Trachtenberg

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6. Chapter VI



Four weeks had passed away. It was a dull, dirty November day. The gray snow-clouds were lowering, and now and then the lazy flakes fell, turning to water in the air and to mud on the ground. Between the slippery ploughed land and the low strata of clouds, the mists lay thick and motionless. The mild west wind that blew at times in the upper regions of the atmosphere did not reach them, and there they lay, as if wedged in, the gray ocean of vapor absorbing every tone and color. Even the sharpest eye could see but a few steps in advance.

The heath was quite deserted. A man who came from the west, driving towards the town in a light wagonette, met no one of whom he could ask the way. The wagonette was empty, and the fiery steeds, when he slackened the reins, galloped along at such a pace that the mud flew up in waves; yet the driver urged them along in the gray twilight.

It was now nearly midday, but no lighter than when he started in the early morning. "Drive on, Fedko; it is a case of life and death," the butler had said when he was told to go, and indeed he knew it himself. So again he allowed the reins to slacken, when suddenly the carriage stood still. The horses reared, but in vain. The tough bog in which they had sunk to the knees held them fast. The man jumped out, but he, too, stuck fast; they must have driven on the ploughed land at the turn of the road.

There he stood helpless--what was he to do--where was he to turn? "Jesu, Marie!" he cried, "perhaps in the meantime she will die!" Suddenly he heard a distant sound. He listened. It was the bell from the tower of the Dominican convent chiming the hour of noon.

He seized the reins and lashed the horses; they plunged madly. Following the sound, he succeeded in getting back to the road, where he could see through the mist the red cross at the entrance of the town. Five minutes more and the magistrate would have the letter.

But it was destined to be much longer than that. He had only reached the first detached houses when he met a crowd of people. "Make way!" he shouted; but he was obliged to drive at walking pace, and when he came into the built-up street his horses were brought to an entire standstill. The thoroughfare was filled with a compact body of people. It was as if the entire population were wedged together. Christians and Jews, men and women, now pushing forward, now backward, but without noise or tumult.

They whispered to one another, and when Tedko made an effort to push his way through they only said, under their breath, "Don't you see it's a funeral?" With this he had to be content; so he drove up close under the monastery wall. He did not ask who was dead--that was no concern of his. And perhaps it was well that he did not ask, and well that he did not wear the livery of his master, Count Agenor Baranowski.

They were the poorest of the people who waited to join the funeral procession--grooms, day laborers, and beggars, a rough lot, who generally eke out a cheerless existence, without any particular pleasure or pain, unless it be the care for their daily bread.

There must have been a close tie between them and the deceased, for if one of them raised his voice or pushed forward at all noisily he was instantly hushed into silence.

There was not one of the Jews who had not a deep rent in his garment. As this mode of grief is seldom observable except in the case of relations, the dead man seemed a connection of all. So, too, it was easy to read in the excited faces, and in the murmurs which now and then ran through the crowd, that their sorrow was strongly mingled with indignation.

Weeping and wailing came from the house of mourning. "It is his sister and her children from Tarnopol," whispered the crowd. "His son has not come yet."

Suddenly a weird sound arose, increased in volume, and ceased. It was the short prayer said by the burial guild before they enter the house to carry out the corpse.

"Make way!" resounded through the ranks, and the people pressed together to leave the middle of the street free. Some climbed on the count's carriage. The coachman made no objections. He sprang from his seat, and busied himself about the horses. Poor, rude serf as he was, he was no more in fault than the horses he drove, the same with which, four weeks before, he had driven his master and Judith to the retired lodge in the Carpathians; but he could not feel comfortable on his raised seat, for he now knew who was about to be borne to his last home.

But before this, another incident was to intensify the excitement. A piercing shriek was heard and a cry, "Raphael has come!"

