"We need not go as far as that," said Gregorics, smiling. And they only

went as far as "The Cock," a small public-house, where they ordered some

wine, after drinking which, the wily Gaspar began, smiling blandly:

"Can you speak, Prepelicza?"

The mason began to wonder what was going to happen, and looked long and

attentively into the steely gray eyes of his new acquaintance, and then

said guardedly:

"A jay can speak, sir."

"I am from Besztercebanya."

"Really? There are very decent people there. I seem to know your face

too, sir."

"You probably mistake me for my half-brother," said Gaspar. "You know,

the one who had the caldron put away so secretly."

"The caldron!" Prepelicza's mouth was wide open from astonishment. "Was

that your brother? Now I understand where the likeness is, at least ...

I mean ... (and he began to scratch his ear doubtfully). What caldron

are you speaking of? I can't be expected to remember every pot and pan I

have seen in my life."

Gaspar was prepared for such hitches as this, so was not surprised, and

offered the mason a cigar, which he immediately wetted to make it burn

slower, then lit it, and began to drum on the table like a man who has

just found out that he has something to sell, and has the right

purchaser before him. Now he must be as phlegmatic as possible, and the

price of the article would rise in proportion.

His heart beat loud and fast, and the white cock framed on the wall

above the green table seemed to awake to life before his eyes, and to

crow out these words: "Good afternoon, Andras Prepelicza!

Cock-a-doodledo. You have luck before you! Seize hold of it!"

"What do you say, Prepelicza, you don't remember the caldron? What do

you take me for? Do I look like a fool? But I daresay in your place I

should do the same. This wine is very good, isn't it? What do you say?

It tastes of the cask? Why, my good fellow, it can't taste of mortar,

can it? Here, waiter, fetch another bottle of wine, and then be off and

leave us alone. Well, what were we speaking of? Ah, yes, you said a

short time ago that the jay could speak, and that is quite true; you are

a wise man, Prepelicza, and the right man for me, for we shall soon come

to terms. Yes, the jay can speak, but only if they cut its tongue. That

is what you meant, isn't it?"

"H'm!" was the answer, and the three hairs on the mason's nose began to

move, as though a breath of air had passed through them.

"I know of course that they cut the jay's tongue with a knife, but as

you are not a bird, Prepelicza ..."

"No, no," stammered the man hastily.

"Well, instead of a knife I take these two bank-notes to cut your tongue

with."

And with that he took two hundred-florin bank-notes out of his

pocket-book.

The eyes of the mason fixed themselves greedily upon the bank-notes,

upon the two figures printed on them, one holding a sheaf of wheat, the

other a book; his eyes nearly dropped out of his head he stared so hard,

and then he said:

"The caldron was heavy, very heavy indeed."

That was all he could get out, while he continued gazing at the two

cherubs on the paper notes. He had six of his own at home, but they were

not as pretty as these.

"Well, my good man," said Gregorics surprised, "still silent?"

"It would be like a stone on my heart if I were to speak," sighed the

mason--"a very big stone. I don't think I could bear it."

"Don't talk such nonsense! A stone, indeed! Why, you have had to do with

nothing else all your life, you need not cry about having one on your

heart! You can't expect me to give you two hundred florins, and then

give you a hot roll to carry in your heart. Don't be a fool, man."

Prepelicza smiled at this, but he put his big red hands behind his back,

a sign that he did not intend to touch the money.

"Perhaps you find it too little?"

Not a word did he answer, only pushed his hair up in front, till he

looked like a sick cockatoo; then, after a few moments, raised his glass

to his lips, and drained it to the dregs, and then put it back on the

table so brusquely that it broke.

"It is disgraceful!" he burst out; "a poor man's honor is only worth

two hundred florins, though God created us all equal, and He gave me my

honor as well as to the bishop or to Baron Radvanszky. And yet you tax

mine at two hundred florins. It's a shame!"

Upon that Gaspar decided to play his trump.

"Very well, Prepelicza, you needn't be so cross. If your honor is so

dear, I'll look for cheaper."

And with that he put back the two bank-notes in his pocket.

"I'll look up your companion, the other mason."

Then he called the head waiter, in order to pay for the wine. Prepelicza

smiled.

"Well, well, can't a poor man give his opinion? Of course you can look

up the other man, and he won't be as honest as I, probably. But ...

well, put another fifty to it, and I'll tell you all."

"Very well. It's a bargain!"

And the mason began to relate the events of that memorable night, and

how they had carried the caldron through the courtyard and garden to a

small house.

"To the 'Lebanon'!" exclaimed Gaspar excitedly. "To that boy's house!"

And the mason went on to tell how Gregorics had stood by while they had

walled in the caldron, and watched every movement, Gaspar throwing in a

question now and then.

"Was it heavy?"

"Very heavy."

"Did no one see you as you passed through the courtyard?"

"No one; every one had gone to bed."

Gaspar was quite excited, and seemed to enjoy every word he heard; his

eyes shone, his thoughts were occupied with the future, in which he

imagined himself a rich man, the owner of untold wealth. He might even

buy a baronetcy! Baron Gaspar Gregorics! How well it sounded! And Minka

would be a little baroness. That fool of a Pal had not known how to make

proper use of his wealth, so it must have increased immensely, he had

been so economical!

"And what did my brother pay you for your work?"

"He gave us each fifty florins."

"That was quite right of him."

A weight had fallen from his heart at these words, for he had begun to

fear Gregorics had given them some thousands to buy their silence, and

that would have been a great pity, as it would have diminished the sum

he hoped to possess before long. For he had decided to buy "Lebanon,"

with its caldron and its orchard. He would go to-morrow to that boy's

guardian and make an offer for it. And he rejoiced inwardly at the trick

he was playing his brother and sister.

He returned home as fast as horses could take him, and did not even stop

at his own house, but went straight on to Sztolarik's and informed him

he would like to buy "Lebanon."

This was the name they had given to the orchard and house old Gregorics

had bought of the clergyman's widow. He had tried to grow cedars there

at first, but the soil of Besztercebanya was not suitable for these

trees, and the sarcastic inhabitants of the small town christened the

orchard "Lebanon."

Mr. Sztolarik showed no surprise at the offer.

"So you want to buy 'Lebanon'?" he said. "It is a good orchard, and

produces the finest fruit imaginable. This year a well-known

hotel-keeper bought all the fruit, and paid an enormous price for it.

But what made you think of buying 'Lebanon'?"

"I should like to build a house there, a larger house than the present

one."

"H'm! There is always a good deal of bother attached to a purchase of

that kind," said Sztolarik coldly; "the present owner is a minor, and

the Court of Chancery must give permission for the sale to take place. I

would rather leave things as they are. When the boy is of age he may do

what he likes, but if I sell it now he may be sorry for it later on. No,

no, Mr. Gregorics, I can't agree to it. After all the house and orchard

are a _pretium affectionis_ for the boy; he spent his childhood there."

"But if I offer a good sum for it," broke in Gaspar, nervously.

Sztolarik began to feel curious.

"What do you consider a good sum? What do you think of offering for it?"

"Why, I would give--" and here he was overcome by a fit of coughing,

which made him turn as red as a peony--"I would give 15,000 florins."

Well, that was a brilliant offer, for Pal Gregorics had bought it of the

clergyman's widow for 5000 florins. It was only a small bit of ground,

and a good way from the market, which decreased its value exceedingly.

"Utcumque," said Sztolarik, "your offer is a good one. But, but ...

well, I'll tell you what, Mr. Gregorics, I'll consider your offer a bit,

and I must write to the boy about it too, and also speak to his mother."

"But I want to settle it as soon as possible."

"I'll write about it to-day."

Gaspar did not wish to say any more about the matter, for fear of

awakening the lawyer's suspicions, but a day or two afterward he sent a

tiny cask of Tokay wine to him (some Pal Gregorics had left in his

cellar, and which they had divided among them), with the inquiry as to

whether he had any answer from Budapest. Sztolarik sent back word he

expected a letter every minute, and thanked him very much for the wine;

he also remarked to the footman who had brought it that he hoped it

would go smoothly, but whether he meant the wine, or something else, the

footman did not quite understand.

Hardly had the man gone, when the expected letter arrived, containing

the news that Gyuri agreed to the sale of the orchard, and Sztolarik was

just going to send one of his clerks to Gaspar, when the door opened,

and in walked Boldizsar Gregorics, puffing and blowing from the haste he

had made.

"Pray take a seat, Mr. Gregorics. To what do I owe the honor of your

visit?"

"I've brought you a lot of money," gasped Boldizsar, still out of

breath.

"We can always do with plenty of that," said the lawyer.

"I want to buy that poor orphan's little bit of property, 'Lebanon.'"

"'Lebanon'?" repeated Sztolarik, surprised. "What on earth is the matter

with them all?" he muttered to himself; then continued out loud:

"Perhaps you want it for your brother?"

"No, no, I want it for myself. It would suit me nicely; the view from

there is so lovely, and the fruit-trees are so good."

"It is really strange, very strange!"

"Why is it strange?" said the other, surprised.

"Because I have already one purchaser in view."

"Well, we won't let him have it. I daresay I can offer you more than

he."

"I doubt it," said the lawyer; "the first offer was 15,000 florins."

Boldizsar showed no surprise.

"Well, I offer 20,000."

Not till after he had said it did it occur to him that the orchard was

not worth even 15,000 florins, and he turned impatiently and asked:

"Who is the fool who offers so much?"

"Your brother Gaspar."

At this name Boldizsar turned deathly pale, and dropped gasping on to a

chair. His lips moved, but no sound came from them, and Sztolarik

thought he would have a stroke, and rushed out for some water, calling

for help as he went; but when he returned with the cook armed with a

rolling-pin and a jug of water, the old gentleman had recovered, and

began to excuse himself.

"I felt a bit giddy; I often have attacks like this. I'm getting old,

you see. And now to return to our discussion. Yes, I'll give you 20,000

florins for 'Lebanon,' and pay the money down."

The lawyer thought a minute, then said:

"We can't manage things so quickly, for we must have the consent of the

Court of Chancery. I'll see about it at once."

And he was as good as his word, for such an advantageous sale of the

orchard he had never dared to hope for. But all the time he was

wondering why the two Gregorics were so anxious to have it. There must

be some reason for it. Supposing they had struck upon some treasure

there, it was not impossible, for had not King Arpad and his successors

lived about here? He decided to send Istvan Drotler, the civil engineer,

to have a look at the place, and see if it contained gold or coal. But

before he had time to start for the engineer's, Gaspar Gregorics

appeared on the scene, to ask if there were any letter from Pest.

Sztolarik was in difficulties.

"The letter is here, yes, the letter is here; but something else has

happened. Another purchaser has turned up, and he offers 20,000 florins

for 'Lebanon.'"

This was evidently a great blow for Gaspar.

"Impossible," he stammered. "Is it Boldizsar?"

"Yes."

Gaspar was furious; he began to swear like a trooper, and waved his

stick about, thereby knocking down one of Mrs. Sztolarik's flower-pots,

in which a rare specimen of hyacinth was just blossoming.

"The wretch!" he hissed. And then he sat staring fixedly in front of him

for some time.

How did he get to know of it? was the question he was revolving in his

mind. It was very simple. That sly Prepelicza had easily found out in

Besztercebanya that Pal Gregorics had more than one brother living, and

he decided that if one of them paid him 250 florins for the secret, the

other would perhaps be inclined to pay something too. So he got into the

train, travelled to Besztercebanya, and looked up Boldizsar. There was

nothing surprising in that except, perhaps, the fact that Prepelicza was

not such a fool as he looked.

"Oh, the wretch!" Gaspar kept on saying. "But he shall not have it, I

_will_ buy it. I'll give you 25,000 florins for it."

Sztolarik smiled and rubbed his hands.

"It will belong to the one who gives most for it. If it were mine, I

would give it you for the 15,000 florins you offered at first, for I

always keep my word. But as it belongs to a minor, and I have his

interests at heart, I must do the best I can for him. Now don't you

think I am right?"

