"AN OBSTINATE FELLOW"
Countess Theudelinde was beside herself with joy. She ran to her
bell-apparatus, touched the spring, and the machine put itself into
motion.
"What are you doing, countess?" asked the abbé, in some amazement.
"I am desiring my steward to be sent for at once."
"By what messenger?"
And then for the first time the countess remembered there was not a
living soul in the house.
She grew very grave.
"It is truly a problem," continued the priest, "to know how we are to
get out of the castle."
"What do you mean?" asked Theudelinde, who was so weak-minded that she
always required to have everything explained to her.
"We two are quite alone in this house," returned the abbé. "If I go
away to get the necessary assistance for packing up your things and
making the arrangements for departure I must leave you alone here."
"I would not for all the world remain alone here."
"Then you have the alternative of accompanying me on foot to the
nearest post-house in the adjacent village."
As he spoke the snow-storm was heard outside beating against the
window. Theudelinde shivered.
"Why cannot we drive? My horses are in the stable."
"But I can neither harness them nor drive them."
"Oh, I should never think of such a thing!"
Nevertheless, the countess had now to consider whether she should
remain alone in the castle or take the alternative of accompanying the
priest in a heavy fall of snow.
"Somebody is knocking at the door," said the abbé.
"It must be my steward," returned Theudelinde. "He has heard what has
happened, and has come to our assistance."
"But there is no one to open the door. Your portress was one of the
ghosts."
"She was the old witch who danced on the table."
"Have you by chance a second key?"
"It hangs there on that large bunch to the right."
"Then I will take it with me, in case there is none in the lock."
"But the dogs, father, they will tear you in pieces. They are fierce
to strangers."
"I will call them by their names, if you will tell me what they are."
"I don't know their names," returned the countess, who never troubled
herself about such a common thing as a watch-dog's name.
"Then I must shoot them."
"But, father, as gently as you can." By this Theudelinde did not mean
to appeal to his compassion for the dogs, but to remind him to spare
her sensitive nerves.
The abbé took his revolver and went on his mission; he carried no
lantern with him, for daylight had come.
Both the watch-dogs lay one on each side of the doorway. They were
chained loosely, so that they could keep well clear of one another,
but it was impossible to pass between them to the door, if you escaped
being bitten by one, the other was sure to tear you. The abbé,
therefore, to get to the door, had to shoot one and wound the other.
He then drew the bolt, and saw a man standing before him, a revolver
in _his_ hand.
"Who are you? What do you want?" asked the priest.
"Who are you, and what brings you here?" returned the stranger.
"I am the Abbé Samuel, the countess's confessor."
"And I am Ivan Behrend, the countess's next neighbor."
The abbé lowered his pistol, and changed his tone to one of courtesy.
"You must confess that it is rather an unusual hour for you to come,"
he said, smiling.
"Honi soit qui mal y pense," said Ivan, putting his weapon into his
pocket. "I came at this unusual hour in consequence of a letter which
I received this very night, in which I was informed that the castle
was in a state of confusion, and the countess was in great need of
help."
"The cause of the confusion--"
"Oh, I know, that was also in the letter. Therefore, I have come to do
what I can, although I am aware the countess admits no man into her
house, especially at this hour."
"She will receive _you_ most certainly. Allow me first to close the
door. There is absolutely no one in the house. Take care of the dog on
the left-hand side; he is still alive."
"You have shot the other?"
"Yes; you heard the shot and drew your revolver?"
"Naturally. I did not know who might have fired the pistol."
Both men ascended to the apartments of the countess. The abbé entered
first to prepare her.
"We have got unexpected help," he said; "a neighbor of yours, Ivan
Behrend."
"A doubtful person," returned Theudelinde, scornfully. "He is an
atheist."
"It does not matter in the present crisis whether he be a Thug, a
Mormon, or a Manichæan, we have great need of his help. Some one told
him of the plight you are in, and he wishes to see you."
"I will not see him, or speak to him. I beg you will confer with him
instead of me."
"Countess, if this man is what you say, a heretic, he may say that he
will not confer with one of my cloth."
"Very well. I suppose I must see him, but you will be present?"
"If it should be necessary."
The countess rolled her shawl round her, and went into the
reception-room, into which the morning light was breaking. Abbé Samuel
thought it necessary, however, to light the candelabras on the
chimney.
Theudelinde, with a freezing air, asked Ivan to take a chair, and
placed herself at a considerable distance from her visitor. She signed
to him to begin the conversation.
"Countess, this night while I was busy reading, some one tapped at my
window, and when I opened it thrust this note into my hand. It is
written by your steward."