When this news reached the house of mourning a prayer, just commenced, was suddenly stopped. The good order was for a time disturbed, and inquiries arose as to whether the report was true and where he was, to which no answer could at first be obtained. Finally some one told those in front, who passed the tidings on, that Raphael, hearing he was too late, had swooned away, but that, recovering quickly, he had gone into the house by the rear door, that he might take leave of his father.

"Stand back!" came the order. "The procession will start directly." The crowd obeyed, but their grief and anger became more apparent. The wailing of the women increased, and they cursed Judith and the count with loud voice and clenched fists.

Fedko drew his cap farther over his face. "If they knew what has happened this morning!" he thought. Verily, he did not care to change places with his master.

A minute later the prayers recommenced. The gutturals of the Hebrew ritual, solemn and impressive, penetrated the murky atmosphere. The procession was in order. In front, led by their teachers, came the boys of the congregation, the smallest first, all clad in long black garments. They walked two by two in silence, until, at a given signal, they burst into a prayer. It was short--so short that it was as though the hundred clear, childish voices had given vent to one simultaneous cry of grief. To this versicle, entreating for the peaceful repose of the dead, the crowd responded, "Amen! Amen!"

The youths followed, and then the men, all in their best attire, the caftan of cloth or silk being torn open on the breast. Some prayed silently, but the greater proportion walked along with bowed heads and lowering faces.

Between times was heard the shrill cry, "Save the soul!" from the watchers of the dead, as they held the alms-bags to the spectators.

The burial guild came next, shrouded in white linen blouses, their heads covered with a white praying-cloth. On a bier, carried by six men, was the corpse, the feet foremost, wrapped in a white cloth, not in a coffin, so that the outlines of the form were distinctly visible.

The women sobbed aloud, the men beat their breasts, imploring, "Peace, peace!"

After the other part of the fraternity, that alone has the right to surround the dead, had passed by, and the mourners became visible, a still stronger emotion stirred the multitude. Raphael, still in his mud-bespattered travelling-clothes, walked alone. He must have rent his garments so violently as to tear the flesh, for fresh blood-stains were on the edges. His face was gray as ashes, and his hair was doubly black by contrast; his features seemed petrified. He walked erect, his eyes fixed on the bier and his dead father's head. He declined the support of his uncle, who was near him, and only the deeply drawn corners of his mouth and the half-closed lips betrayed the agony he was enduring. He was not so much a mourner as an avenger.

"Poor fellow!" a woman would sob occasionally, but the men watched him with bated breath, and when one shouted, "Avenge him! we will help you!" they all joined in as if waiting for the call. The town doctor and overseers, who walked behind Raphael, looked around frightened, for the Christian dignitaries followed them, the burgomaster at their head. Herr von Bariassy was there also, with his subordinates. The magistrate alone was missing.

The procession moved slowly into the sea of fog over the dripping heather to the "Good Place," as the Eastern Jew calls the graveyard. All who could joined the procession. Fedko had a free road now, yet it seemed to him the right thing to drive to the back door, as if his errand were one which could not bear even this dismal daylight.

The staircase to the first floor was locked, and when he knocked one of the two Hussars who were walking, apparently idly, up and down, came and asked his business. After the soldier was satisfied, he knocked twice, and another Hussar opened the door, while a fourth stood at the head of the stairs. Finally the cook appeared. "Our master is ill; ill with terror," she whispered to Fedko. "He is so afraid of Jews! That is the reason these soldiers are here. But he will be certain to see you," and a few minutes after the coachman was requested to step in.

The magistrate sat in an arm-chair, looking very ill. His face grew paler and more agitated as he glanced over the letter. It contained but two lines: "As misfortune has occurred and I am helpless, come quickly, and bring the doctor with you."

He sprang to his feet. "What has happened?" he asked, tremblingly.

"If it isn't in the letter, I--" Fedko began, hesitatingly.

"Speak out! I am to go to Borky, and take the doctor with me; so it surely cannot remain secret from me. The Jewess appears to be ill."

