When Mathias Raby recounted this story to his uncle, the old gentleman
declared he had never read or heard any stranger. Then they had a
consultation as to what was to be done. It was evident that it was a
matter for a lawsuit.
The ancient laws against a breach of the marriage vow were very
stringent; and even allowed a husband to put to death an unfaithful
wife. But Mathias Raby found no consolation in such statutes. He did not
want to lose the woman still so dear to him for all the grievous injury
she had done him, and he was even ready to take her back again, and to
pardon her threefold treachery.
"By the law," said his uncle, interrupting Raby's meditations, "a wife
who runs away from her husband shall be restored to him. Now if there be
such a thing as justice on this earth of ours, you shall get her back.
But what are we to do with the seducer, Petray?"
"We can accuse him on the ground of seduction." And the old gentleman
proceeded to quote to Raby a law dating from the year 1522 which
provided for the decapitation of such misdemeanants. So it was plain
that Raby might obtain the condemnation of Petray, and succeed in having
Fruzsinka restored to him. But the legal proceedings were very
complicated, and it was difficult to determine to which court the case
should be taken.
At last they came to the conclusion it would be wise to carry it before
the higher court, since it was a question of a capital crime, though
much care would have to be exercised in quoting the law under which they
prosecuted, as the least difference in the wording might upset their
case.
When the eventful day arrived for instituting the suit before the higher
court, Raby was punctually in his place. Petray was also present, but
Fruzsinka was only represented by counsel.
Raby determined he would have no mercy on Petray. If the severe
Hungarian law prescribed that the man who seduced the wife of another
should lose his head, it should be satisfied.
Petray, the defendant, heard the impeachment out to the end, without
once turning pale. He followed with his defence.
He began by quoting old formularies and attacking certain technical
defects in the indictment, which, he maintained, should have been
carried to the spiritual consistory, as the tribunal for matrimonial
disputes. Also he maintained that the action of the plaintiff was not
valid, seeing that he demanded the restitution of his runaway wife, and
the punishment of the man who had given her an asylum, yet was himself
open to the charge of bigamy, since he now had three wives alive.
"What in the world do you mean?" cried Raby indignantly.
"That you were already twice married before you took Fraulein Fruzsinka
to wife."
"I twice married!" exclaimed Raby. "What do you mean?"
"That they are still alive," answered Petray with a perfectly serious
face. "They both are here," he added, "and I beg that they may be
confronted with Mr. Raby."
"Well, I should like to see them."
And thereupon through a side door they admitted two women into the
court. One was a pretty young Rascian in her picturesque national
costume, the other was a coquettishly clad peasant from the Alfold, of
imposingly tall stature. They were each cited by name, though Raby had
never heard either before.
"So these are my wives, are they?" he cried, half amused, half angry.
"They are indeed," answered Petray unabashed, "and pray do not attempt
to deny it, for they are both ready to prove it."
"Why, when have either of you ever seen me before?" demanded Raby
sternly of the two women.
The little Rascian was obviously ashamed of herself, for though the
paint on her cheeks effectually hid her blushes, she buried her face in
her handkerchief to suppress her confusion. But her companion was not
so easily daunted. Her arms akimbo, she placed herself in front of Raby
and began to abuse him roundly.
"So you mean to say you don't remember me, do you, my fine sir?" And she
forthwith began a string of voluble reminiscences which Raby in vain
strove to stem, beside himself with indignation, but he could not get in
a word edgeways.
At last the judge intervened. Till then he had contented himself with
pulling his moustache the better to control his ill-suppressed
amusement.
"That will do, woman, we have had enough of your tongue. We must have
documentary evidence. Have the parties marriage-certificates to
produce?"
The little Rascian drew out the desired document from her pocket, whilst
the rival claimant in great haste dived into a huge bag she carried, and
produced the certificate wrapped up in a coloured handkerchief.
They were to all appearances genuine enough. One was drawn up by the
registrar at Szent-Pal, the other dated from the commune of Belovacz on
the military frontier. Both documents were countersigned by the parish
priests, and bore the official seal of the ecclesiastical authorities.
"But I have never in my life even been in the neighbourhood of these
places," cried Raby in desperation, fairly trembling with rage. "These
registered formulas are falsified; I charge the man who produces them
with forgery."
The little Rascian girl here began to wring her hands and weep, but her
Hungarian rival gave her tongue its rein, and she poured forth such a
flood of abuse on Raby that his every fibre thrilled with indignation.
With much trouble the heydukes restored order, and the judge called on
the court to be quiet.
"Silence, his honour is speaking; the judgment will now be given, so let
the litigants retire from the court," was the order.
It was hardly five minutes before the contending parties were recalled
and the verdict given.
"The case as heard by us is very complex. It lies between two parties
who prefer counter-accusations against each other. The one says his
opponent has robbed him of his wife, whilst the accused becomes
plaintiff in his turn, and incriminates his accuser as a bigamist, and
therefore incapacitated for demanding the restoration of his runaway
spouse. Therefore, we beg to refer the case to the united courts of the
provinces of Pesth, Pilis, and Solt, that they may adjust the relations
between the contending parties satisfactorily. Meantime the case is
dismissed." And herewith followed in legal phrase the reasons why the
said courts should be pressed to institute an inquiry into the whole
suit between Raby and Petray, and its complications, and the parties
were adjured to leave the court.
