CHAPTER I

[Illustration: Dr Maurus Jókai]

WORKS OF MAURUS JÓKAI

HUNGARIAN EDITION

THE NAMELESS CASTLE

Translated from the Hungarian

Under the Author's supervision

By S. E. BOGGS

NEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

1898

INTRODUCTION

TO THE ENGLISH TRANSLATION OF MY WORKS

This is not the first occasion upon which it has been my good fortune to

win appreciation and approval for my works from the reading public of

the United States. Up to the present, however, it has often been under

difficulties; for many of my works which have been published in the

English tongue were not translated from the original Hungarian text,

while others, through want of a final perusal, were introduced to the

public marred by numerous faults.

In the present edition we have striven to give the English reading

public a correct translation, for which an authorized text has been

utilized by the Doubleday & McClure Co., who have sole right for

publishing future English translations of my books.

Between the United States and Hungary we discover many common traits:

the same state-creative energy in the predominant people, which finds

expression in constitutional forms, relying upon the love of freedom,

which unites so many different races in one uniform whole; the same

independent institutions; the same ideas in religion, in ethics; the

same respect for women, the same esteem of labor, the same mental

culture; a striving after progress, yet side by side with this a high

respect for traditions; the same poetry of agriculture, the same prose

of industry; rapid progress of both, and in consequence thereof an

impetuous growth of towns.

Yet, while we find so many common traits between America and Hungary in

the great field of theory, those typical figures which here in Hungary

represent such theories must make a novel and extraordinary _entrée_ in

the New World, that they may deserve to win the interest of the foreign

reader.

Hungary still represents a piece and parcel of the Old World; she is not

so much Europe as a modern Asia. My novels centre round those peculiar

figures of Hungarian common life; and in every work of mine a bit of

history of true common life will be found described. I have had a

particular delight, however, in occupying myself with foreign countries,

especially with the East. There have been years when I was compelled to

choose subjects for novel-writing in foreign parts.

In English and in Hungarian literature we find a common trait in that

humor which is discovered also in the tragic; a characteristic of the

nation itself.

It is with perfect confidence and in good hope that I present my present

work (translated so faithfully) before the much-esteemed English reading

public. May God bless that home of freedom, by whose example we have

learnt how to unite the greatness of the state with the welfare of the

people.

DR. MAURUS JOKAI.

BUDAPEST, May 11th, 1898.

DR. MAURUS JOKAI

A Sketch

To a man who has earned such titles as "The Shakespeare of Hungary" and

"The Glory of Hungarian Literature"; who published in fifty years three

hundred and fifty novels, dramas, and miscellaneous works, not to

mention innumerable articles for the press that owes its freedom chiefly

to him, it seems incredible that there was ever a time of indecision as

to what career he was best fitted to follow. The idle life of the

nobility into which Maurus Jókay was born in 1825 had no attractions for

a strongly intellectual boy, fired with zeal and energy that carried him

easily to the head of each class in school and college; nor did he feel

any attraction for the prosaic practice of law, his father's profession,

to which Austria's despotism drove many a nobleman in those wretched

days for Hungary. It was Pétofi, the poet, who was his dearest friend

during the student-life at Pápa; idealism ever attracted him, and, by

natural gravitation toward the finest minds, he chose the friendship of

young men who quickly rose into eminence during the days of revolution

and invasion that tried men's souls.

For a time Jókay, as he then wrote his name, was undecided whether to

choose literature or art as an outlet for the idealism, imagination, and

devotion that overflowed in two directions from this boy of seventeen.

With some of the inherited artistic talent, which in his relative

Munkacsy amounted to genius, he felt most inclined toward painting and

sculpture, and finally consecrated himself to them. In his library at

Budapest there now stands a small, well-executed bust of his wife in

ivory; and on the walls hang several landscapes and still-life

paintings, which he showed with a smile to an American visitor, who

stood silent before them last winter, hoping for some inspiration of

speech that would reconcile politeness with veracity and her own ideals

of good art. If a "deep love for art and an ardent desire to excel" will

"more than compensate for the want of method," to quote Sir Joshua

Reynolds, then Jókay would have been a great painter indeed. While he

never was that, his chisel and brushes have remained a recreation and

delight to him always.

Apparently he was diverted from art to literature by a trifle; but in

the light of later developments it is simple enough to see which was

really the greater force working within. The Academy of Arts and

Sciences, founded by Szécheni, offered a prize for the best drama, and

Jókay won it. He was then seventeen, for careers began early in olden

times. When twenty-one his first novel, "Work Days," met with great

applause; other romances quickly followed, and, as they dealt with the

social and political tendencies that fanned the revolution into flame

two years later, their success was instantaneous. His true

representations of Hungarian life and character, his passionate love of

liberty, his lofty idealism for his crushed and lethargic country,

aroused a great wave of patriotism like a call to arms, and consecrated

him to work with his pen for the freedom of the common people.

Henceforth paint-brushes were cast aside.

Pétofi and Jókay, teeming with great ideas, quickly attracted other

writers and young men of the university about them, and, each helping

the other, brought about a bloodless revolution that secured, among

other inestimable boons, the freedom of a censored, degraded press. And

yet the only act of violence these young revolutionists committed was in

entering a printing establishment and setting up with their own hands

the type for Pétofi's poem, that afterward became the war-song of the

national movement. At that very establishment was soon to be printed a

proclamation granting twelve of their dearest wishes to the people. From

this time Jókay changed the spelling of his name to Jókai, _y_ being a

badge of nobility hateful to disciples of the doctrine of liberty,

fraternity, equality.

About this time Jókai married the Rachel of the Hungarian stage, Rosa

Laborfalvy. The portrait of her that hangs in her husband's famous

library shows a beautiful woman of intense sensitiveness, into whose

face some of the sadness of her rôles seems to have crept. It was to her

powers of impersonation and disguise that Jókai owed his life many years

later, when, imprisoned and suffering in a dungeon, he was enabled to

escape in her clothes to join Kossuth in the desperate fight against the

allied armies of Austria and Russia. Since her death he has lived in

retirement.

The bloodless revolution of 1848, which suddenly transformed Hungary

into a modern state, possessing civil and religious liberty for which

the young idealists led by Kossuth had labored with such passionate

zeal, was not effected without antagonizing the old aristocracy, all of

whose cherished institutions were suddenly swept away; or the

semi-barbaric people of the peasant class, who could little appreciate

the beneficent reforms. Into the awful civil war that followed, when the

horrors of an Austrian-Russian invasion were added to the already

desperate situation, Jókai plunged with magnificent heroism. Side by

side with Kossuth, he fought with sword and pen. Those who heard him

deliver an address at the Peace Congress at Brussels two years ago felt

through his impassioned eloquence that the man had himself drained the

bitterest dregs of war.

While Kossuth lived in exile in England and the United States, and many

other compatriots escaped to Turkey and beyond, Jókai, in concealment at

home, writing under an assumed name and with a price on his head,

continued his work for social reform, until a universal pardon was

granted by Austria and the saddened idealists once more dared show their

faces in devastated Hungary.

Ripe with experience and full of splendid intellectual power, Jókai now

turned his whole attention to literature. The pages of his novels glow

with the warmth of the man's intensity of feeling: his pen had been

touched by a living coal. He knew his country as no other man has known

it; and transferred its types, its manners, its life in high degree and

low, to the pages of his romances and dramas with a brilliancy and

mastery of style that captivated the people, whose idol he still

remains. Scenes from Turkish life--in which, next to Hungarian, he is

particularly interested; historical novels, romances of pure

imagination, short tales, dramatic works, essays on literature and

social questions, came pouring from his surcharged brain and heart. The

very virtues of his work, its intensity, and the boundless scope of its

imagination, sometimes produce a lack of unity and an improbability to

which the hypercritical in the West draw attention with a sense of

superior wisdom; but the Hungarians themselves, who know whereof he

writes, can see no faults whatever in his work. It is essentially

idealistic; the true and the beautiful shine through it with radiant

lustre, in sharp distinction from the scenes of famine and carnage that

abound. His Turkish stories have been described as "full of blood and

roses."

Of his more mature productions, the best known are: "A Magyar Nabob";

"The Fools of Love"; "The New Landlord"; "Black Diamonds"; "A Romance of

the Coming Century"; "Handsome Michael"; "God is One," in which the

Unitarians play an important part; "The Nameless Castle," that gives an

account of the Hungarian army employed against Napoleon in 1809;

"Captive Ráby," a romance of the times of Joseph II.; and "As We Grow

Old," the latter being the author's own favorite and, strangely enough,

the people's also. Dr. Jókai greatly deplores that what the critics call

his best work should not have been given to the English-speaking people.

In 1896 Hungary celebrated the completion of his fifty years of literary

labor by issuing a beautiful jubilee edition of his works, for which the

people of all grades of society subscribed $100,000. Every county in the

country sent him memorials in the form of albums wrought in gold and

precious stones, two hundred of these souvenirs filling one side of the

author's large library and reception-room. Low bookcases running around

the walls are filled only with his own publications, the various

editions of his three hundred and fifty books making a large library in

themselves. The cabinets hold sketches and paintings sent by the artists

of Hungary as a jubilee gift; there are cases containing carvings,

embroidery, lace, and natural-history specimens sent him by the

peasants, and orders in gold and silver, studded with jewels, with

autograph letters from the kings and queens of Europe. In the midst of

all this inspiring display of loving appreciation, Dr. Jókai has his

desk; a pile of neatly written, even manuscript ever before him, for in

his seventy-fourth year he still feels the old-time passion for work

calling him to it early in the morning and holding him in its spell all

the day long. A small room adjoining his library contains the books of

reference he consults, a narrow bed like a soldier's, and a few window

plants. It might be the room of a monk, so bare is it of what the world

calls comforts. One devoted man-servant attends to Dr. Jókai's simple

wants with abundant leisure to spare.

While in Budapest Dr. Jókai is seldom seen away from home, except in

Parliament, where he has a seat in the Upper House, or at the theatre

where his plays are regularly performed, or at the table of a few dear

relatives and old-time friends. His life is exceedingly simple and well

ordered.

Just a little way back on the hills that rise beyond Buda, across the

Danube and overlooking wide stretches of beautiful, fertile country,

stands Dr. Jókai's summer-home. His garden is a paradise. Quantities of

roses climb over the unpretentious house, the paths are lined with them;

gay beds of poppies and other familiar favorites in our Western gardens,

but many new to American eyes, crowd the fruit that grows in delightful

abundance everywhere, for Dr. Jókai tends his garden with his own hands,

and his horticultural wisdom is only second to his knowledge of the

Turkish wars. His apples, pears, and roses win prizes at all the shows,

and his little book, "Hints on Gardening," propagates a large crop of

like-minded enthusiasts year after year. Now, as ever, any knowledge he

has he shares with the people. After a long life of bitter stress and

labor, abundant peace has come in the latter days.

Hungary boasts four great men: Liszt, Munkacsy, Kossuth, and Jókai, who

was the intimate friend of the other three.

NELTJE BLANCHAN.

NEW YORK, JUNE, 1898.

CONTENTS

I CYTHERA'S BRIGADE

II THE HOME OF ANECDOTE

III THE MISTRESS OF THE CATS

IV SATAN LACZI

V ANGE BARTHELMY

VI DEATH AND NEW LIFE IN THE NAMELESS CASTLE

VII THE HUNGARIAN MILITIA

VIII KATHARINA OR THEMIRE?

IX SATAN AND DEMON

X CONCLUSION

PART I

CYTHERA'S BRIGADE

CHAPTER I

A snow-storm was raging with such vigor that any one who chanced to be

passing along the silent thoroughfare might well have believed himself

in St. Petersburg instead of in Paris, in the Rue des Ours, a side

street leading into the Avenue St. Martin. The street, never a very busy

one, was now almost deserted, as was also the avenue, as it was yet too

early for vehicles of various sorts to be returning from the theatre.

The street-lamps on the corners had not yet been lighted. In front of

one of those old-fashioned houses which belong to a former Paris a heavy

iron lantern swung, creaking in the wind, and, battling with the

darkness, shed flickering rays of light on the child who, with a faded

red cotton shawl wrapped about her, was cowering in the deep doorway of

the house. From time to time there would emerge from the whirling

snowflakes the dark form of a man clad as a laborer. He would walk

leisurely toward the doorway in which the shivering child was concealed,

but would turn when he came to the circle of light cast on the snowy

pavement by the swinging lantern, and retrace his steps, thus appearing

and disappearing at regular intervals. Surely a singular time and place

for a promenade! The clocks struck ten--the hour which found every

honest dweller within the Quartier St. Martin at home. On this evening,

however, two belated citizens came from somewhere, their hurrying

footsteps noiseless in the deep snow, their approach announced only by

the lantern carried by one of them--an article without which no

respectable citizen at the beginning of the century would have ventured

on the street after nightfall. One of the pedestrians was tall and

broad-shouldered, with a handsome countenance, which bore the impress of

an inflexible determination; a dimple indented his smoothly shaven chin.

His companion, and his senior by several years, was a slender,

undersized man.

When the two men came abreast of the doorway illumined by the swinging

lamp, it was evident that they had arrived at their destination. They

halted and prepared to enter the house.

At this moment the child crouching in the snow began to sob.

"See here!" exclaimed the taller of the two gentlemen. "Here is a little

girl."

"Why, so there is!" in turn exclaimed the elder, stooping and letting

the light of his lantern fall on the child's face. "What are you doing

here, little one?" he asked in a kindly tone.

"I want my mama! I want my mama!" wailed the child, with a fresh burst

of sobs.

"Who is your mama?" queried the younger man.

"My mama is the countess."

"And where does she live?"

"In the palace."

"Naturally! In which avenue is the palace?"

"I--don't--know."

"A true child of Paris!" in an undertone exclaimed the elder gentleman.

"She knows that her mother is a countess, and that she lives in a

palace; but she has never been told the name of the street in which is

her home."

"How come you to be here, little countess?" inquired the younger man.

"Diana can tell you," was the reply.

"And who may Diana be?"

"Why, who else but mama's Diana?"

"Allow me to question her," here interposed the elder man. Then, to the

child: "Diana is the person who helps you put on your clothes, is she

not?"

"It is just the other way: she took off my clothes--just see; I have

nothing on but this petticoat and this hideous shawl."

As she spoke she flung back the faded shawl and revealed how scantily

she was clad.

"You poor child!" compassionately ejaculated the young man; and when he

saw that her thin morocco slippers were buried in the snow, he lifted

her hastily in his arms. "You are half frozen."

"But why did Diana leave you half clothed in this manner?" pursued the

elder man. "Why did she undress you? Can't you tell us that much?"

"Mama slapped her this morning."

"Ah! then Diana is a servant?"

"Why, of course; what else could she be?"

"Well, she might be a goddess or a hound, you know," smilingly returned

the old gentleman.

"When mama went to the opera, this evening," explained the little one,

"she ordered Diana to take me to the children's ball at the marquis's.

Instead, she brought me to this street, made me get out of the carriage,

took off my silk ball-gown and all my pretty ornaments, and left me here

in this doorway--I am sure I don't know why, for there is n't any music

here."

"It is well she left this old shawl with you, else your mama would not

have a little countess to tell the tale to-morrow," observed the elder

man. Then, turning to his companion, he added in a lower tone: "What are

we to do with her?"

"We can't leave her here; that would be inhuman," was the reply, in the

same cautious tone.

"But we can't take her in; it would be a great risk."

"What is there to fear from an innocent prattler who cannot even

remember her mother's name?"

"We might take her to the conciergerie," suggested the elder gentleman.

"_I_ think we had better not disturb the police when they are asleep,"

in a significant tone responded his companion.

"That is true; but we can't take the child to our apartments. You know

that we--"

"I have an idea!" suddenly interposed the young man. "This innocent

child has been placed in our way by Providence; by aiding her we may

accomplish more easily the task we have undertaken."