The coachman nodded, "Yes, very ill."

"Has she injured herself?"

The man was silent.

"Speak! how did this calamity take place? The doctor must take his necessary instruments."

"She fell into the lake."

"When?"

"This morning, early. The count was still asleep."

"Who saved her?"

"The butler and myself. It was a hard piece of work. She struggled so. We only got her to land when she became unconscious."

The magistrate walked nervously up and down. "And this in addition! Surely the scandal was great enough. But what am I to do? You can fetch the doctor yourself. But not the town doctor. He is a Jew himself. The only good thing in the affair is that they do not know where she is. I will give you a line to the regimental doctor in Roskowska."

He went to his desk, and began to write. After a few words he dropped his pen. "Fedko, it is a puzzle. The Jew died yesterday at noon, and this happened this morning. Who the devil told it to the girl so quickly?"

"Nonsense, sir!" answered the coachman. "No stranger has been in the castle. She has not heard it yet."

"But what other reason could she have, the silly fool? She is there enjoying a thousand pleasures with her lov--"

He paused in the middle of the word. This Ruthene boor was staring at him in such a curious way. "This is very bad," he thought, "and he may repeat it. It cannot be allowed. This scandal on top of the other, and I am undone. They must leave, both of them."

He got up from his desk. "I will drive with you." He went to the window, and peered into the street, which was quite deserted. "Where is the carriage--at the court-yard gate? Very good. Then we can reach Roskowska unobserved. These stupid Jews threatened me last night."

He sent Fedko into the anteroom, and dressed rapidly. Lady Anna came in, and he told her the purport of his journey. The pair exchanged brief but hearty farewells. She summed up his activity in the affair in one word, while he thanked her with a delicate reference to the prior and the Rittmeister. He then went down-stairs, glancing timorously into the open door of the death-chamber as he passed. The windows were shrouded, and the numerous pictures turned to the wall. A small oil-lamp, the "soul-lamp," was burning in one corner of the darkened room, while the boards creaked as if drawing a breath of relief, because freed from their ghastly burden.

The official shivered as he hastened through the court-yard and jumped into the carriage. One of the Hussars took his place by the side of the coachman, and away they drove through the deserted street and along the riverside to the suburb Roskowska, where were the Hussar barracks and the residence of the regimental physician.

He was at home, ready to start, and willingly promised silence. But when the magistrate told him who needed his services, and requested him to take the necessary remedies with him, the rough old gentleman was deeply moved.

"Trachtenberg's daughter!" he said; and his bristly white moustache quivered. "Yesterday I attended the death-bed of her father, to-day the daughter's; and two months since how happily and peaceably these people lived! Oh, my dear sir, a terrible crime has been committed!"

"A good deal could be said on that subject," equivocated Von Wroblewski, helping the doctor to pack what was required. He dismissed the Hussar, but ordered the coachman to drive around the town, so they would not meet the returning procession. He then gave his version of the story to the doctor. "You see," he concluded, "how the mob wrong me. Nor is the count as guilty as he seems. The fanaticism of the old man is really to blame. 'I would rather see my child a corpse than that she should become Countess Baranowski.' Those were his words, 'pon my honor. Otherwise Agenor would not have proceeded to violence."

"All the better," rejoined the doctor. "He can marry her now. The dead make no objections."

"Hm--" The magistrate cleared his throat, but he had no answer ready. The idea kept running in his mind, "Anyhow, it would be an escape." He begrudged the Jews a triumph; but if Agenor did this, he would escape an unpleasant investigation. Yet it was not to be thought of. Though the young man might be as wax in other matters, in this he was iron. His lineage, his purse, his blood, were ever in his mind. How did he once express himself? "Only if I had to choose between a Jewess and a jail would I stop to consider which would be the greatest insult to my ancestors." But if he did not wish to marry, and if this was the only way to keep Judith alive and quiet the scandal, what then?