Gaspar agreed with him, and tried to make him promise to give him the

preference. But what was the good of it? Sztolarik met Boldizsar that

evening at the club, and made no secret of the fact that Gaspar had been

to see him that morning, and offered him 5000 florins more for the

orchard. But Boldizsar was not surprised, and only answered:

"Well, I will give 30,000."

And this mad auction went on for days, until the attention of the whole

town was drawn to it, and people began to think the Gregorics must have

gone mad, or that there must be some important reason for their wishing

to have possession of "Lebanon."

Gaspar came and offered 32,000 florins, and as soon as Boldizsar heard

of it, he came and offered 3000 florins more; and so on, until people's

hair began to stand on end.

"Let them go on as long as they like," thought the lawyer.

And they did go on, until they reached the sum of 50,000 florins, which

was Boldizsar's last offer. And heaven only knows how long it would have

gone on still.

The engineer had been to look at the place, and had declared there was

nothing of any value to be found there, not even a bit of gold, unless

it were the stoppings of some dead woman's teeth.

"But supposing there is coal there?"

"Not a sign of it."

"Then what on earth are the Gregorics thinking of?"

Whatever the reason was, it was certainly to Gyuri's advantage, and his

guardian meant to make the most of the opportunity, so he let the two

brothers go on bidding till the sum promised was 50,000 florins. He

intended to wait till Gaspar capped it with 52,000, and then close the

bargain.

But he had reckoned without his host, for one fine day it suddenly

occurred to Gaspar it was strange Mrs. Panyoki showed no signs of taking

part in the auction. She evidently knew nothing of the existence of the

treasure; Prepelicza had not told her the secret, and had thus proved

himself a clever man, for if he had told her too, his part in the play

was over. Whereas now, when the two brothers had the caldron in their

possession, they would be obliged to pay him hush-money to hold his

tongue. As Gaspar turned all this over in his mind, he began to find it

ridiculous for him and Boldizsar to keep on outbidding each other, thus

attracting every one's attention to them, putting money into the boy's

pocket, and awakening Mrs. Panyoki's suspicions. And whichever bought

"Lebanon" at last would certainly not be left to enjoy it unmolested. So

he decided it would be cheaper if they were to work together, buy the

estate, share the contents of the caldron, and pay Prepelicza a certain

sum yearly to hold his tongue.

So one day the brothers came to terms, and Sztolarik was very surprised

when, the next day, the door opened, and in walked Boldizsar and

announced that he had thought things over, and come to the conclusion

that "Lebanon" was decidedly not worth 50,000 florins, and he had given

up all idea of buying it.

"That does not matter," said Sztolarik, "your brother will give us

48,000 for it."

And he waited impatiently till he had a chance of speaking to Gaspar

about it. But that good man calmly answered:

"It was very stupid of me to offer so much for it, and I am really

grateful to you, Sztolarik, for not taking me at my word at once. Why, I

can buy a good-sized estate for the money I offered for it."

The lawyer hardly knew what to do next. He was afraid he had made them

go back on their bargain, by letting them carry it on so long, and felt

sure he would be the laughing stock of the town, and that Gyuri would

reproach him with not looking after his interests properly. So off he

rushed to Boldizsar and offered him "Lebanon" for 45,000 florins; but

Boldizsar only laughed, and said:

"Do you take me for a fool?"

Whereupon he went to Gaspar and said:

"Well, you may have 'Lebanon' for 40,000 florins."

Gaspar shook his head and answered:

"I'm not quite mad yet."

And now the auction began again, but this time it went _backward_, until

at last, with the greatest difficulty, Sztolarik got 15,000 florins out

of them. They bought it together, and both signed their names to the

deeds.

On the day they received the key of the house from the guardian, they

both went there, shut themselves in, and began to pull down the inner

wall with the pickaxes they had brought with them under their cloaks. Of

course they found the caldron, but what was in it has not become clear

to this day, though that was the chief point to be settled in the

Gregorics lawsuit, which took up the attention of the Besztercebanya law

courts for ten years.

It began in this way. A few months after the purchase of "Lebanon,"

Prepelicza appeared on the scene, and demanded his share of the treasure

discovered in the wall, otherwise he would make known the whole affair

to Mrs. Panyoki. The brothers got mad with rage at the sight of him.

"You miserable thief!" they cried. "You were a party to the fraud

practised upon us by that good-for-nothing brother of ours, who wanted

to rob us in order to benefit that boy. You helped him to fill the

caldron with rusty nails and bits of old iron. Now you are here, you

may as well have your share."

With that they each seized hold of a stick, and began to beat Prepelicza

till he was black and blue. Off he went to a doctor for a certificate as

to his wounds, and then to the barber, who had to write a long letter to

the king in his name, complaining of the behavior of the two brothers

Gregorics toward one of his honest (?) subjects.

"If the king is not ashamed of them as subjects, I am not ashamed of

owning how I have been beaten; they were two to one!"

Then he hired a cart (for it was impossible for him to walk in his

present state), and drove to Varecska, where Mrs. Panyoki spent the

summer, and told her the whole tale from beginning to end.

The result was the lawsuit Panyoki _versus_ Gregorics, which furnished

the neighborhood with gossip for ten years. A whole legion of witnesses

had to be examined, and the deeds and papers increased to such an extent

that at the end they weighed seventy-three pounds. Mrs. Panyoki could

only prove the existence of the caldron, its having been walled in, and

its appropriation later on by the two brothers, who, on their part,

tried to prove that it contained nothing of value, only a number of

rusty nails and odd bits of iron. As the dead man had no lawyer to

defend him, _he_ lost the lawsuit, for it was certain he had played the

trick on his relations, and thus brought about the lawsuit, which only

ended when it was all the same which side lost or won it, for the

seventy-three pounds of paper and the six lawyers had eaten up the whole

of the Gregorics and Panyoki fortunes. By degrees all the members of the

family died in poverty, and were forgotten; only Pal Gregorics lived in

the memories of the six lawyers, who remarked from time to time: "He was

a clever man!"

But in spite of all researches, the dead man's fortune was still

missing, not a trace of it was to be found, no one had inherited it

except rumor, which did as it liked with it, decreased it, increased it,

placed it here or there at pleasure.

Traces

PART III

CHAPTER I.

THE UMBRELLA AGAIN.

Many years passed, and things had changed very much in Besztercebanya,

but the thing that will interest us most is the door-plate on the house

formerly inhabited by old Gregorics, on which is to be read: "Gyoergy

Wibra, lawyer."

Yes, little Gyuri is now a well-known lawyer; people come to him from

all sides for advice, and young girls smile at him from their windows as

he passes. He is a very handsome young man, and clever. He has youth and

health, and his whole life before him, what more can he want? But the

narrow-minded inhabitants of the little town are at present only

occupied with one question, viz., whom will he marry? Why, Katka

Krikovszky would marry him any day, and she is the prettiest girl in the

town. Then there is Mathilda Hupka, who would receive him with open arms

if he came to her with a proposal, though she is very high and mighty.

And even Mariska Biky would not refuse him, and she belongs to the

nobility, and has 50,000 florins. Girls are very cheap nowadays! But

Gyuri Wibra paid no attention to any of them; he was a serious and

retiring young man, and his friends soon saw that he was infinitely

above them in every way. As a rule young men first take their diploma,

then start an office, look out for clients who do not come, and by their

absence make the place seem so large and empty, that the young lawyer

feels he must have company of some kind. So he brings home a wife to

cheer his solitude.

But it never occurred to Gyuri to marry. And once when Mrs. Krikovszky

broached the subject to him and asked when they would hear of his

engagement, he answered absently:

"I am not in the habit of marrying."

It certainly is a bad "habit," but one that does not seem inclined to go

out of fashion. For thousands of years people have been marrying,

repenting of it, and considering it madness to have done so, but they

never get over the madness, and marriage is as fashionable as ever. As

long as pretty young girls are growing up, they are always growing up

for some one.

Gyuri's business was a brilliant success from the beginning; fortune

smiled on him from every side, but he received it with a tolerably sour

face. He worked, but only from habit, just the same as he washed

himself and brushed his hair every day. His mind was elsewhere; but

where? His friends thought they knew, and often asked him:

"Why don't you marry, old fellow?"

"Because I am not rich enough."

"Why, that is the very reason you should marry. Your wife will bring the

money with her."

(That is the usual opinion of young men.)

Gyuri shook his head, a handsome, manly head, with an oval face, and

large black eyes.

"That is not true. It is the money brings the wife!"

What sort of a wife had he set his heart on? His friends decided he must

be chasing very high game. Perhaps he wanted a baroness, or even a

countess? He was like the Virginian creeper they said, which first

climbs very high and then blossoms. But if he were to marry, he could be

successful later on all the same. Look at the French beans; they climb

and blossom at the same time.

But this was all empty talk. There was nothing whatever to prevent Gyuri

getting on in his profession; nothing troubled him, neither a pretty

girl's face, nor a wish for rank and riches, only the legend of the lost

wealth disturbed him. For to others it was a legend, but to him it was

truth, which danced before his eyes like a Jack-o'-lantern; he could

neither grasp it nor leave it alone; yet there it was by day and by

night, and he heard in his dreams a voice saying: "You are a

millionaire!"

When he wrote out miserable little bills for ten or fifteen florins,

these words seemed to dance before him on the paper:

"Lay down your pen, Gyuri Wibra, you have treasures enough already,

heaven only knows how much. Your father saved it up for you, so you have

a right to it. You are a rich man, Gyuri, and not a poor lawyer. Throw

away those deeds and look for your treasure. Where are you to look for

it? Why, that is just the question that drives one mad. Perhaps

sometimes, when you are tired out, and throw yourself down on the ground

to rest, it may be just beneath you, it is, perhaps, just beginning to

get warm under your hand when you take it away to do something else, and

it may be you will never find it at all. And what a life you could lead,

what a lot you could do with the money. You could drive a four-in-hand,

drink champagne, keep a lot of servants. A new world, a new life would

be open to you. And to possess all this you only need a little luck; but

as you have none at present, take up your pen again, my friend, and go

on writing out deeds and bills, and squeezing a few florins out of the

poor Slovaks."

It was a great pity he had heard anything about the missing treasure. He

felt it himself, and often said he wished he knew nothing about it, and

would be very glad if something were to happen which would go to prove

that the treasure did not really exist; for instance, if some one would

remark:

"Oh, yes, I met old Gregorics once in Monte Carlo; he was losing his

money as fast as he could."

But no such thing happened; on the contrary, new witnesses were always

turning up to assure him: "Old Gregorics must certainly have left an

immense fortune, which he intended you to have. Don't you really know

anything about it?"

No, he knew nothing at all about it, but his thoughts were always

running on the subject, spoiling all his pleasure in life. The promising

youth had really become only half a man, for he had two separate and

distinct persons in him. Sometimes he entirely gave himself up to the

idea that he was the child of a servant, and began to feel he had

attained to a really good position by means of his own work, and was

happy and contented in this thought. But only a word was needed to make

the lawyer a totally different man. He was now the son of rich old Pal

Gregorics, waiting to find and take possession of his property. And from

time to time he suffered all the pangs of Tantalus, and left his office

to look after itself for weeks at a time, while he went to Vienna to

look up some of his father's old acquaintances.

The rich carriage-builder, who had bought Gregorics's house in Vienna,

gave him valuable information.

"Your father," he said, "once told me when I paid him for the house,

that he should put the money in some bank, and asked me which would be

the best and safest way to set to work about it."

Gyuri wandered then from one bank to another, but without success.

Thoroughly worn out he returned to Besztercebanya with the full

intention of not thinking any more about the subject.

"I am not going on making a fool of myself," he said. "I won't let the

Golden Calf go on lowing in my ears forever. I will not take another

step in the affair, and shall imagine I dreamed it all."