"By my steward!" exclaimed the countess, in a tone of surprise.
"It is written in his style, and quite unfit for you to read. I will
tell you what interests you. The steward says that your entire
household, without any exception of sex, have made good their escape,
and that he is following their example."
"My steward also! And for what reason?"
"He gives the reason in his letter. I suspect, however, it is only a
pretext on his part to conceal a very criminal design. I am of opinion
that he has robbed you."
"Robbed me!" repeated the countess.
"Do not alarm yourself; there are different sorts of robbery, such as
being an unfaithful steward, injuring your land, making profit to
himself to your disadvantage. This man, I imagine, played this game,
and has now tried to give a humorous turn to his flight, so that the
laugh may be turned against you. This is my idea."
The countess was obliged to acknowledge that her neighbor was both a
clever and a kind-hearted man.
"In this letter," continued Ivan, "your steward states that after what
has happened he could never dare to look you in the face again, as he
could not convince you that the late scandals in the castle had gone
on without his knowledge. I did not believe these words. I felt
certain that you had dismissed your household on finding out how
grossly they had deceived you; therefore, my first care on getting
this letter was to send a messenger on horseback to the nearest
telegraph-station with a message to your banker in Pesth, to tell him
that the agent of the Bondavara estate had absconded, and on no
account to honor his checks. I thought it was probable he had liberty
to draw in your name."
"This was really very practical and thoughtful on your part," said the
abbé. "The countess must feel most grateful to you."
Theudelinde bowed her head graciously.
"One reason that brought me here," continued Ivan, "was to know if you
approved of what I had done, and also to offer you my assistance in
case you wish to leave the castle. I will help you to get away, and I
will send my people to look after your property till you can make
further arrangements."
"This is really most neighborly and friendly, and the countess owes
you a debt of gratitude," repeated the priest, again assuming all
responsibility.
"I am merely doing my duty," returned Ivan. "And I would add that if
you should be in any difficulty as to the necessary funds, which is
very likely, as the steward and bailiff have both made off, don't let
this for a moment distress you; I can lend you ten thousand florins."
The Abbé Samuel whispered to the countess to accept this offer in the
spirit in which it was meant, and on no account to say anything of
interest.
Theudelinde accordingly held out her hand with gracious dignity to her
chivalrous neighbor, who drew from his pocket the money in bank-notes.
The countess wished to give him an acknowledgment, which he declined,
saying the money was lent for such a short time that it was not
necessary.
"And about leaving the castle," he said. "How soon do you start?"
"The sooner the better!" cried the countess.
"Then, if you will allow me to suggest a plan for accomplishing the
first stage of the journey, which is the difficult part of the
business, in the first place it will be necessary to pack up what you
need. Will you be good enough, countess, to select the trunks you mean
to bring? When this is done I will harness the horses; then we must
lock and seal the rooms, and my servants will watch them until you
send your proper people. This done, we can set out; and as we shall
have to pass the steward's house, we can call there, and look for any
books he may have for keeping the accounts of the estate. They would
be useful."
"I shall not go there; I don't want any accounts."
"Very good. Then we shall go straight to the inn in my village."
"What to do?"
"Because the post is there. We must get post-horses."
"And why post-horses? Cannot I drive my own horses?"
"No."
"And why not?"
"Because they are screws. They would not reach the next station."
"My horses! Why do you say they are screws?" asked the countess,
angrily.
"Because they are in bad condition."
"Bear!" thought Theudelinde. "He answers me so roughly."
"I shall not enter the inn," she said, determinedly. "I go nowhere
where men drink. Cannot I wait at your house until the horses are
changed?"
"Certainly. I am charmed to receive you, countess; only you will find
nothing suitable for you. I live alone _en garçon_."
"Oh, that does not matter," returned the countess, with an air of
indifference.
"Will you have the goodness, then," said Ivan, "to begin your
preparations and select the clothes you mean to pack up?"
Theudelinde gave a strange smile. "My packing will not take long; my
luggage will not be heavy. Will you make a good fire while I go to my
wardrobe? It is very cold in this room."
In the sitting-room there was a large marble fireplace, and in the
ashes of the grate some sparks still lingered. Ivan put some wood on
the smouldering fire, and soon a genial blaze glowed in the chimney.
It welcomed the countess, who presently returned, carrying in her arms
a heap of dresses and clothes of all description.
Ivan looked at her in dismay. "You are going to pack all those?"
"Yes, and as many more, which still remain in my wardrobe."
"But, countess, where?"
"Here," returned Theudelinde, as she flung the bundle on the fire.
