The count hastened home and began a letter. But after a few lines the pen dropped from his hand. "How abominable this is!" he thought. "How cowardly! Had any one told me I was capable of this"--and he clenched his fists so that the nails pierced the flesh. But he took the pen again--for it must be done. It was long, however, before he found words in which to make the dubious proposal. He sealed the letter, wrote another to Stiegle, ordering him to pay Wroblewski ten thousand gulden, and, putting both into a large envelope, addressed it to his Viennese banker. "That, too, is cowardly and knavish," he said to himself, in painful self-condemnation. "When is this lying and cheating to have an end?" The thought of his child's baptism weighed heavily upon him. The illegitimate child of Judith Trachtenberg, according to the existing imperial law, must be a Jew, and no priest could baptize it till the mother had given her written consent; nor could a priest enter the boy in a register as Count Nogile, or Baranowski, until the marriage certificate of the parents had been produced. What should he do--commit another crime, or tell the truth? Neither was possible. And how long would he be able to resist the importunities of the mother? That magnificent day was the saddest he had ever known; and as he watched the sun sinking gloriously behind the hills of Tarbole, land and sea aflame in a deep-red light, he looked forward to the morrow with apprehension. It was late before he retired, and his sleep was disturbed by hideous dreams. When the count woke up, the sun was high in the heavens. His servant, Jan, stood before him. The old man looked frightened. "Pardon me for waking you," he stammered, "but our gracious countess is in a dead faint, and I, old donkey that I am, am to blame." "What has happened?" exclaimed Agenor, dressing hastily. "It's because I cannot read," continued the old fellow, whimpering, "otherwise I should have noticed the address and post-office notice, and would not have given her the letter." "What letter?" cried the count, seizing him by the shoulder, in his excitement. "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--"