But it was easier said than done. You can throw ashes on a smouldering

fire--it will put it out, but not prevent it smoking.

Sometimes one friend referred to it, sometimes another. His mother, who

now walked on crutches, often spoke of the good old times, sitting in

her arm-chair by the fire. And at length she owned that old Gregorics

had wanted to telegraph for Gyuri on his deathbed.

"He seemed as though he could not die till he had seen you," she said.

"But it was my fault you came too late."

"And why did he so much want to see me?"

"He said he wanted to give you something."

A light broke in upon Gyuri's brain. The Vienna carriage-builder had

given him to understand that his father's fortune was represented by a

receipt for money placed in a bank, and from the information his mother

now gave him, he concluded that the old gentleman had intended giving

him the receipt before his death. So he must always have kept it by him.

But what had become of it? In which bank was the money deposited? Could

he, knowing what he did, give up the idea of finding it?

No, no, it was impossible! It could not be lost! Why, a grain of wheat,

if dropped in a ditch, would reappear in time, however unexpectedly. And

in a case of this kind, a chance word, a sign, could clear up every

doubt.

He had not long to wait. One day, the dying mayor of the town, Tamas

Krikovszky, sent for him to make his will. Several people, holding high

positions in the town, were assembled in the room. There lay the mayor,

pale and weak, but he still seemed to retain some of the majesty of his

office, in the manner in which he took leave of his inferiors in office,

recommending the welfare of the town to them, and then taking from

under his pillow the official seal, he put it into their hands, saying:

"For twenty years I have sealed the truth with it!"

Then he dictated his will to Gyuri, and while doing so, referred now and

then to various incidents in his life.

"Dear me, what times those were," he said once, addressing himself to

Gyuri. "Your father had a red umbrella, with a hollow handle, in which

he used to carry valuable papers from one camp to another, in the days

when he was a spy."

"What!" stammered Gyuri. "The red umbrella?" and his eyes shone.

Like a flash of lightning a thought had entered his head. The receipt

was in that umbrella! His blood began to course madly in his veins, as

the certitude of the truth of his suspicion grew upon him. Yes, there it

was, he was sure of it; and all at once he remembered the incident in

Szeged, how Gregorics had let his umbrella fall in the water, his

anxiety, and offer of a large reward for its discovery. Then again, the

old gentleman's words rang in his ear:

"The umbrella will once belong to you, and you will find it useful to

protect you from the rain."

The bystanders could not imagine why Gyuri seemed so much put about at

the mayor's death; in their opinion it was quite right of the old man

to take his departure, he had dragged on with his gouty old leg quite

long enough, and should now make room for younger men; he had not lived

his life for nothing, for were they not going to have his portrait

painted and hung in the Town Hall, a grand ending to his life? If he

lived for ten years longer he could have no greater honor done him, and

his portrait would be even uglier than now.

They were even more surprised at the strange question which Gyuri, in

spite of the solemnity of the occasion, put to the dying man.

"And was the hole big, sir?"

"What hole?" asked the mayor, who had already forgotten the subject.

"The hole in the handle of the umbrella."

"I really don't know, I never asked Gregorics."

He closed his eyes, and in a weak voice added, with that phlegma which

only a Hungarian displays on his deathbed:

"But if you wait a bit, I'll ask him."

And he probably kept his promise, for half an hour later a black flag

was flying from the roof of the Town Hall, and the bell of the Roman

Catholic church was tolling.

Gyuri Wibra had hurried home, nervous and excited, and was now marching

up and down his office, his heart beating wildly with joy.

"I have the treasure at last!" he kept on repeating to himself, "at

least, I should have it if I had the umbrella. But where is it?" He

could neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep till he had settled it. He

questioned his mother on the subject, and she did her best to answer

him, but could only repeat:

"How am I to remember that, my dear boy, after so long a time? And what

do you want that ragged umbrella for?"

Gyuri sighed.

"If I have to dig it out of the ground with my ten fingers, I will do

it."

"Perhaps Matyko will remember something about it?"

Matyko was soon found; he sat smoking his pipe in the anteroom of the

office, for he was now Gyuri's servant. But he also said he had

forgotten far more important things than that in all these years; but

this much he did remember, that the dead man had kept the umbrella near

him till the hour of his death.

"Heaven only knows," he added, "why he took such care of the ragged old

thing."

(Not only heaven knew the reason now, but Gyuri too!)

He got more information from the old woman who kept the grocer's shop in

old Gregorics's house; she had been in the house when he died, and had

helped to lay him out. She swore by heaven and earth that the umbrella

had been tightly clutched in the dead man's hand, and they had had the

greatest difficulty in freeing it from his grasp.

"Yes," said the old woman, "the umbrella was certainly in his hand, may

I never move from this spot if it is not true."

"It is all the same," muttered Gyuri; "we want to know where it is now."

"I suppose it was sold with the rest of the things."

That seemed very likely, so Gyuri went and looked up the list of things

that had been sold at the auction. All sorts of things were

mentioned--tables, chairs, cupboards, coats, etc.--but there was no

mention of an umbrella. He read it over ten times, but it was of no use,

he could find no mention of it, unless the following could be considered

as such.

"Various useless objects, bought for two florins by the white Jew."

Perhaps the umbrella was one of those useless objects, and had been

bought by the "white Jew." Well, the first thing was to find the "white

Jew." But who was he? For in those good old days there were not as many

Jews in Hungary as there are now; there were perhaps one or two in the

town, so it was easy to find them; for one was called "red," another

"gray," another "white," a fourth "black," according to the color of

their hair; and by means of these four colors the townsfolk were able to

distinguish any Jew who lived in their town. But now there were some

hundred Jewish families, and heaven had not increased the shades of

their hair to such an extent that each family could be distinguished in

the old way.

It was not difficult to find out about the old Jew, and Gyuri soon knew

that he was called Jonas Muencz, and it was very likely he had bought the

things, for all the coats and vests found their way into his tiny shop

in Wheat Street, before starting on the second chapter of their

existence.

Many people remember the little shop in which top-boots, cloaks, and

dresses hung on nails, and the following announcement was written with

chalk on the door:

"Only the lilies of the field can dress themselves cheaper than you can

in this shop!"

(That was quite true, only with this difference, that the lilies of the

field were more becomingly dressed than Muencz's customers.)

In spite of all this information Gyuri was by no means satisfied, so he

walked across the road to his old guardian's to see if he could find out

anything more on the subject from him, for he had been the first lawyer

in the town for many years, and must know every one.

The young man told Sztolarik the whole story, openly and frankly, adding

that the receipt for the money, which was probably deposited in some

foreign bank, was all but found, for it was most certainly in the handle

of the red umbrella, and that had in all probability been bought by an

old Jew of the name of Jonas Muencz. All of this Gyuri poured out quickly

and breathlessly into the ears of his old guardian.

"That much I know. Now, what am I to do next?"

"It is a great deal, much more than I ever hoped for. You must continue

the search."

"But where am I to search? We don't yet know where Muencz is, and even if

we had him, who knows on which dust-heap the umbrella has rotted since

then?"

"All the same, you must not lose the thread."

"Did you know the 'white Jew'?"

"Oh, yes; he was a very honest Jew, that is why he never got very rich.

He often came to me; I can see him now, with his head bald at the back,

and a fringe of white hair round it. 'Pon my word! (and here the lawyer

skipped like a young lamb) the last time I saw him he had Pal

Gregorics's umbrella in his hand; I can swear to it, and I remember I

joked him about it. 'It seems to me, Jonas,' I said, 'that you wander

about the next world, too, to buy "ole clo'," and bought that umbrella

there of Pal Gregorics.' At which he smiled, and said he had not gone as

far as that yet, for he only kept to the two counties of Zolyom and

Hont, and had divided the neighboring counties among his sons; Moricz

had Trencsin and Nyitra, Szami had Szepes and Lipto, and the youngest,

Kobi, had only last week been given Bars, but they none of them intended

to go into the next world until they were obliged to."

Gyuri's eyes shone with delight.

"Bravo, Sztolarik!" he exclaimed, "only the gods had such memories as

you have."

"You are a lucky fellow, Gyuri. I have an impression we are on the right

track at last, and that you will find the money."

"I begin to think so too," answered Gyuri, who was in turns optimist or

pessimist, as the occasion presented itself.

"But what can have become of old Muencz?"

"We Christians have a legend about the Jews which says, that on the Long

Day every year a Jew disappears from the earth and is never seen again.

Old Jonas disappeared thus fourteen years ago (you may be sure none of

the Rothschilds will disappear in that way). His wife and children

waited for him in vain, Jonas never returned. So his sons set out to

look for him, and it turned out the old fellow had got soft-headed, and

had taken to wandering about in the Slovak villages, where the sons now

and then heard of him from people who had seen him; and then one day,

they found his dead body in the Garam."

The young lawyer's face was clouded again.

"Why, in that case the umbrella will be in the Garam too, probably."

"Perhaps not," was the answer. "He may have left it at home, and if so,

it will still be among the old rags and bones of the Muencz's, for I am

sure no one would ever buy it. Try your luck, my boy! If I were you I

would get into a carriage, and drive and drive until ..."

"But where am I to drive to?"

"Yes, of course, of course."

Then, after a minute's thought:

"Muencz's sons have gone out into the world, and the boxes of matches

with which they started have probably become houses since then. But I'll

tell you what; go to Babaszek, their mother lives there."

"Whereabouts is Babaszek?"

"Quite near to Zolyom, among the mountains. There is a saying that all

the sheep there were frozen to death once, in the dog-days."

"And are you sure Mrs. Muencz lives there?"

"Quite sure. A few years ago they came and fetched her away to be the

'Jewess of Babaszek.'"

CHAPTER II.

OUR ROSALIA.

Yes, they had taken old Mrs. Muencz to Babaszek to be their "Jew," with

forty florins salary, for they had no Jew there, and had to find one at

any cost.

This is how it came to pass (and it is difficult for an inhabitant of

Budapest to understand it). Babaszek was one of those small towns which

in reality was only a larger village, though it rejoiced in what it

called its "mayor," and on one day in the year a few miserable horses,

cows, and pigs were driven in from the neighboring farms and villages,

and the baker from Zolyom put up a tent, in which he sold gingerbread in

the shape of hearts, of soldiers, of cradles, all of which was soon

bought up by the young men and fathers of families and taken home to

sweethearts or children, as the case might be. In one word, there was a

fair at Babaszek. And for centuries every inhabitant has divided the

year and its events into two parts, one before the fair, and one after

it. For instance, the death of Francis Deak took place just two days

after the fair at Babaszek. And the reason of all this was, that the old

kings of Hungary who lived during the hunting season in the castles of

Zolyom and Vegles, instead of making grants to the inhabitants, raised

the villages to the position of towns.

Well, of course, it was a privilege, for in a town everything seems

grander than in a village, and is worth a good deal more, even man

himself. The little straw-thatched house in which questions of moment

are discussed is called the Town Hall, and the "hajdu" (town-servant)

must know how to beat a drum (for the town has a drum of its own), the

richer ones even have a small fire-engine. After all, position is

position, and one must do all one can to keep it up. Zolyom and

Tot-Pelsoec were rivals.

"That's not a town," said the latter of the former; "why, they have not

even a chemist there!" (Well, after all, not every village or town can

be as big as Besztercebanya or London!)

Pelsoec could not even leave poor little Babaszek alone.

"That is no town," they said. "There is not even a single Jew there. If

no Jew settle in a town, it cannot be considered as such; it has, in

fact, no future."

But it is not my intention now to write about the quarrels of two small

towns, I only want to tell you how Mrs. Muencz came to live in Babaszek.

