The monk stepped near. "It is very important," he urged, with shaking voice; "by God and all the saints, it is very important!"
"Write a letter, then, and I will forward it."
The monk shook his head. "Perhaps the good director would aid him. It was concerning his cousin in Russia, a poor fellow, Ignatius Tondka by name, whom the count had allowanced three hundred gulden a month, in consideration of important services; but Herr von Wroblewski only paid him one third of the amount, and that very irregularly. Could the Herr Director not pay it now?"
As he said this he glanced at the papers on the desk, and noted the address of the letter which was there.
"No!" said Herr Stiegle, "I know nothing of the affair. You must go to Wroblewski. Adieu!"
The monk stood doubtfully for a moment, and then quitted the room, with a pious salutation. In the corridor he drew out his breviary, and hastily wrote the address. He then went to Wroblewski. There he seemed to have suddenly shaken off the infirmities of old age. His figure was straight, and his voice firm. "You need not start, Wroblewski; I have only come to arrange matters by word of mouth, it seems so difficult to do it by correspondence."
Herr von Wroblewski grew pale, but quickly regained his composure. "Why should I start?" he asked, with a smile. "You are only risking your own neck. I am not in your debt. All the count has sent I have forwarded. Nothing has been as yet received for November."
"Every word is a he. My money, or I will write to the count."
"Why don't you? I have not the address or I would give it you. Herr Stiegle forwards the letters. But consider which the count is most likely to believe, you or me. Will you send him my letters? And if you do, is there any sum specified in them?"
The monk was still. Then he burst out into violent invectives, declaring he would confess all; that it would be more pleasant to have enough in prison than to starve in Mohilev, and the good company he would have would compensate for his loss of liberty.