"You don't appear to consider it much of a pleasure," the official said, playfully, filling his plate. "And wrongly, too! You really ought to be satisfied with me, or do you fancy you would have secured a meeting in the park without my a.s.sistance?"

"Don't speak in such a tone," said the young man. "So you know of that already."

"Oh, I know much more. My congratulations on the first kiss. Why, I was in the garden myself, 'pon my honor; and, 'pon my honor, quite accidentally, though it is not necessary to say that, for I am a chevalier and will keep quiet about it." The repet.i.tion of the word "honor" was not to be wondered at, as the whole story was a fabrication. He had not seen the couple himself, but his wife, impelled by curiosity and envy, had followed Judith, and had not only confided the result of her observations to him, but also to the wife of the burgomaster, a lady who filled a vacuum in the little town with rare zeal, as she took upon herself the functions of a local newspaper, in so far as her breath permitted. In this way it happened that every individual in the town above the age of ten years knew of it.

"Is this all you have to tell me?" inquired the count.

The magistrate grew pathetic. "I don't deserve that. I came with the very best intentions, and because I thought it necessary. I thought it possible you might wish to utilize the absence of old Trachtenberg, and so have appointed a rendezvous for to-day. I came to warn you.

Yesterday I saw two Jewish girls wandering about who might have observed something. Don't forget the board has been taken down. It was n.o.ble of you and very like King Casimir, who opened all gates to the Jews at Esther's request. But take care! Her father has only gone to Tarnopol and will return to-day. Of course, I have no idea what progress you have made, but I should imagine an interference on the part of the father might spoil your little game."

The count felt himself blushing with shame. He was about to use some violent language, but had he not forfeited his right to do this?

"And now, my dear fellow," continued the magistrate, "I have a favor to ask for myself."

He hesitated. The count drew out his purse. "How much?"

"No, no, I do not mean that. It will only cost a kind word to a man who is dependent on you. I have got into a d.a.m.nable fix, through pure good nature, 'pon my honor."

Agenor glanced at the clock. It was one, and in a half-hour he had an appointment with Judith in the park. "Well, tell me, and in as few words as possible."

"I suppose you remember the farmer on your estate at Syczkow. An Armenian, Bagdan Afanasiewicz? He was here when you came."

"Certainly; a stout man, with a long black beard. He was spoken of as a very good and pious man, but avaricious."

"Quite right. His avarice and piety have been my misfortune. About four months since--it was in June--a young priest, representing himself as on his way to a new cure, came to Syczkow, and asked for a night's lodging. The pious Bagdan received him hospitably, and when they were at supper mentioned the distress he was in because of the excessive drought, which nothing could relieve except a solemn procession. The vicar of Syczkow was ill, and the vicar of the adjacent village demanded twelve gulden for this service. The young priest offered to do it for five. The vicar loaned his cope, the procession took place, and rain fell the following day. As the stranger seemed to understand his business, Bagdan had his new barn blessed for another five gulden, and the peasants took the opportunity to have their children baptized at cheaper rates. After a week the young priest continued his journey, and if he had stayed away all parties would have been satisfied, and I should have kept out of a row."

"Well?" asked Agenor, impatiently, looking at the clock.

"You shall hear. He returned, and this aroused the suspicions of even Bagdan, for he remembered the priest had said he was to take charge of a parish. Besides, the vicar of Syczkow was well again, and had no inclination for having a compet.i.tor in his field. Inquiries were made, and they found he was a scamp, born in the district of Zolkier, of good family, to whom he had caused much trouble. He had acquired a certain amount of clerical hocus-pocus by having been a novice in a monastery, whence he was kicked out for sacrilege. Bagdan told me and several others upon whom he had tried the same game, and I had him arrested.

But his brothers have sent a friend to me whose talents I esteem greatly, and who has much influence over me, the poet Wiliszenski; and he has prevailed upon me to give him his liberty because of his innocent family, they pledging themselves to send him to Russia. I was very loath to say yes, but it is so difficult to refuse anything to the amiable poet. The Armenian then said I had been bribed to release the fellow, who had not only cheated, but committed sacrilege into the bargain. I!--bribed! Then he sent an appeal to the government at Lemberg."

"But that can do you no harm," said the count, "your wife's uncle--"

"Has done his duty," broke in the magistrate, "and Bagdan received the reply he deserved. But his piety and avarice will not let him rest.

The loss of his ten gulden and the blasphemy, as he calls it, grieve him, so that he is having an appeal drawn up by some pettifogger here to present to the archbishop of Lemberg. That I heard this morning. Now you know the state of things in Austria. An official can do much--but a cleric can do everything. If the archbishop receives this communication, there will be an investigation, and though my conscience is clear, yet--"

"I understand--I am to request Bagdan to let the matter drop. But how can I interfere? The man is quite right."