"I understand," assented the elder; "we can accomplish two good deeds at

one and the same time. Allow me to go up-stairs first; while you are

locking the door I will arrange matters up there so that you may bring

this poor little half-frozen creature directly with you." Then, to the

child: "Don't be afraid, little countess; nothing shall harm you.

To-morrow morning perhaps you will remember your mama's name, or else

she will send some one in search of you."

He opened the door, and ran hastily up the worn staircase.

When the young man, with the little girl in his arms, reached the door

at the head of the stairs, his companion met him, and, with a meaning

glance, announced that everything was ready for the reception of their

small guest. They entered a dingy anteroom, which led, through heavily

curved antique sliding-doors, into a vaulted saloon hung with faded

tapestry.

Here the child exhibited the first signs of alarm. "Are you going to

kill me?" she cried out in terror.

The old gentleman laughed merrily, and said:

"Why, surely you don't take us to be _croquemitaines_ who devour little

children; do you?"

"Have you got a little girl of your own?" queried the little one,

suddenly.

"No, my dear," replied the old gentleman, visibly affected by the

question. "I have no wife; therefore I cannot have a little girl."

"But my mama has no husband, and she 's got me," prattled the child.

"That is different, my dear. But if I have not got a little girl, I know

very well what to do for one."

As he spoke he drew off the child's wet slippers and stockings, rubbed

her feet with a flannel cloth, then laid her on the bed which stood in

the alcove.

"Why, how warm this bed is!" cried the child; "just as if some one had

been sleeping here."

The old man's face betrayed some confusion as he responded:

"Might I not have warmed it with a warming-pan?"

"But where did you get hot coals?"

"Well, well, what an inquisitive little creature it is!" muttered the

old man. Then, aloud: "My dear, don't you say your prayers before going

to sleep?"

"No, indeed! Mama says we shall have plenty of time for that when we

grow old."

"An enlightened woman, truly! Well, I dare say, my little maid, your

convictions will not prevent you from drinking a cup of egg-punch, and

partaking of a bit of pasty or a small biscuit?"

At mention of these dainties the child's countenance brightened; and

while she was eating the repast with evident relish, the younger man

rummaged from somewhere a large, beautifully dressed doll. All thought

of fear now vanished from the small guest's mind. She clasped the toy in

her arms, and, having finished her light meal, began to sing a lullaby,

to which she very soon fell asleep herself.

"She is sleeping soundly," whispered the elder man, softly drawing

together the faded damask bed-curtains, and walking on tiptoe back to

the fireplace, where his companion had fanned the fire into a fresh

blaze.

"It is high time," was the low and rather impatient response. "We can't

stop here much longer. Do you know what has happened to the duke?"

"Yes, I know. He has been sentenced to death. To-morrow he will be

executed. What have you discovered?"

"A fox on the trail of a lion!" harshly replied the young man. "He who

aroused so many hopes is, after all, nothing more than an impostor--Leon

Maria Hervagault, the son of a tailor at St. Leu. The true dauphin, the

son of Louis XVI., really died a natural death, after he had served a

three years' apprenticeship as shoemaker under Master Simho; and in

order that a later generation might not be able to secure his ashes, he

was buried in quick-lime in the Chapel of St. Margarethe."

"They were not so scrupulous concerning monsieur,"[1] observed the old

man, restlessly pacing the floor. "I received a letter from my agent

to-day; he writes that monsieur was secretly shot at Dillingen."

[Footnote 1: Count de Provence, afterward Louis XVIII.]

"What! He, too? Then--"

"Hush!" cautiously interposed the elder man. "That child might not be

asleep."

"And if she were awake, what could she understand?"

"True; but we must be cautious." He ceased his restless promenade, and

came close to the young man's side. "Everything is at an end here," he

added in a lower tone. "We must remove our treasure to a more secure

hiding-place--this very night, indeed, if it be possible."

"It is possible," assented his companion. "The plan of flight was

arranged two days ago. The most difficult part was to get away from this

house. It is watched day and night. Chance, however, has come to our

aid."

"I understand," nodded the old gentleman, glancing significantly toward

the bed.

"The most serious question now is, where shall we find a secure

hiding-place? Even England is not safe. The bullets of Dillingen can

reach to that country! Indeed, wherever there are police no secret is

safe."

"I 'll tell you something," after a moment's deliberation observed the

elder man. "I know of a country in Europe where order prevails, and

where there are no police spies; and, what is more, the place of which I

speak is beyond the range of a gunshot!"

"I confess I am curious to learn where such a place may be found," with

an incredulous smile returned the young man.

"Fetch the map, and I will point it out to you. Afterward we will

arrange your route toward it." The two men spread a large map of Europe

on the table, and, bending over it, were soon deeply absorbed in

examining it, the while exchanging whispered remarks.

At last they seemed to have agreed on something. The map was folded up

and thrust into the younger man's pocket.

"I shall start at once," he said, with an air of decision.

"That is well," with evident satisfaction assented his companion. "And

take with you also the steel casket. In it are all the necessary

documents, some articles of clothing on which the mother with her own

hands embroidered the well-known symbol, and a million of francs in

English bank-notes. These, however, you will not use unless compelled to

do so by extreme necessity. You will receive annually a sufficient sum

from a certain banking-house which will supply all your wants. Have our

two trusty friends been apprised?"

"Yes; they await me hourly."

"So soon as you are beyond the French boundary you may communicate with

me in the way we have agreed upon. Until I hear from you I shall be in a

terror of anxiety. I am sorry I cannot accompany you, but I am already

suspected. You are, as yet, free from suspicion--are not yet registered

in the black book!"

"You may trust my skill to evade pursuit," said the young man, producing

from a secret cupboard a casket richly ornamented with gold.

"I do not doubt your skill, or your ability to accomplish the

undertaking; but the task is not a suitable one for so young a man. Have

you considered the fate which awaits you?"

"I have considered everything."

"You will be buried; and, what is worse, you will be the keeper of your

own prison."

"I shall be a severe jailer, I promise you," with a grim smile responded

the young man.

"Jester! You forget your twenty-six years! And who can tell how long you

may be buried alive?"

"Have no fear for me. I do not dread the task. Those in power now will

one day be overthrown."

"But when the child, who is only twelve years old now, becomes in three

or four years a blooming maiden--what then? Already she is fond of you;

then she will love you. You cannot hinder it; and yet, you will not even

dare to dream of returning her love. Have you thought of this also?"

"I shall look upon myself as the inhabitant of a different planet,"

answered the young man.

"Your hand, my friend! You have undertaken a noble task--one that is

greater than that of the captive knight who cut off his own foot, that

his sovereign, who was chained to him, might escape--"

"Pray say no more about me," interposed his companion. "Is the child

asleep?"

"This one is; the one in the other room is awake."

"Then let us go to her and tell her what we have decided." He lifted the

two-branched candlestick from the table; his companion carefully closed

the iron doors of the fireplace; then the two went into the adjoining

chamber, leaving the room they had quitted in darkness.

The elder gentleman had made a mistake: "this" child was _not_ asleep.

She had listened attentively, half sitting up in bed, to as much of the

conversation as she could hear.

A ray of light penetrated through the keyhole. The little girl sprang

nimbly from the bed, ran to the door, and peered through the tiny

aperture. Suddenly footsteps came toward the door. When it opened,

however, the little eavesdropper was back underneath the covers of the

bed. The old gentleman entered the room. He had no candle. He left the

door open, walked noiselessly to the bed, and drew aside the curtains to

see if "this" child was still asleep. The long-drawn, regular breathing

convinced him. Then he took something from the chair beside the bed, and

went back into the other room. The object he had taken from the chair

was the faded red shawl in which the stray child had been wrapped. He

did not close the door of the adjoining chamber, for the candles had

been extinguished and both rooms were now dark.

To the listening child in the bed, however, it seemed as if voices were

whispering near her--as if she heard a stifled sob. Then cautious

footsteps crossed the floor, and after an interval of silence the street

door opened and closed.

Very soon afterward a light was struck in the adjoining room, and the

elder man came through the doorway--alone.

He flung back the doors of the fireplace, and stirred the embers; then

he proceeded to perform a singular task. First he tossed a number of

letters and papers into the flames, then several dainty articles of

girls' clothing. He watched them until they had burned to ashes; then he

flung himself into an arm-chair; his head sank forward on his breast, in

which position he sat motionless for several hours.

CHAPTER II

When the younger of the two men stepped into the street he carried in

his arms a little girl wrapped in a faded red shawl, to whom he was

speaking encouragingly, in tones loud enough for any passer-by to hear:

"I know the little countess will be able to find her mama's palace; for

there is a fountain in front of it in which there is a stone man with a

three-pronged fork, and a stone lady with a fish-tail! Oh, yes; we shall

be sure to find it; and very soon we shall be with mama."

Here the child in his arms began to sob bitterly.

"For heaven's sake, do not weep; do not let your voice be heard,"

whispered the young man in her ear.

At this moment a man wearing a coarse blouse, with his cap drawn over

his eyes and a short pipe between his lips, came staggering toward them.

The young man, in order to make room for him, pressed close to the wall,

whereupon the new-comer, who seemed intoxicated, began in drunken tones:

"Hello, citizen! What do you mean? Do you want me to walk in the

gutter?--because you have got on fine boots, and I have only wooden

sabots! I am a citizen like yourself, and as good as you. We are alike,

are n't we?"

The young man now knew with whom he had to deal--a police spy whose duty

it was to watch him. He therefore replied quietly:

"No, we are not alike, citizen; for I have in my arms an unfortunate

child who has strayed from its mother. Every Frenchman respects a child

and misfortune. Is not that so, citizen?"

"Yes, that is so, citizen. Let 's have a little conversation about it";

and the pretended drunkard seized hold of the young man's mantle to

detain him.

"It is very cold," returned the young man. "Instead of talking here,

suppose you help me get this child to its home. Go to the nearest corner

and fetch a coach. I will wait here for you."

The blouse-wearer hesitated a moment, then walked toward the

street-corner, managing, however, to keep an eye on the young man and

his charge. At the corner he whistled in a peculiar manner, whereupon

the rumbling of wheels was heard. In a few moments the leather-covered

vehicle drew up beside the curb where the young man was waiting.

"I am very much obliged to you for your kindness, citizen," he said to

the blouse-wearer, who had returned with the coach. "Here," pressing a

twenty-sou piece into the man's palm, "is something for your trouble. I

wish you would come with me to help hunt for this little girl's home. If

you have time, and will come with me, you shall be paid for your

trouble."

"Can't do it, citizen; my wife is expecting me at home. Just you trust

this coachman; he will help you find the place. He 's a clever

youth--are n't you, Peroquin? You have made many a night journey about

Paris, have n't you? See that you earn your twenty francs to-night,

too!"

That the coachman was also in the service of the secret police the young

man knew very well; but he did not betray his knowledge by word or mien.

The blouse-wearer now shook hands cordially with the young man, and

said:

"Adieu, citizen. I beg your pardon if I offended you. I 'll leave you

now. I am going to my wife, or to the tavern; who can tell the future?"

He waited until the young man had entered the coach with his charge;

then, instead of betaking himself to his wife or to the tavern, he

crossed the street, and took up his station in the recess of a doorway

opposite the house with the swinging lantern. . . .

"Where to?" asked the coachman of the young man.

"Well, citizen," was the smiling response, "if I knew that, all would be

well. But that is just what I don't know; and the little countess, here,

who has strayed from her home, can't remember the street, nor the number

of the house, in which she lives. She can only remember that her mama's

palace is on a square in which there is a fountain. We must therefore

visit all the fountains in turn until we find the right one."

The coachman made no further inquiries, but climbed to the box, and

drove off in quest of the fountains of Paris.

Two fountains were visited, but neither of them proved to be the right

one. The young man now bade the coachman drive through a certain street

to a third fountain. It was a narrow, winding street--the Rue des Blancs

Manteaux.

When the coach was opposite a low, one-storied house, the young man drew

the strap, and told the driver he wished to stop for a few moments. As

the vehicle drew up in front of the house, the door opened, and a tall,

stalwart man in top-boots came forth, accompanied by a sturdy dame who

held a candle, which she protected from the wind with the palm of her

hand.

"Is that you, Raoul?" called the young man from the coach window.

There was no response from the giant, who, instead, sprang nimbly to the

box, and, flinging one arm around the astonished coachman, thrust a gag

into his mouth. Before the captive could make a move to defend himself,

his fare was out of the coach, and had pinioned his arms behind his

back. The giant and the young man now lifted the coachman from the box

and carried him into the house, the woman followed with the trembling

child, whom she had carefully lifted from the coach.

In the house, the two men bound their captive securely, first removing

his coat. Then they seated him on the couch, and placed a mirror in

front of him.

"You need not be alarmed, citizen," said the man in the top-boots. "No

harm shall come to you. We are only going to copy your face--because of

its beauty, you know!"

The young man also seated himself in front of the mirror, and proceeded,

with various brushes and colors, to paint his cheeks and nose a copper

hue, exactly like that of the coachman's reflection in the glass. Then

he exchanged his own peruke and hat for the shabby ones of the coachman.

Lastly, he flung around his shoulders the mantle with its seven collars,

and the resemblance was complete.

"And now," observed the giant, addressing the captive, "you can rest

without the least fear. At the latest, to-morrow about this time your

coach, your horses, your mantle, and whatever else belongs to you will

be returned. For the use of the things we have borrowed from you we

shall leave in the pocket of your coat twenty francs for every hour, and

an extra twenty francs as a _pourboire_; don't forget to look for it!

To-morrow at eleven o'clock a girl will fetch milk; she will release

you, and you can tell her what a singular dream you had! If you can't

go to sleep, just repeat the multiplication table. I always do when I

can't sleep, and I never have to go beyond seven times seven. Good

night, citizen!"

The door of the adjoining room opened, and the woman appeared, leading

by the hand a pretty little boy.

"We are ready," she announced.

The two men thrust pistols into their pockets. Then the woman and the

little boy entered the coach, the two men took seats on the box, and the

coach rolled away.

CHAPTER III

At ten o'clock the next morning the old gentleman paid a visit to his

little guest. This time the child was really asleep, and opened her eyes

only when the curtains were drawn back and the light from the window

fell on her face.

"How kind of you to waken me, monsieur!" she said, smiling; she was in a

good humor, as children are who have slept well. "I have slept

splendidly. This bed is as good as my own at home. And how delightful

not to hear my governess scolding! You never scold, do you, monsieur? I

deserve to be scolded, though, for I was very naughty last night, and

you were so kind to me--gave me such nice egg-punch; see, there is a

glass of it left over; it will do for my breakfast. I love cold punch,

so you need not trouble to bring me any chocolate." With these words,

the little maid sprang nimbly from the bed, ran with the naïveté of an

eight-year-old child to the table, where she settled herself in the

corner of the sofa, drew her bare feet up under her, and proceeded to

breakfast on the left-over punch and biscuits.

"There! that was a good breakfast," she said, after she had finished her

meal. "Oh, I almost forgot. Has mama sent for me?"

"Certainly not, my dear! We are going, by and by, to look for her. The

countess very likely has not yet learned of your disappearance; and if

she does know that you did not return home last night, she believes you

safe with the marquis. She will think you were not allowed to return

home in the storm, and will not expect to see you before noon."

"You are very clever, monsieur. I should never have thought of that! I

imagined that mama would be vexed, and when mama is cross she is _so_

disagreeable. At other times, though, she is perfectly lovely! You will

see how very beautiful she is, monsieur, for you are coming home with me

to tell her how you found me--you are so very kind! How I wish you were

my papa!"

The old gentleman was touched by the little one's artless prattle.

"Well, my dear little maid," he said tenderly, "we can't think of

showing ourselves on the street in such a costume. Besides, it would

frighten your mama to see you so. I am going out to one of the shops to

buy you a frock. Tell me, what sort was it Diana took from you?"

"A lovely pink silk, trimmed with lace, with short sleeves," promptly

replied the little maid.