Well, they sent word to her in Besztercebanya, to come and take

possession of the little shop just opposite the market-place near the

smithy, the best position in the town. On either side of the door was

written in colored letters: "Soap, whips, starch, scrubbing-brushes,

nails, salt, grease, saffron, cinnamon, linseed oil;" in fact, the names

of all those articles which did not grow in the neighborhood, or were

not manufactured there. So that is how Mrs. Muencz came to live in

Babaszek, where she was received with great honors, and made as

comfortable as possible. It is a wonder they did not bring her into the

town in triumph on their shoulders, which would have been no joke, for

she weighed at least two hundredweight.

Some of the townsfolk were very discontented that the mayor had only

brought a Jewess into the town, and not a Jew, for it would sound

grander if they could say: "Our Jew says this, or our Moricz or Tobias

did that," than if they had said: "Our Rosalia says this, that, or the

other;" it sounds so very mild. They would have liked a Jew with a long

beard, and hooked nose, and red hair if possible; that was the correct

thing!

But Mr. Konopka, the cleverest senator in the town, who had made the

contract with Mrs. Muencz, and who had even gone himself to fetch her

and her luggage from Besztercebanya with two large carts, the horses of

which had flowers and rosettes on, coldly repudiated these aspersions on

their Jewess, with an argument which struck as heavily as the stones in

David's sling.

"Don't be so foolish," he said. "If a woman was once king in Hungary,

why should not a Jewess fill the place of Jew in Babaszek?"

(This was a reference to the words of the nation addressed to Maria

Theresa: "We will fight for our 'king' and our country.")

Of course they soon saw the truth of this, and ceased grumbling; and

they were in time quite reconciled to their Jewess, for every year, on

the Feast of Tents, all Mrs. Muencz's sons, seven in number, came to see

their mother, and walked about the market-place in their best clothes,

laced boots, and top-hats. The townsfolk were glad enough then, their

hearts swelled with pride as they gazed at the seven Jews, and they

would exclaim:

"Well, if this is not a town, what is?"

"You won't see as many Jews as that in Pelsoec in ten years," answered

another proudly.

Old Mrs. Muencz feasted her eyes on her sons when she sat, as she usually

did, in the doorway of her shop, her knitting in her hands, her

spectacles on her nose (those spectacles lent her an additional charm

in the eyes of her admirers). She was a pleasant-looking old woman in

her snow-white frilled cap, and seemed to suit her surroundings, the

whitewashed walls of the neighboring houses, the important-looking Town

Hall, and no one could pass her without raising their hat, just as they

did before the statue of St. John Nepomuk. (Those were the only two

things worth seeing in Babaszek.)

Every one felt that the little old woman would have her share in the

success of the town.

"Good-morning, young woman. How are you?"

"Very well, thank you, my child."

"How is business, young woman?"

"Thank you, my child, I get on very well."

They were all glad, oh, so glad, that the "young woman" was so healthy

and strong, and that she got richer day by day; they boasted of it

where-ever they went.

"Our Rosalia is getting on well. It is easy to get on in Babaszek, we

are good-natured people."

They really made things very comfortable for Rosalia. She was over

seventy, but they still called her "mlada pani" (young woman). As the

king reserves to himself the right of conferring various titles, so the

people have adopted the plan of conferring the "title of youth," and

make use of it when and where they like.

Well, as I said before, they took great care of Rosalia, and when, a few

years after her arrival there, she decided to build a stone house, every

one who owned a cart placed it at her disposal, for the carting of

stones, sand, wood, etc.; the bricklayers gave a day's work without

wages; only one or two of the lazier ones did not join the rest on that

day, but were sent to Coventry for it.

"Good-for-nothing fellows," said every one, "they have no respect for

any one, neither for God, the priest, nor a Jew!"

Their respect went so far as to make them (at the mayor's instigation)

set apart two pieces of ground, one for a (future) synagogue, and one

for a Jewish burial-ground (for the one Jewess they had in the town).

But what did that matter? They had the future before them, and who could

tell what it held for them? And it was so nice to be able to say to

strangers: "Just a stone's throw from the Jewish burial-ground," or

"near to the foundation of the Synagogue," etc. And the inhabitants of

the villages round about would say when the good folks turned their

backs: "Poor things! Their brains have been turned with the joy of

having a Jew in their town!"

CHAPTER III.

THE TRACES LEAD TO GLOGOVA.

One fine spring afternoon, a light sort of dog-cart stopped before Mrs.

Muencz's shop, and a young man sprang out of it, Gyuri Wibra, of course.

Rosalia, who was just standing at her door, speaking to Mr. Mravucsan,

the mayor, and Mr. Galba, one of the senators, immediately turned to the

young man with the question:

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"Are you Mrs. Muencz?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want to buy an umbrella."

The two gentlemen, surprised, looked up at the cloudless sky.

"What the devil does he want to buy an umbrella for?" muttered

Mravucsan.

Then added aloud:

"Where are you from, sir?"

"From Besztercebanya."

Mravucsan was even more surprised.

Fancy any one coming all the way from Besztercebanya to Babaszek to buy

an umbrella! How proud he was it had happened under his mayorship! He

nudged Galba:

"Do you hear?" he said.

"This is only a small village shop, sir," answered Rosalia. "We don't

keep umbrellas."

"Pity enough!" muttered Mravucsan, biting savagely at his mustache.

"But I heard," went on the stranger, "that you had second-hand umbrellas

to sell."

Second-hand umbrellas! Well, what next!

Mravucsan, who was asthmatic, began to breathe heavily, and was just

going to say something disparaging to the stranger, when some runaway

horses attracted his attention, as they rushed across the market-place,

dragging a handsome phaeton with them.

"That will never be fit for use again," said the smith, as he stood

looking on, his hands folded under his leather apron.

The phaeton had probably been dashed against a wall, for the left side

was smashed to bits, the shaft was broken, one of the wheels had been

left somewhere on the road, and the reins were dragging on the ground

between the two horses.

"They are beautiful animals," said Galba.

"They belong to the priest of Glogova," answered Mravucsan. "I'm afraid

some one may have been thrown out of the carriage; let us go and see."

During this time the number of customers in Mrs. Muencz's shop had

increased, and as they had to be attended to, she first turned to the

stranger before serving them, and said:

"There are a lot of old umbrellas somewhere on the loft, but they would

not do for a fine gentleman like you."

"I should like to look at them all the same."

Mrs. Muencz had her hand on the door to let her customers in, and only

answered without turning round:

"I can assure you you would not take them in your hand."

But the young man was not to be put off so easily; he followed her into

the shop, and waited till the customers were all served, then remarked

again that he would like to see the umbrellas.

"But, my good sir, don't bother me about the umbrellas. I tell you they

would be of no use to you. They are some that were left from the time of

my poor husband; he knew how to mend umbrellas, and most of these are

broken and torn, and they certainly will not have improved, lying on the

dusty loft so long. Besides, I cannot show you them, for my son is at

the fair, the servant has a bad foot and cannot move, and when there is

a fair my shop is always full, so I cannot leave it to go with you."

The young lawyer took a five-florin note out of his pocket.

"I don't want you to do it for nothing, Mrs. Muencz, but I must see the

umbrellas at any price. So let me go up alone to the loft, and please

take this in return for your kindness."

Mrs. Muencz did not take the money, and her small black eyes examined the

young man suspiciously.

"Now I shall certainly not show you the umbrellas."

"And why not?"

"My poor dead husband used to say: 'Rosalia, never do anything you don't

understand the reason of,' and my husband was a very clever man."

"Of course, of course, you are quite right, and can't understand why I

offer five florins for an old ragged umbrella."

"Just so; for five florins you might see something better."

"Well, it is very simple after all. My father had a very old umbrella,

to which he was much attached, and I heard that it had come by chance

into your husband's hands, and I should very much like to have it as a

souvenir."

"And who was your father, sir? Perhaps I may have heard of him."

The lawyer blushed a little.

"Pal Gregorics," he said.

"Ah, Gregorics! Wait a bit! Yes, I remember, the funny little man in

whose will ..."

"Yes, yes. He left 2000 florins to nine ladies in Besztercebanya."

--"I remember, but I don't think he was ..."

"Yes ... no ... of course not ... I mean ..." and here he stopped in

confusion. "I am Gyuri Wibra, lawyer."

Now it was Mrs. Muencz's turn to be confused.

"Of course, sir, I understand. How stupid of me! I have heard of you,

sir, and I knew your poor father; dear me, how very like him you are,

and yet so handsome. I knew him _very_ well," she added, smiling,

"though he did not leave me 2000 florins. I was an old woman when he was

still young. Well, sir, please go up and look at the umbrellas. I will

show you the way, and tell you just where to look for them. Follow me,

please, and I hope you will find the old gentleman's umbrella."

"I would give you fifty florins for it, Mrs. Muencz."

At the words "fifty florins" the old woman's eyes shone like two

glowworms.

"Oh! what a good son!" she sighed, turning her eyes up to heaven.

"There is nothing more pleasing to God than a good son, who honors the

memory of his father."

She got quite active and lively at the thought of the fifty florins, and

shutting the door of the shop, she tripped across the yard with Gyuri to

the ladder of the loft, and even wanted to go up with him herself.

"No, no, stay down below, Mrs. Muencz. What would the world say, if we

two were to go up to the loft together?" said Gyuri jokingly.

Old Rosalia chuckled.

"Oh, dear heart alive!" she said, "there's no danger with me. Why, your

father didn't even remember me in his will, though once upon a time ...

(and here she complacently smoothed her gray hair). Well, my dear,

please go up."

Gyuri Wibra searched about among the rubbish on the loft for quite half

an hour, during which time the old woman came twice to the foot of the

ladder to see if he were coming down. She was anxious about the fifty

florins.

"Well?" she asked, as he appeared at last empty-handed.

"I have looked through everything," he said, in a discouraged tone, "but

the umbrella I want is not among the others."

The old Jewess looked disappointed.

"What can that tiresome Jonas have done with it?" she exclaimed. "Fifty

florins! Dreadful! But he never had a reason for anything he did."

"In all probability your husband used that umbrella himself. Mr.

Sztolarik of Besztercebanya says he distinctly remembers seeing him with

it once."

"What was it like?"

"The stuff was red, with patches of all sorts on it, and it had a pale

green border. The stick was of black wood, with a bone handle."

"May I never go to heaven!" exclaimed Rosalia, "if that was not the very

umbrella he took with him last time he left home! Yes, I know he took

that one!"

"It was a great pity he took just that one."

Rosalia felt bound to defend her husband.

"How was he to know that?" she said. "He never had a reason for anything

he did."

"Well, there's no help for it now," sighed Gyuri, as he stood on the

last rung of the ladder, wondering what he was to do next, and feeling

like Marius among the ruins of Carthage, only there were not even ruins

to his Carthage; all hopes had returned to the clouds from which they

had been taken.

Slowly he walked through the shop to his dog-cart, which was waiting

outside, and the old woman waddled after him, like a fat goose. But once

out in the street, she suddenly seemed to wake up, and seized hold of

the lawyer's coat.

"Wait a bit. I had nearly forgotten it, but my son Moricz, who is a

butcher in Ipolysag, was here at the time; he had come to buy oxen, I

remember. My son Moricz knows everything, and may I never go to heaven

(Rosalia evidently had a strong objection to leaving this world) if he

can't throw some light on the subject. Go to the fair, my dear boy, to

the place where the sheep stand, and speak to the handsomest man you see

there, that will be my son Moricz; he's handsome, very handsome, is

Moricz. Speak to him, and promise him the fifty florins. I am sure he

once told me something about that umbrella. For when my poor dear Jonas

died, Moricz went to look for him, and when he found traces of him, he

went from village to village making inquiries, till everything was

clear. (Here Rosalia gazed tearfully heavenward.) Oh, Jonas, Jonas, why

did you treat us so? If your senses had left you, why must you follow

them? You had enough sons who would have taken care of you!"

She would have gone on like this all day, if Gyuri had not stepped into

his dog-cart and driven off to the scene of the fair as she had advised

him.

After putting a few questions to the bystanders, he found Moricz Muencz,

a short, stout man, his pock-marked face looking like a turkey's egg.

