What a fortunate thing that I received the telegram in my own room, and not in the dining-room.  I do not know whether I should have been able to control my features.  For some time I could not recover myself from the sudden shock.  I then went to my aunt, but did not show her the telegram.  I said only:—­

“I have had bad news about Kromitzki.”

“What has happened?”

“You must not be shocked, aunty.”

“They brought him up for trial,—­is that it?”

“No, it is worse; he is brought up for trial, but before a higher tribunal than ours.”

My aunt winked with both eyes vigorously.

“What do you mean, Leon?”

I showed her the telegram.  She read it, and without saying a word went to her prie-Dieu and buried her face in her hands.  After a short time she rose from her knees and said:—­

“Aniela may pay for it with her life.  What is to be done?”

“She must not know anything until after the child is born.”

“But how can we prevent it?  It will be in everybody’s mouth; the papers will discuss it.  How can we keep it from her?”

“Dearest aunt,” I said, “there is only one way.  We must have the doctor here and ask him to prescribe for her a change of air.  Then I will take her and Pani Celina to Rome.  There I can keep all news from her.  Here it would be difficult, especially when the servants come to hear about it?”

“But will she be able to bear the journey?”

“I do not know; it all depends upon what the doctor says; I will send for him at once.”

My aunt agreed to my proposal.  It was really the best thing to do under the circumstances.  We resolved to take Pani Celina into our confidence, in order that she might further our plan of departure.  I saw all the servants, and gave strict orders that all letters, papers, and telegrams should be brought direct to my room, and nobody approach the young lady with any news or gossip whatever.

My aunt was terribly shocked.  According to her views, suicide is one of the greatest crimes anybody can commit; therefore with the pity for the unfortunate man, there was a great deal of horror and indignation.  “He ought not to have done this,” she said over and over again,—­“especially now when he expected to become a father.”  But I suppose he might not have received news of that.  During the last few weeks he must have been in a state of feverish anxiety, travelling from one place to another as the entangled position of his affairs drove him.

I dare not condemn him, and will confess openly that it has raised the man in my esteem.  There are some men who, justly accused of fraud and wrong-dealing, and sentenced to imprisonment, take it easy, and pass their time in prison gayly drinking champagne.  He did not do that,—­he preferred death to disgrace.  Maybe he remembered who he was.  I should have less sympathy with him if he had made