"I shall not forget--a pink silk, trimmed with lace. You need not be

afraid to stay alone here. No one will come while I am away."

"Oh, I am not the least bit afraid. I like to be alone sometimes."

"There is the doll to keep you company," suggested the old gentleman,

more and more pleased with his affable little visitor.

"Is n't she lovely!" enthusiastically exclaimed the child. "She slept

with me last night, and every time I woke up I kissed her."

"You shall have her for your own, if you like her so much, my dear."

"Oh, thank you! Did the doll belong to your dear little daughter who is

dead?"

"Yes--yes," sorrowfully murmured the old gentleman.

"Then I will not play with her, but keep her locked in my little

cupboard, and call her Philine. That was the name of my little sister

who is dead. Come here, Philine, and sit by me."

"Perhaps you might like to look at a book while I am away--"

"A book!" interrupted the child, with a merry laugh, clapping her hands.

"Why, I am just learning the alphabet, and can't bring myself to call a

two-pronged fork 'y.'"

"You dear little innocent rogue!" tenderly ejaculated the old gentleman.

"Are you fond of flowers?"

He brought from the adjoining room a porcelain flowerpot containing a

narcissus in bloom.

"Oh, what a charming flower!" cried the child, admiringly. "How I wish I

might pluck just one!"

"Help yourself, my dear," returned her host, pushing the plant toward

her.

The child daintily broke off one of the snowy blossoms, and, with

childlike coquetry, fastened it in the trimming of her chemise.

"What is this beautiful flower called, monsieur?"

"The narcissus."

At mention of the name the little maid suddenly clapped her hands and

cried joyfully:

"Why, that is the name of our palace! Now don't you know where it is?"

"The 'Palace of Narcissus'? I have heard of it."

"Then you will have no trouble finding my home. Oh, you dear good little

flower!" and she kissed the snowy blossom rapturously.

The old gentleman surveyed her smilingly for a few moments, then said:

"I will go now, and buy the frock."

"And while you are away I shall tell Philine the story of Gargantua,"

responded the child.

"Lock the door after me, my dear, and do not open it until I mention my

name: Alfred Cambray--"

"Oh, I should forget the second one! Just say, 'Papa Alfred'; I can

remember that."

When the child was certain that the old gentleman had left the house,

she began hastily to search the room. She peered into every corner and

crevice. Then she went into the adjoining chamber, and opened every

drawer and cupboard. In returning to the first room she saw some scraps

of paper scattered about the floor. She collected them carefully, placed

them on the table, and dexterously fitted the pieces together until the

entire note-sheet lay before her. It was covered with writing which had

evidently been traced by a hurried hand, yet the child seemed to have no

difficulty in reading it.

When she heard the old gentleman's footstep on the staircase, she

brushed the scraps of paper from the table, and hastened to open the

door before the signal was given; and when he exhibited his purchase she

danced for joy.

"It is just like my ball-gown--exactly like it!" she exclaimed, kissing

the hands of her benefactor. Then the old gentleman clothed the child as

skilfully as if he were accustomed to such work. When the task was

finished he looked about him, and saw the scraps of paper on the floor;

he swept them together, and threw them into the fire.

Then, with the hand of his little companion clasped in his own, he

descended to the street in quest of a cab to take them to the Palace of

Narcissus.

The Palace of Narcissus had originally been the property of the

celebrated danseuse, Mlle. Guimard, for whom it had been built by the

Duke de Soubise. Like so many other fine houses, it had been confiscated

by the Revolution and sold at auction--or, rather, had been disposed of

by lottery, a lady who had paid one hundred and twenty francs for her

ticket winning it.

The winner of the palace sold it to M. Périgaud, a banker and shrewd

speculator, who divided the large dwelling into suites of apartments,

which became the favorite lodgings of the young men of fashion. These

young men were called the "narcissi," and later, the "incroyables" and

"_petits crevés_." The building, however, retained the name of the

Palace of Narcissus.

When the fiacre stopped at the door of the palace which led to her

mama's apartment, the little countess alighted with her escort, and said

to the coachman:

"You need not wait; the marquis will return home in my mama's carriage."

M. Cambray was obliged to submit to be called the "marquis." The

harmless fib was due to the rank of the little countess; she could not

have driven through the streets of Paris in the same fiacre with a

_pékin_!

"We will not go up the main staircase," said the child, taking her

companion's arm and leading him into the palace. "I don't want to meet

any of the servants. We will go directly to mama's boudoir, and take her

by surprise."

The countess mother, however, was not in her boudoir; only a screaming

cockatoo, and a capuchin monkey that grimaced a welcome. Through the

folding-doors which opened into an adjoining room came the melancholy

tones of a harmonium; and M. Cambray recognized a favorite

air--Beethoven's symphony, "_Les adieux, l'absence, et le retour_." He

paused a moment to listen to it.

"That is mama playing," whispered the child. "You go in first, and tell

her you have brought me home. Be very careful; mama is very nervous." M.

Cambray softly opened the door, and halted, amazed, on the threshold.

The room into which he had ventured unannounced was a magnificent salon,

filled with a brilliant company. Evidently the countess was holding a

matinée.

The assembled company were in full toilet. The women, who were chiefly

young and handsome, were clad in the modest fashion of that day, which

draped the shoulders and bust with embroidered kerchiefs, with priceless

lace adorning their gowns and genuine pearls twined among their tresses.

The men also wore full dress: Hungarian trousers, short-waisted coat,

with large, bright metal buttons, opening over an embroidered waistcoat.

Surrounded by her guests, the mistress of the house, an ideal of beauty,

Cythera herself, was seated at the harpsichord, her neck and shoulders

hidden by her wonderfully beautiful golden hair. When M. Cambray, in his

plain brown coat buttoned to the chin, with black gloves and dull

buckle-shoes, appeared in the doorway of the boudoir, which was not open

to all the world, every eye was turned in surprise toward him.

The lady at the harpsichord rose, surveyed the intruder with a haughty

stare, and was about to speak when a lackey in silver-embroidered livery

came hastily toward her and said something in a low tone.

"What?" she ejaculated, with sudden terror. "My daughter lost?"

The guests crowded around her, and a scene of great excitement followed.

Here M. Cambray came forward and said:

"I have found your daughter, countess, and return her to you."

The lovely woman made one step toward the child, who had followed M.

Cambray into the room, then sank to the floor unconscious. She was

tenderly lifted and borne into the boudoir. Two physicians, who were of

the company, followed.

When the door closed behind them, the entire company remaining in the

salon gathered about M. Cambray. The ladies seized his hands; and while

a blonde houri on his right sought to attract his attention, a brunette

beauty claimed it on his left--both women ignoring the attempts of the

men to shake hands with the hero of the hour.

One of the men, an elderly and distinguished-looking personage with a

commanding mien, now pressed forward to introduce himself. "Monsieur, I

am the Marquis Lyonel de Fervlans," he repeated in a patronizing tone.

"I am Alfred Cambray," was the simple response.

"Ah? Pray, have the kindness to tell us--the friends of the

countess--what has happened?"

M. Cambray related how and where he had found the lost child, the

company listening with eager attention. All were deeply affected. Some

of the women wept. When M. Cambray concluded his recital, the marquis

grasped both his hands, and, pressing them warmly, said in a trembling

voice:

"Thanks, many thanks, you brave, good man! We will never forget your

kindness."

One of the physicians now came from the boudoir, and announced that the

countess was better, and desired to speak to the deliverer of her child.

The countess was reclining on an ottoman, half buried in luxurious

cushions. Her little daughter was kneeling by her side, her head resting

on her mother's knee. It was a charming tableau.

"I am not able to express my gratitude, monsieur," began the countess,

in a faint voice, extending both hands toward M. Cambray. "I hope you

will allow me to call you my friend. I shall never cease to thank you!

Amélie, my love, kiss this hand; look at this face; impress it on your

heart, and never, _never_ forget it, for this brave gentleman rescued

you from a most horrible fate."

M. Cambray listened to these profuse expressions of gratitude, but with

heedless ear. His thoughts were with the fugitives. He longed to know if

they had escaped pursuit. While the countess was speaking he could not

help but think that a great ado was being made because a little countess

had been abandoned half clad in the public street. _He_ knew of another

little maid who had been treated with far greater cruelty.

His reply was brief:

"Your little daughter is very charming."

The mother sat upright with sudden decision, and unfastened the ivory

locket from the black ribbon around her neck. It contained a portrait of

the little countess Amélie.

"If the memory of the little foundling you rescued is dear to you,

monsieur, then accept this from me, and think sometimes of your

protégée."

It was a noble gift indeed! The lovely countess had given him her most

valued ornament.

M. Cambray expressed his thanks, pressed his lips to the countess's

hand, and kissed the little Amélie, who smilingly lifted her face for

the caress. Then he bowed courteously, and returned to the salon. He was

met at the door by the Marquis de Fervlans, who exclaimed reproachfully:

"What, you are going to desert us already? Then, if you will go, you

must allow me to offer you my carriage." He gave his arm to the old

gentleman, and conducted him to the vestibule, where, among a number of

liveried servants, stood a trim hussar in Swiss uniform.

The marquis ordered the hussar to fetch his carriage, and, when it drew

up before the door, himself assisted M. Cambray to enter it. Then he

shook hands cordially with the old gentleman, stepped back to the

doorway, and watched the carriage roll swiftly across the square.

* * * * *

When the servant Jocrisse had closed the boudoir door behind M. Cambray,

the suffering countess sprang lightly from her couch, and pressed her

handkerchief to her lips to smother her laughter; the little Amélie,

overwhelmed by merriment, buried her face in her mother's skirts; the

maid giggled discreetly; while Jocrisse, clasping his rotund stomach

with both hands, bent his head toward his knees, and betrayed his

suppressed hilarity by his shaking shoulders. Even the more important of

the two physicians pursed his lips into a smile, and proffered his

snuff-box to his colleague, who, smothering with laughter, whispered:

"Are we not capital actors?"

* * * * *

Meanwhile M. Cambray drove rapidly in the Marquis de Fervlans's carriage

through the streets of Paris. He was buried in thought. He glanced only

now and then from the window. He was not altogether satisfied with

himself that he was riding in a carriage which belonged to so important

a person--a gentleman whose name he had never heard until that day.

Suddenly he was surprised to find the carriage entering a gateway. A

carriage could not enter the gate at his lodgings! The Swiss hussar

sprang from the box, opened the carriage door, and M. Cambray found

himself confronted by a sergeant with a drawn sword.

"This is not my residence," said the old gentleman.

"Certainly not," replied the sergeant. "This is the Prison of St.

Pélagie."

"What have I to do here? My name is Alfred Cambray."

"You are the very one we have been expecting."

And now it was M. Cambray's turn to laugh merrily.

When M. Cambray's pockets had been searched, and everything suspicious

confiscated, he was conducted to a room in the second story, in which he

was securely locked. He had plenty of time to look about his new

lodgings.

Apparently the room had been occupied by many an important personage.

The walls were covered with names. Above some of them impromptu verses

had been scribbled; others had perpetuated their profiles; and still

others had drawn caricatures of those who had been the means of lodging

them here. The guillotine also figured among the illustrations.

The new lodger was not specially surprised to find himself a prisoner;

what he could not understand was the connection between the two events.

How came it about that the courteous and sympathetic Marquis de

Fervlans's carriage had brought him here from the palace of the deeply

grateful countess?

He was puzzling his brain over this question when his door suddenly

opened, and a morose old jailer entered with some soup and bread for the

prisoner.

"Thanks, I have dined," said M. Cambray.

The jailer placed the food on the table, with the words: "I want you to

understand, citizen, that if you have any idea of starving yourself to

death, we shall pour the soup down your throat."

Toward evening another visitor appeared. The door was opened with loud

clanking of chains and bolts, and a tall man crossed the threshold. It

was the Marquis de Fervlans.

His manner now was not so condescending and sympathetic. He approached

the prisoner, and said in a commanding tone that was evidently intended

to be intimidating:

"You have been betrayed, and may as well confess everything; it is the

only thing that will save you."

A scornful smile crossed the prisoner's lips. "That is the usual form of

address to a criminal who has been arrested for burglary."

The marquis laughed.

"I see, M. Cambray, that you are not the sort of person to be easily

frightened. It is useless to adopt the usual prison methods with you.

Very well; then we will try a different one. It may be that we shall

part quite good friends! What do I say? Part? Say, rather, that we may

continue together, hand in hand! But to the point. You have a friend who

shared the same apartment with you. This gentleman deserted you last

night, I believe?"

"The ingrate!" ironically ejaculated M. Cambray.

"Beg pardon, but there was also a little girl secreted in your

apartment, whom no one ever saw--"

"Pardon me, monsieur," interrupted Cambray, "but it is not the custom

for French gentlemen to spy out or chatter about secrets which relate to

the fair sex."

"I am not talking about the sort of female you refer to, monsieur, but

about a child--a girl of perhaps twelve years."

"How, pray, can one determine the age of a lady whom no one has seen?"

"Certain telltale circumstances give one a clue," retorted De Fervlans.

"Why, for instance, do you keep a doll in your rooms?"

"A doll? I play with it myself sometimes! I am a queer old fellow with

peculiar tastes."

"Very good; we will allow that you are telling the truth. What have you

to say to the fact that you took to your apartment yesterday evening a

stray child, and an hour later your friend came out of the house with

another child, wrapped in the shawl which had enveloped the lost child

when you found her--"

"Have they been overtaken?" hastily interrupted Cambray, forgetting

himself.

"No, they have not--more 's the pity!" returned the marquis. "My

detective was not clever enough to perceive the difference between the

eight-year-old girl who was carried to your apartments at ten o'clock,

and the twelve-year-old little maid whom your friend brought downstairs

at eleven, pretending that he was going in search of the lost child's

mother. Besides, everything conspired to aid your friend to escape. He

was too cunning for us, and got such a start of his pursuers that there

was no use trying to follow him. We do not even know in what direction

he has gone."

Cambray repressed the sigh of relief which would have lightened his

heart, and forced himself to say indifferently:

"Neither the young man nor the child concern me. It is his own family

affair, in which I never meddled."

"That is a move I cannot allow, M. Cambray!" sharply responded the

marquis. "There are proofs that you are perfectly familiar with his

affairs."

Again Cambray smiled scornfully.

"You have evidently searched my lodgings."

"We have done our duty, monsieur. We even tore up the floors, broke your

furniture and ornaments,--for which we apologize,--and found nothing

suspicious. Notwithstanding this, however, we know very well that you

received a letter yesterday warning you of approaching danger. We know

very well that you and your friend traced out the route of his flight;

we have a witness who listened to your plans, and who fitted together

the scraps of the torn letter of warning, and read it."

"And who may this witness be?" queried Cambray.

"The child you picked up in the street."

"What!" ejaculated Cambray, incredulously. "The little girl who sat

shivering in the snow?"

"Yes; she is our most skilful detective, and has entrapped more than one

conspirator," triumphantly interrupted De Fervlans.

"Then"--and M. Cambray brought his hands together in a vehement

gesture--"what I have believed a myth is really true. The police

authorities really employ a number of beautiful women, handsome young

men, and clever children to spy out and entrap suspected persons?

'Cythera's Brigade' really exists?"

"You had the pleasure of meeting that celebrated brigade this morning,"

replied De Fervlans.

"And those grateful men and women, who gathered about me with tearful

eyes and sympathetic words--"

"Were members of Cythera's Brigade," supplemented the marquis.

"And the mistress of the house--the beautiful woman who fainted at sight

of her child?"

"Is the fair Cythera's substitute! She taught her little daughter the

part she played so successfully."

With sudden fury M. Cambray tore from his breast the ivory locket

containing the little Amélie's portrait, and was about to fling it on

the floor and trample upon it. On second thought, he restrained himself,

returned the locket to his breast, and muttered:

"The child is not to blame. Those who have made her such a monster are

at fault. I will keep the miniature as a talisman for the future."