The magistrate closed his eyes involuntarily. He was a hard, unscrupulous man, and his entire life had been one long lie, but even he shuddered at the thought that just now occurred to him. It would be too base, and dangerous besides. He offered the doctor a cigar, and began to talk about the bad weather; and, indeed, it was a rough journey over the miry road and through the gray, dripping solitude.

The conversation soon dropped. Too dangerous? The idea recurred again. But it might not be. The interested parties would be silent, and, as it was, Judith and the count must leave the country. It would satisfy the girl. She would be provided for, and the supposititious scoundrel could probably be found, for, in spite of his assumed oaths, it was not likely that he had gone to Russia. If the count was willing, that would be the best way of escape.

By this time he was able to comfortably elaborate the plan in all its details. A queer sensation took possession of him, but in his heart of hearts he was afraid of himself; and yet he experienced a certain delight in thinking what an inventive genius he was. This must have been pictured on his face, for the doctor asked, in astonishment,

"What makes you so cheerful?"

Wroblewski became sober instantly. "I thought--well, what did I think? I believe it will end well, after all. As regards the girl, I trust to your skill. It would be sad if the pretty creature perished so miserably."

"Yes," was the answer, "it would be sad, and also very disagreeable for you."

"For me? But, my dearest doctor, you surely do not think I am afraid of the complaint made by the girl's father to the government. Little can be done to the count, and nothing to me. Mon Dieu! we are living in a country where the law is respected. The government will surely act according to law and order, and hand over the document to be examined by--"

"Yourself?"

"Not by myself, but by the magistracy here. That is a great difference. Just see," he continued, pathetically, "what a revengeful people these Jews are. Instead of making his peace with God, the old man used his last span of life in elaborating and carrying out a plan of revenge on those he supposed were his enemies."

"Although they treated him like Christians!" said the doctor, and his white moustache worked again. "But I believe the case to be otherwise. Nathaniel Trachtenberg would have died sooner if he had not felt compelled to fulfil this last mandate of conscience. That is also the conviction of my colleague, the town doctor. We watched with surprise and emotion the power of mind over matter; the feeble body sustained by the iron will. I was the first physician with him the morning of his daughter's flight, as my colleague was absent. He got up, it seemed, after the old servant told him her knocking at Judith's door had been useless, and, going to her room, he broke the oaken planks with the weight of his body as if they had been straw. He read the note he found on her table, and fell to the floor. It was a stroke which affected the brain partially, and the whole of the left side. When, an hour after the seizure, I went to the bedside to open a vein, I said to myself, 'You are tormenting a dying man. He won't survive the evening,' he looked inquiringly at me, and babbled something with his paralyzed tongue. As I could not understand, he wrote, 'How long have I?' I was on the point of lying; but when I looked at him I could not, but answered that it rested in God's hands. He wrote again: 'Have mercy, and give me three weeks;' and the look he gave me I shall never forget. By that time the elders of the congregation had assembled, and he began to write his wishes, which were immediately obeyed. One messenger was sent to his relatives, another to his lawyer, and another to Dr. Romberg, a solicitor in Lemberg. I objected at first; but when I saw how his eye grew brighter and brighter and his writing more and more distinct, I felt, so to say, queer, and allowed it to go on. Then came the most serious difficulty. He longed for his son in Heidelberg, and they calculated it would take five weeks to reach him, if summoned by letter. But in less than ten minutes a young fellow was found who was willing to travel night and day. So, you see, my dear sir, though much can be said against the Jews, they have at least a great regard for the dying and the dead."