He was as ugly as a Faun. His butcher's knife and steel hung from a belt

round his waist, and on his arm was tattooed the head of an ox.

He was just bargaining for a cow, and its owner, a tanner, was swearing

by heaven and earth that such a cow had never been seen in Babaszek

before.

"It will eat straw," he assured him, "and yet give fourteen pints of

milk a day!"

"Rubbish!" answered Moricz. "I'm not a calf, and don't intend to look

upon this cow as my mother. I'm a butcher, and want to kill it and weigh

it."

"That's true," said the honest tanner; and of his own free will he

lowered the price by five florins.

Moricz did not seem to think that enough, and began poking at the ribs

of the cow.

"What bones!" he exclaimed, and then pulled open its mouth to look at

its teeth. "Why, it has not got a tooth in its head!"

"What do you want it to have teeth for?" asked the honest tanner. "I

don't suppose you want to weigh its teeth too?"

"But it kicks!"

"Well, it won't kick once it is killed; and I don't suppose you want to

weigh it before it is killed?"

The honest tanner laughed at his own wit, which had put him into such a

good humor, that he again took five florins off the price. But Moricz

was not yet satisfied, for he still gazed at the cow, as though trying

to find more faults in her. And just at that moment Gyuri Wibra called

out:

"Mr. Muencz, I should like to have a word with you."

The tanner, fearing to lose his purchaser, took five florins more off

the price, and Moricz, being a sensible man, at once struck the bargain;

he always bought of an evening from such as had not been able to sell

their cattle during the day, and gave it for a low price to save their

having to drive it home again.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"I should like to buy something of you, which belongs neither to you nor

to me."

"There are plenty of things in the world answering to that description,"

said Moricz, "and I can assure you, I will let you have it as cheap as

possible."

"Let us move on a bit."

Gyuri led him out of the crowd to the village pump, near which grew an

elder-tree. This tree, round which they had put some palings, was also a

part of the future greatness of Babaszek, for the green, evil-smelling

insects which housed in its branches, and which are used in various

medicines (Spanish flies), induced them to believe that they might, once

upon a time, have a chemist in Babaszek. The young girls of the town

used to collect the insects, and sell them to the chemist at Zolyom for

a few kreutzers; but that was forbidden now, for the people had decided:

"Near that tree there will once be a chemist's shop, so we will not have

the insects taken away."

They evidently considered them the foundation of the future chemist's

store.

Gyuri told the Jew what he wanted; that he was interested in his

father's favorite umbrella, and would buy it if he could find it. Did

Moricz know anything about it?

"Yes, I do," was the disappointed answer, for now he knew what a trifle

it was, he saw the price fall in proportion.

"I will give you fifty florins for any information that will lead to its

discovery."

Moricz quickly took off his cap, which until now he had not considered

it necessary to remove. Fifty florins for an old umbrella! Why, this

young man must be the Prince of Coburg himself from Szent-Antal! Now he

noticed for the first time how very elegantly he was dressed.

"The umbrella can be found," he said; and then added more doubtfully, "I

think."

"Tell me all you know."

"Let me see, where shall I begin? It is now about fourteen years since

my father disappeared, and I have forgotten most of the details, but

this much I remember, that I started to look for him with my brother

Sami, and in Podhragy I found the first trace of him, and following this

up, I was told that when there he was still quite in his right mind, had

sold a few trifles to the villagers, slept at the inn, and had bought a

very old seal from a certain Raksanyi for two florins. He must have had

all his senses about him then, for when we took him out of the Garam, he

had the seal in his coat pocket, and we sold it for fifty florins to an

antiquary, as it turned out to be the seal of Vid Mohorai, of the time

of King Arpad."

"Yes, but these particulars have nothing to do with the subject in

question," interrupted the young man.

"You will see, sir, that they will be useful to you."

"Well, perhaps so; but I don't see what they have to do with the

umbrella."

"You will see in time, if you will listen to the rest of my tale. I

heard in Podhragy that he went from there to Abelova, so I went there

too. From what I heard, I began to fear that my father was beginning to

lose his senses, for he had always inclined toward melancholy. Here they

told us that he had bought a lot of 'Angel Kreutzers' (small coins, on

which the crown of Hungary is represented, held by two angels; they were

issued in 1867, and many people wear them as amulets, and believe they

bring luck) from the villagers for four kreutzers each; but later on I

found I was mistaken in my surmise."

"How was that? Was he not yet mad?"

"No, for a few days later, two young Jews appeared in Abelova, each

bringing a bag of 'angel kreutzers,' which they sold to the villagers

for three kreutzers each, though they are really worth four."

"So it is possible ..."

"Not only possible, but certain, that the two young cheats had been told

by the old man to buy up all the 'angel kreutzers' they could, and he

thus became their confederate without knowing it. So it is very probable

he may have been mad then, or he would have had nothing to do with the

whole affair. From Abelova he went through the Viszoka Hor forest to

Dolinka, but we could find out nothing about his doings, though he spent

two days there. But in the next village, Sztrecsnyo, the children ran

after him, and made fun of him, like of the prophet Elijah, and he,

unfastening his pack (not the prophet Elijah, but my poor father), began

throwing the various articles he had for sale at them. In fifty years'

time they will still remember that day in Sztrecsnyo, when soap,

penknives, and pencils fell among them like manna from heaven. Since

then it is a very common saying there: 'There was once a mad Jew in

Sztrecsnyo.'"

"Bother Sztrecsnyo, let us return to our subject."

"I have nearly done now. In Kobolnyik my poor old father was seen

without his pack; in one hand he had his stick, in the other his

umbrella, with which he drove off the dogs which barked at him. So in

Kobolnyik he still had his umbrella you see."

Tears were rolling down Moricz's pock-marked face, his heart was quite

softened at the remembrance of all these incidents.

"After that we looked for a long time for traces of him, but only heard

of him again in Lehota. One stormy summer night he knocked at the door

of the watchman's house, the last in the village, but when they saw he

was a Jew, they drove him away. They told me he had neither a hat nor an

umbrella then, only the heavy, rough stick he used to beat us with when

we were children."

"Now I begin to understand the drift of your remarks. You want to show

that the umbrella was lost between Kobolnyik and Lehota."

"Yes."

"But that proves nothing, for your father may have lost it in the wood,

or among the rocks, and if any one found it, they would probably make

use of it to put in the arms of a scarecrow."

"No, that is not it, I know what happened. I heard it by chance, for I

was not looking for the umbrella; what did I care for that! I wanted to

find my father. Well, among the Kvet mountains I met a tinker walking

beside his cart, a very chatty man he seemed to be. I asked him, as I

did every one we met, if he had not seen an old Jew about there lately.

'Yes,' he answered, 'I saw him a few weeks ago in Glogova during a

downpour of rain; he was spreading an umbrella over a child on the

veranda of a small house, and when he had done so he moved on.'"

The lawyer sprang up hastily.

"Go on," he cried.

"There is nothing more to tell, sir. But from the description the tinker

gave me, I am sure it was my father, and, besides, Glogova lies just

between Lehota and Kobolnyik."

"Well, you have given me valuable information," exclaimed the lawyer,

and, taking a fifty-florin note out of his pocketbook, he added: "Accept

this as a slight return for your kindness. Good-by."

And off he went like a hound which has just found the scent; over some

palings he vaulted, in order to get to his cart as quickly as possible.

On he raced, but as he passed the gingerbread stall, Moricz Muencz stood

before him again.

"Excuse me for running after you," he exclaimed breathlessly, "but it

suddenly occurred to me that I might give you a word of advice, which is

this. There are a good many people from Glogova here at the fair, so you

really might get the crier to go round and find out if they know

anything of the umbrella. If you would promise a reward for any

information, in an hour's time you will have plenty, I am sure. In a

small village like Glogova, every one knows everything."

"It is quite unnecessary," replied the lawyer, "for I am going to

Glogova myself. Thanks all the same."

"Oh, sir, it is I who have to thank you; you have behaved in a princely

fashion. Fifty florins for such a trifle! Why, I would have done it for

one florin."

The lawyer smiled.

"And I would willingly have given a thousand, Mr. Muencz."

And with that he walked away, past the stall where they were selling

nuts, and onions tied up in strings. Moricz stood gazing after him till

he was out of sight.

"A thousand florins!" he repeated, shaking his head. "If I had only

known!"

And off he went, driving his cow before him.

CHAPTER IV.

THE EARRING.

From the inn opposite Schramek's house lively sounds proceeded. I beg

pardon, I ought to call it "hotel," at least, that is the name the

inhabitants of Babaszek delighted in giving it, and the more

aristocratic of them always patronized it in preference to the other

inns. The gypsies from Pelsoec were there, and the sound of their lively

music could be heard far and wide through the open windows. Handsome

Slovak brides in their picturesque dresses, with their pretty white

headgear, and younger girls with red ribbons plaited into their hair,

all run in to join the dance, and if the room is too full, late-comers

take up their position in the street and dance there.

But curiosity is even stronger than their love of dancing, and all at

once the general hopping and skipping ceases, as Janos Fiala, the

town-servant and crier, appears on the scene, his drum hung round his

neck and his pipe in his mouth. He stops in front of the "hotel," and

begins to beat his drum with might and main. What can have happened?

Perhaps the mayor's geese have strayed? Ten or twelve bystanders begin

to ply him with questions, but Fiala would not for the world take his

beloved pipe out of his mouth, nor would he divulge state secrets before

the right moment came. So he first of all beat his drum the required

number of times, and then with stentorian voice, shouted the following:

"Be it known to all whom it may interest, that a gold earring, with a

green stone in it (how was he to know it was called an emerald?), has

been lost, somewhere between the brickfield and the church. Whoever will

bring the same to the Town Hall will be handsomely rewarded."

Gyuri paused a moment at the sound of the drum, listened to the crier's

words, and then smiled at the look of excitement on the peasant girls'

faces.

"I wouldn't give it back if I found it," said one.

"I'd have a hairpin made of it," said another.

"Heaven grant me luck!" said a third, turning her eyes piously

heavenward.

"Don't look at the sky, you stupid," said another; "if you want to find

it look at the ground."

But as chance would have it, some one found it who would rather not have

done so, and that some one was Gyuri Wibra. He had only walked a few

steps, when a green eye seemed to smile up at him from the dust under

his feet. He stooped and picked it up; it was the lost earring with the

emerald in it. How tiresome, when he was in such a hurry! Why could not

one of those hundreds of people at the fair have found it? But the green

eye looked so reproachfully at him, that he felt he could not give way

to his first impulse and throw it back into the dust, to be trampled on

by the cattle from the fair. Who wore such fine jewelry here? Well,

whoever it belonged to, he must take it to the Town Hall; it was only a

few steps from there after all.

He turned in at the entrance to the Town Hall, where some watering-cans

hung from the walls, and a few old rusty implements of torture were

exhibited (_sic transit gloria mundi!_), went up the staircase, and

entered a room where the Senators were all assembled round a green

baize-covered table, discussing a serious and difficult question.

A most unpleasant thing had happened. One of the watchmen in the

Liskovina wood (the property of the town) had arrived there breathlessly

not long before, with the news that a well-dressed man had been found

hanging on a tree in the wood; what was to be done with the body?

This was what was troubling the worthy Senators, and causing them to

frown and pucker their foreheads. Senator Konopka declared that the

correct thing to do was to bring the body to the mortuary chapel, and at

the same time give notice of the fact to the magistrate, Mr. Mihaly

Gery, so that he could tell the district doctor to dissect the body.

