Egon Vàsàrhely passed the next three hours in mental conflict with
his own passions. It would have been precious to him--would have been
a blessed and sacred duty--to avenge the woman he adored. But he had
a harder task. For her sake he had to befriend the traitor who had
wronged her, and shelter him from the just opprobrium of the world.
Crueller combat with temptation none ever waged than he fought now
against his own truest instincts, his own dearest affections. She lay
there, perchance dying, of this treachery which had struck her down in
her happiest hours; and it seemed to him as if, through the silence of
the darkened and melancholy house, he heard her voice saying to him:
'For my sake, spare him--spare my children!'
'I give you more than my life, my beloved!' he murmured, as he sat
alone, whilst the grey day widened over forest and mountain, and for
her sake prepared to shield the man who had deceived her from disgrace
and death.
'The hound!' he thought. 'He should be branded as a perjurer and thief
throughout the world! Yet for her--for her--one must protect him.'
An hour or two later he sent his name to the Countess Brancka, with
a request to be received by her. She was but then awaking, and heard
with astonishment and alarm of his arrival, so unlooked for and so
dreaded. It had never occurred to her as possible that he would come to
Hohenszalras.
'Wanda must have sent for him!' she thought. 'Oh heavens! why could she
not die with the child!'
It was impossible for her to avoid him; shut up here she could neither
deceive nor escape him. She could not go away without her departure
being known to the whole household. She was afraid of him, terribly
afraid; the Vàsàrhely had a hand of iron when they were offended or
injured. But she put a fair face on a bitter obligation, and, when she
was dressed, went with a pretty smile into the salon to receive him.
Vàsàrhely gave her no greeting as he entered. A great fear took
possession of her as she saw the expression of his eyes. He was the
only living being of whom she was in awe. He approached her without any
observances of courtesy. He said, simply and sternly:
'I hear that you have used my name falsely, to the husband of Wanda;
that you have dared to give me as your authority for accusations
against him. What is your excuse?'
She was for the moment so bewildered and disturbed by his presence and
his charge that she lost all her ability and power of interminable
falsehood. She was silent, and he saw her bosom heave and her hands
tremble a little.
'What is your excuse?' he said again. 'Why did you come into this house
to injure Wanda von Szalras? How did you dare to use my name to do her
that injury?'
She tried to laugh a little, but she was nervous and thrown off her
guard.
'I wished to do her a service! Since she has married an adventurer--an
impostor--she ought to know it and be free.'
'What is your authority for calling the Marquis de Sabran an
adventurer? To him you employed my name as your authority. What truth
was beneath that lie?'
She was silent. For the only time in her life she knew not what to
say. She had no facts in her hands. Her ground was too uncertain to
sustain her in a steady attitude.
'You know that he is Vassia Kazán!' she said, with another little laugh.
The face of Vàsàrhely revealed nothing.
'Who is Vassia Kazán?' he repeated.
'He is--the man who robbed you of Wanda.'
'He could not rob me of what I never possessed. What grounds have you
for calling him by this name?'
'I have reason to believe it.'
'Reason to believe it! You told him that you heard this story from
myself.'
'He never denied it.'
'I am not concerned to discuss what he did or did not do. I come here
to know on what grounds you employed my name?'
'Egon, I will tell you the truth!'
'Can you?'
'Yes; I can and I will. When I was at Taróc, three summers ago, I saw
a fragment of a letter in Sabran's writing. I saw the name of Vassia
Kazán. I put this and that together. I heard something from Russia; I
sent some people to Mexico. I had always had my suspicions. I do not
say I have any positive legal proof, but I am morally convinced that he
is no Marquis de Sabran, and that he was born a serf near the city of
Kazán. I have charged him with it, and he has as good as confessed it.
He was struck dumb with consciousness.'
She watched the face of Vàsàrhely, but it might have been cast in
bronze for anything that it told her.
'You saw a fragment of a letter, of which you knew nothing,' he said
coldly; 'you formed some vague suspicions; you descended to the use
of spies, and, because you have invented a theory of your own on your
so-called discoveries, you deem you have a title to ruin the happiness
of your cousin's home. And you father your work upon me! Often have I
pitied my brother, but never so deeply as now.'
'If my so-called discoveries were false,' she interrupted, with
hardihood, 'why did he not say so? He was convicted by his own
admissions. If my charge had been baseless, would he have said that he
would tell his wife himself rather than let her learn it from me?'