"And now, M. Cambray," pursued the marquis, "we want to learn what has

become of your young friend. In fact, we _must_ know what has become of

him and his charge."

"I don't know where he is."

"You do know. According to the report from our witness, he has fled to a

'country where order prevails, and where there are no police.' Where is

this country, M. Cambray?"

"In the moon, perhaps!" was the laconic response.

"Our witness heard these words from your own lips, and you pointed out

the spot on the map to your friend."

"Your witness dreamed all this!"

"M. Cambray, let us talk sensibly. You are a banker--at least, that is

what you are registered in the police records. It is to the interest of

the state to discover your secret. If you will reveal the hiding-place

of your friend you may demand your own reward. Do you wish to be

intrusted with the management of the state's finances? Or--"

"I regret, monsieur le marquis," interrupted Cambray, "that I must

refuse so handsome an opportunity to enrich myself. Although I am a

banker, I am no swindler."

"Very good! Then you require no money. You are _not_ a banker, M.

Cambray; that is merely a fable. What is your ambition? Should you

prefer to be a governor? Name any office; let it be what it may, you

shall receive the appointment to-morrow."

"Thank you again, monsieur. I must repeat what I said before: I know

nothing about the future residence of the fugitive gentleman."

"And if I tell you, M. Cambray, that your refusal may cost you your

head?"

"I should reply," returned Cambray, smiling calmly, as he took up the

piece of bread lying on the table, "that it is a matter of perfect

indifference to me if this daily portion of bread is enjoyed by some one

else to-morrow. That which I do not know I cannot tell you."

"Very well, then," in a harsh tone rejoined De Fervlans. "I will tell

you that Cambray the banker may say what is not true; but the nobleman

cannot lie. _Marquis d'Avoncourt_, do you know to what country your

friend has flown?"

At this question the old gentleman rose from his chair, drew himself up

proudly, and gazing defiantly into the eyes of his questioner, replied:

"I do."

Instantly De Fervlans's manner changed. He became the embodiment of

courtesy. He bowed with extreme politeness, then, slipping his arm

familiarly through that of the prisoner, whispered insinuatingly:

"And what can we do to win this information from you?"

The gray-haired man released himself from De Fervlans's arm, and

answered with quiet irony:

"I will tell you what you can do: have my head cut off, and send it to

M. Bichet, the celebrated professor of anatomy; perhaps he may be able

to discover the information in my skull--if it is there! And now I beg

you to leave me; I wish to be alone."

De Fervlans took up his hat, but turned at the door to say, in a meaning

tone:

"Marquis d'Avoncourt, we shall forget that you are a prisoner so long as

it shall please you to remain obstinate. As for the fugitives, Cythera's

Brigade will capture them, sooner or later. _Au revoir_!"

That same night the old nobleman was removed to the prison at Ham.

CHAPTER IV

While the ensnared conspirators against the state were receiving

sentence in one district of Paris, in another district the inhabitants

were entertaining themselves.

Paris does not mourn very long. Paris is like the earth: one half of it

is always illumined by the sun. On this fateful evening the incroyables

and the merveilleuses were amusing themselves within the walls of the

Palace of Narcissus.

The members of Cythera's Brigade took great pains to make outsiders

believe that they never troubled themselves about that half of the world

which was in shadow--that half called politics.

In the salon of the fascinating Countess Themire Dealba not a word was

heard relating to affairs of state. The beautiful women who were banded

together to learn the secrets which threatened the present order of

government worked in an imperceptible manner. They did not belong to the

ordinary class of spies--those who collect every ill-natured word, every

trifling occurrence of the street. No, indeed! _They_ did nothing but

amuse themselves. They were merry society women, trusty friends and

confidantes. They moved in the best circles; no one ever saw them

exchange a word with a police commissioner. If any one in the company

happened to speak of anything even remotely connected with politics,

some one quickly changed the subject to a more innocent theme; and if a

stranger chanced to mention so delicate a matter as, say, the dinner

which had been given by the emperor's nephew at Very's, which cost

seventy-five thousand francs, while forty thousand laborers were

starving, then the witty Countess Themire herself turned the

conversation to the "toilet rivalry" between the Mesdames Tallien and

Récamier.

On this particular evening the Countess Dealba was discussing the

beauties of the latest opera with a few of her most intimate friends,

when the Marquis de Fervlans approached, and, bending over her,

whispered: "I must see you alone; find an opportunity to leave the room,

and join me in the conservatory."

At that time it was the fashion to clothe children in garments similar

to those worn by their elders. A company of little ones, therefore,

looked like an assemblage of Lilliputian merveilleuses and incroyables.

The little men and women also accompanied their mamas to receptions and

the theatre, where they joined in the conversation, danced vis-à-vis

with their elders, made witty remarks, criticized the toilets and the

play, gave an opinion as to whether Hardy's confections or those of

Riches were the better, and if it were safe to depend on the friendship

of the Czar Alexander.

In this company of little ones the Countess Amélie was, beyond a doubt,

the most conspicuous.

One could not have imagined anything more interesting or entertaining

than the manner of this miniature dame when left by her mama to do the

honors of the house. The dignity with which the child performed her

duties was enchanting. She understood perfectly how to entertain her

mother's guests, how to spice her conversation with piquant anecdotes,

how to mimic the manner of affected personages. She was, in a word, a

prodigy!

Countess Themire, knowing she might safely trust her little daughter to

perform the duties of hostess, followed De Fervlans to the conservatory.

"We have been outwitted," he began at once. "They vanished twelve hours

before we learned that they had flown."

The countess shrugged her shoulders and tossed her head.

"Why do you think it necessary to tell me this?" she inquired, with a

touch of asperity. "Have you not got enough police to arrest the

fugitives, who must pass through the entire country in their flight?"

"Yes, we have quite enough spies, and they are very skilful; but the

fugitives are a trifle more skilful. They have disguised themselves so

effectually that it is impossible to trace them. They seized a public

coach by force, changed the number on it, and sent it back from the

boundary by an accomplice, who left it in the Rue Muffetard. Even should

we succeed in tracing their flight, by the time we discovered them they

would have crossed the boundary of Switzerland, or would be sailing over

the ocean. No; we must begin all over again. There is but one expedient:

_you_ must travel in search of the fugitives, and bring them back."

"I go in search of them and bring them back?" repeated the countess, in

a startled tone.

"The first part of your task will not be so difficult," continued De

Fervlans. "The imprisoned marquis will not reveal the destination of the

fugitives; but we have learned, through your clever little daughter,

that they have gone to a country where there is order, but where there

are no police. That, methinks, is not a very difficult riddle to solve.

You need only journey from place to place until you find such a country.

The fugitives will be certain to betray themselves by their secrecy,

and I have not the least doubt but your search will be rewarded before

the year is out. For one year you shall have the command of three

hundred thousand francs. When you discover the fugitives you will know

very well what to do. The man is young and an enthusiast--an easy

conquest, I should fancy; and when you have ensnared him the maid's fate

is decided. We want the man, the maid, and the steel casket; any one of

the three, however, will be of great value to us. You will keep us

advised as to your progress, and we, of course, will assist you all we

can. You know that we have secret agents all over Europe. And now, you

will do well to prepare for an immediate departure; there is not a

moment to be lost."

"But good, heavens! how can I take Amélie on such a journey?"

"You are not to take her with you--of what are you thinking? That man

has already seen the child, and would recognize her at once."

"You surely cannot mean that I am to desert my daughter?"

"Don't you think Amélie will be in safe hands if you leave her in _my_

care?" asked De Fervlans, with a glance that would have made any one who

had not heard his words believe he was making a declaration of love.

"Besides, it will not be the first time you leave her to the care of

another."

"That is true," sighed the countess; "I ought to be accustomed to

parting with her. Have not I trusted her to the care of a police spy?

and all for my own advantage! Oh, what a wretched profession I have

chosen for myself and my child!"

"A profession that yields a handsome income, madame," supplemented the

marquis, a trifle sharply. "You ought not to complain. Surely the

régime is not to blame that you married a roué, who squandered your

fortune, and then was killed in a duel about a rope-dancer, leaving you

a clever little daughter and a half-million of debts! What else could

you have done to have earned a living for yourself and child?"

"I might have sent the child to a foundling asylum, and sought

employment for myself in the gobelin factory. It would have been better

had I done so!"

"I doubt it, countess. The path of virtue is only for those women

who--have large feet! You are too fairy-like, and would have found the

way too rough. It is much better, believe me, to serve the state. What

would you? Is there not a comforting word due to the conscience of the

soldier who has killed a fellow-being in the interest of his country?

Don't you suppose his heart aches when he looks upon the death-struggles

of the man he has killed without having a personal grudge against him?

We are all soldiers of the state. When we assault an enemy, we do not

inquire if we hurt him; we kill him! and the safety of our fatherland

hallows the deed."

"But that which we are doing is immoral," interposed the countess.

"And that which our enemy is doing is not immoral, I presume? Are not

their beautiful women, their polished courtiers, acting as spies in our

salons? We are only using their own weapons against them."

"That may be; but it was a repulsive thought that prompted the using of

children as instruments in this deadly game."

"Were not they the first to set us an example? Was not it a repulsive

thought which prompted them to hold over the heads of an entire people

that hellish machine of torture in the shape of a smiling child? No,

madame; we need not be ashamed of what we are doing. Our men are

engaged in warfare against their men; our lovely women are engaged in

warfare against their lovely women; and our little children are engaged

in warfare against their little children. Your little Amélie is a

historical figure, and deserves a monument."

The marquis, perceiving that his sophistry was not without its effect on

the lovely woman, continued:

"And then, madame, if you are weary of the rôle you and your little

daughter are playing with such success, the opportunity is now offered

to you to quit your present mode of life. Your financial affairs are

utterly ruined; you are only the nominal possessor of the estate you

inherited from your ancestors. If you succeed in the task which you are

about to undertake, the entire sum of money, the interest of which you

receive annually, becomes your own. Five millions of francs deserve some

sacrifice. With this sum you can become an independent woman, and your

daughter will never be reproached with having been, in her childhood, a

member of Cythera's Brigade."

Countess Themire deliberated a few moments; then she asked:

"May I not kiss my daughter farewell?"

"Leave your kiss with me, and I will deliver it faithfully!" smilingly

responded the marquis.

"How can you jest at such a moment? Suppose my absence lasts a long

time?"

"That is very probable."

"Am I not even to hear from my child--not even to let her know that I am

living?"

"Certainly, countess; you may communicate with her through me. Moreover,

it rests with yourself how soon you will return. Until that time it

shall be my pleasure to take care of Amélie; you may rest in peace as to

that!"

"Yes; she could not be in worse hands than in those of her mother!"

bitterly rejoined the countess. "The first letter, then, must be one of

farewell."

She rose, went into her boudoir, and wrote on a sheet of paper:

"MY DEAR CHILD: I am compelled to take a journey. I shall write to

you when I am ready to return. Until then, I leave you to perform

the duties of hostess, and intrust my money-chest to your care. I

embrace you a thousand times.

"Your old friend and little mama,

"THEMIRE."

She folded and sealed the letter, and handed it to De Fervlans.

"I shall be sure to deliver it," he said. "And now, send Jocrisse for a

fiacre; you must not use your own carriage for this. You can leave the

palace unperceived by the garden gate. Speak German wherever you go, and

remember that you do not understand a word of French. I think you would

better begin your search in Switzerland. And now, adieu, madame, until

we meet again--"

"If only I might take one last look at my little daughter!" pleadingly

interrupted the countess.

"Themire! You are actually beginning to grow sentimental. That does not

become a soldier!"

"Had I suspected this," returned Themire, "I would not have given

Amélie's portrait to M. Cambray in that ridiculous farce. I wonder if I

might not get it from him?"

"No; he will not part with it; he says he is going to keep it as a

talisman. Only M. Sanson has the privilege of relieving prisoners of

their trinkets, and Cambray is still far enough from Sanson's reach! I

shall have another portrait painted of Amélie, and send it to you."

"But this picture was painted while yet she was an innocent child."

"Upon my word, madame, you are as sentimental as a professor's daughter!

I begin to fear you will not accomplish your mission--that you will end

by falling in love with the man you are to capture for us, and betray us

to him."

Themire did not say another word, but hurried into her dressing-room.

De Fervlans wrote an order for one hundred and fifty thousand francs for

the Countess Themire Dealba for the first six months, added his wishes

for a pleasant and successful journey, then returned to the salon, where

he gave the missive which had been intrusted to his care to Jocrisse.

Jocrisse placed it on a silver tray, and presented it to the tiny lady

of the house.

"Pray allow me, ladies and gentlemen," said the Lilliputian _grande

dame_, as she broke the seal, "to read this letter--although I am only

just learning the alphabet!"

There were a number of persons in the company who understood and enjoyed

the concluding words.

The little countess lifted her gold-rimmed lorgnette to her eyes, and

read her mother's letter.

She shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, and opened wide her blue

eyes.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she proceeded to explain, "mama has been called

suddenly away. She sends her greetings to you" (this was not in the

letter, but the little diplomatist thought it best to atone for her

mama's neglect) "until she returns, which will be very soon" (this also

was a thought of her own). "I am to fulfil the duties of lady of the

house."

Then she turned toward De Fervlans, and whispered, holding the

lorgnette in front of her lips:

"Mama leaves her money-chest in my care"--adding, with naïve sarcasm,

"which means that she has left me to battle with her creditors."

PART II

THE HOME OF ANECDOTE

CHAPTER I

The entire population of Fertöszeg was assembled on the public highway

to welcome the new proprietress of the estate. Elaborate preparations

had been made for the reception. An arch of green boughs--at the top of

which gleamed the word "Vivat" in yellow roses--spanned the road, on

either side of which were ranged twelve little girls in white, with

flower-baskets in their hands. They were under the superintendence of

the village cantor, whose intention it was to conclude the ceremonies

with a hymn of welcome by these innocent little creatures.

On a sort of platform, a bevy of rosy-cheeked maids were waiting to

present to the new-comer a huge hamper heaped to the brim with ripe

melons, grapes, and Ostyepka cheeses of marvelous shapes. Mortars

crowned the summit of the neighboring hill. In the shadow of a spreading

beech-tree were assembled the official personages: the vice-palatine,

the county surveyor, the village pastor, the district physician, the

justice of the peace, and the different attendants, county and state

employees, belonging to these gentlemen. The vice-palatine's assistant

ought also to have been in this company, but he was busy giving the last

instructions to the village beauties whose part it was to present the

hamper of fruit and cheeses.

These gentlemen had wives and daughters; but _they_ had stationed

themselves along the trench at the side of the road. _They_ did not

seek the shadow of a tree, because _they_ wished people to know that

_they_ had parasols; for to own a parasol in those days was no small

matter.

Preparations were making in the market-place for an ox-roast. The fat

young ox had been spitted, and the pile of fagots underneath him was

ready for the torch. Hard by, on a stout trestle, rested a barrel of

wine. In front of the inn a gypsy band were tuning their instruments,

while at the window of the church tower might have been seen two or

three child faces; they were on the lookout for the new lady of the

manor, in order that they might be ready to ring the bells the moment

she came in sight. There was only that one tower in the village, and

there was a cross on it; but it was not a Romish church, for all that.

The inhabitants were adherents of Luther--Swabians, mixed with Magyars.

The municipal authorities, in their holiday attire of blue cloth, had

grouped themselves about the town hall. The older men wore their long

hair brushed back from the temples and held in place by a curved comb.

The young men had thrust into the sides of their lambskin caps gay

little nosegays of artificial flowers. _They_ proposed to fire a grand

salute from the pistols they had concealed in their pockets.

Meanwhile, the dignitaries underneath the umbrageous beech-tree were

passing the time of waiting pleasantly enough. Maple wine mixed with

mineral water was a very refreshing drink in the intense heat; besides,

it served as a stimulant to the appetite--_appetitorium_, they called

it.