Galba shook his head. He was nothing if not a diplomat, as he showed in

the present instance. He said he considered it would be best to say

nothing about it, but to remove the body by night a little further on,

to the so-called Kvaka Wood, which was in the Travnik district, and let

_them_ find the body. Mravucsan was undecided which of the two

propositions to accept. He hummed and hawed and shook his head, and then

complained it was hot enough to stifle one, that he had gout in his

hand, and that one leg of the Senators' table was shorter than the

others. This latter was soon remedied by putting some old deeds under

the short leg. Then they waited to see which side would have the

majority, and as it turned out it was on Galba's side. But the Galba

party was again subdivided into two factions. The strict Galba faction

wanted the dead man's body transported to the Travnik district. The

moderated Galba faction, headed by Andras Kozsehuba, would have been

contented with merely taking down the body, and burying it under the

tree; they wanted, at all costs, to prevent its being carried through

the village to the cemetery, which would certainly be the case if the

magistrate were informed of the circumstances. For if a suicide were

carried through a place, that place was threatened with damage by hail!

"Superstitious rubbish!" burst out Konopka.

"Of course, of course, Mr. Konopka, but who is to help it if the people

are so superstitious?" asked Senator Fajka, of the Kozsehuba faction.

Konopka wildly banged the table with his fat, be-ringed hand, upon which

every one was quiet.

"It is sad enough to hear a Senator say such a thing! I can assure you,

gentlemen, that the Lord will not send His thunder-clouds in our

direction just on account of that poor dead body. He will not punish a

thousand just men because one unfortunate man has given himself to the

devil, especially as the dead man himself would be the only one not hurt

by the hail!"

Mravucsan breathed freely again at these wise words, which certainly

raised one's opinion of the magistrates; he hastened to make use of the

opportunity, and as once the tiny wren, sitting on the eagle's wings,

tried to soar higher than the eagle, so did Mravucsan try to rise above

the Senators.

"What is true is true," he said, "and I herewith beg to call your

attention to the fact that there is nothing to be feared from hail if we

bring the body through the town."

Up sprang Mr. Fajka at these words.

"That is all the same to us," he said; "if matters stand so, let us have

hail by all means, for when once all the villagers are insured by the

Trieste Insurance Company, I see no difference whether there is hail or

not. In fact, it would be better if there were some, for, if I know the

villagers well, they will immediately go and insure the harvest far

beyond its worth if the dead body is taken through the village. So the

hail would not be such a great misfortune, but the carriage of the

corpse through the village would be."

He was a grand debater after all, that Senator Fajka, for he had again

hit the right nail on the head, and at the same time enlightened the

Galba and the Kozsehuba factions.

"What a brain!" they exclaimed.

The word brain reminded Galba of the dissecting part of the

business--per _associationem idearum_--and he at once began to discuss

the point.

"Why dissect the man? We know who he is, for it is as plain as pie-crust

that he is an agent for some Insurance Company, and has hanged himself

here in our neighborhood in order to make people insure their harvest.

It's as clear as day!"

"You are mad, Galba," said Konopka crossly.

Upon which the Senators all jumped up from their places, and then the

noise broke forth, or, as Fiala, the town-servant and crier, used to

say, "they began to boil the town saucepan," and every eye was fixed on

the mayor, the spoon which was to skim the superfluous froth. But the

mayor drew his head down into the dark blue collar of his coat, and

seemed quite to disappear in it; he gnawed his mustache, and stood there

helplessly, wondering what he was to say and do now, when all at once

the door opened, and Gyuri Wibra stood before them. In spite of all

folks may say, the powers above always send help at the right moment.

At sight of the stranger, who, an hour or two before, had wanted to buy

an old umbrella of Mrs. Muencz, the mayor suddenly pushed back his chair

and hurried toward him (let the Senators think he had some important

business to transact with the new arrival).

"Ah, sir," he said hurriedly, "you were looking for me, I suppose?"

"If you are the mayor, yes."

"Of course, of course!" (Who else could be mayor in Babaszek but

Mravucsan, he wondered?)

"They have been crying the loss of an earring, and I have found it. Here

it is."

The mayor's face beamed with delight.

"Now that is real honesty, sir. That is what I like. This is the first

earring that has been lost since I have been in office, and even that is

found. That's what I call order in the district."

Then turning to the Senators, he went on:

"It is only an hour since I sent the crier round the town, and here we

have the earring. They couldn't manage that in Budapest!"

Just then he noticed that the stranger was preparing to leave.

"Why, you surely don't mean to leave us already, sir? There is a reward

offered for the finding of this earring."

"I do not want the reward, thank you."

"Oh, come, don't talk like that, young man, don't run away from luck

when it comes in your way. You know the story of the poor man who gave

his luck away to the devil without knowing it, and how sorry he was for

it afterward?"

"Yes, he was sorry for it," answered the lawyer, smiling, as he

remembered the fable, "but I don't think we can compare this case with

that."

"I am sure you have no idea to whom the earring belongs?"

"Not the slightest. Whose is it?"

"It belongs to the sister of the Glogova priest."

Gyuri screwed up his mouth doubtfully.

"Don't be too quick in your conclusions; just come here a minute; you

won't repent it."

"Where am I to go?"

"Come into the next room."

The mayor wanted to keep him there at any cost, so as to gain time

before deciding as to the dead man's future.

"But, my dear sir, I have important business to get through."

"Never mind, you must come in for a minute," and with that he opened the

door and all but pushed the young man into the other room.

"My dear young lady," he called out over Gyuri's shoulder, "I have

brought you your earring!"

At these words a young girl turned from her occupation of putting

cold-water bandages on the shoulder of an elderly lady, lying on a sofa.

Gyuri was not prepared for this apparition, and felt as confused and

uncomfortable as though he had committed some indiscretion. The elder

woman, partly undressed, was lying on a sofa, her wounded right shoulder

(a remarkably bony one) was bare. The young man at the door stammered

some apology, and turned to go, but Mravucsan held him back.

"Don't go," he said, "they won't bite you!"

The young girl, who had a very pretty attractive face, hastened to throw

a cloak over her companion, and sprang up from her kneeling position

beside the lady. What a figure she had! It seemed to Gyuri as though a

lily, in all its simple grandeur, had risen before him.

"This gentleman has found your earring, and brought it you back, my

dear."

A smile broke over her face (it was as though a ray of sunlight had

found its way into the mayor's dark office), she blushed a little, and

then made a courtesy, a real schoolgirl courtesy, awkward, and yet with

something of grace in it.

"Thank you, sir, for your kindness. I am doubly glad to have found it,

for I had given up all idea of ever seeing it again."

And taking it in her hand she gazed at it lovingly. She was a child

still, you could see it in every movement. Gyuri felt he ought to say

something, but found no suitable words.

This child disconcerted him, but there was something delightful in her

artless manner which quite charmed him. There he stood, helpless and

speechless, as though he were waiting for something. Was it the reward

he wanted? The silence was getting painful, and the position awkward. At

last the girl saw that the young man did not move, so she broke the

silence.

"Oh dear! I had nearly forgotten in my delight that I had offered ... I

mean ... how am I to say it?"

It now occurred to Gyuri that she was offering him the reward, so he

thought it time to make known his name.

"I am Dr. Wibra," he said, "from Besztercebanya."

"Oh, how lucky!" exclaimed the girl, clapping her hands gleefully. "We

are just in want of a doctor for poor madame."

This little misunderstanding was just what was wanted. Gyuri smiled.

"I am very sorry, my dear young lady; I am not a doctor of medicine, but

a doctor of law."

The young girl looked disappointed at this announcement, and blushed a

little at her mistake; but Mravucsan was quite excited.

"What's that I hear? You are young Wibra, the noted lawyer? Well, that

is nice! Who would have thought it? Now I understand. Of course, you are

here to try and find out particulars about one of your cases. I might

have thought of it when I met you at Mrs. Muencz's. Of course a gentleman

like you must have some special reason for buying an old umbrella. Well,

the fates must have sent you here now, for we are discussing such a very

difficult question in the next room, that our minds are too small for

it. How strange, Miss Veronica, that your earring should be found by

such a renowned lawyer."

Veronica stole a look at the "renowned lawyer," and noticed for the

first time how handsome he was, and how gentlemanly, and her heart

began to beat at the thought that she had nearly offered him the five

florins reward.

Mravucsan hastened to offer the lawyer a chair, and cast an anxious look

round his office, and remarked with horror what an untidy state it was

in; deeds lying about everywhere, coats and cloaks, belonging to the

Senators, empty glasses and bottles, for they were in the habit of

drinking a glass now and then when they had settled some particularly

important business, which was quite right of them, for the truth that

emanated from them must be replaced by a fresh supply, and as the

Hungarians say: "There is truth in wine."

The sight of that office would really have discouraged Mr. Mravucsan if

his eye had not at that moment fallen on the portrait of Baron

Radvanszky, the lord lieutenant of the county, hanging on the wall in

front of him. That, after all, lent some distinction to the room. He

wished from his heart that the baron were there in person to see what an

illustrious guest they were harboring. But as the baron was not present,

he felt it devolved on him to express his satisfaction at the fact.

"I am a poor man," he said, "but I would not accept a hundred florins in

place of the honor that is done to my poor office to-day. It is worth

something to have the most renowned lawyer in the county, and the

prettiest young lady ..."

"Oh, Mr. Mravucsan!" exclaimed Veronica, blushing furiously.

"Well," said Mravucsan, "what's true is true. One need not be ashamed of

being pretty. I was good-looking myself once, but I was never ashamed of

it. Besides, a pretty face is of great use to one, isn't it, Mr. Wibra?"

"Yes, it is a very lucky thing," answered Gyuri quickly.

Mravucsan shook his head.

"Let us simply say it is a great help, for luck can easily turn to

misfortune, and misfortune to luck, as was the case now, for if it had

not been for to-day's accident, I should not now have the pleasure of

seeing you all here."

"What is that?" asked Gyuri. "An accident?"

Veronica was going to answer, but that talkative mayor put in his word

again.

"Yes, there was an accident, but in a short time there will be no traces

of it, for the earring is here, madame's shoulder is here, it will be

blue for some days, but what the devil does that matter, it is not the

color makes the shoulder. And the carriage will be all right, too, when

the smith has mended it."

"So those horses that were running away with a broken carriage...?"

"Were ours," said Veronica. "They took fright near the brickfield, the

coachman lost his hold of the reins, and when he stooped to gather them

up, he was thrown out of the carriage. In our fright we jumped out too.

I did not hurt myself, but poor madame struck her shoulder on something.

I hope it will be nothing serious. Does it hurt very much, Madame

Krisbay?"

Madame opened her small yellow eyes, which till then had been closed,

and the first sight that met them was Veronica's untidy hair.

"Smooth your hair," she said in French in a low voice, then groaned once

or twice, and closed her eyes again.

Veronica, greatly alarmed, raised her hand to her head, and found that

one of her plaits was partly undone.

"Oh, my hair!" she exclaimed. "The hairpins must have fallen out when I

jumped out of the carriage. What am I to do?"

"Let down the other plait," advised Mravucsan. "That's it, my dear; it

is much prettier so, isn't it, Wibra?"

"Much prettier," answered Gyuri, casting an admiring glance at the two

black, velvety plaits, with a lovely dark bluish tinge on them, which

hung nearly down to the edge of her millefleurs skirt.

So that was the priest's sister. He could hardly believe it, for he had

imagined a fat, waddling, red-faced woman, smelling of pomade. That is

what parish priests' sisters are generally like. The lawyer thought it

was time to start a conversation.

"I suppose you were very frightened?"

"Not very; in fact, I don't think I was startled at all. But now I begin

to fear my brother will be anxious about me."

"The priest of Glogova?"

"Yes. He is very fond of me, and will be so anxious if we do not return.

And yet I hardly know how we are to manage it."

"Well," said Mravucsan, consolingly, "we have the horses, and we will

borrow a cart from some one."

Veronica shuddered and shook her head.

"With those horses? Never again!"

"But, my dear young lady, you must never take horses seriously, they

have no real character. You see, this is how it was. Near the brickfield

there is that immense windmill, for of course every town must have one.

