THE HUSBAND.
At the very hour when Kucsuk Pasha arrived at Stambul, Master Ladislaus
Szekely, whom Master Michael Teleki had sent with rich presents to the
Porte, likewise dismounted from his carriage. It was his mission to win
the favour of the infuriated Grand Vizier and the Pashas, who had again
begun violently to urge Paul Beldi to accept the princely throne.
Master Ladislaus Szekely had also brought with him Zuelfikar to be his
guide and interpreter through the tortuous streets of Stambul.
As we already know, this worthy gentleman's particular hobby was the
collection of jewels, and the Prince had sent through him such a heap of
precious stones that the heart of the good gentleman when he saw them
all spread out before him died away within him at the thought that the
whole collection was ruthlessly to be broken up and distributed among a
lot of foreigners and Pashas.
"What a shame to lose them all," he thought. "And even then who knows
whether we shall be safe after all. It is like casting pearls before
swine. A much quicker way would be to get Master Paul Beldi
assassinated. That would be cutting the knot once for all, and we should
have no further danger from that quarter. Michael Teleki wouldn't kill
me for a trifle like that, I know. You, Zuelfikar, my son, could you
undertake to poison someone?" he inquired, turning towards the
renegade.
"The whole town if you like."
"No, only Master Paul Beldi. It is all one to him whether he dies or
remains a prisoner for life."
"I'll do it for two hundred ducats, if you pay me half in advance."
"I'll pay you, Zuelfikar, but how will you get at him?"
"That's my affair, all you have to do is to get the money ready."
Accordingly Ladislaus Szekely gave the earnest-money to the renegade,
and the renegade went home and wrote a letter in the name of the
Beglerleg of the following tenour: "Be assured that our affairs are in
the best order, and we shall shortly gain our object."
He strewed over these lines a fine blue dust which was the strongest of
poisons, calculating that whoever wanted to read the letter would first
brush the dust off it, whereupon the fine dust would rise in the air,
and the person reading the letter would inhale the dust and die.
After attaching the letter to his turban, he began prowling round the
dungeon of Paul Beldi, awaiting an opportunity of worming his way into
it.
* * * * *
Paul Beldi was sitting alone in the darkest corner of the dungeon of
Jedikula. At his feet lay his faithful bloodhound, Koertoevely, with his
eyes fixed sadly on his master. Whenever his master slept the dog would
sit up, never take his eyes off him, and begin growling at the lightest
noise.
Beldi, with folded arms, was sitting on the stone bench to which he was
chained. His face had grown terribly pale and as if turned to stone. The
pale gleam of light which filtered through the narrow window and lit up
his face, found there no trace of that weary longing which the dweller
in prisons generally has for the sun's rays. The whole man, body and
soul, was hardened into steel.
Suddenly the dog lying at his feet impatiently raised its sagacious
head, and then with a whimper of joy ran towards the door; there it
stood for a time merrily barking, and then ran back to its master and
stood before him wagging its tail with one foot on his shoulder, whining
and whimpering with such lively joy that one might almost have
understood what it wanted to say.
"What's the matter? Good dog!" said Beldi, stroking the dog's head.
"What is it? Nobody's coming to see me that can make you happy."
At that moment the key turned in the door of the dungeon and a group of
men by the light of torches descended the steps and entered Beldi's
prison; whereupon Koertoevely quickly left his master and burrowing his
way through the throng, began to yelp merrily over someone, and then
rushing back to his master, planted his fore-paws on his breast and
barked as if he would burst because he could not express more plainly
the joy which his wonderful canine instinct had anticipated.
Beldi, perceiving among those who visited him the Grand Vizier,
Kiuprile, and Maurocordato, ordered his dog to be quiet, and standing up
before them, saluted them with a deep bow.
"Well, thou obstinate man!" said the Grand Vizier, "how long wilt thou
torment thyself and offend the Sultan and thine own good friends? Wilt
thou ever perceive that to sit on a stone bench in a damp dungeon is a
very different thing to sitting on a princely throne?"
"The more I suffer," said Beldi, in a strangely calm voice, "the more
reason I have to rejoice that my country does not suffer instead of me."
The Grand Vizier thereupon said something in Turkish which Maurocordato
sadly interpreted: "The Grand Seignior informs thee that because of
money thou hast been cast into prison, and only money can release thee;
promise, therefore, two hundred and seventy purses, and thou shalt get
the Principality to enable thee to pay it."
"I have told you my determination," said Beldi, "and I will not depart
from it. I will not promise money to the detriment of my country. I will
not lead an army against it, and I will not break my oath. These were
and will be my words from which I can never depart."
"Never!" cried Kucsuk Pasha, pressing through the crowd. "Wilt thou not
even now?"--and with that he led a pale female figure towards Beldi.
"My wife!" exclaimed the captive, and he gripped fast his chains lest he
should collapse for joy, terror, and surprise.
The pale woman in mourning fell upon his bosom, her tears became his
fetters.
Paul Beldi burst into tears, he fell back upon his stone bench, his very
soul was shattered. He remained clinging upon his wife's neck,
speechless, unable to utter a word, and the whining dog licked now the
hand of his master and now the lady's hand.
"Let us turn aside," said Kucsuk Pasha; "let us leave them
together"--and the Turks withdrew from the dungeon, leaving Paul Beldi
alone with his wife.
"I fancied," said Dame Beldi when she was able to utter a word amidst
her choking sobs. "I fancied I was suffering instead of you, and oh! you
were suffering more than I."
"How did you come here?" asked Beldi, in a low stifled voice.
"Kucsuk Pasha left his son as a hostage in my stead."
"Worthy man! What useless sacrifices he is making for my sake. And my
children?"