Three wooden benches, joined together in a half-circle, formed a

comfortable resting-place for the committee of reception, the chief of

whom, the vice-palatine, was seated on the middle bench, drawing through

the stem of his huge carved meerschaum the smoke of the sweet Veker

tobacco. His figure was the living illustration of the ever true axiom:

"_Extra Hungariam non est vita_,"--an axiom which his fat red face by no

means confuted,--while his heavy, stiffly waxed mustache seemed to add

menacingly: "Leave the Hungarian in peace."

He shared his seat with the clergyman, whose ecclesiastical office

entitled him to that honor. The reverend gentleman, however, was an

extremely humble person, whom erudition had bent and warped to such a

degree that one shoulder was lower than the other, one eyelid was

elevated above its fellow, and only one half of his mouth opened when he

gave utterance to a remark. His part in the festive ceremony was the

performance of the _beneventatio_; and although he had committed the

speech to memory, he could not help but tremble at thought of having to

repeat it before so grand a dame as the new mistress of the manor. He

always trembled whenever he began his sermons; but once fairly started,

then he became a veritable Demosthenes.

"I only hope, reverend sir," jestingly observed the vice-palatine, "that

it will not happen to you as it did to the _csokonai_, not long ago.

Some wags exchanged his sermon-book for one on cookery, and he did not

notice it until he began to read in the pulpit: 'The vinegar was--' Then

he saw that he was reading a recipe for pickled gherkins. He had the

presence of mind, however, to continue, '--was offered to the Saviour,

who said, "It is finished."' And on that text he extemporized a

discourse that astounded the entire presbytery."

"I shall manage somehow to say my speech," returned the pastor, meekly,

"if only I do not stumble over the name of the lady."

"It is a difficult name," assented the vice-palatine. "What is it? I

have already forgotten it, reverend sir."

"Katharina von Landsknechtsschild."

The vice-palatine's pointed mustaches essayed to give utterance to the

name.

"Lantz-k-nek-hisz-sild--that's asking a great deal from a body at one

time!" he concluded, in disgust at his ill success.

"And yet, it is a good old Hungarian family name. The last Diet

recognized her ancestors as belonging to the nobility."

This remark was made by a third gentleman. He was sitting on the left of

the vice-palatine, and was clad in snuff-colored clothes. His face was

covered with small-pox marks; he had tangled yellow hair and inflamed

eyelids.

"Are you acquainted with the family, doctor?" asked the vice-palatine.

"Of course I am," replied the doctor. "Baron Landsknechtsschild

inherited this estate from his mother, who was a Markoczy. The baron

sold the estate to his niece Katharina. You, Herr Surveyor, must have

seen the baron, when the land was surveyed around the Nameless Castle

for the mad count?"

The surveyor, who was seated beside the doctor, was a clever man in his

profession, but little given to conversation. When he did open his lips,

he rarely got beyond: "I--say--what was it, now, I was going to say?"

As no one seemed willing to-day to wait until he could remember what he

wanted to remark, the doctor, who was never at a loss for words,

continued:

"The Baroness Katharina paid one hundred thousand florins for the

estate, with all its prerogatives--"

"That's quite a handsome sum," observed the vice-palatine. "And, what is

handsomer, it is said the new proprietress intends to take up a

permanent residence here. Is not that the report, Herr Justice? You

ought to know."

The justice had an odd habit, while speaking, of rubbing together the

palms of his hands, as if he were rolling little dumplings between them.

"Yes--yes," he replied, beginning his dumpling-rolling; "that is quite

true. The baroness sent some beautiful furniture from Vienna; also a

piano, and a tuner to tune it. All the rooms at the manor have been hung

with new tapestry, and the conservatory has been completely renovated."

"I wonder how the baroness came to take such a fancy to this quiet

neighborhood? It is very strange, too, that none of the neighboring

nobles have been invited here to meet her. It is as if she intended to

let them know in advance that she did n't want their acquaintance. At

any other celebration of this sort half the county would have been

invited, and here are only ourselves--and we are here because we are

obliged, _ex officio_, to be present."

This speech was delivered over the mouthpiece of the vice-palatine's

meerschaum.

"I fancy I can enlighten you," responded the doctor.

"I thought it likely that the 'county clock' could tell us something

about it," laughingly interpolated the vice-palatine.

"You may laugh as much as you like, but I always tell what is true,"

retorted the "county clock." "They say that the baroness was betrothed

to a gentleman from Bavaria, that the wedding-day was set, when the

bridegroom heard that the lady he was about to marry was--"

"Hush!" hastily whispered the justice; "the servants might hear you."

"Oh, it is n't anything scandalous. All that the bridegroom heard was

that the baroness was a Lutheran; and as the _matrimonia mixta_ are

forbidden in Vienna and in Bavaria, the bridegroom withdrew from the

engagement. In her grief over the affair, the _sposa repudiata_ said

farewell to the world, and determined to wear the_parta_[2] for the

remainder of her days. That is why she chose this remote region as a

residence."

[Footnote 2: A head-covering worn only by Hungarian maidens.]

Here the bell in the church tower began to ring. It was followed by a

roar from the mortars on the hilltop.

The gypsy band began to play Biharis's "Vierzigmann Marsch"; a cloud of

dust rose from the highway; and soon afterward there appeared an

outrider with three ostrich-plumes in his hat. He was followed by a

four-horse coach, with coachman and footman on the box.

The committee of reception came forth from the shade of the beech and

ranged themselves underneath the arch. The clergyman for the last time

took his little black book from his pocket, and satisfied himself that

his speech was still in it. The coach stopped, and it was discovered

that no one occupied it; only the discarded shawl and traveling-wraps

told that women had been riding in the conveyance.

The general consternation which ensued was ended by the agent from

Vienna, who drove up in a second vehicle. He explained that the baroness

and her companion had alighted at the park gate, whence they would

proceed on foot up the shorter foot-path to the manor. And thus ended

all the magnificent preparations for the reception!

A servant now came running from the village, his plumed _czako_ in one

hand, and announced that the baroness awaited the dignitaries at the

manor.

This was, to say the least, exasperating! A whole week spent in

preparing--for nothing!

You may be sure every one had something to say about it, audibly and to

themselves, and some one was even heard to mutter:

"This is the _second_ mad person come to live in Fertöszeg."

And then they all betook themselves, a disappointed company, to their

homes.

The baroness, who had preferred to walk the shorter path through the

park to driving around the village in the dust for the sake of receiving

a ceremonious welcome, was a lovely blonde, a true Viennese,

good-humored, and frank as a child. She treated every one with cordial

friendliness. One might easily have seen that everything rural was new

to her. While walking through the park she took off her hat and

decorated it with the wild flowers which grew along the path. In the

farm-yard she caught two or three little chickens, calling them

canaries--a mistake the mother hen sought in the most emphatic manner to

correct. The surly old watch-dog's head was patted. She brushed with her

dainty fingers the hair from the eyes of the gaping farmer children. She

was here and there in a moment, driving to despair her companion, whose

gouty limbs were unable to keep pace with the flying feet of her

mistress.

At the manor the baroness was received by the steward, who had been sent

on in advance with orders to prepare the "installation dinner." Then she

proceeded at once to inspect every corner and crevice--the kitchen as

well as the dining-room, astonishing the cooks with her knowledge of

their art. She was summoned from the kitchen to receive the dignitaries.

"Let there be no ceremony, gentlemen," she exclaimed in her musical

voice, hastening toward them. "I detest all formalities. I have had a

surfeit of them in Vienna, and intend to breathe natural air here in the

country, without 'fuss or feathers,' with no incense save that which

rises from burning tobacco! This is why I avoided your parade out

yonder on the highway. I want nothing but a cordial shake of your hands;

and as regards the official formalities of this 'installation' business,

you must settle that with my agent, who has authority to act for me.

After that has been arranged, we will all act as if we were old

acquaintances, and every one of you must consider himself at home here."

To this gracious speech the vice-palatine gave utterance to something

which sounded like:

"Kisz-ti-hand!"

"Ah!" returned the baroness, "you speak German?"

"Well, yes," replied the descendant of the Scythians; "only, I am likely

to blunder when speaking it, as did the valiant Barkocz. When our

glorious Queen Maria Theresa recovered from the chicken-pox, she was

bemoaning the disfiguring scars left on her face, when the brave

soldier, in order to comfort her, said: 'But your Majesty still has very

beautiful _leather_.'"

"Ha, ha, ha!" merrily laughed the baroness. "You are the gentleman who

has an anecdote to suit every occasion. I have already heard about you.

Pray introduce the other gentlemen."

The vice-palatine proceeded to obey this request. "This is the Rev. Herr

Tobias Mercatoris, our parish clergyman. He has a beautiful speech

prepared to receive your ladyship; but he can't repeat it here, as it

begins, 'Here in the grateful shadow of these green trees.'"

"Oh, well, your reverence, instead of the speech, I will listen to your

sermons on Sundays. I intend to become a very zealous member of your

congregation."

"And this, your ladyship," continued the master of ceremonies, "is Dr.

Philip Tromfszky, resident physician of Fertöszeg, who is celebrated not

only for his surgical and medical skill, but is acknowledged here, as

well as in Raab, Komorn, Eisenburg, and Odenburg, as the greatest gossip

and news dispenser in the kingdom."

"A most excellent accomplishment!" laughingly exclaimed the baroness. "I

am devoted to gossip; and I shall manage to have some ailment every few

days in order to have the doctor come to see me!"

Then came the surveyor's turn.

"This, your ladyship, is Herr Martin Doboka, county surveyor and expert

mathematician. He will measure for you land, water, or fog; and if your

watch stops going, he will repair it for you!"

"And who may this be?" smilingly inquired the lady, indicating the

vice-palatine's assistant, who had thrust his long neck inquisitively

forward.

"Oh, he is n't anybody!" replied the vice-palatine. "He is never called

by name. When you want him just say: '_Audiat!_' He is one of those

persons of whom Cziraky said: 'My lad, don't trouble yourself to inquire

where you shall seat yourself at table; for wherever you sit will always

be the lowest place!'"

This anecdote caused "Audiat" to draw back his head and seek to make

himself invisible.

"And now, I must present myself: I am the vice-palatine of this county,

and am called Bernat Görömbölyi von Dravakeresztur."

"My dear sir!" ejaculated the baroness, laughing heartily, "I could n't

commit all that to memory in three years!"

"That is exactly the way your ladyship's name affects me!"

"Then I will tell you what we will do. Instead of torturing each other

with our unpronounceable names, let us at once adopt the familiar

'thou,' and call each other by our Christian names."

"Yes; but when I enter into a 'brotherhood' of that sort, I always kiss

the person with whom I form a compact."

"Well, that can also be done in this instance!" promptly responded the

baroness, proffering, without affectation of maidenly coyness, the

ceremonial kiss, and cordially shaking hands with the vice-palatine.

Then she said:

"We are now Bernat _bácsi_, and Katinka; and as that is happily

arranged, I will ask the gentlemen to go into the agent's office and

conclude our official business. Meanwhile, I shall make my toilet for

dinner, where we will all meet again."

"What a perfectly charming woman!" exclaimed the justice, when their

hostess had vanished from the room.

"I wonder what would happen," observed the doctor, with a malicious

grin, "if the vice-palatine's wife should hear of that kiss? Would n't

there be a row, though!"

The heroic descendant of the Scythians at these words became seriously

alarmed.

"The Herr Doctor, I trust, will be honorable enough not to gossip about

it," he said meekly.

"Oh, you may rest without fear, so far as _I_ am concerned; but I

would n't say as much for the surveyor, here. If ever he should succeed

in getting beyond 'I say,' I won't answer for the safety of your secret,

Herr Vice-palatine! When your wife hears, moreover, that it is 'Bernat'

and 'Katinka' up here, it will require something besides an anecdote to

parry what will follow!"

CHAPTER II

When the baroness appeared at the dinner-table, she was attired simply,

yet with a certain elegance. She wore a plain black silk gown, with no

other ornamentation save the string of genuine pearls about her throat.

The sombre hue of her gown signified mourning; the gems represented

tears; but her manner was by no means in keeping with either; she was

cheerful, even gay. But laughter very often serves to mask a sorrowful

heart.

"Thy place is here by my side," said the baroness, mindful of the

"thee-and-thou" compact with Herr Bernat.

The vice-palatine, remembering his spouse, sought to modify the

familiarity.

"I forgot to tell you, baroness," he observed, as he seated himself in

the chair beside her own, "that with us in this region 'thou' is used

only by children and the gypsies. To those with whom we are on terms of

intimacy we say 'he' or 'she,' to which we add, if we wish, the words

_bácsi_, or _hugom_, which are equivalent to 'cousin.'"

"And do you never say 'thou' to your wife?"

"To her also I say 'she' or 'you.'"

"What a singular country! Well, then, Bernat bácsi, if it pleases 'him,'

will 'he' sit here by me?"

Baroness Katinka understood perfectly how to conduct the conversation

during the repast--an art which was not appreciated by her right-hand

neighbor, Herr Mercatoris. The learned gentleman had bad teeth, in

consequence of which eating was a sort of penitential performance that

left him no time for discourse.

But the doctor and the vice-palatine showed themselves all the more

willing to share the conversation with their hostess.

"The official business was satisfactorily arranged without me, was it

not, Bernat bácsi?" after a brief pause, inquired the baroness.

"Not altogether. We are like the gypsy who said that he was going to

marry a countess. He was willing, and all that was yet necessary was the

consent of a countess. Our business requires the consent of a

baroness--that is, of Katinka hugom."

"To what must I give my consent?"

"That the conditions relating to the Nameless Castle shall continue the

same as heretofore."

"Nameless Castle?--Conditions?--What does that mean? I should like very

much to know."

"Katinka hugom can see the Nameless Castle from the terrace out yonder.

It is a hunting-seat that was built by a Markoczy on the shore of Lake

Neusiedl, on the site of a primitive pile-dwelling. Three years ago, a

gentleman from a foreign country came to Fertöszeg, and took such a

fancy to the isolated house that he leased it from the baron, the former

owner, on condition that no one but himself and servants should be

permitted to enter the grounds belonging to the castle. The question now

is, will Katinka hugom consent to the conditions, or will she revoke

them?"

"And if I should choose to do the latter?" inquired the baroness.

"Then your ladyship would be obliged to give a handsome bonus to the

lessee. Shall you revoke the conditions?"

"It depends entirely on the sort of person my tenant proves to be."

"He is a very peculiar man, to say the least--one who avoids all contact

with his fellow-men."

"What is his name?"

"I don't think any one around here knows it. That is why his residence

has been called the Nameless Castle."

"But how is it possible that the name of a man who has lived here three

years is not known?"

"Well, that is easily explained. He never goes anywhere, never receives

visitors, and his servants never call him anything but 'the count.'"

"Surely he receives letters by post?"

"Yes, frequently, and from all parts of the known world. Very often he

receives letters which contain money, and for which he is obliged to

give a receipt; but no one has yet been able to decipher the illegible

characters on the letters addressed to him, or those of his own hand."

"I should think the authorities had a right to demand the information?"

"Which authorities?"

"Why--'he,' Bernat bácsi."

"I? Why, what business is it of mine?"

"The authorities ought to inquire who strangers are, and where they come

from. And such an authority is 'he'--Bernat bácsi!"

"Hum; does 'she' take me to be a detective?"

"But you surely have a right to demand to see his passport?"

"Passport? I would rather allow myself to be thrown from the window of

the county-house than demand a passport from any one who comes to

Hungary, or set my foot in the house of a gentleman without his

permission!"

"Then you don't care what people do here?"

"Why should we? The noble does as he pleases, and the peasant as he

must."

"Suppose the man in the Nameless Castle were plotting some dreadful

treason?"

"That would be the affair of the king's attorney, not mine. Moreover,

nothing whatever can be said against the tenant of the Nameless Castle.

He is a quiet and inoffensive gentleman."