The world is making progress, in spite of all Senator Fajka says. Well,

as I said, there is the windmill. I had it built, for every one made fun

of us because we had no water in the neighborhood. So I make use of the

wind. Of course, the horses don't understand that; they are good

mountain horses, and had never seen a beast with such enormous wings,

turning in the air, so of course they were frightened and ran away. You

can't wonder at it. But that is all over now, and they will take you

quietly home."

"No, no, I'm afraid of them. Oh, how dreadful they were! If you had only

seen them! I won't go a step with them. As far as I am concerned, I

could walk home, but poor Madame Krisbay ..."

"Now that would be a nice sort of thing to do," remarked Mravucsan.

"Fancy my allowing my best friend's little sister to walk all the way

home with those tiny feet of hers! How she would stumble and trip over

the sharp stones in the mountain paths! And his reverence would say: 'My

friend Mravucsan is a nice sort of fellow to let my sister walk home,

after all the good dinners and suppers I have given him.' Why, I would

rather take you home on my own back, my dear, right into Glogova

parish!"

Veronica looked gratefully at Mravucsan, and Gyuri wondered, if it came

to the point, would Mravucsan be able to carry out his plan, or would he

have to be carried himself. The mayor was an elderly man, and looked as

though he were breaking up. He found himself glancing curiously at the

old gentleman, measuring his strength, the breadth of his chest, and of

his shoulders, as though the most important fact now were, who was to

take Veronica on his back. He decided that Mravucsan was too weak to do

it, and smiled to himself when he discovered how glad this thought made

him.

Mravucsan's voice broke in upon his musings.

"Well, my dear," he was saying, "don't you worry yourself about it; take

a rest first, and then we will see what is to be done. Of course it

would be better to have other horses, but where are we to get them from?

No one in Babaszek keeps horses, we only need oxen. I myself only keep

oxen. For a mountain is a mountain, and horses are of no use there, for

they can, after all, only do what an ox can, namely, walk slowly. You

can't make a grand show here with horses, and let them gallop and prance

about, and toss their manes. This is a serious part, yes, I repeat it, a

serious part. The chief thing is to pull, and that is the work of an ox.

A horse gets tired of it, and when it knows the circumstances it loses

all pleasure in life, and seems to say: 'I'm not such a fool as to grow

for nothing, I'll be a foal all my life.' And the horses round about

here are not much bigger than a dog, and are altogether

wretched-looking."

He would have gone on talking all night, and running the poor horses

down to the ground, if Gyuri had not interrupted him.

"But I have my dog-cart here, Miss Veronica, and will take you home with

pleasure."

"Will you really," exclaimed Mravucsan. "I knew you were a gentleman.

But why on earth didn't you say so before?"

"Because you gave me no chance to put in a word edgeways."

"That is true," laughed Mravucsan good-humoredly. "So you will take

them?"

"Of course, even if I were not going to Glogova myself."

"Are you really going there?" asked Veronica, surprised.

"Yes."

She looked at him thoughtfully for a minute, and then said:

"Don't try to deceive us."

Gyuri smiled.

"On my word of honor, I intended going to Glogova. Shall we all go

together?"

Veronica nodded her head, and was just going to clap her hands like the

child she was, when madame began to move on the sofa, and gave a deep

sigh.

"Oh dear," said Veronica, "I had quite forgotten madame. Perhaps after

all I can't go with you."

"And why not? The carriage is big enough, there will be plenty of

room."

"Yes, but may I?"

"Go home? Who is to prevent it?"

"Why, don't you know?"

"What?" asked Gyuri, surprised.

"Why, etiquette, of course," she said shyly.

(Gyuri smiled. Oh, what a little simpleton she was!)

"Yes, yes," she assured them, seeing they were laughing at her, "it says

in the book on etiquette: 'You must not accept the arm of a stranger.'"

"But a carriage is not an arm," burst out Mravucsan. "How could it be?

If it were, I should have two carriages myself. My dear child, leave

etiquette to look after itself. In Babaszek I decide what is etiquette,

not the French mamselles. And _I_ say a carriage is not an arm, so

there's an end of it."

"Of course you are right, but all the same, I must speak to madame about

it."

"Just as you like, my dear."

Veronica again knelt down by the sofa, and a whispered conversation

ensued, the result of which was, as Gyuri understood from the few words

he could hear, that madame quite shared Mravucsan's view of the case,

that a carriage is not an arm, and that if two people have been

introduced to each other, they are not strangers, and consequently, in

Madame Krisbay's opinion, they ought to accept the young man's offer.

Besides, in times of danger there is no such thing as etiquette.

Beautiful Blanche Montmorency on the occasion of a fire was saved by the

Marquis Privadiere with nothing on but her nightgown, and yet the tower

of Notre Dame is still standing!

Gyuri felt as impatient as a card-player when the cards are being dealt,

and a large stake has been placed on one of them, until at length

Veronica turned round.

"We shall be very thankful if you will take us in your carriage," she

said, smiling, as she was sure Blanche Montmorency would have done under

the same conditions.

Gyuri received the announcement with delight.

"I will go and see after the carriage," he said, taking up his hat. But

Mravucsan stood in his way.

"Oh, no, you don't," he said. "_Pro primo_, even if Veronica can go, I

am sure Madame Krisbay cannot start yet; it would be a sin to make her

drive now; she must rest a bit first, after her fright and her bruises.

If my wife puts some of her wonderful plaster on it to-night, she'll be

perfectly well in the morning. _Pro secundo_, you can't go because I

won't allow you to. _Pro tertio_, because it is getting dark. Please

look out of the window."

He was right; the sun had disappeared behind the dark blue lines of the

Zolyom Hills, and the fir-trees in front of the Town Hall cast their

long shadows down the road, right up to the Mravucsan garden, where a

lean cat was performing its evening ablutions among the oleanders. All

the same Gyuri began to plead (it was part of his business).

"It will be a quiet, warm night," he said. "Why should we not start?

After all it can make no difference to madame whether she groans in bed

or in the carriage."

"But it will be dark," objected Mravucsan, "and there are some very bad

bits of road between here and Glogova, and two or three precipices. In

spite of my being mayor, I cannot order moonlight for you."

"We don't need it; we can light the lamps."

Veronica seemed undecided, and glanced from one to the other of the

gentlemen, till at length Mravucsan put in the finishing touch.

"There will be a storm to-night, for there is the dead body of a man

hanging on a tree in the wood you have to pass through."

Veronica shuddered.

"I would not go through that wood by night for anything," she exclaimed.

That settled the question. Gyuri bowed, and received a bright smile in

return, and Mravucsan rushed into the next room, and told Konopka to

take his place (oh, his delight at getting rid of his responsibility!),

as he had visitors, and had no time to think of other things; and then

he whispered in the ears of some of the Senators (those who had on the

best coats) that he would be pleased to see them to supper. Then off he

trotted home, to announce the arrival of visitors, and give orders for

their reception. On the staircase he caught sight of Fiala, and sent him

to tell Wibra's coachman, who was waiting with the dog-cart outside Mrs.

Muencz's shop, to go and put up in his courtyard.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Mravucsan appeared at the Town Hall to take

the ladies home with her. She was a short, stout, amiable woman, whose

broad, smiling face spoke of good temper and kindheartedness. She was

dressed like all women of the middle class in that part, in a dark red

skirt and black silk apron, and on her head she wore a black silk

frilled cap.

She entered the room noisily, as such simple village folks do.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "Mravucsan says you are going to be our

guests. Is it true? What an honor for us! But I knew it, I felt it, for

last night I dreamed a white lily was growing out of my basin, and this

is the fulfilment of the dream. Well, my dear, get all your things

together, and I'll carry them across, for I'm as strong as a bear. But I

forgot to tell you the most important thing, which I really ought to

have said at the beginning: I am Mrs. Mravucsan. Oh, my dear young lady,

I should never have thought you were so pretty! Holy Virgin! Now I

understand her sending down an umbrella to keep the rain off your pretty

face! So the poor lady is ill, has hurt her shoulder? Well, I've got a

capital plaster we'll put on it; come along. Don't give way, my dear, it

has to be borne. Why, I had a similar accident once, Mravucsan was

driving too. We fell into a ditch, and two of my ribs were broken, and

I've had trouble with my liver ever since. Such things will happen now

and then. Does it hurt you very much?"

"The lady does not speak Slovak," said Veronica, "nor Hungarian."

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Mravucsan, clasping her hands. "So old,

and can't even speak Hungarian! How is that?"

And Veronica was obliged to explain that madame had come direct from

Munich to be her companion, and had never yet been in Hungary; she was

the widow of a French officer, she added, for Mrs. Mravucsan insisted on

having full particulars. They had received a letter from her the day

before yesterday, saying she was coming, and Veronica had wanted to meet

her at the station.

"So that is how it is. And she can't even speak Slovak nor Hungarian!

Poor unhappy woman! And what am I to do with her?--whom am I to put next

her at table?--how am I to offer her anything? Well, it will be a nice

muddle! Luckily the schoolmaster can speak German, and perhaps the young

gentleman can too?"

"Don't you worry about that, Mrs. Mravucsan, I'll amuse her at supper,

and look after her wants," answered Gyuri.

With great difficulty they got ready to go, Madame Krisbay moaning and

groaning as they tried to dress her, after having sent Gyuri into the

passage. Mrs. Mravucsan collected all the shawls, rugs, and cloaks, and

hung them over her arm.

"We will send the servant for the lady's box," she said.

Then she made madame lean on her, and they managed to get her

downstairs. Madame was complaining, half in French, half in German, and

the mayor's wife chatted continually, sometimes to the young couple

walking in front, sometimes to madame, who, with her untidy hair, looked

something like a poor sick cockatoo.

"This way, this way, my dear young lady. That is our house over there.

Only a few more steps, my dear madame. Oh, the dog won't bite you. Go

away, Garam! We shall be there directly. You will see what a good bed I

will give you to sleep in to-night; such pillows, the softest you can

imagine!"

It made no difference to her that Madame Krisbay did not understand a

word of what she was saying. Many women talk for the sake of talking.

Why should they not? They are probably afraid a spider might spin its

web before their mouth.

"It hurts you, does it not? But it will hurt still more to-morrow; that

is always the way with a bruise of that kind. Why, you will feel it in

two weeks' time."

Then, casting a sly glance at the pair walking in front:

"They make a handsome couple, don't they?"

It was not far to the Mravucsans' house, and it would have been nearer

still if there had not been an immense pool of water just in front of

the Town Hall, to avoid which they had to go a good bit out of their

way. But this pool was a necessity, for all the geese and ducks in the

village swam on it, the pigs came and wallowed in the mud round it, and

last, but not least, the firemen took their water from here in case of

fire. Oh, I forgot to say that all the frogs from the whole neighborhood

had taken up their abode in it, and gave splendid concerts to the

villagers.

So, as I said before, they needed the pool and gladly put up with its

presence, and it was considered common property. Once a civil engineer

had been sent there by the county authorities, and he had called their

attention to the fact that the pool ought to be filled up; but they just

laughed at him, and left it as it was.

So now they had to go right round the pool to the "hotel," which

strangers always named the "Frozen Sheep," in reference to the story I

mentioned before. The gypsies were still playing inside, and outside

several couples were turning in time to music, and some peasants were

standing about drinking their glass of "palinka" (a kind of brandy),

while a wagoner from Zolyom sat alone at a table drinking as hard as he

could. He was already rather drunk, and was keeping up a lively

conversation all by himself, gazing now and then with loving eyes at the

lean horse harnessed to his cart, and which, with drooping head, was

awaiting his master's pleasure to move on.

"My neighbor says," philosophized the wagoner aloud, "that my horse is

not a horse. And why is it not a horse, pray? It was a horse in the time

of Kossuth! What? It can't draw a load? Of course not, if the load is

too heavy. It is thin, is it? Of course it is thin, for I don't give it

any oats. Why don't I give it any? Why, because I have none, of course.

What's that you say? The other day it couldn't drag my cart? No,

because the wheel was stuck in the mud. My neighbor is a great donkey,

isn't he?"