It filled up the whole fireplace, and the fire, catching the light
materials, there was presently a crackling sound, while the old
chimney roared again with joy over such a splendid contribution.
The two men looked on in silence at this _auto-da-fé_.
Ten times did Theudelinde go backward and forward to her room, each
time returning with fresh armfuls of finery, and when these were
exhausted, her linen, boots, shoes, etc., followed; while at each
sacrifice the flames in the chimney leaped and danced, and the wind
blew the flames up the chimney, where they roared like so many demons.
"Well, this sort of packing makes short work," thought Ivan, but said
nothing.
The clergyman stood with his hands behind his back. The countess's
eyes danced, her cheeks were flushed, her activity was unceasing. When
all was consumed she turned to Ivan with a triumphant air.
"It is finished," she said.
"And may I ask in what toilette your ladyship intends to travel?"
"In the clothes I wear, and my fur cloak."
"Then I shall go and get the carriage."
When he was gone the countess, assisted by the abbé, put on her fur
pelisse lined with sable. She took with her nothing that she had ever
used; in her opinion everything was defiled.
After a few minutes Ivan returned, and announced that the carriage was
at the entrance. The doors were then locked, and a seal affixed to
each.
When they entered the hall the sight of the dog which the abbé had
spared presented a difficulty. If they left him he would die of
hunger. The countess thought it would be better to shoot him also.
Ivan, however, was more merciful.
"I will chain him to the carriage, and he will follow us."
Theudelinde was certain the hound would bite him; but the dog's
instinct assured him that it was a friend who now approached. He
allowed Ivan to put on his chain, and licked his hand to show his
gratitude. All was now done, Ivan locked the gates, gave the key to
the abbé, who with the countess was already seated in the carriage,
jumped on the coach-box, and drove away from Bondavara Castle. They
went slowly, for the two miserable nags, which were dignified with the
name of carriage horses, could hardly drag them along. They were spent
with age and starvation, and were only fit for the knacker's yard.
As the vehicle turned in the direction of the coal-mine Ivan remarked
a cloud of smoke in the distance, and soon after they met a group of
laborers carrying requisites for putting out a fire, hurrying in the
direction of the smoke. On being questioned they said the granary of
the noble countess was burning, but that they hoped to extinguish the
fire.
"I think it will be easily done," Ivan said. "The steward set it on
fire to conceal the defalcation in the crop."
The countess was indignant, but Ivan remarked dryly that property had
its duties, and that those who never looked after their own interests
were fair game for the thief.
A rough, ill-mannered man!
It was full daylight before the noble coach, drawn by the pair of
noble nags, made its way through the heavy snow into the Bergwerk
Colony. The wretched beasts were steaming as they drew up at Ivan's
door. Ivan's first care was to call the postmaster to take them to his
stable, and to order a good pair of fresh horses to replace them. Then
he led his tired guests into his workroom. All the other rooms were
cold and cheerless, so he took them where there was warmth and light.
In the room everything was in the utmost disorder; it was hard to find
a place where the countess could sit down. She looked about her with
astonishment at the strange objects which encumbered the tables and
chairs; every available spot was taken up by some extraordinary,
diabolical-looking invention. She cast a look of terror at the
chemical laboratory, upon whose furnace the coals still glimmered,
testifying to the experiment upon which Ivan had been at work when
interrupted by the steward's tap at the window.
"Cagliostro's workshop," she whispered to the abbé. "There are
mysterious things done here."
What annoyed the countess far more than the evidences of mystery and
magic which surrounded her was the idea that she was the guest and
the debtor of this rough, common fellow. She, rich, well-born, a
faithful child of the Church, owed her rescue from a most unpleasant
position to this obscure, godless tradesman. If she could only pay him
the heaviest interest for his loan, and had not to say "thank you!"
And yet she had to swallow the indignity.
Ivan, after an absence of a few minutes, returned, followed by a maid
carrying a tray with the steaming breakfast. She laid the cloth, and
set out the cups and coffee-cans. The countess would gladly have made
some excuse to avoid tasting the food presented by her unholy host,
but the abbé, who was a man of the world, drew his chair to the table,
and invited Theudelinde to follow his example, "For," he said, "we
shall not get anything to eat till the evening, as there are no inns
on our road; and you want refreshment before your long journey."
When the countess saw that no demons seized upon the clergyman, and
that the coffee of the Warlock seemed innocent of all evil, she, too,
came to the table and sipped a few spoonfuls, but she found it was
execrable stuff; the milk was not so bad, and she contented herself
with that and bread.