"Is he alone? Has he no family?"

"That the Herr Justice is better able to tell your ladyship than am I."

"Ah! Then, _Herr Hofrichter_," inquired the lady of the manor, turning

toward the justice, "what do _you_ know about this mysterious personage?

Has he a wife?"

"It seems as if he had a wife, your ladyship; but I really cannot say

for certain if he has one."

"Well, I confess my curiosity is aroused! How is it possible not to know

whether the man is married or not? Are the people invisible?"

"Invisible? By no means, your ladyship. The nameless count and a lady

drive out every morning at ten o'clock. They drive as far as the

neighboring village, where they turn and come back to the castle. But

the lady wears such a heavy veil that one can't tell if she be old or

young."

"If they drive out they certainly have a coachman; and one might easily

learn from a servant what are the relations between his master and

mistress."

"Yes, so one might. The coachman comes often to the village, and he can

speak German, too. There is a fat cook, who never leaves the castle,

because she can't walk. Then, there are two more servants, Schmidt and

his wife; but they live in a cottage near the castle. Every morning at

five o'clock they go to the castle gate, where they receive from some

one, through the wicket, orders for the day. At nine o'clock they

return to the gate, where a basket has been placed for the things they

have bought. But they never speak of the lady, because they have never

seen her face, either."

"What sort of a man is the groom?"

"The people about here call him the man with the iron mouth. It is

believed the fat cook is his wife, because he never even looks at the

girls in the village. He will not answer any questions; only once he

condescended to say that his mistress was a penniless orphan, who had

nothing, yet who got everything she wanted."

"Does no one visit them?"

"If any one goes to the castle, the count alone receives the visitor;

the lady never appears; and no one has yet had courage enough to ask for

her. But that they are Christians, one may know from their kitchen:

there is always a lamb for dinner on Easter; and the usual _heiligen

Stritzel_ on All Saints'. But they never go to church, nor is the pastor

ever received at the castle."

"What reason can they have for so much mystery, I wonder?" musingly

observed the baroness.

"That I cannot say. I can furnish only the data; for the deductions I

must refer your ladyship to the Herr Doctor."

"Ah, true!" ejaculated her ladyship, joining in the general laughter.

"The doctor, to be sure! If you are the county clock, Herr Doctor,

surely you ought to know something about our mysterious neighbors?"

"I have two versions, either of which your ladyship is at liberty to

accept," promptly responded the doctor. "According to the first

'authentic' declaration, the nameless count is the chief of a band of

robbers, who ply their nefarious trade in a foreign land. The lady is

his mistress. She fell once into the hands of justice, in Germany, and

was branded as a criminal on her forehead. That accounts for the heavy

veil she always wears--"

"Oh, that is quite too horribly romantic, Herr Doctor!" interrupted the

baroness. "We cannot accept that version. Let us hear the other one."

"The second is more likely to be the true one. Four years ago the

newspapers were full of a remarkable abduction case. A stranger--no one

knew who he was--abducted the wife of a French officer from Dieppe.

Since then the betrayed husband has been searching all over the world

for his runaway wife and her lover; and the pair at the castle are

supposed to be they."

"That certainly is the more plausible solution of the mystery. But there

is one flaw. If the lovers fled here to Fertöszeg to escape pursuit, the

lady has chosen the very worst means to remain undiscovered. Who would

recognize them here if they went about in the ordinary manner? The story

of the veil will spread farther and farther, and will ultimately betray

them to the pursuing husband."

By this time the reverend Herr Mercatoris had got the better of his bad

teeth, and was now ready to join the conversation.

"Gentlemen and ladies," he began, "allow me to say a word about this

matter, the details of which no one knows better than myself, as I have

for months been in communication with the nameless gentleman at the

castle."

"What sort of communication?"

"Through the medium of a correspondence, which has been conducted in

quite a peculiar manner. The count--we will call him so, although we are

not justified in so doing, for the gentleman did not announce himself as

such--the count sends me every morning his copy of the Augsburg

'Allgemeine Zeitung.' Moreover, I frequently receive letters from him

through Frau Schmidt; but I always have to return them as soon as I

have read them. They are not written in a man's hand; the writing is

unmistakably feminine. The seal is never stamped; only once I noticed on

it a crest with three flowers--"

"What sort of flowers?" hastily interposed the baroness.

"I don't know the names of them, your ladyship."

"And what do you write about?" she asked again.

"The correspondence began by the count asking a trifling favor of me. He

complained that the dogs in the village barked so loud; then, that the

children robbed the birds' nests; then, that the night-watchman called

the hour unnecessarily loud. These complaints, however, were not made in

his own name, but by another person whom he did not name. He wrote

merely: 'Complainant is afraid when the dogs bark.' 'Complainant loves

birds.' 'Complainant is made nervous by the night-watchman.' Then he

sent some money for the owners of the barking dogs, asking that the curs

be shut indoors nights; and some for the children, so they would cease

to rob the birds' nests; and some for the watchman, whom he requested to

shout his loudest at the other end of the village. When I had attended

to his requests, he began to send me his newspaper, which is a great

favor, for I can ill afford to subscribe for one myself. Later, he

loaned me some books; he has the classics of all nations--the works of

Wieland, Kleist, Börne, Lessing, Locke, Schleiermacher. Then we began to

write about the books, and became entangled in a most exciting argument.

Frau Schmidt, who was the bearer of this exchange of opinions, very

often passed to and fro between the castle and the parsonage a dozen

times a day; and all the time we never said anything to each other, when

we happened to meet in the road, but 'good day.' From the letters,

however, I became convinced that the mysterious gentleman is neither a

criminal, nor a fugitive from justice, nor yet an adventurous hero who

abducts women! Nor is he an unfortunate misanthrope. He is, on the

contrary, a philanthropist in the widest sense--one who takes an

interest in everything that goes on about him, and is eager to help his

suffering fellows. In a word, he is a philosopher who is happy when he

is surrounded by peace and quiet."

The baroness, who had listened with interest to the reverend gentleman's

words, now made inquiry:

"How does this nameless gentleman learn of his poor neighbors' needs,

when neither he nor his servants associate with any one outside the

castle?"

"In a very simple manner, your ladyship. He has a very powerful

telescope in the tower of the castle, with which he can view every

portion of the surrounding region. He thus learns when there is illness

or death, whether a house needs repair; and wherever anything is needed,

the means to help are sent to me. On Christmas he has all the children

from the village up at the castle, where he has a splendid Christmas

tree with lighted tapers, and a gift for every child,--clothes, books,

and sweets,--which he distributes with his own hand. I can tell you an

incident which is characteristic of the man. One day the county arrested

a poor woman, the wife of a notorious thief. The Herr Vice-palatine will

remember the case--Rakoncza Jutka, the wife of the robber Satan Laczi?"

"Yes, I remember. She is still in prison," assented the gentleman

referred to.

"Yes. Well, she has a little son. When the mother was taken to prison,

the little lad was turned away from every door, was beaten and abused by

the other children, until at last he fled to the marshes, where he ate

the young shoots of the reeds, and slept in the mire. The nameless count

discovered with his telescope the little outcast, and wrote to me to

have him taken to Frau Schmidt, where he would be well taken care of

until his mother came back."

By this time the tears were running down the baroness's cheeks.

"Poor little lad!" she murmured brokenly. "Your story has affected me

deeply, Herr Pastor."

Then she summoned her steward, and bade him fill a large hamper with

sweets and pasties, and send it to Frau Schmidt for the poor little boy.

"And tell Frau Schmidt," she added, "to send the child to the manor. We

will see to it that he has some suitable clothes. I am delighted,

reverend sir, to learn that my tenant is a true nobleman."

"His deeds certainly proclaim him as such, your ladyship."

"How do _you_ explain the mystery of the veiled lady?"

"I cannot explain it, your ladyship; she is never mentioned in our

correspondence."

"She may be a prisoner, detained at the castle by force."

"That cannot be; for she has a hundred opportunities to escape, or to

ask for help."

Here the surveyor managed to express his belief that the reason the lady

wore a veil was because of the repulsiveness of her face.

At this, a voice that had not yet been heard said, at the lower end of

the table:

"But the lady is one the most beautiful creatures I ever saw--and quite

young."

Every eye was turned toward the speaker.

"What? Audiat? How dares he say such a thing?" demanded the

vice-palatine.

"Because I have seen her."

"You have seen her? When did you see her? Where did you see her--her

whom no one yet has seen?"

"When I was returning from college last year, _per pedes apostolorum_,

for my money had given out, and my knapsack was empty. I was picking

hazelnuts from the bushes in the park of the Nameless Castle, when I

heard a window open. I looked up, and saw in the open sash a face the

like of which I have never seen, even in a picture."

"Ah!" ejaculated the baroness. "Tell us what is she like. Come nearer to

me."

The clerk, however, was too bashful to leave his place, whereupon the

baroness rose and took a seat by his side.

"She has long, curling black hair," he went on. "Her face is fair as a

lily and red as a rose, her brow pure and high, with no sign of the

branding-iron. Her mouth is small and delicate. Indeed, her entire

appearance that day was like that of an angel looking down from heaven."

"Is she a maid or a married woman?" inquired one of the company.

A maid, in those days, was very easily distinguished from her married

sister. The latter was never seen without a cap.

"A young girl not more than fifteen, I should say," was the reply. "A

cap would not suit her face."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Bernat bácsi. "And this enchanting fairy opened

the window to show her lovely face to Audiat!"

"No; she did not open the window on my account," retorted the young man,

"but for the beasts that were luckier than I--for four cats that were

playing in the gutter of the roof; a white one, a black one, a yellow

one, and a gray one; and all of them scampered toward her when they

heard her call."

"The cats are her only companions--that much we know from the servants,"

affirmed the justice.

The laurels which his clerk had won made the vice-palatine jealous.

"Audiat," he said, in a reproving tone, "you ought to learn that a young

person should speak only when spoken to; indeed,--as the learned

Professor Hatvani says,--even then it is not necessary to answer all

questions."

But the company around the dinner-table did not share these views. The

clerk was assailed on all sides--very much as would have been an

aëronaut who had just alighted from a montgolfier--to relate all that he

had seen in those regions not yet penetrated by man. What sort of gown

did the mysterious lady wear? Was he certain that she had no cap on? Was

she really no older than fifteen years?

The vice-palatine at last put an end to his clerk's triumph.

"Tut, tut! what can you expect to learn from a mere lad like him?--when

he saw her only for an instant! Just wait; _I_ will find out all about

this nameless gentleman and lady."

"Pray how do you propose to accomplish that?" queried the baroness, who

had returned to her former seat.

"I shall go to the Nameless Castle."

"Suppose you are not permitted to enter?"

"What? _I_, the vice-palatine, not permitted to enter? Wait; I will

explain my plan to you over the coffee."

When the time came to serve the black coffee, the amiable hostess

suggested that it would be pleasant to enjoy it in the open air;

whereupon the company repaired to the veranda where, on several small

tables, the fragrant mocha was steaming in the cups. Here the baroness

and the vice-palatine seated themselves where they could look directly

at the Nameless Castle; and Herr Bernat Görömbölyi proceeded to explain

how he intended to take the castle without force--which was forbidden a

Hungarian official.

Then the two ladies withdrew to make their toilets for the evening; and

the gentlemen betook themselves to the smoking-room, to indulge in a

little game of chance, without which no "installation" ceremony would

have been complete.

CHAPTER III

The following morning, after a very satisfactory breakfast, the

gentlemen took leave of their amiable hostess, Bernat bácsi lingering

behind the rest to whisper significantly:

"I will not say farewell, Katinka hugom, for I am coming back to tell

you all about it." Then he took his place in the extra post-chaise, and

bade the postilion drive directly to the neighboring castle. The

Nameless Castle was built on a narrow tongue of land that extended into

Lake Neusiedl. The road to the castle gate ran along a sort of causeway,

which was protected from the water by a strong bulwark composed of

fascines, and a row of willows with knotty crowns. A drawbridge at the

farther end made it necessary for the person who wished to enter the

gate to ask permission.

On ringing the bell, there appeared at the gate the servant who has

already been described,--the groom, coachman, and man of all work in one

person. He had on a handsome livery, white gloves, white stockings, and

shoes without heels.

"Is the count at home?" inquired the vice-palatine.

"He is."

"Announce us. I am the vice-palatine of the county, and wish to pay an

official visit."

"The Herr Count is already informed of the gentlemen's arrival, and bids

them welcome."

This certainly was getting on smoothly enough! And the most convincing

proof of a hearty welcome was that the stately groom himself hastened to

remove the luggage from the chaise and carry it into the vestibule--a

sign that the guests were expected to make a visit of some duration.

Now, however, something curious happened.

Before the groom opened the hall door, he produced three pairs of socks,

woven of strands of cloth,--_mamuss_ they are called in this

region,--and respectfully requested the visitors to draw them over their

boots.

"And why, pray?" demanded the astonished vice-palatine.

"Because in this house the clatter of boots is not considered pleasant;

and because the socks prevent boots from leaving dusty marks on the

carpets."

"This is exactly like visiting a powder-magazine." But they had to

submit and draw their socks over their yellow boots, and, thus equipped,

they ascended the staircase to the reception-room.

An air of almost painful neatness reigned in all parts of the castle.

Stairs and corridors were covered with coarse white cloth, the sort used

for peasants' clothing in Hungary. The walls were hung with glossy white

paper. Every door-latch had been polished until it glistened. There were

no cobwebs to be seen in the corners; nor would a spider have had

anything to prey upon here, for there were no flies, either. The floor

of the reception-room into which the visitors had been conducted shone

like a mirror, and not a speck of dust was to be seen on the furniture.

"The Herr Count awaits your lordship in the salon," announced the groom,

and conducted Herr Bernat into the adjoining chamber. Here, too, the

furniture was white and gold. The oil-paintings in the rococo frames

represented landscapes, fruit pieces, and game; there was not a

portrait among them.

Beside the oval table with tigers' feet stood the mysterious occupant of

the Nameless Castle. He was a tall man, with knightly bearing,

expressive face, a high, broad forehead left uncovered by his natural

hair, a straight Greek nose, gray eyes, a short mustache and pointed

beard, which where a shade lighter than his hair.

"_Magnifice comes_--" the vice-palatine was beginning in Latin, when the

count interposed:

"I speak Hungarian."

"Impossible!" exclaimed the visitor, whose astonishment was reflected in

his face. "Hungarian? Why, where can your worship have learned it?"

"From the grammar."

"From the grammar?" For the vice-palatine this was the most astounding

of all the strange things about the mysterious castle. Had he not always

known that Hungarian could only be learned by beginning when a child and

living in a Hungarian family? That any one had learned the language as

one learns the _hic, hæc, hoc_ was a marvel that deserved to be

recorded. "From the grammar?" he repeated. "Well, that is wonderful! I

certainly believed I should have to speak Latin to your worship. But

allow me to introduce my humble self--"

"I already have the honor," quietly interrupted the count, "of knowing

that you are Herr Vice-palatine Bernat Görömbölyi von Dravakeresztur."

He repeated the whole name without a single mistake!

The vice-palatine bowed, and began again:

"The object of my visit to-day is--"

Again he was interrupted.

"I know that also," said the count. "The Fertöszeg estate has passed

into the hands of another proprietor, who has a legal right to withdraw

the lease and revoke the conditions made and agreed to by her

predecessor; and the Herr Vice-palatine is come, at the request of the

baroness, to serve a notice to quit."

Herr Bernat did not like it when any one interrupted him or knew

beforehand what he intended to say.

"On the contrary, I came because the baroness desires to renew the

lease. She has learned how kind to the poor your worship is, and offers

the castle and park at half the rent paid heretofore." He fancied this

would melt the haughty lord of the castle, but it seemed to increase his

hauteur.

"Thanks," frigidly responded the count. "If the baroness thinks the rent

too high, she will find in her own neighborhood poor people whom she can

assist. I shall continue to pay the same rent I paid to the former

owner."