"Too great, alas!" ejaculated Herr von Wroblewski. "I don't wish to throw a stone at the dead man, for he was blinded by hate. But how is it these people, usually so prudent, allow themselves to be incited against me? It will be their own destruction. I know for certain that this Jewish scribbler from Lemberg, the most clever quibbler in Galicia, has drawn up quite an accusation against me; and these people, who generally hardly dare to breathe in my presence, crowded up to sign it. Of course, it was lies, nothing but lies, 'pon my honor! You must acknowledge, doctor, a Christian would never have spent his last breath in hatching plans of revenge."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Possibly it was not merely a desire for revenge that urged him on. My colleague and myself witnessed these exciting daily scenes, of course, at the bedside of the deceased, most unwillingly, and protested against them. But he always replied--" The old gentleman paused.

"Well?" said Wroblewski, "one whose conscience is as clear as mine can listen to anything."

"His answer was: 'It is this duty which keeps me alive. It cries to heaven that such a man should be a judge. I will not go before God's throne until I have done my utmost to purify the earth from him.' Pardon me, Herr von Wroblewski!"

In spite of himself, the magistrate had grown pale. "Please, don't mention it. It does not matter in the least. It is too unjust, too foolish! The count elopes with his daughter, and he wishes to punish me. If it grieved him so terribly, he might have employed his last energies in getting her back again. The Jews are such a clever race that it would have been easy for them to have discovered the count's hiding-place."

"Castle Borky?" said the doctor. "Nathaniel and the elders knew that the evening after the elopement. It was superfluous trouble on your part to bind me to secrecy. There were a number of men who wished to bring Judith back by main force, that she might be judged by the congregation, but Nathaniel forbade it. 'No,' he said, 'some one will lose his life, perhaps, or you will be heavily punished by the courts. It is not worth while to incur danger on account of such an outcast. And why judge her? God will do that. For you and me she is a corpse.' Yet in the secret depths of his heart he must have had some feeling for the unhappy girl, for he fought long against the fearful ceremony customary in such cases, though it is very rarely carried out. It is said this is the first time in two hundred years that a Jewess of this congregation has eloped with a Christian. When he finally agreed, he made one stipulation, which certainly would not have been granted to any one else. But they could not refuse him, their head, her father."

"I don't understand. What ceremony?"

"The funeral!"

"What!" exclaimed the magistrate, in surprise, "have they buried Judith?" He was on the point of laughing, but the expression on his companion's face sobered him.

"It was so ghastly that I shall never forget it. My colleague and I had so arranged it that the last few days one of us was always with him. We relieved each other every six hours. But we knew very well we could not detain the escaping life much longer. He had weakened considerably after the lawyer's visit. There was no fresh stroke, but the tissues were being fast consumed. He lay there as if asleep, stammering his son's name now and then; and, indeed, had he not longed so greatly to see his son he would probably have died sooner. As I entered the room about eleven o'clock, day before yesterday, to relieve my colleague, he whispered to me: 'The end is fast approaching. Stay with him, but do not interfere, no matter what occurs.' Shortly after, the elders entered the room, and with them the rabbi, all clad in their praying-garments. They bowed to him, and asked if they had his consent. He nodded, the door opened and twelve men belonging to the burial guild came in, wearing white shrouds, carrying a curious burden. It was a large, handsome rose-tree in full bloom, the damp earth still clinging to its roots. Goodness knows where they got it. Perhaps from Count Baranowski's conservatory. They took the bush to the bed, and Nathaniel put out his hand and touched its crown. His lips moved. It may have been a blessing, or it may have been a farewell greeting. While this was being done, the others hid their faces with their praying-cloths, and some sobbed aloud. The bush was then taken into the middle of the room, the rabbi stepped forward--I have never seen a more malignant face--and spoke a few words loud and rough: I think it was a curse. He then seized the bush with both hands, broke it, and threw the pieces on the floor before him. One after another the men went up, snatched a blossom and scattered the leaves, until the bush stood bare as well as broken. I went to the foot of the bed. The old man kept his eyes closed, but he knew what was going on. A feeble groan burst from his lips, and tears coursed down his cheeks. He remained in the same position when the 'soul-lamp' was lighted for her who was from henceforth to be considered dead. Nor did he move when they made the cut in his shirt, which is emblematical of the rent made in the life of the mourner. At last the bier was brought in; the broken bush was placed on it, with the leaves which had been carefully gathered up; a white pall was spread over all, and then they departed. The elders followed, and I was again alone with Nathaniel for about two hours. I held his hand in mine, for I could not speak. At the end of that time the rabbi and elders returned, and the former, stepping up to the couch, said: 'It is finished, and because thou wast a just man all the days of thy life, may the Almighty prolong it! We have done according to thy will--thy daughter's grave is between that of thy wife (may she rest in peace!) and that which thou hast chosen for thyself. And when the Lord shall call her to judgment, and she dies in our own faith, that grave shall be open for her. We swear it to thee!' Nathaniel nodded. His breathing became more and more quiet, but he lasted ten hours, until yesterday noon, when he fell asleep--"

