does not interest me in the slightest degree. Besides, how could I leave you alone?"

"What could happen to me here? I have often thought, though I did not like to say so, that it would be a good thing for you to live for a few weeks in the world. And perhaps it would be--"

"Good for you, too? Has it got so far between us?"

"It would be good for both of us," she said, gently. "Perhaps there would be less restraint between us after a brief separation. Do not say more now," she continued, hastily, as she saw him about to speak. "This cannot be arranged by words, but I beg you to consider my proposal."

She arose and quitted the room.