Judith Trachtenberg: A Novel

by Karl Emil Franzos

"I know that," said the old lady; "I meant your Christian name." Judith became confused, and she looked at Agenor for help.

"But, Judith," he exclaimed, with a forced laugh; "surely you know your own name."

When they were alone she burst into tears. "Alas!" she sobbed, "I am not sure of my name. You always call me Judith, but the priest baptized me Marie, and so I fancied I must give this name to strangers, and yet I was in doubt."

This confession affected him more than her tears, and pity filled his heart--pity for her and pity for himself.

At that time he had been able to master his emotions; and as he had thought the shadows must flee when the farce was over, so he had expected, when they quitted gloomy Borky, great things from Italy. He had spent some months there when a gay young officer. The country was, in his memory, a paradise of light and joy; surely there must be an end of sorrow when once they were there.

This time hope did not entirely deceive him. They went to Florence first, and rented one of the splendid villas before the Porta del Prato; and the mild air of the South invigorated Judith to such an extent that her cheeks grew more rosy, her eyes brighter, and hours came when she laughed and jested as befitted one of her years. This reacted on Agenor, and he, too, was happier, or seemed to be; and when they went, to Fiesole one beautiful day she fell on his neck, and blushingly confided to him a great secret. He rejoiced, because he loved her, and because he desired, from the bottom of his heart, she should have that new, pure delight which would bind her to life with strongest chains.

Now he could read Wroblewski's letters, which came more and more frequently--always containing dark, mysterious hints at dangers threatened by Raphael, or complaints that Tondka was growing unblushing in his demands--with lighter heart. He knew the man as an extortioner, who made a mole-hill into a mountain; but this painful story might be hushed up with money, and he was wealthy, though perhaps not so wealthy as he thought.

His position became more difficult at the beginning of summer, when travellers began to come north from Rome and Naples, and when every now and again he saw a well-known face in the street or in the chestnut avenues, generally one of the Galician nobles or an old army comrade. Married gentlemen, who drove by in dignified state with wives and daughters by their side, stared at him curiously, but without sign of recognition. The only ones who greeted him were either bachelors or husbands whose wives were not with them. The number of acquaintances kept increasing, and his position became more and more uncomfortable, although he delayed his departure because Judith liked the place and required rest.

One day a card was brought him--Baron Victor Oginski. It was one of the friends of his youth. He welcomed his old friend with delight, and Oginski returned the greeting cordially, though he said, gravely: "As you are travelling incognito, of course you wish to pass unnoticed; so even my desire to see you would not have made me so indiscreet as to have called upon you. But, as your friend, I felt it my duty. There is much gossip in the city about you and your companion."

"Whose business is it, I should like to know," cried Agenor, "how and in whose company I live?"