The doctor drew a long breath. "Excuse me, but not just now," he exclaimed, abruptly, as he saw the magistrate about to speak; "when I think of that empty grave and of her to whom I am going--" He pulled the carriage window down and leaned out, as if to breathe more freely, until the rain beat upon his hot forehead.

"Another sentimental fool!" thought the magistrate. "Curious, but most people are sentimental." But he dared not speak. So they drove slowly along. The twilight has given place to night, and as they were nearing the mountains, and the ground was ascending, the tired horses dragged the carriage through the mud at walking pace. At last they came to a standstill.

"What is the matter?" the magistrate asked, leaning out of the window.

"I don't know," was the answer. "Two horsemen with torches, followed by a carriage, are coming to meet us. I must stop so they can pass on this narrow road."

They proved to be servants of the count. The butler was in the carriage. He opened the door. "At last, sir! Have you brought the doctor with you? Our master is nearly mad, and has sent me out to look for you."

"Is she worse?" inquired the doctor.

"I don't know," said the butler, anxiously; "it was bad enough from the beginning. She is in the most violent fever. Two maids can hardly hold the poor thing on her couch. If the gentlemen would step into my carriage, we should reach the castle in half an hour, the horses being fresher."

Castle Borky was originally only a shooting-box of the Baranowskis, but the last occupant had been a misanthropic bachelor who had added considerably to the building, converting it into a residence. Situated on the lower slope of the mountains, it commanded a splendid view over the plain. This outlook, in fact, was its only attraction, for the garden, though large, was not ornamental. The pond, on whose shore that desperate struggle had taken place, had been artificially excavated in the plateau behind the house.

Beaching the house, they were met by the count. "Dr. Reiser," he cried, taking his hand, "come quickly!"

He led him up the stairs and through a suite of rooms until they stood in the sick-room. There was Judith, her haggard face deathly white, her forehead so covered with perspiration that her auburn hair clung to her temples in disordered locks. Her eyes were shut, and her limbs shook with fever. Two servants, common wenches, with coarse faces, cowered at the foot of the bed.

"She is asleep," whispered the count.

The doctor shook his head, went softly to her, and looked at the emaciated features of the girl he had known a few weeks before as a blooming beauty. His heart beat hard as he remembered the rose-bush.

She opened her eyes; the mad light of fever shone in them. "Agenor," she whispered. Baranowski bent over her tenderly, answering, "Here I am! What is it?"

"Agenor!" she shrieked, "have pity on me and let me die!"

She attempted to rise, but he pushed her gently back on the pillows. "Mercy!" she repeated, resisting violently. "You must know I cannot live so any longer. I will not curse you. I will bless you, but let me die. There is the pond."

The count was again obliged to hold her till the paroxysms were past.

"It has been like this for fourteen hours," he whispered to the doctor. "Chills and fever alternating; and she never ceases repeating those same words. It is heart-breaking."

"Yes, it is heart-breaking," was the reply, quietly given, but the words were as cold and sharp as the stab of a dagger.