'I neither know nor care what he said,' answered Vàsàrhely. 'I have
only your version for it. You must pardon me if I do not attach
implicit credence to your word. What I do know is that you ventured to
use my name to give force and credibility to your accusations. Had you
really known for certainty such a history, you would, had you had any
decency or feeling, have consulted your husband and myself on the best
means of shielding our cousin's honour. But you have always envied and
hated her. What is her husband to you--what is it to you whether he be
a noble or a clown? You snatch at the first brand you think you see,
in the hope to scorch her honour with it. But when you used my name
falsely you did a dangerous thing for yourself. I shall waste no more
words upon you, but you will sign what I write now, or you will repent
it.'
She affected to laugh.
'My dear Egon, _quel ton de maître!_ What authority have you over me?
Even if you invest yourself in your brother's, that counts for very
little, I assure you.'
'Perhaps so; but if my brother be too careless of his honour and too
credulous of your deceptions, he is yet man enough to resent such
infamy as you have been guilty of now. You will sign this.'
He passed to her a few lines which he had already written and brought
with him. They ran thus:
'I, Olga, Countess Brancka, do acknowledge that I most untruthfully
used the name of my husband's brother, the Prince Vàsàrhely, in an
endeavour to injure the gentleman known as the Marquis de Sabran; and I
hereby do ask the pardon of them both, and confess that in such pardon
I receive great leniency and forbearance.'
'Sign it,' said Prince Egon.
'Pshaw!' said Madame Brancka, and pushed it away with a loud laugh,
deigning no further answer.
'Will you sign it or not?' asked Vàsàrhely.
She replied by tearing it in shreds.
'It is easily rewritten,' he said, unmoved. He went to a writing-table
that stood in the room, looked for paper and found it, and wrote out
the same formula.
'Do not be foolish, Olga,' he said curtly, as he returned. 'You are a
clever woman, and always consult your own interests. I dare say you
have done a thousand things as base as your attempt to ruin my cousin's
happiness, but I do not suppose you have often done anything so unwise.
You will sign this at once, or you will regret it very greatly.'
'Why should I sign it?' she said insolently. 'The man is what I say; he
could not deny it. If I only guessed at the truth, I guessed aright. I
wonder that you do not see _your_ interests lie in exposing him. When
the world knows he is an impostor Wanda will divorce him and put the
children under other names in religious houses. Then you will be able
to marry her. I told him she would marry you _pour balayer la honte._'
For the moment she was alarmed at the fires that leapt from Vàsàrhely's
sombre eyes. It cost him much--as much as it had cost Sabran--not to
strike her where she stood. He paused a second to control himself, then
answered her coldly and calmly--
'My cousin will never seek a divorce, nor shall I wed with a divorced
woman. Your hate misleads you; there is no blinder thing than hate. You
will sign this paper, or I shall telegraph for my brother.'
'For Stefan!'
All her boundless indifference to her husband, and her contempt for
him, were spoken in the accent she gave his name.
'For Stefan. You are pleased to despise him because you can lead him
into mad follies, and can make him believe you are an innocent woman.
But Stefan is not altogether the ignoble dupe you think him. He is
a dupe, wiser men than he have been so; but he would not bear your
infidelity to him if he really knew it, nor would he bear other things
if he knew of them. Two years ago you took two hundred thousand
florins' worth of diamonds, in my name, from my jeweller Landsee in
the Graben. How should a tradesman suspect that a Countess Brancka was
dishonest? At the end of the year he brought his bill for that and
other things to me, whilst I was in Vienna. He had never, of course,
doubted that you went on my authority. Equally, of course, I did not
betray you, but paid the amount. When you do such things you should
not give written orders. They remain against you. Now, if Stefan knew
this, or if he knew that you had taken money from the richest of your
lovers, the young Duc de Blois, as I knew it so long as seven years
ago, you would no longer find him the malleable easily-cozened fool
you deem him. You would learn that he has Vàsàrhely blood in him. I
have only named two out of the many questionable facts I know against
you. They have been safe with me. I would never urge Stefan to a public
scandal. But, unless you sign this, and apologise for using my name to
the husband of my cousin, as you used it to Landsee of the Graben, I
shall tell my brother. He will not divorce you. That is not our way;
we do not go to lawyers to redress our wrongs. But he will compel you
to retire for your life into a religious house--as you would compel
the harmless children of Wanda; or he would imprison you himself in
one of our lonely places in the mountains, where you would cry in vain
for your lovers, and your friends, and your _menus plaisirs_, and none
would hear you. Do not mistake me. You have often called us barbaric;
you will find we can be so. As I say, we do not carry our wrongs to
lawyers. We can avenge ourselves.'
