"A few weeks ago she gave me a letter, just before our little prince was born. 'Jan,' said she, 'take this letter to the post and have it registered.' So I did. Well, I went this morning to fetch the letters, but there was only the paper. I was about to go, when the postmaster says, 'Ah, Jan,' says he, 'you get this back again, for as yet there is no post to the country where this person is.' I asked no questions, but took the letter, and when I went into the breakfast-room where the countess was sitting, and she saw the letter, she cried, 'My father!' and fell down in a swoon. For the letter was addressed to him, and on the other side was written, 'The person addressed is dead.' Hamia, who can read, told me that, and I, old fool that I am--"
The count had heard enough, and was already on his way to the breakfast-room. The maid, Hamia, stood at the door. "Madame la Comtesse is fully conscious again, but wishes to be alone, and has forbidden me to admit any one, even you." But he pushed her aside and entered.
Judith was stretched out on the floor. Her hair hung in confused masses over her pale, rigid face. He went to her; she slowly raised herself on her elbow and looked at him, so that he stood still involuntarily, and dropped his eyelids. He could not look into those glazed eyes.
"Go!" she said, in a low voice, but so distinct that it went through him. Like a man condemned to death, he tottered from the room.
She kept to her own room all day, refusing food and drink. The count was almost beside himself; but Hamia, who was devoted to her mistress, conceived a good idea. In the evening she took the child, and, going to her mistress, urged her to be sensible, trusting in this way to break up the hardness of Judith's grief. She did not entirely succeed, however, though Judith fondled the baby and was coaxed into taking a little food. Some hours after--it was nearly midnight--she sent for Agenor.
He quickly answered the summons and went to her couch. Looking at her, his heart seemed to stand still with pity and penitence. "Judith, if you only knew what I, too, have to suffer!"
She nodded. "It certainly cannot be pleasant," she said, callously. "But I won't reproach you. I sent for you because I must know something. You will tell me the truth, Agenor. You believe in God and will not lie to me in such an hour."
"Judith," he implored, "do not excite yourself any more to-day. Think of the child."
"So I do," she answered. "I should go mad if I did not. Tell me, Agenor, when did my father die?"
He would have given an equivocal answer, but he could not under the influence of those eyes. "About a year ago."