"Then my business will be easily settled. I have brought my clerk with

me; he can write out the necessary papers, and the matter can be

concluded at once."

"Thank you very much," returned the count, but without offering to shake

hands. Instead, he kept his arms crossed behind his back.

"Before we proceed to business," resumed the vice-palatine, "I must tell

your worship an anecdote. A professor once told his pupils that he knew

everything. Shortly afterward he asked one of the lads what his name

was. 'Why,' responded the youth, 'how does it come that you don't know

my name--you who know everything?'"

"I cannot see why you thought it necessary to relate this anecdote to

me," observed the count, without a smile.

"I introduce it because I am compelled to inquire your worship's name

and title, in order to draw up the contracts properly."

This, then, was the strategem by which he proposed to learn the name

which no one yet had been able to decipher on the count's letters?

The count gazed fixedly for several seconds at his questioner, then

replied quietly:

"My name is Count Ludwig Vavel de Versay--with a _y_ after the _a_."

"Thanks. I shall not forget it; I have a very good memory," said Herr

Bernat, who was perfectly satisfied with his success. "Allow me, also,

to inquire the family name of the worshipful Frau Countess?"

At this question the count at last removed his hands from his back, and

with the sort of gesture a man makes who would tear asunder an

adversary. At the same time he cast upon Herr Bernat a glance that

reminded the valiant official of the royal commissioner, as well as of

his energetic spouse at home. The angry man seemed to have increased a

head in stature.

Instead of replying to the question, he turned on his heel and strode

from the room, leaving his visitor standing in the middle of the floor.

Herr Bernat was perplexed; he did not know what to do next. Was it not

quite natural to ask the name of a man's wife when a legal contract was

to be written? His question, therefore, had not been an insult.

At last, as the count did not return, there was nothing left for Herr

Bernat to do but go to his room and wait there for further developments.

The contracts would have to be renewed, else the count would have to

vacate the castle; and one could easily see that a great deal of money

had been expended in fitting it up. The count had transformed the old

hunting-seat, which had been a filthy little nest, into a veritable

fairy castle. Yes, undoubtedly the contracts would be renewed.

The vice-palatine was pacing the floor of his room in his noiseless

cloth socks, when he suddenly heard the voices of his clerk and his

servant outside the door.

"Well, Janos, we are not going to dine here to-day; from what I can

learn, we are going to be eaten ourselves."

"What do you mean?"

"The groom told me his master was loading his pistols to shoot some one.

The count challenges to a duel every one who inquires after the

countess."

The voices ceased. The vice-palatine opened wide his eyes, and muttered:

"May the devil fly away with him! He wants to fight a duel, does he? I

am not afraid of his pistols; I have one, too, and a sword into the

bargain. But it 's a silly business altogether! I am to fight about a

woman I have n't even seen! And what will my wife say? I wish I had n't

come into this crazy castle! I wish I had n't sealed a compact of

fraternity with the baroness! Why did not I leave this whole

installation business to the second vice-palatine? If only I could think

of an excuse to turn my back on this lunatic asylum! But I am not going

to run away from a pistol. The Hungarian noble is a born soldier. If

only I had my pipe! A man is only half a man without his pipe. A pipe

inspires one with ideas. Where, I wonder, is that Audiat gadding?"

At this moment the clerk opened the door.

"Fetch our luggage, Audiat; we are going to leave this damned lunatic

asylum. The Herr Count may see to it then how he renews his lease."

Hereupon he kicked off the socks with such vigor that the very castle

shook. Then, grasping his sword in his hand, he marched out of his room,

and down the staircase, to prove that he was not fleeing like a coward,

but was clearing his way by force.

When the clerk, who went to fetch the luggage, was about to enter the

groom's apartment, the count came toward him and said:

"You are the vice-palatine's clerk?"

"That 's what they call me."

"When do you expect to become a lawyer?"

"When I have passed my examination."

"When will that be?"

"When I have served a year as jurat, and have paid a ducat for my

diploma."

"I will give you the ducat, and when you have become a lawyer I will

employ you as my attorney at six hundred guilders a year. I know that a

Hungarian gentleman will not accept a gift without making some return; I

ask you, therefore, to give me for this ducat some information."

"What is it you wish to know?"

"How can I obtain possession of a portion of Lake Neusiedl for my own

use alone?"

"By becoming a naturalized citizen of the county, and by purchase of a

portion of the shore. I dare say there are some landowners on the shore

who would be glad to part with their possessions in exchange for solid

cash. If you buy such an estate you will have sole right to that part of

the water in front of your property, and to the middle of the lake."

"Thank you. One more question: if you were my attorney, what could you

do to prevent me from being ejected from this castle, in case I did not

sign a new contract with the present owner?"

"First, I should take advantage of the law of possession, and drag the

case through a twelve years' process; then I should appeal, which would

postpone a settlement for three years longer. Would that be long

enough?"

"Quite!"

The count nodded a farewell to the youthful jurist without even

inquiring his name; nor did Audiat venture to propound a like question

to his future employer.

Bernat bácsi did not, as he had promised, return to the manor to tell

the baroness the result of his visit. He drove direct to his home.

PART III

THE MISTRESS OF THE CATS

CHAPTER I

When they heard the call, "Puss, puss!" they scampered down the roof,

leaped from the eaves, and vanished, one after the other, between the

curtains of the open window. It was quite an ethnographic, so to speak,

collection of cats; a panther-like French pussy from Dund, a Caucasian

with long pointed ears, one from China with wavy silken fur and drooping

ears. Then the window was closed, for the company were all

assembled--four cats, two pug-dogs, and a sparrow, and the hostess, a

young girl.

The girl, to judge from her figure, was perhaps fifteen years old; but

her manner and speech were those of a much younger child. With her

arched brow and rainbow-formed eyebrows, she might have served as a

model for a saint, had not the roguish smile about the corners of her

red lips betrayed an earthly origin. The sparkling dark eyes, delicately

chiseled nostrils, and rounded chin gave to her face certain family

characteristics which many persons would have recognized at a first

glance.

Her clothing was richly adorned with lace and embroidery, which was not

the fashion for girls of her age; at the same time, there was about her

attire a peculiar negligence, as if she had no one to advise her what

was proper to wear, or how to wear it.

Her room was furnished with luxurious elegance. Satin hangings covered

the walls; the furniture was upholstered with rare gobelin tapestry.

Gilded cabinets veneered with tortoise-shell held, behind glass doors,

all sorts of costly toys, and dolls in full costume. On a Venetian table

with mosaic top lay a pack of cards and three heaps of money--one of

gold, one of silver, the third of copper. On a low, three-legged table

was a something shaped like an organ, with a long row of metal and

wooden pipes. Near the window stood a drawing-table, on which were

sheets of drawing-board, and glasses containing pulverized colors. There

was also a bookcase; on the shelves were volumes of Vertuch's "Orbis

pictus," the "Portefeuille des enfants," the "History of Robinson

Crusoe," and several numbers of a fashion magazine, the "Album des

salons," the illustrations of which lay scattered about on tables and

chairs.

The guests were all assembled; not one was missing. The little hostess

inquired after the health of each one in turn, and how they had enjoyed

their outing. They all had names. The cats were Hitz, Mitz, Pani, and

Miura. They were introduced to the two pugs, Phryxus and Helle. Then the

little maid fetched a porcelain basin, and with a sponge washed each

nose and paw. Only after this operation had been thoroughly performed

were the guests allowed to take their places at the breakfast-table--the

four cats opposite the two pugs.

Then a clean napkin was tied about the neck of each guest,--that their

jabots might not get soiled with milk,--and a cup of bread and milk

placed in front of each one.

No complaints were allowed (the one that broke this rule was severely

lectured), while all of them had patiently to submit when the sparrow

helped himself from whichever cup he chose. The breakfast over, the

guests bow-wowed and miaued their thanks, and were dismissed to their

morning nap.

The musical clock now began to play its shepherd's song; the brass

Cyclops standing on the dial struck the hour; the cuckoo called, and the

halberdier saluted. Then the little maid changed her toilet. She had a

whole wardrobe full of clothes; she might select what she chose to wear.

There was no one to tell her what to put on, or to help her attire

herself. When her toilet was completed, a bell outside rang once,

whereupon she donned her hat and tied over her face a heavy lace veil

that effectually concealed her features. After a few minutes the bell

rang a second time, and the sound of wheels in the courtyard was heard.

Then three taps sounded on the door, and in answer to the little maid's

clear-voiced "Come in!" a gentleman in promenade toilet entered the room

and bowed respectfully. First he satisfied himself that the veil was

securely fastened around the young girl's hat; then, drawing her hand

through his arm, he led her to the carriage.

On the box was seated the broad-shouldered groom, now clad in coachman's

costume. The gentleman assisted the little maid into the carriage, took

his seat by her side, and the black horses set off over the same road

they had traversed a thousand times, in the regulation trot, avoiding

the main thoroughfare of the village. Those persons whom they chanced to

meet did not salute, for they knew that the occupants of the carriage

from the Nameless Castle did not wish to be spoken to; and any of the

villagers who were standing idly at their doors stepped inside until

they had passed; no inquisitive woman face peered after them. And thus

the carriage passed on its way, as if it had been invisible. When it

arrived at the forest, the horses knew just where they had to halt. Here

the gentleman assisted his veiled companion to alight, gave her his left

arm, because he held in his right hand a heavy walking-stick, in the

center of which was concealed a long, three-edged poniard, an effective

weapon in the hands of him who knew how to wield it.

In silence the man and the maid promenaded along the green sward in the

shade of the trees. A campanula had just opened its blue eye at the foot

of one of the trees, and pale-blue forget-me-nots grew along the path.

Blue was the little maid's favorite color; but she was not permitted to

pluck the flowers herself. She had never been told why she must not do

this; perhaps it was because the flowers belonged to some one else.

Sometimes the little maid's steps were so light and elastic, as if a

fairy were gliding over the dewy grass; and sometimes she walked so

slowly, so wearily, as if a little old grandmother came limping along,

hunting for lichens on the mossy ground.

After the promenade, they seated themselves again in the carriage, which

returned to the Nameless Castle, and the gates were closed again.

The man conducted the maid to her room, and the serious occupation of

the day began. Books were produced, and the man proceeded to explain the

classics. They were his own favorites; he could not give her any others.

She had not yet seen or heard of romances, and she was still too young

to begin the study of history. The man could teach the maid only what he

himself knew; a strange tutor or governess was not allowed to enter the

castle.

Because her instructor could not play the piano, the little maid had not

learned. But in order that she might enjoy listening to music, a

hand-organ had been bought for her, and new melodies were inserted in it

every four months.

When the little maid wearied of her organ and her picture-making, she

seated herself at the card-table, and played _l'hombre_, or _tarok_,

with two imaginary adversaries, enjoying the manner in which the copper

coins won the gold ones.

At noon, when the bell rang a third time, the man tapped at the door

again, offered his gloved hand to the maid, and conducted her to the

dining-room. At either end of a large table was a plate. The maid took

her place at the head; the man seated himself at the foot. They

conversed during the meal. The maid talked about her cats and dogs; the

man told her about his books. When the maid wanted anything, she called

the man Ludwig; and when the man addressed his companion, he called her

simply Marie.

After dinner, they went to the library to look at the late newspapers.

Ludwig himself made the coffee, after which he read the papers, and

dictated his comments and criticisms on certain articles to Marie, who

wrote them out in her delicate hair-line chirography.

When Ludwig and Marie separated for the afternoon, he touched his lips

to her hand and brow. Marie then returned to her own apartments, played

the hand-organ for her pets, changed her dolls' toilets, counted her

gains or losses at cards, colored with her paints a few of the

illustrations in the magazines, looked through her "Orbis pictus,"

reading without difficulty the text which was printed in four languages,

and read for the hundredth time her favorite "Robinson Crusoe."

And thus passed day after day, from spring until autumn, from autumn

until spring.

Evenings, when Marie prepared for bed, before she undressed herself, she

spread a heavy silken coverlet over the leather lounge which stood near

the door. She knew very well that the some one she called Ludwig slept

every night on the lounge, but he came in so late, and went away so

early in the morning, that she never heard his coming or his going.

The little maid was a sound sleeper, and the pugs never barked at the

master of the house, who gave them lumps of sugar.

Often the little maid had determined that she would not go to sleep

until she heard Ludwig come into the room. But all her attempts to

remain awake were in vain. Her eyelids closed the moment her head

touched the pillow. Then she tried to waken early, in order to wish him

good morning; but when she thrust her little head from between the

bed-curtains, and called cheerily, "Good morning, dear Ludwig!" there

was no one there.

Ludwig never slept more than four hours of the twenty-four, and his

slumber was so light that he woke at the slightest noise. Then, too, he

slept like a soldier in the field--always clothed, with his weapons

beside him.

CHAPTER II

One day in the year formed an exception to all the rest. It was Marie's

birthday. From her earliest childhood this one day had been entirely her

own. On this day she addressed Ludwig with the familiar "thou," as she

had been wont to do when he had taught her to walk. She always looked

forward with great pleasure to this day, and made for it all sorts of

plans whose accomplishment was extremely problematic.

And who came to congratulate her on her birthday? First of all, the

solitary sparrow, whose name was David--surely because he, too, was a

tireless singer! Already at early dawn, when the first faint rosy hues

of morning glimmered through the jalousie, he would fly to the head of

her bed. Then the cats would come with their gratulations, but not until

their little mistress had leaped from the bed, run to the window, flung

open the sash, and called, "Puss, puss!" Then the whole four would

scamper into the room, one after the other, and wish her many happy

returns of the day.

When the pugs had gone through their part of the program, the little

maid proceeded to attire herself, a task she performed behind a tall

folding screen. When she stepped forth again, she had on a gorgeous

Chinese-silk wrapper, covered all over with gay-colored palms, and

confined only at the waist with a heavy silk cord. Her hair was twisted

into a single knot on the crown of her head.

Then she prepared breakfast for herself and her guests. The eight of

them drank cold milk, and ate of the dainty little cakes which some one

placed on her table every night while she slept. To-day Marie did not

amuse herself with her guests, but turned over the leaves of her

picture-book, thus passing the time until she should hear, after the

bell had rung twice, the tap at her door.

"Come in!"

The man who entered was surprised.

"What? We are not yet ready for the drive?" he exclaimed.

The maid threw her book aside, ran toward him, and flung her arms with

childish abandon around his neck.

"We are not going to drive to-day. Dost thou not know that this is my

birthday--that I alone give orders in this house to-day? To-day

everything must be done as _I_ say; and _I_ say that we will pass the

time of the drive here in my room, and that thou shalt answer several

silly questions which have come into my head. And forget not that we are

to 'thou' each other to-day. And now, congratulate me nicely. Come, let

us hear it!"

The count almost imperceptibly bent his knee and his head, but spoke not

one word. There are gratulations which are expressed in this manner.

"Very good! Then I am a queen for to-day, and thou art my sole subject.

Sit thou here at my feet on this taboret."

The man obeyed. Marie seated herself on the ottoman, and drew her feet

underneath the wide skirt of her robe.

"Put that book away!" she commanded, when Ludwig stooped to lift from

the floor the volume she had cast there. "I know every one of the four

volumes by heart! Why dost not thou give me one of the books thou

readest so often?"

"Because they are medical works."

"And why dost thou read such books?"

"In order that, should any one in the castle become ill, I may be able

to cure him or her without a doctor."

"And must the person die who is ill and cannot be cured?"

"That is generally the end of a fatal illness."

"Does it hurt to die?"

"That I am unable to tell, as I have never tried it."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the maid. "Thou canst not put me off that way!

Thou knowest many things thou hast not yet tried. Thou hast read about

them; thou knowest! What is death like? Is it more unpleasant than a

disagreeable dream? Is the pain all over when one has died, or is there

more to come afterward? If death is painful, why must we die? If it is

pleasant, why must we live?"

Children ask such strange questions!