She had lost all colour as he spoke. A nervous spasm of laughter
contracted her mouth, and remained on it like the ghastly _rictus_ of
death. She knew him well enough to know that he meant every syllable
he said. The Vàsàrhely had had stern tragedies in their annals, and to
women impure and unfaithful had been merciless as Othello.
She felt that she was vanquished; that she would have to obey him or
suffer worse things. But though she was aware of her own impotence, she
could not resist a retort that should sting him.
'You are very chivalrous! I always knew you had an insane adoration
of your cousin, but I never should have thought you would have put
on sabre and spurs in her husband's defence. Will he reward you by
effacing himself? Will he end as he has begun, like the hero of a
melodrama at the Gymnase, and shoot himself at Wanda's feet? You would
marry a widow, though you would not marry a divorced woman!'
'Some time ago, when we spoke of him,' he replied, still with stern
self-control, 'I told you that were his honour called in question I
would defend it as I would my brother's--not for his sake, for hers.
I would, for her sake, defend it so were he the guiltiest soul on
earth. He belongs to her. He is sacred to me. You mistake if you deem
her such a woman as yourself. She has loved him. She will love no
other whilst she lives. She has given herself to him. She will give
herself to no other, though she outlive him from this hour. You make
your calculations unwisely, for when you make them you suppose that
every man and every woman have your own dishonesty, your own passions,
your own baseness. You are short of sight, because you only see in the
circle of your own conceptions.'
She understood that he knew the secret of the man he protected, but
that he would never admit that he did so; would never reveal it or let
any other reveal it. She understood that he had himself forborne from
its exposure, and would never, whilst he lived, allow any other to hold
it up to the derision of the world. She understood that, if need were,
Vàsàrhely would defend, as he said, the honour of his cousin's husband
at the point of the sword against all foes or mockers.
'For her sake!' she cried, 'always for her sake! What can you both see
so marvellous in her? She has been a greater fool than any woman that
has ever lived, though she can read Greek and write in Latin! What
has she done with all her wisdom and her holiness? You know as well
as though it were written there upon the wall that he is what I say.
Why do you put your lance in rest for him? Why are you ready to shed
blood on his behalf? He is an impostor who has taken in first the world
and then the mistress of Hohenszalras. If you were the hero you have
always seemed to me you would tear his heart out of his breast, shoot
him like a wolf in these very woods! If her honour is yours, avenge her
dishonour!'
She spoke with force and fire, and longing to behold the spirit of evil
roused in her hearer's soul and stung to action.
But she might as well have tried to move the mountains from their base
as rouse either pain or rage in her brother-in-law. Vàsàrhely kept his
attitude of stern, cold, contemptuous disgust. Not a muscle of his face
changed. He said merely:
'You have been told what I shall do if you do not sign this paper. The
choice is yours. If you desire to hear any more episodes of your past I
can tell you many.'
Then she changed her attitude and her eloquence. She dissolved in
tears; she wept; she implored; she tried to kneel to him. But he was
inflexible.
'You are a good actress,' he said simply. 'But you forget; it is Stefan
whom you can deceive, not me.'
When she had vainly used all her resources of alternate entreaty
and invective, of cajolery and insolence, she sank into her chair,
exhausted, hysterical, nerveless.
'I am ill; call my woman,' she said faintly.
He replied:
'You are no more ill than I am.'
'You are brutal, Egon,' she said, raising herself, with flashing eyes
and hissing tongue.
'What have you been to her?' said Vàsàrhely.
He waited with cold, inflexible patience. When another half-hour had
gone by she signed the paper, and flung it with fury to him.
'You know very well it is true!' she cried, as she leaned across the
table like a slender snake that darted. 'Would she lie dying of it if
it were only a lie?'
'That I know not,' said Vàsàrhely, coldly. 'What I know is that your
carriage will be ready in an hour, and that you will go hence. If ever
you be tempted to speak of what has occurred here, you will remember
that my silence to Stefan and your own people is only conditional on
yours on another matter.'
Then he left her.
She was cowed, intimidated, vanquished. When the hour was over she went
through the two lines of bowing servants, and left Hohenszalras ere the
noon was past.
'It is the first time in my life I ever failed,' she thought, as the
pinnacles and towers of the burg were lost to her sight. 'What do these
men see in that woman?'