Again the doctor bent over the couch. With the exception of some bruises on her hands and a cut on the right cheek, caused probably by the sharp leaf of a water-flag, there were no injuries perceptible. He took the measure of her temperature and felt her pulse. At his touch she opened her eyes and stared at him.

"Dr. Reiser!" she suddenly exclaimed. "You are good. Let me go to the pond. You are a friend of my father, and I must preserve my father from this disgrace."

The doctor covered her up carefully and went into the dressing-room. Agenor followed.

"What do you think of her?" he inquired, anxiously.

"As a medical man, I have little to say," said the old gentleman, roughly. "The external injuries are not worth mentioning. There seem no indications of any inflammatory condition of the lungs or brain. The fever is violent, but not excessive, and is quite explained by the occurrence this morning. If her mind were at rest, or she had fallen into the water accidentally, she would be able to leave her bed in a day or two."

"But as it is at present?" said the count, nervously.

"It will have a bad ending. I could not swear to it, but it is my conviction. I will put her to sleep with an opiate, and will try to check the fever. I hope by to-morrow her mind will be clear. But what good will that do, since her wish for death has not been created by the fever? She will beg neither you nor me for death to-morrow, but she will find it for herself."

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 assure 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 assure 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 passed 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 ejaculation. 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 passed 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 God forever!" ejaculated 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 passed 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."

"Hm! my dear count, I am no friend of the Jews, but I do not consider the disgrace such that you cannot survive it."

Agenor shook his head. "It is hard to reason with sentiment. My family pride, my name and race--that was the backbone of my life. It was taught me by my father, and I have clung to it with body and soul. I cannot live a cripple with a broken back. That is all!"

"That is all," repeated Wroblewski, mechanically. He had delayed the suggestion of his plan, but it had to come at last. "Ahem! Listen, my dear friend; you can always have recourse to that. But if I--you mentioned just now that the doctor had produced an artificial sleep for to-night--if you could induce such a sleep for her soul, to last one, two, or three years, or as long as you liked? It would depend on yourself when she was to be wakened."

"What do you mean?"

"As I have said, it would depend on yourself. Of course you would not do it until you felt convinced she would take it more quietly than she has to-day. That will be sure to come with time. The first outburst over, she will remember her duties; there may be children to be cared for. Of course you would have to leave the country immediately."

"What the devil do you mean?"

"It has only just passed through my brain. I have only mentioned it out of friendship, but you can make your own decision. The poor devil will do it for you gladly, for he was saved by your aid, and will hold his tongue in his own interests."

"Who?"

"You remember the affair with your farmer, Afanasiewicz? Well, that Ignatius Tondka--"

The count winced. He trembled in every limb.

"Silence!" he shouted.

"Pardon me. It was only a suggestion. But it is late." He looked at the clock. "Really, it is past midnight."

"It would be criminal."

"Yes, but murder and suicide are also not agreeable matters. Think of it until to-morrow. Good-night, my dear count," and without looking around he left the room, and was shown to his bedchamber. "To the devil with all this sentimentality!" he thought; and yet, though he was far from being sentimental, it was a good long time before he got to sleep.

The sun was high in the heavens when he awoke. The clock indicated ten. He dressed quickly, and rang for the servant, who told him the count had inquired for him repeatedly. The doctor had left, and the invalid was still asleep.

A few minutes after, and the magistrate stood before his host. Agenor looked ill and suddenly old. "I wish to expedite this affair as much as possible. When can the man be here?"

"Have you considered it thoroughly?"

"No hypocrisy! It fits your plans; you will be safe for life. You knew perfectly well that a drowning man would clutch at the blade of a sword. Your carriage is waiting. How much do you want, and when can the man be here?"

Herr von Wroblewski could be laconic when occasion required. "Ten thousand gulden! To-morrow!"

The count wrote a check, and handed it to the magistrate. He read it carefully, nodded, put it into his pocket, and left the room without bow or farewell word.