Ivan began to talk about the weather--a very general subject of
conversation; but herein there was this difference. Instead of an
ignoramus, it was a meteorologist who handled the theme. Ivan assured
the countess that both the barometer and his English glass pointed to
fine weather, the sun was as warm as in May, their journey would be
excellent. As he spoke, Ivan drew back the thick green window
curtains, and let in the bright sunlight to enliven the half-darkened
room. The first effect of this sudden eruption of light was to show
the countess her own face reflected in a large concave mirror which
hung on the wall opposite to her.
It is an undoubted fact that we all like to see our reflection in a
glass; our eyes wander to it naturally, and the most earnest orator,
in the midst of his finest peroration, will gesticulate to his own
image with more satisfaction than to a crowded audience; but it is a
totally different thing if it should be a magnifying-glass. What a
horrible distortion of ourselves--head as large as a cask, features of
a giant, expression that of a satyr; a sight too dreadful to
contemplate.
"What an awful glass you have there," said the countess, peevishly, as
she turned her back to the mirror.
"It is undoubtedly not a toilette mirror; it is a glass which we use
in chemical experiments to test the highest degrees of heat."
Here the abbé, who wished to air his scientific knowledge, put in--
"As, for example, for burning a diamond."
"Just so," returned Ivan. "That is one of the uses of a concave
mirror; it is necessary for burning a diamond, which requires the
flame of a gas retort."
The countess was grateful for the abbé's remark, for it gave her a
happy inspiration.
"Do you mean to tell me," she said, addressing Ivan, "that a diamond
is combustible?"
"Undoubtedly, for the diamond is, in fact, nothing but coal in the
form of a crystal. With the necessary degrees of heat you can extract
from the patrician diamond ninety florins carat weight, the same
amount of invisible gas or oxide of coal as from the plebeian lump of
coal."
"That is proved by the focus of the magnifier," remarked the abbé.
"I don't believe it," said the countess, throwing back her head.
"I am sorry," returned Ivan, "that I cannot give you a proof that the
diamond is combustible. We do not use such costly things for mere
experiment, but have splints for the purpose, which are cheap in
comparison. I have, however, none of these by me."
"I should like to be convinced, for I do not believe it," repeated the
countess. "Will you make the experiment with this?" As she spoke she
unfastened a brooch from her dress, and handed it to her host. The
centre stone was a fine two-carat brilliant. Theudelinde expected that
Ivan would return it to her, saying, "Oh, it would be a pity to use
this beautiful stone;" and then she would reply, "Then pray keep it as
a slight remembrance;" and in this manner this perverse individual
would have been paid and forgotten. But, to her amazement, the
countess found she had deceived herself.
With the indifference of a philosopher and the courtesy of a gentleman
Ivan took the brooch from its owner.
"I conclude you do not wish to have the ornament melted," he said,
quietly. "I will take the diamond out of its setting, and if it should
not burn you can have it reset."
Without another word he extracted the stone with a little pincers, and
placed it at the bottom of a flat clay saucepan; then he opened the
window, which lay in the full blaze of the sun. He placed the saucepan
upon a stand in the middle of the room and just in front of the
countess; then he took the magnifying-glass and went outside, for in
the room the sun's rays had not power to concentrate themselves upon
the mirror.
The countess was now certain that the trick would not succeed, and
that she would have an opportunity of offering the diamond to Ivan on
the pretext of repeating the experiment when the sun's rays would be
more powerful.
Ivan, when he had found the proper spot outside the window, directed
the rays from the apex of the burning-glass straight upon the
saucepan, where the diamond was waiting the moment of its
annihilation. The stone emitted a thousand sparks. As the sun's rays
touched it, it threw out as many colors as are in the rainbow; it
seemed as if it were to be the victor in this fight. All of a sudden
the fiery rays condensed themselves in a narrower circle upon the
doomed diamond, the small room was filled with a blinding light that
turned everything into silver; not a shadow remained. Out of the
saucepan shot a ball of fire like a flash of lightning; the next
minute the burning-glass ceased to work.
Ivan still stood outside the window. He spoke to the countess, who was
transfixed with astonishment.
"What is in the saucepan?" he asked.
"Nothing."
Ivan returned to the room, hung the mirror in its place, and returned
to the countess her brooch without its centre stone.
The abbé could not help remarking, dryly, "That little drama is fit to
be played before a queen."
But now the postilion blew his horn, the countess put on her fur
pelisse, and was escorted to the carriage by Ivan. She was obliged to
give him her hand, and to say the words, "God be with you."
When the carriage had gone a little way she said to the abbé, "That
man is a sorcerer."
But the clergyman shook his head. "He is far worse; he is an inquirer
into the secrets of nature."
"H'm! he is an obstinate, disagreeable man."