"A friend is asking your help," said the magistrate, energetically. "In such a case, one does not consider right and wrong. I have not in your case. The man's name is Ignatius Tondka. Please make a note of it and write to your farmer to-day."

Agenor turned his back, then walked hastily up and down the room. At last he drew out his note-book and wrote the name.

"My best thanks," exclaimed the magistrate. "Your letter will go off to-day, will it not? _Au revoir_."

CHAPTER V.

Agenor was still under the excitement of this interview when he went to the appointment with Judith. "The reptile!" he muttered, as he descended the steps into the park, clenching his fists until the nails penetrated the flesh. "I must shake off this toad, who is defiling both Judith and myself."

But as he walked hurriedly through the rustling leaves towards the pine _allee_, the only one that could afford a shelter at this season of the year, his anger gradually evaporated, until he felt but one sensation, that of longing for Judith's sweet presence.

"I will tell her everything," he thought, "and she must choose for herself;" and the thought found expression in words even, but he felt he only uttered them to keep to his resolution. After he had waited a half-hour, there was only one word which he continually and hoa.r.s.ely repeated, as if in a delirium--"Come! Come!"

At last he heard her swift step among the leaves, and caught sight of her dress glinting among the trees. She came hastily, with a glowing face. The lace mantilla she had wrapped about her head had become partly undone, and fluttered over her auburn hair.

"At last!" he murmured, rushing to meet her. She stood still, and when she saw his pa.s.sionate face a trembling seized her limbs, and she stretched out her hands imploringly.

He scarcely observed it. "At last!" he repeated, catching the half-resisting girl in his arms, while his lips sought hers till he found them.

But only for a moment, for then she released herself. "Please do not make it harder for me than it is, for now it is bitter enough; but--"

"Why, what is the matter? You were not like this yesterday, you--"

"Then it is all right?" she asked, wiping her wet eyes and struggling to smile. "You have kissed me and we belong to each other for life."

This was said with such trust and earnestness that Agenor was touched to the quick. His arm dropped which was about to embrace her again.

"You dear love," he said, falteringly, "certainly we belong to each other. Nothing can part us again, Judith--nothing. And I shall do all that lies in my power to keep you from ever repenting it." He could safely promise that, for it was his firm resolve. "I love you as I never loved before."

A happy smile lit up her face, yet her eyes were filled with tears. "I believe you. Would I be here if I had one moment's doubt of your honor?

Would I have come yesterday? No, I should be sitting in my own room, weeping my eyes out for my misfortune in loving a man who had no love for me--who would not make me his wife. And perhaps," she continued shrilly, "I could not endure life with such shame and misery at my heart."

"Judith," he said, startled, "what thoughts are these?"

"Silly ones, I know. But see how much has happened these past few days.

I am quite changed. I do not think it ever occurred to any girl before.

I have no control over my own heart; it commands me, and I must come to you and be caressed, and caress you in turn. It is the same with my thoughts. They roam about in wild confusion. I am only quiet when I think of you. For I know you--"

"And yet," he said, looking at her tenderly, "you must have wept much since yesterday!"

"Are you surprised?" She asked this with a sorrowful smile. "Remember, my father and brother love me, and I love them. How startled they will be when you ask for my hand, and how it will distress them for me to become a Christian! Perhaps I may lose their hearts forever. They may never wish to have any more to do with me. You do not know what it means with us to change our faith. In our parish there is a poor old widow, Miriam Gold, who earns her living as a nurse. Her husband was a village publican, and her only daughter fell in love with a peasant, became a Christian, and married him. The father died of grief at the disgrace and from the sneers of our co-religionists, and the mother leads a wretched life. Had my father not interfered in her behalf, she would have perished. She, too, has cast off her daughter, and scarcely ever mentions her. She herself told me to-day that she had not spoken of her for years."

The count listened, his mind filled with contending emotions. "What, to-day?" he asked, in surprise.

"Just now. The reason I was so late was that she begged me to allow her to tell her story. Perhaps," drawing a deep breath--"perhaps it was no coincidence. She knows my position, and wishes to warn me. If so, my father may hear of it, and that would be a bad thing. Honesty demands he should hear it from us first, not from others. If you preferred, I could tell him myself."

"I must have time for consideration," replied the count. "I should like to spare you needless strife."

"Be upright," whispered his conscience. "You are a scoundrel if you are silent now." But how could he do it, and how would she receive it? Only just now she had said: "Perhaps I could not endure to go on living."

"Needless quarrels simply embitter the life," he resumed, mechanically.

"See, Judith, how I love you."

"I know it, and because I know it I will be still, and leave it to you as to how and when you will speak with my father. Of course, if he asks me, I must tell him the truth. You must surely realize it is hard for me; and since you love me, you must not expect to meet me in secret. If you only knew how I felt yesterday and to-day before I came. I knew it was not right, and I felt the shame burning my cheeks, and the bright daylight hurt me. Still, I came--I had to. I was drawn as if with chains; for I love you, I love you!"