"They remain in the dungeon whither also I must return, if you will not
accept the Sultan's offer."
"Have they taken away my girl Aranka also?" asked Beldi, with a heavy
heart.
"Yes, they have taken her too, and if we are released we shall have no
whither to go. They have taken everything of ours. The Bethlen property
has become the prey of Farkas Bethlen; the Haromszeki estate is now in
the hands of Clement Mikes, although it is not lawful to deprive a
Szekler of his lands, even for high-treason. Our castle at Bodola has
been totally destroyed, our escutcheon has been torn to pieces, and your
name has been recorded in the journals of the Diet as a traitor."
"Oh, ye men!" roared Beldi, shaking his chains in the bitterness of his
anger; "if I were not Paul Beldi the wrath of God would descend upon
your heads. But ah!--I love my country even if worms are gnawing it. Dry
your eyes, my good wife! you see I am not weeping. What we suffer is the
visitation of God upon us. I remain a Christian and a patriot. I leave
my cause to God!"
"You will not accept the offer of the Sultan?" inquired Dame Beldi,
approaching her husband with fear and despair in her eyes.
"Never!" replied Beldi, in a low voice.
The wife, with a loud scream, flung herself at the feet of her husband,
and, seizing his knees in a convulsive embrace, begged and besought him:
"You would send me back to my dungeon? You would separate me from you
for ever? Never, never, not even in the hour of death, shall I see you
again."
"Comfort yourself with the thought that you loved me, and were worthy of
me, if you can suffer as I do and for the same reason."
"You would plunge your children into eternal captivity?"
"Tell them that their father lived honourably and died honourably, and
teach them to live and die like him."
"Think of your girl, Aranka; your favourite, your dearest child."
"Rather may she fade away than Transylvania be plunged in the flames of
war."
"Beldi! drive me not to despair!" cried the wife trembling violently. "I
am afraid, horribly afraid, of my dungeon. Twice have I had fever from
the close, damp air. There was none to care for me in my sickness; I
was calling your name continually, and you were far from me; I saw your
image, and was unable to embrace you. Oh, Beldi! I shall die without
you! The most terrible form of death--despair--will kill me!"
Beldi knelt down by the side of his wife and embraced and kissed her.
The woman fainted in his arms as the Turks entered his prison. Beldi
beckoned Kucsuk Pasha to him. A sort of leaden, death-like hue had begun
to spread over his face; he could scarce see with whom he was
conversing. He laid his swooning wife in the arms of the Pasha, and
stammered with barely intelligible words: "I thank you for your good
will. Here is my wife--take her--back to her dungeon!"
The Turks, in speechless astonishment, lifted up the fainting woman, and
left the dungeon without plaguing Beldi with any more questions.
Beldi stood stonily there as they went out, with open lips and a dull
light in his eyes. When the last Turk had gone, and he saw his wife no
longer, his head began to nod and droop down, and suddenly he fell prone
upon the floor.
Koertoevely, the old hound, began sorrowfully, bitterly, to whine.
At that moment Zuelfikar entered the dungeon with the poisoned letter.
He was too late. Paul Beldi had already departed from this world.
* * * * *
When Ladislaus Szekely heard of Beldi's death he gave a magnificent
banquet, and when the company was at its merriest Zuelfikar came rushing
in.
"Come! out with those hundred ducats!" he whispered in the ear of Master
Ladislaus Szekely.
"What do you mean?" cried Szekely in a voice flushed with wine. "Paul
Beldi had a stroke; be content with what you have had already."
"Thou faithless dog of a giaour!" cried the renegade at the top of his
voice so that everyone could hear him, "is this the way thou dost
deceive me? Thou didst bargain with me for the death of Paul Beldi for
two hundred ducats, and now thou wouldst beat me down by one half. Thou
art a rogue meet for the hangman's hands. Is it thus thou dost treat an
honest man? I'll not kill a man for thee another time until thou pay me
in advance, thou faithless robber!"
The company laughed aloud at this scene, but Master Ladislaus Szekely
seemed very much put out by the joke. "What are you talking about, you
crazy fellow?" said he. "Who asked you to do anything? I never saw you
in my life before!"
"What!" cried Zuelfikar. "I suppose thou wilt deny next that thou didst
write this letter to Paul Beldi!" and with that he gave Ladislaus
Szekely the poisoned letter. He seized it, broke the seal, brushed away
the dust, and ran his eye over it, whereupon he flung it at the feet of
Zuelfikar, exclaiming: "I never wrote that."
Then he beckoned to the servants to seize Zuelfikar by the collar and
pitch him into the street. But the renegade stood outside in front of
the windows and began to curse Szekely before the assembled crowd for
not paying him the price of the poison.
Inside the house the guests laughed more heartily than ever, and at last
Szekely himself began to look upon the matter in the light of a joke,
and laughed like the rest; but when he returned home to Transylvania he
felt a pain in his stomach, and did not know what was the matter. He
became deaf, could neither eat nor drink, and his bowels began to rot.
Nobody could cure him of his terrible malady, till at last he fell in
with a German leech, who persuaded him that he could cure him with the
dust of genuine diamonds and sapphires. Ladislaus Szekely handed to the
charlatan his collection of precious stones. He abstracted the stones
from their settings, but ground up common stones instead of them in his
medical mortar, and stampeded himself with the real stones, leaving
Ladislaus Szekely to die the terrible death by poison which he had
intended for Paul Beldi.
* * * * *
Paul Beldi they buried in foreign soil; none visited his grave. Only his
faithful dog sat beside it. For eight days it neither ate nor drank. On
the ninth day it died on the deserted grave of its master.