"Think of the child!" he begged. This was his last resource, and even that had now lost its effect.
"It is because I do think of it," she cried in despair, "that I am doubly wretched. How can you love the child of the woman who is a burden to you, and which will bind you still closer? As yet, you have only cursed the hour of our marriage. Soon you will curse the hour of its birth."
They were both wretched, and there seemed no end to this misery, ever new.
"I was a villain! I was mad!" the young man said to himself, as he watched the sunshine playing on the autumnal landscape. "What shall I say when she asks where the child is to be baptized?"
That was his closest and most pressing care, but it was not the only one that burdened him. As yet he paid little attention to the exactions of Wroblewski, but now he began to appreciate the dangers threatening his future and honor by this vampire. What would be the end?
He would never desert Judith, nor yet waken her from her dream. But could he pass his life in this way, in idleness and disgrace, a fugitive startled at the sight of a gendarme, dreading lest he should be asked to show the passports of Count and Countess Nogile, compressing himself into the closest quarters possible when driving through the streets, for fear of recognition by an old acquaintance. It could not continue; was there any chance of escape?
A shrill little voice woke him from his reverie. Down in the garden, in front of the house, the fat Italian nurse, Annunciata, paced up and down, trying to still the crying of the child by her songs. He heard Judith's voice calling her; very probably she was in the breakfast-room, waiting for him. He drew himself up, passed his hand over his face, as if to smooth out all traces of sadness, and then went to the ground-floor.
At the breakfast-room door he was met by the nurse. He bent over and kissed the boy, who stared at him out of his dark, wide-open eyes soberly, even thoughtfully. When he lifted his eyes, he met Judith's fixed inquiringly upon him. He understood. "Poor thing," he thought, "she is watching to see with what expression I kiss the child." He bade her good-morning as naturally as possible. But he could tell by her eyes and the pallor of her complexion that she had cried during the night. And why? Ah! he had no need to ask.
He took his seat opposite her, sipped his tea, and praised the loveliness of the morning. "It is like a spring day, and yet it is late in the autumn."
"Yes," she responded, with a quiver in her voice. "It is the 30th of November."