"You paint things too black. But bad stories are in circulation. I have many times been surprised that the story of a sham marriage, coming from the words of your valet in Florence, should have found so much credence. I suppose it is because, unhappily, the truth is, in this case, the most slanderous. If a worse construction could have been put upon it, the real truth would have remained unknown. Now every one has an opportunity to prove his orthodoxy by lifting his eyes in horror at the sacrilegious acts performed in the chapel at Borky, and his chivalry by damning your conduct towards the girl as unworthy a nobleman. It has actually gone so far, they are pitying the Jewess. I should not have believed this if I had not heard it with my own ears. This is known generally, but it is supposed to be a secret. Herr Groze must not hear of it, for that would be denunciation. How public opinion would go if you brought the Jewess here for a few months as your legitimate wife I am unable to guarantee; but it would be no worse for you, I think. The good and noble-minded, though in verity they are scarce, would think of you differently."
"You are right," said Agenor, as he arose. "And what is to be, shall be soon. I will drive to town today, arrange with Stiegle for my absence, and start for Riva to-morrow. Will you procure the necessary papers, and send them after me?"
"No commission could be more agreeable to me," rejoined the lawyer, shaking Agenor's hand cordially. "Bon voyage."
When the count drove back over the moor, the weather changed for the worse. Rain and snow fell together, freezing as soon as they touched the ground; and the coachman drove along the slippery road at snail's pace. But the count was no longer cold. His cheeks were ruddy and his eyes bright, and it had been long since he had felt so well. He had marked out a straight, narrow path in which to tread; but he felt it would make him at peace with himself, and perhaps eventually lead to happiness.
The rain fell heavier than ever, accompanied by a cutting north wind. Twilight was approaching, and honest Fedko was obliged to stop occasionally to make sure he had found the right road. "The weather is not fit for a dog. My lord," he said, apologetically, "I know the moor and its tricks, but I never knew it to be so bad as this, except once, that day when--"
Suddenly he remembered that the allusion to the day when the Jewess threw herself into the water might not be pleasing to his master. In his confusion, he lashed the horses so that they broke into a furious gallop. In the dimness, Fedko overlooked a small cart with a linen covering, which was creeping along ahead. He drove so close to it that the wheels became interlocked. He dismounted, cursing, to free the wheels; and the other coachman, evidently a Jew, cursed too. "You are driving as if you had the emperor," he cried.
"I have not the emperor," Fedko answered, with pride; "but his lordship, Count Baranowski, would like to get on a bit faster."
"I," said the Jew, "am only driving a poor sick Jewish woman and her child, but they are human."
"Well, well," said good-natured Fedko, gently, "this little delay will do them no hurt," and, lashing his fiery steeds, he soon lost sight of the other vehicle.
Fedko had reached the castle long before the cab came in sight of the lights of Roskowska. The Jew turned. "Woman," he called, "here we are in Roskowska. You can get milk for the child in the inn."