One morning there was an unwonted stir in "Number 3" cell. Some women
came in to scour the room and fleck away the cobwebs. Moreover, they
placed a fine silken coverlet over the second bed, and the warder came
and fixed a nail in the wall. A new prisoner was expected, they said.
Raby was naturally curious to see what his room mate would be like; nor
had he long to wait.
About eleven of the clock, arrived the expected captive; they could hear
him talking as he came along the corridor, and noted how the gaoler
kissed his hand respectfully, as he opened the door ceremoniously for
him.
It seemed to Raby as if he had seen his face somewhere before, but he
could not remember where. The new-comer had his hair carefully powdered
and dressed in the fashionable cue, and he wore his rather
fierce-looking moustachios stiffened in the Turkish fashion. His dress
was, however, distinctly Hungarian, for his green coat, variegated hose,
and gold-laced boots were all in the prevailing Magyar mode.
The heydukes who accompanied him all seemed at his service. One drew
out his pipe from a large leathern case, a second handed him his
snuff-box, a third his pocket-handkerchief, whilst yet another spread a
bearskin by the side of his bed, and set out bottles and boxes of
cosmetics in a row. The stranger appeared quite oblivious of the
presence of another person in the room, and comported himself as if the
whole Assembly House had belonged to him.
The worthy Janosics evidently thought it time to repeat his instructions
to the captive, so that he might recognise his limitations.
"May it please your worship, the prisoners are forbidden to smoke," he
said obsequiously.
But his worship, ignoring the observation, remarked with a lordly air:
"If the tobacco runs out, just cut me fresh, will you, Janosics? But
don't leave it to the heydukes, they don't understand it as well as you
do. Good tobacco, mind, and don't let them bring inferior. My cook must
have my orders," he went on, but the castellan interrupted him
respectfully:
"May it please your worship, the prisoners' meals consist of pudding
three times a week, and meat three times, with vegetable broth on
Fridays."
"My cook, I say, must have my orders," went on the other, not heeding,
"and must make me fish-soup on Fridays, and I must have my wine sent in
at once."
"May it please your worship, the prisoners are not allowed to drink
wine."
But his protest availed little, for the new-comer proceeded airily:
"And please, Janosics, see that the wine is well re-corked once it has
been opened. And take care there is some fresh water in the wine-cooler,
as well as plenty of it for washing."
Then he looked round him. "Tell my cook to provide two covers; I don't
like eating by myself, and don't want other people to look on while I
dine."
"The gentleman here is on invalid diet, and has light meals served from
upstairs," said the gaoler.
Raby turned his back on the new-comer; he did not want him to think he
troubled his head about him.
"Never mind that, let the dinner be served for two, I tell you, and
there will be all the more over for those who want it."
"May it please your worship, the prisoners must go to bed at eight
o'clock every night, and make no noise, for the deputy-lieutenant lives
just overhead."
"All right. But, Janosics, you must not let the prisoners go clanking up
and down the corridor with their chains; the noise gets on my nerves, I
can't stand it! Now you can go, and if I want anything, I'll just knock
on the door, so the guard had better be on the alert. But let them take
care to wipe their boots before coming in."
The gaoler and heydukes blundered out of the room, and the new arrival
turned to look at his companion. He appeared a jovial sort of person,
and to be very genially disposed.
"So it is Mr. Mathias Raby after all," murmured the stranger with a
smile.
Raby looked sharply at him. "You have the advantage of me," he said.
The new-comer laughed slily. "Ah, I recognise you well enough, but
perhaps you don't remember me, though we have met before?"
Raby had to admit that he had no such recollection.
"Ah, that's because I was--well, differently dressed, perhaps, yet it is
so, I can assure you, and what's more, I spoke four words to you,
although you have so short a memory for them."
And the speaker sat down and began filling his pipe and lighting up for
a smoke.
Raby in vain sought for a solution to the mystery. After the smoker had
taken a couple of pulls at the pipe, he went back to where our hero sat,
and planted himself on the window-ledge letting his legs dangle, while
his spurs rattled.
"Is it possible they didn't tell you who the prisoner was that was to
share your cell?" he asked.
"I did not even ask," admitted Raby, "who it might be."
"Then I will tell you--his name is Karcsataji Miska."
"Gyongyom Miska?"
"Don't make a mistake!" pursued the highwayman, "and think I let myself
be taken: I am here solely through my own fault. It's a strange story,
I'll tell you more about it later, I can't talk on an empty stomach!"
And thereupon, he took out a big flask of brandy from a case, and
produced some glasses and white bread, and called upon his companion to
join him.
But Raby stood coldly aloof. He could not forget that before him stood
the man who had so cruelly wronged him, the man who had been the chosen
lover of Fruzsinka! All the manly pride of his nature revolted at the
thought. Yet he could not help a feeling of satisfaction that the man
for once had been judged on his deserts, and what those were, Raby knew
only too well. But that his rival should be thus sharing his prison and
partaking the same fate--this was indeed a strange turn for events to
take.
When dinner-time came the highwayman knocked on the wall for the
heydukes, who promptly responded to the signal, and hastened to serve
quite a luxurious meal, but Raby excused himself on the score of his
dining at a later hour. His host did not press him, but so vigorously
tackled the good fare, that soon the dishes were cleared completely.
Raby, the while, had leisure to meditate on the course events had taken.
It gave an exquisite edge to his misery to be penned up in the same room
with a man he hated.
Yet such a man, since he was still keeping up apparently his relations
with the world outside, could help him vastly, and would be a better
prop to rely on than the gipsy-carrier: he had simply to give letters to
the heydukes, and they would deliver them as bidden. Yet his better self
revolted at the notion of being helped by Karcsataji, for, in his inmost
soul, he had nothing but the bitterest contempt for this highway robber,
who had been the lover of Fruzsinka. No, he would receive no favours,
were it liberty itself, from such a hand!