Upon which, up he got, and stumbled over to the dancers, requesting them

to give their opinion as to whether his neighbor was a donkey or not.

They got out of his way, so, like a mad dog, which sees and hears

nothing, the wagoner rushed upon Madame Krisbay.

"Is mine a horse, or is it not?"

Madame was frightened, and the smell of brandy, which emanated from the

good man, made her feel faint.

"_Mon Dieu!_" she murmured, "what a country I have come to!"

But Mrs. Mravucsan, gentle as she was generally, could also be energetic

if necessary.

"I don't know if yours is a horse or not," she said, "but I can tell you

you're a drunken beast!"

And with that she gave him a push which sent him rolling over on his

back. He lay there murmuring:

"My neighbor says my horse is blind in one eye. Nonsense! He can see the

road just as well with one eye as with two."

Then up he got, and began to follow them, and Madame Krisbay, leaving go

of Mrs. Mravucsan's arm, and in her fright forgetting her wounded

shoulder, took to her heels and ran. The dancers seeing her went into

fits of laughter at the pair of thin legs she showed.

"How on earth can she run so fast with such thin legs?" they asked each

other.

Still more surprised were Veronica and Gyuri (who had seen nothing of

the incident with the wagoner); they could not imagine why the sick

woman was running at the top of her speed.

"Madame! madame! What is the matter?"

She gave no answer, only rushed to the Mravucsans' house, where she

again had a fright at the sight of three enormous watch-dogs, who

received her with furious barks. She would have fallen in a faint on the

floor, but at that moment Mravucsan appeared on the scene to receive his

guests, so she fell into his arms instead. The good mayor just held her

quietly, with astonished looks, for he had never yet seen a fainting

woman, though he had heard they ought to be sprinkled with water, but

how was he to go for water? Then he remembered he had heard that

pinching was a good remedy, that it would, in fact, wake a dead woman;

but in order to pinch a person, she must have some flesh, and Madame

Krisbay had nothing but bones. So he waited with Christian patience till

the others arrived on the scene, and then gave her up to their tender

mercies.

"Phew!" he breathed, "what a relief!"

Intellectual Society in Babaszek

PART IV

CHAPTER I.

THE SUPPER AT THE MRAVUCSANS'

I am not fond of drawing things out to too great a length, so will only

give a short description of the Mravucsans' supper, which was really

excellent, and if any one were discontented, it could only have been

Madame Krisbay, who burned her mouth severely when eating of the first

dish, which was lamb with paprika.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "something is pricking my throat!"

But the pudding she found still less to her taste (a plain paste rolled

out very thin, and cut into squares, boiled and served up with curds and

whey, and small squares of fried bacon).

"_Mon Dieu!_" she said, "it looks like small bits of wet linen!"

Poor Mrs. Mravucsan was inconsolable at her guest's want of appetite.

"It is such a disgrace for me," she said.

Then it occurred to her to offer her some of her preserved fruit, and to

this madame seemed to take a fancy, for she finished up the dish, and

in proportion as her hunger was appeased, her liking for her

surroundings increased.

She had the Lutheran clergyman, Samuel Rafanidesz, on her right, and the

schoolmaster, Teofil Klempa, on her left, and to them was deputed the

task of entertaining the unfortunate foreigner. Their invitations had

been put in this form:

"You _must_ come, for there is to be a German lady at supper, whom you

are to entertain."

And they did all they could to prove to the rest of the company how much

at ease they were in good German society.

Madame Krisbay seemed very contented with her neighbors, especially when

she discovered that the Rev. Samuel Rafanidesz was a bachelor. What! did

clergymen marry there? (Perhaps, after all, she had not come to such a

bad country!)

The schoolmaster was a much handsomer man, but he was older, and was,

besides, married. He had an intelligent face, and a long, flowing black

beard; he had, too, a certain amount of wit, which he dealt out in small

portions. Madame Krisbay smiled at his sallies. Poor woman! She would

have liked to have laughed at them, but did not dare to, for her throat

was still burning from the effects of that horrid paprika. Now and then

her face (which was otherwise like yellow wax) got quite red from the

efforts she made to keep from coughing, which, besides being the

forerunner of old age, she also considered very demeaning.

"Don't mind us, my dear," called out the mayor's wife, "cough away as

much as you like. A cough and poverty cannot be hidden."

Madame began to feel more and more at home, for, as it turned out, the

clergyman had been at school at Munich, and could tell a lot of

anecdotes of his life there, in the Munich dialect, much to madame's

delight. The Rev. Samuel Rafanidesz did not belong to the stiff,

unpleasant order of clergymen, and there was a Slovak sentence composed

by Teofil Klempa, often repeated by the good people of Babaszek, which

bore reference to him, and which, if read backward, gave his name:

"Szedi na fare, Rafanidesz" ("Stay in your parish, Rafanidesz".) But he

never took this advice, and had already been sent away from one living

(somewhere in Nograd) because of an entanglement with some lady in the

parish. Mrs. Mravucsan knew the whole story, and even the lady, a

certain Mrs. Baho. She must have been a silly woman, for it was she

herself who let the cat out of the bag, to her own husband too; and she

was not a beauty either, as we can see from Mrs. Mravucsan's words:

"Rafanidesz was a fool. You should never ask a kiss from an ugly woman,

nor a loan from a poor man, for they immediately go and boast of it."

Thus Mrs. Mravucsan. It is true she added:

"But if any one were to call me as a witness, I should deny the whole

thing."

So you see, I can't stand good for the truth of it either. But that is

neither here nor there.

Madame Krisbay certainly enjoyed the company of her two neighbors, and

those gentlemen soon raised the whole country in her estimation. But it

was lucky she understood no Slovak, and could not hear the conversation

carried on by the intelligence of Babaszek. Of course they were clever

people too, in their way, and Veronica often smiled at the jokes made,

for they were all new to her, though the natives of Babaszek knew them

all by heart; for instance, the rich butcher, Pal Kukucska, always got

up when the third course was on the table, and drank to his own health,

saying:

"Long life to my wife's husband!"

It would really be waste of time to try and describe the supper, for

nothing of any real importance happened. They ate, they drank, and then

they went home. Perhaps they spoke of important matters? Not they! Only

a thousand trifles were discussed, which it would be a pity to put in

print; and yet the incidents of that supper were the talk of Babaszek

for weeks after. For instance, Mr. Mravucsan upset a glass of wine with

the sleeve of his coat, and while they were wiping it up, and strewing

salt on the stain, Senator Konopka, turning to the lady of the house,

exclaimed:

"That means a christening, madam!"

Of course Mrs. Mravucsan blushed, but Veronica asked in a most innocent

tone:

"How can you know that?" (She was either a goose, that young girl, or

she was a good actress.)

Now who was to answer her with a face as innocent as the Blessed

Virgin's must have been when she was a girl in short frocks? They all

looked at each other, but luckily the forester's wife, Mrs. Wladimir

Szliminszky, came to the rescue with this explanation:

"You see, my dear, the stork which brings the children generally lets

one know beforehand, and the knocking over a glass is one of the signs

it gives."

Veronica thought for a bit, and then shook her head unbelievingly.

"But I saw the gentleman knock the glass over himself," she objected.

To this Mrs. Szliminszky had no answer ready, so, according to her usual

custom, she turned to her husband and began worrying him.

"Wladin, cut the fat off that meat."

Wladin frowned.

"But, my dear, that is just the best bit."

"Never mind, Wladin, I can't allow it. Your health is the first

consideration."

And Wladin obediently cut off the fat bits.

"Why is your coat unbuttoned? Don't you feel how cold it is? Button it

up at once, Wladin."

The forester did as he was told, and with the pleasant feeling of having

done his duty, turned his attention to his plate again.

"Not another bit, Wladin, you've had enough. We don't want you to dream

of bulls to-night."

Wladin obediently put down his knife and fork, and prepared to drink a

glass of water.

"Give it me first," cried his wife excitedly. "I want to see that it is

not too cold."

Wladin handed over his glass of water.

"You may drink a little of it, but not too much. Stop, stop, that will

do!"

Poor Wladin! He was a martyr to conjugal love! For sixteen years he had

suffered under this constant thoughtfulness, and though he was a strong

man when he married, and had never been ill since, yet every minute of

his life he expected some catastrophe; for, through constant warnings,

the unfortunate Pole had worked himself up to the belief that a current

of air or a drop of water could be disastrous to him. He felt that

Nature had bad intentions toward him.

"Take care, Wladin, or the dog will bite your foot!"

One of the watch-dogs was under the table gnawing at a bone he had

possessed himself of, and a little farther off the cat was looking on,

longingly, as much as to say: "Give me some of that superfluous food."

Now began the so-called "amabilis confusio." Every one spoke at once,

and every one about a different subject. The Senators had returned to

the important question of the corpse hanging in the wood; Mrs. Mravucsan

complained that no one was eating anything, and looked as wretched as

she could.

Each one drank to the other's health, and during the quiet moment that

followed, a voice was heard:

"Oh, Wladin, Wladin!"

It was Mrs. Szliminszky's voice; she evidently objected to her husband

drinking, and her neighbor, Mr. Mokry, the lawyer's clerk, objected to

her constant distractions, in spite of the interesting theme they were

discussing.

"That strong cigar will harm you, Wladin; you had better put it down.

Well, and why did you go to Besztercebanya, Mr. Mokry?"

"I had a lot to do there, but, above all, I bought the suit I have on."

He looked admiringly at his dark blue suit for about the hundredth time

that evening.

"It is a very nice suit. What did you pay for it?"

"I had it made to measure at Klener's, and went to try it on myself."

"What was the price?"

"It is real Gacs cloth, and quite impervious to rain; you should see it

by daylight!"

"Yes, of course, but what did it cost?" asked the Polish lady, her

thoughts still occupied with her husband.

"I saw the piece of cloth myself; this was the first length cut off it.

It has a peculiar look in the sunlight."

"Yes, yes; but I asked the price of it."

But it was difficult to bring Mokry to think of other things when he was

once launched on the subject of his new suit.

"Klener has a tailor working for him, a certain Kupek, who used to work

at one of the court tailors' in Vienna, and he said to me: 'Don't grudge

the money, Mr. Mokry, for this is such a durable stuff that your own

skin will wear out first.' Please feel it."

"It's as soft as silk. Wladin, my dear, I think you had better change

places with me. You are in a draught there each time the door is

opened. What are you making such a face for? You surely don't mean to

argue with me? Over you come now!"

The beloved martyr changed places with his wife, and now Mrs.

Szliminszky was on the opposite side of the table, next to Wibra; but he

was entirely taken up with Veronica, who was chattering to her heart's

content. The clever young man, of whom it was said he would once be the

first lawyer in Besztercebanya, was listening to the girl with as much

attention as though a bishop were speaking, and would not for a moment

have taken his eyes off her.

They spoke quietly, as though they were discussing very important

questions, though they were in reality speaking of the most innocent

things. What did Veronica do at home? She read a good deal, and took

long walks. What did she read, and where did she walk? And Veronica gave

the titles of some books. Gyuri had read them all too, and they began

exchanging notes regarding some of them, such as "Elemer the Eagle,"

"Ivan Berend," "Aranka Beldi." Gyuri considered Pal Beldi very stupid

for not accepting the title of prince when it was offered him. Veronica

thought it was better he had not done so, for if he had, the novel would

never have been written.

Then Gyuri began to question her about Glogova. Was it very dull?

Veronica looked at him, surprised. How could Glogova be dull? It was as

though some ignorant person had asked if Paris were dull.

"Is there a wood there?"

"A beautiful one."

"Do you ever go there?"

"Of course."

"Are you not afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Well, you know, woods sometimes have inhabitants one might be afraid

of."

"Oh, but the inhabitants of our woods are more afraid of me than I of

them."

"Can any one be afraid of you?"

"Oh, yes they are, because I catch them."

"The robbers?"

"Don't be so silly, or I shall be cross!"