Raby was sorry enough he had ever come, for what had it all availed him?
Scarcely had the door of the court closed behind him than he heard the
end of it all, the horrible mocking laughter which burst forth from the
whole room, directly he had left it--a sound which followed him out into
the corridor.
He was completely staggered. The shame, the exasperation, the deception
of it all, and this persistent persecution--how powerless he was against
them! His very senses seemed deserting him. So distracted was he in his
bewilderment, that when he reached the end of the passage, instead of
going straight out, he took the flight of steps which led down to the
cells. Through the prison doors came the sound of merriment. Even the
criminals were mocking him. And that was likely enough, seeing that the
two women who had impersonated his wives, had been requisitioned from
the ranks of the prisoners.
For three days did Raby remain in hiding at his inn, not daring to show
his face. He fancied all Pesth and Buda were making merry over his fall.
Only on the evening of the third day did he venture to set out for home.
And even then he muffled himself up in his mantle so that he might pass
unrecognised.
But as soon as he reached the open country, the fresh air exhilarated
his drooping spirits and he saw things in a different light. It was
certainly very impolitic to betray his vexation, for in this case he
was sure to get the worst of it. It would be far wiser to disguise his
real feelings.
The first person he sought out was his uncle.
"Remember, my boy, it's just what I told you. Didn't I say that if you
would insist on marrying Fruzsinka you would have wife enough. And, sure
enough, here you have three! And by the time you have done, it may be a
great many more."
"How do you mean, uncle?"
"Why, as soon as the news spreads that the marriage certificates of
these women were forged, other 'wives' will be turning up from all
parts, and a nice dance they will lead you."
Raby, in spite of his real misery, could not forbear a grim smile.
"Where did you say the two marriage articles came from, eh?"
"One was from Szent-Pal, the other from Belovacz."
"So that's it, is it? Well, Szent-Pal was utterly destroyed by the
insurrection of Hora-Kloska three years ago, and Belovacz is a haunt of
freebooters. In neither place is there priest or sexton, church or
register, as I happen to know, so seek all your life long, you'll never
find proof of the forgery."
"Now I see why the witnesses came from so far afield; it was manifestly
a part of the plot."
"By the way," said his uncle, "you'll want some one to look after your
house, for in your absence your maid Boske has been locked up."
"Whatever do you mean?" demanded Raby indignantly. "My servant locked
up! why what is the meaning of it?"
"H'm, it was by order of the municipality."
"And pray what for?"
"That, no one can say. I only knew through the neighbours coming round
to tell me that I ought to send my servant over, for your cows were
standing at the gate, and that there was no one to let them in, seeing
that poor Boske had been marched off between two officers to the
police-station."
"The deuce she has!" cried Raby, and he seized his sword. "But I won't
stand that!"
And without another word he dashed out of the house and down the street
at full tilt, in the direction of the police-station, which was close to
the post office. He thrust open the door, without announcing himself,
and shouted so furiously to the unlucky porter that the latter nearly
died of fright.
"Where is the jailer? In heaven's name, tell me," thundered Raby.
"He is drinking in there," said the man, pointing to a door.
Raby dashed into the room and found the jailer, seized him by the lappet
of his jacket, shook him, and yelled:
"You brute, you scoundrel, what have you done with my servant, I want to
know?"
"Your worship, the judge had her locked up in 'the Hole.'"
"Let her out, then, at once, you hound! If you don't, I will slay you on
the spot, and willingly pay up the forty gulden fine I shall be mulcted
of for killing a peasant. Where is the cell, where are the keys? I tell
you, you are to give them to me directly."
The frightened official said humbly that he would soon get the keys, but
Raby held him by the scruff of the neck, and dragged him to the door of
"the Hole," made him open it, and called out, "Come out directly,
Boske!"
Directly she appeared he seized the girl by the hand, and led her out of
her captivity. And he never let go her hand all the way home, in spite
of her wish to withdraw it.
"You are a good, honest girl, Boske, who have only been persecuted on my
account; there, there, don't cry, they shall pay for this, sure enough!"
And he flourished his sword so threateningly, that all who met them were
quite scared and hastened to clear out of their path.
The gentry had robbed him of his wife, and now the burghers had stolen
away his servant; it was truly "adding insult to injury!"
"And now just come in," said Raby, "and tell me all about it."
"Oh, but I've no time to," exclaimed Boske, "besides, it's a long story.
First of all I must run and look after my cows. I've not seen them for
two days. They weren't milked either, and perhaps they are starving."
"Oh, it's all right, the postmaster's maid tended them."
"Ay, what does Susanne know about it, I should like to know? The dun
cow, she won't give a drop of milk if anyone else milks her, and the
dappled one, if she knows that a stranger is there instead of me, will
kick over both pail and milking-stool. And no one can feed them as I
can. Just listen, gracious master, how they begin to low when they hear
my voice."
And away ran Boske into the cowhouse. Not for anything would she have
told her own story till the cows were looked after. They recognised her
also directly, and the dun cow licked her red arm affectionately, when
she went to tether her, and Boske made them a nice turnip "mash," in a
wooden bowl, and fed her favourites. Then she washed the pail clean, and
when she had put everything in order, she sat down to her milking, and
here Raby found her.
"Now you can tell me, while you are at work, all that has happened," he
said kindly.
"If the gracious master does not mind listening to me in the cowhouse.
It was like this. When I was setting the yeast to rise the day before
yesterday, for baking, in the kitchen, in came two police-officers,
saying I must go with them to the police-court. I told them I had not
stolen anything. Thereupon, one said, I was not to make a noise, and he
threatened to lay his cane about my shoulders, and if I didn't go of my
own free will, he'd make me. I told him my master was away. He said that
would be all right, and that we could shut the door and leave the key
under a beam outside, where I could find it again. So what could I do? I
had to leave the yeast in the trough where it got all sour and mouldy,
and go off to the police-station. When I got there, I saw lots of men
sitting round a table, and they all looked at me and asked me questions,
and told me I'd got to be sworn. I thought they meant being married, so
said I didn't mind if there was anyone there I liked well enough to
marry. Then one of them said it wasn't a question of marrying, but that
I must swear to what I knew about the master."
"A regular inquisition," muttered Raby.
"'I'll swear fast enough,' said I, 'that I know nought of him but what
is good.'
"'Then,' says the notary, 'what about the peasants that he sets on to
rebel against their landlords?'
"'Nothing of the kind,' says I; 'the man who says that ought to be
hanged.'
"With that, he asks if my master did not throw Dacso Marczi and the
surveyor into the river. So I told them it was a wicked lie."
"That was quite true, Boske!"
"Then they asked me if you were not a sorcerer, and did not call up evil
spirits at night-time."
"And, pray, what did you say to that?"
"Why I just laughed outright, and told them I had never even heard my
master say 'the devil take them,' much less call up evil spirits. But
they said the Devil himself would carry me off if I didn't tell the
truth. And when they asked me to swear that the gracious master was a
sorcerer, I just swore by the Crucifix it was not true. But they were so
angry that they just packed me off to prison, then and there, and there
I was left without food or drink till the gracious master himself came
and fetched me out."
Poor Boske finished her story with a burst of weeping, for up till now
she had not had the time for crying. But now she had got her tale over,
and the milking done, she cried her heart out into the corners of her
apron.
"That was quite enough for once," muttered Raby to himself. But he
deceived himself if he fancied it was enough, for there was yet more to
come.
When they had recovered the key from its hiding-place under the beam,
Boske went first to open the house, but she started back in horror, and
dropped the pail of milk she was carrying, as she exclaimed,
"Gracious master, just look, thieves have been in! We have been robbed!"
Sure enough it was so; the whole house had been completely rifled of
valuables. So thoroughly had the work been done that only the empty
chairs and tables remained.
Boske broke into a wail of despair.
"Hush, be quiet," ordered Raby sternly, putting his hand over her mouth.
"But they've broken into my trunk," she cried; "they have stolen my new
petticoat, and best kerchief, and my shoes with the rosettes."
"Never mind," said her master consolingly, "to-morrow I'll take you to
Buda, and buy you some fresh ones. These are trifles. The thieves
probably came after my papers, but those I luckily had with me."
At this Boske was appeased, also she remarked it was a comfort the
lady-mistress had taken the embroidered quilt with her, so the thieves
were done out of that at any rate.
"But where is the house-dog?"
They found the poor beast, by the well, stiff and dead.
"The brutes!" cried Boske, horrified; "they have drowned him, they have
not even left us the dog alive."
Raby drove the weeping girl into the house and spoke earnestly to her:
"Now, Boske, listen to me. You must never tell anyone what has happened,
and that the house has been robbed, for if you do, they may put you in
prison again, and you may not get out for years."
With which piece of parting advice Raby repaired to his uncle's. Here he
collected his papers, and stowed them away in the pocket of his coat, he
likewise donned his fur mantle, told his uncle shortly what had
occurred, and then started to go back home.
It was already nightfall when he took his way down the street to his own
home.
As he passed Peter Paprika's house he heard a curious whizzing noise
near him, and at the same moment was conscious of having been struck a
blow on the side, which so staggered him, it nearly made him lose his
balance. He looked round; there was not a soul in sight in the street.
He could not imagine from whence the mysterious report had come. But
after he had got home, he found a little round perforation on the left
side of his coat, which was plainly a bullet hole.
When he drew his papers out of his breast-pocket, out fell a leaden
bullet which had evidently bored through so far and been turned aside by
the packet of documents.
The whizzing sound our hero had heard had been the report of an air-gun,
and had he not placed the papers in his breast-pocket, it would have
been all over with him.