"Life is a gift from God that must be preserved as long as possible,"

returned Ludwig, evading the main question. "Through us the world

exists--"

"What is the world?" interrupted Marie.

"The entire human race and their habitations--the earth."

"Then every person owns a plot of earth? Where is the plot which belongs

to us? Answer me that!"

"By the way, that reminds me!" exclaimed Ludwig, relieved to find an

opportunity to change the subject. "I have not yet told thee that I

intend to buy a lovely plot of ground on the shore of the lake, which is

to be made into a pretty flower-garden for thy use alone. Will not that

be pleasant?"

"Thou art very kind; the garden will be lovely. That plot of ground,

then, will be our home, will it not? What is one's home called?"

"It is called the fatherland."

"Then every country is not one's fatherland?"

"If our enemies live there, it is not."

"What are enemies?"

"Persons with whom we are angry."

"What is angry? I have never yet seen anything like it. Why art thou

never angry?"

"Because I have no reason to be angry with thee, and I never associate

with any one else."

"What do those persons do who become angry with one another?"

"They avoid each other. If they are very angry they fight; and if they

are very, very angry they kill each other."

The maid was tortured with curiosity to-day. She drew a pin from her

robe, and secretly thrust the point into Ludwig's hand.

"What art thou doing?" he asked, in surprise.

"I want to see what thou art like when thou art angry. Did it hurt

thee?"

"Certainly it hurt me; see, the blood is flowing."

"Ah, heaven!" cried the maid, in terror, drew the young man's head

toward her, and pressed a kiss on his face.

He sprang to his feet, his face pale as death, extreme horror depicted

in his glance.

"There!" exclaimed the maid. "Thou dost not kill me, and yet I have made

thee very angry."

"This is not anger," sighed the young man.

"What is it, then?"

"It has no name."

"Then I may not kiss thee? Thou lettest me kiss thee last year, and the

year before, and every other year."

"But thou art fifteen years old to-day."

"Ah! Then what was allowed last year, and always before that, is not

allowed now. Dost not thou love me any more?"

"All my thoughts are filled with thee."

"Thou knowest that I have always been allowed to make one wish on my

birthday, and that it has always been granted. That is what some one

accustomed me to--thou knowest very well who."

"Thy desires have always been fulfilled."

"Yes; and children understand how to desire what is impossible. But

grown persons are clever enough to know how to impose on the children.

Three years ago I asked thee to bring me some one with whom I could

talk--some one who would be company for me. Thou broughtest me cats and

dogs and a bird! Two years ago I wished I might learn how to make

pictures; and I was given paper patterns to color with water-colors. One

year ago to-day I wished I might learn how to make music; and a

hand-organ was bought for me. Oh, yes; my wishes have always been

fulfilled, but always in a way that cheated me. Children are always

treated so. To-day thou sayest that I am fifteen years old, and that I

am not any more to be treated as a child. Mark that! To-day, as

heretofore, I ask something of thee which thou canst give me--and thou

canst not cheat me, either!"

"Whatever it may be, thou shalt have it, Marie."

"Thy hand on it! Now, thou knowest that I asked thee not long ago to

send to Paris for a 'Melusine costume' for me!"

"And has it not already arrived? I myself delivered the box into thy

hands."

"Knowest thou what a Melusine costume is? See, this is it."

With these words she sprang from her seat, untied the cord about her

waist, flung off the silken wrapper, and stood in front of the

speechless young man in one of those costumes worn by Paris dames at the

sea-shore when they disport themselves amid the waves of the ocean. The

Melusine costume was a bathing-dress.

"To-day, Ludwig, I ask that thou wilt teach me how to swim. The lake is

just out yonder below the garden."

The maid, in her pale-blue bathing-dress, looked like one of those

fairy-like creatures in Shakspere's "Midsummer Night's Dream," innocent

and alluring, child and siren.

Disconcerted and embarrassed, Ludwig raised his hand.

"Art thou going to strike me?" inquired the child, half crying, half

laughing.

"Pray put on the wrapper again!" said Ludwig, taking the garment from

the sofa and with it veiling the model for a Naiad. "What sort of a

caprice is this?"

"I have had the thought in my head for a long, long time, and I beg that

thou wilt grant my request. Thou canst not say that thou canst not swim;

for once, when we were traveling in great haste, I know not why, we came

to a river, and found that the boat was on the farther shore. Thou

swammest across, and broughtest back the boat in which the four of us

then crossed to the other side. Already then the desire to swim arose in

me. What a delicious sensation to swim through the water--to make wings

of one's arms and fly like a bird! Since we live in this castle the wish

has become stronger. Night after night I dream that I am cleaving

through the waves. I never see God's sky when I go out, because I have

to cover my face. It is just like looking at creation through a grating!

I should love dearly to sing and shout for joy; but I dare not, for I am

afraid the trees, the walls, the people, might hear me and betray me.

But out yonder I could float on the green waves, where I should meet no

one, where no one would see me. I could look up at the shining sky, and

about in chorus with the fish-hawks, surrounded by the darting fishes,

that would tell no one what they had seen or heard. That would be

supreme happiness for me; wilt not thou help me to secure it?"

The child's wish was so true, so earnest, and Ludwig himself had

experienced the proud delights of which she had spoken. Perhaps, too, he

had related to Marie the story of Clelia and her companions, who swam

the Tiber to preserve the Roman maidens' reputation for virtue.

"Whatever gives pleasure to thee pleases me," he said, extending his

hand to take hers.

"And thou wilt grant my wish? Oh, how kind, how dear thou art!" And in

vain the young man sought to withdraw the hand she covered with kisses.

"What!" she exclaimed reproachfully, "may I not kiss thy hand either?"

"How canst thou behave so, Marie? Thou art fifteen years old! A grown-up

girl does not kiss a man's hand."

He passed his hand across his brow and sighed heavily; then he rose to

his feet.

"Where art thou going? Knowest thou not that to-day thou dost not belong

to thy horrid books nor to thy telescope, but that thou art my subject?"

"I go to execute the commands of my little queen. If she desires to

learn to swim, I must have a bath-house built on the shore, and look

about for a suitable spot in the little cove."

"When I have learned to swim all by myself, may not I go beyond the

little cove--away out into the open lake?"

"Yes, on two conditions. One is that I may follow in my canoe--"

"But not keep very near to me?"

"Of course not. The second condition is that in daylight thou wilt not

swim beyond those willows which conceal the cove. Only on moonlight

evenings mayest thou venture into the open lake."

"But why may not I venture by daylight?"

"Because a telescope does not enable one to distinguish features after

night. Other people may have a telescope, like myself."

"Who would have one in this village?"

"The manor has a new occupant. A lady has taken possession there."

"A lady? Is she pretty?"

"She is young."

"Didst thou see her through the telescope? What kind of hair has she

got?"

"Blonde."

"Then she must be very pretty. May I take a look at her some time?"

"I am afraid thou mightest fall in love with her; for she is very

beautiful, and very good."

"How dost thou know she is good?"

"Because she visits the sick and the poor, and because she goes

regularly to church."

"Why do we never go to church?"

"Because we profess a different belief from that acknowledged by those

persons who attend this church."

"Do they pray to a different God from ours?"

"No; they pray to the same God."

"Then why should n't we all go to the same church?"

Unable longer to control himself, Ludwig took the shrewd little

child-head between his hands, and said tenderly:

"My darling! my little queen! not all the synods of the four quarters of

the globe could answer thy questions--let alone this poor forgotten

soldier!"

"There! thou always pretendest to be stupid when I want to borrow a

little bit of thy wisdom. Thou art like the rich man who tells the

beggar that he has no money. By the way, I must not forget that I

always send money to the poor children on my birthday. Come, tell me

which of the heaps I shall send to-day--these small coins, or these

large ones? If thou thinkest I ought to send these little yellow ones, I

have no objections. I think I prefer to keep the white coins, they have

such a musical sound; besides, they have the image of the Virgin. If

thou thinkest I ought to send some of the large red ones, too, I will do

so."

The "little yellow ones" were gold sovereigns; the "white coins" were

silver _Zwanziger_; and the "large red ones" were copper medals of the

Austrian minister of finance, worth half a guilder.

"We will send some of the small coins and some of the large ones,"

decided Ludwig, smiling at the little maid's ignorance of the value of

the money.

CHAPTER III

Tradition maintained that many years before, during the preceding

century, the tongue of land now occupied by the Nameless Castle was part

of the lake; and it may have been true, for Neusiedl Lake is a very

capricious body of water. During the past two decades we ourselves have

seen a greater portion of the lake suddenly recede, leaving dry land

where once had been several feet of water. The owners of what had once

been the shore took possession of the dry lake bottom; they used it for

meadows and pastures; leased it, and the lessees built farm-houses and

steam-mills on the "new ground." They cultivated wheat and maize, and

for many years harvested two crops a year. Suddenly the lake took a

notion to occupy its old bed again; and when the water had resumed its

former level, fields and farms had vanished beneath the green flood;

only here and there the top of a chimney indicated where a steam-mill

had been. Magic tricks like this Neusiedl Lake has played more than once

on trusting mortals.

On either side of the peninsula on which stood the Nameless Castle was a

little cove. One of these the count had spoken of to Marie; the other

separated the castle from the village of Fertöszeg.

The manor, the habitation of the owner of the Fertöszeg estate, stood on

the slope of a hill at the eastern end of the village, and fronted, as

did the neighboring castle, on the lake.

In the second half of the month of August, in the year 1806, one might

have seen from the veranda of the manor, after the sun had gone down and

the marvelous tints of the evening sky were reflected in the water, a

small boat speed out from the cove on the farther side of the Nameless

Castle, trailing after it a long silvery streak on the parti-colored

surface of the lake. A solitary man sat in the boat.

But what could not be seen from the veranda of the manor was that a

girlish form swam a little in advance of the boat.

Marie had proved an excellent scholar in the school of the hydriads.

Already after the fourth lesson she could swim alone, and sped over the

waves as lightly and gracefully as a swan.

She did not need to wear a hat on these evening swimming excursions; her

long hair floated unbound after her on the waves. When the twilight

shadows deepened, the swimmer would speed far ahead of the accompanying

canoe. She had lost all fear of the water. The waves were her

friends--they knew each other well. When she wished to rest, she would

turn her face to the sky, fold her arms across her breast, and lie on

the waves as among swelling cushions like a child in a rocking cradle.

And here she was allowed the full privileges of a child. She shouted;

called to the startled wild geese; teased the night-swallows, and the

bats skimming along the surface of the lake in quest of water-spiders.

Here she even ventured to sing, and gave voice to charming melodies,

which floated over the water like the sounds of an Æolian harp.

Many hours were spent thus on the lake. The little maid never wearied of

the water. The protecting element restored to her nerves the strength

which the stepmotherly earth had taken from them. A promenade of a

hundred steps would tire her so that she would have to stop and rest.

She had become unused to walking. But here in the water she moved about

like a Naiad; her whole being was transformed; she lived! Then, when her

guardian would call her, she would swim back to the canoe, clamber into

it, and spread her long hair over his knees to dry while they rowed back

to the shore. Poor little maid! She declared she had found happiness in

the water.

* * * * *

One evening, after the waning moon had risen, Ludwig's canoe, as usual,

followed Marie, who was swimming a considerable distance ahead. Among

the peculiarities of Neusiedl Lake are its numerous islets, the shores

of which are thickly grown with rushes, and covered with broom and tall

trees. Such an island lay not far from the shore in front of the

Nameless Castle; it had frequently aroused Marie's curiosity.

The little maid was now permitted to swim as far out into the open world

of waves as she desired, only now and again signaling her whereabouts

through a clear-toned "Ho, ho!"

During this time Ludwig reclined in his boat, and while the waves gently

rocked him, he gazed dreamily into the depths of the starry sky, and

listened to the mysterious voices of the night--the moaning, murmuring,

echoing voices floating across the surface of the water.

Suddenly a piercing scream mingled with the mysterious voices of the

night. It was Marie's voice.

Frantic with terror, Ludwig seized his oars, and the canoe shot through

the water in the direction of the scream.

The trail of light left behind her by the swimmer was visible on the

calm surface of the lake. Suddenly it made an abrupt turn, and began to

form a gigantic V. Evidently the little maid was impelled by desperate

terror to reach the protecting canoe. When she came abreast of it she

uttered a second cry, convulsively grasped the edge of the boat, and

cast a terrified glance backward.

"Marie!" cried the count, greatly alarmed, seizing the girdle about her

waist and lifting her into the canoe. "What has happened? Who is

following you?"

The child trembled violently; her teeth chattered, and she gasped for

breath, unable to speak; only her large eyes were still fixed with an

expression of horror on the water.

Ludwig looked searchingly around, but could see nothing. And yet, after

a few seconds, something rose before him.

What was it? Man or beast?

The head, the face, were head and face of a human being--a man, perhaps.

The cheeks and head were covered with short reddish hair like the fur of

an otter. The long, pointed ears stood upright. The mouth was closed so

tightly that the lips were invisible. The nose was flat. The eyes, like

those of a fish, were round and staring. There was no expression

whatever in the features.

The mysterious monster had risen quite close to the boat.

Ludwig seized an oar with both hands to crush the monster's head; but

the heavy blow fell on the water. The creature had vanished underneath

the boat, and only the motion of the water on the other side indicated

the direction it had taken. Terror and rage had benumbed Ludwig's

nerves.

What was it? Who had sent this nameless monster after his carefully

guarded treasure? Even the bottom of the lake concealed her enemies! He

could think of nothing but intrigues and malignant persecutions. Rage

boiled in his veins.

He enveloped the maid in her bath-mantle, and took up his oars.

"I will come back here to-morrow," he muttered to himself, "hunt up

this creature, and shoot it--be it man or beast."

Marie murmured something which sounded like a remonstrance.

"I will shoot the creature!" repeated Ludwig, savagely.

The young girl withdrew trembling to the stern of the boat, and said

nothing further; she even strove to suppress her nervous terror, like a

child that has behaved naughtily.

When the boat reached the shore, Ludwig bade Marie in a stern voice to

make haste and change her bathing-dress, and became very impatient when

she lingered longer than usual in the bath-house. Then he took her arm

and walked rapidly with her to the castle.

"Are you really going to shoot that creature?" asked Marie, still

trembling.

"Yes."

"But suppose it is a human being?"

"Then I shall certainly shoot him."

"I will never, never again venture into the lake."

"I am certain of that! If you once become frightened in the water, you

will always have a dread of it."

"My dear, beautiful lake!" sighed Marie, casting backward a sorrowful

glance at the glittering expanse of water, at the paradise of her

dreams, which the rising wind was curling into wavelets.

"Go at once to bed," said Ludwig, when he had conducted his charge to

the door of her room. "Cover yourself up well, and if you feel chilly I

will make you a cup of camomile tea."

All children have such a distaste for this herb tea that it was not to

be wondered at if Marie declared she did not feel in the least chilly,

and that she would go at once to bed.

But she did not sleep well. She dreamed all night long of the

water-monster. She saw it pursuing her. The staring fish-eyes rose

before her in the darkness. Then she saw Ludwig with his gun searching

for the monster--saw him shoot at it, but without effect. The hideous

creature leaped merrily away.

More than once she awoke from her restless slumber and called softly:

"Ludwig, are you there?"

But no one answered the question. Since her last birthday Ludwig had not

occupied the lounge in her room. Marie had discovered this. She had

placed a rose-leaf on the silken coverlet every evening, and found it

still there in the morning. If any one had slept on the lounge, the

rose-leaf would have fallen to the floor.

The following day Ludwig was more silent than usual. He did not speak

once during their drive, and ate hardly anything at meals.

One could easily see how impatiently he waited for evening, when he

might go down to the lake and search for the monster--a sorry object for

a fury such as his! An otter, most likely, or a beaver--mayhap an

abortion of the Dead Sea, which had survived the ages since the days of

Sodom! All the same, it was a living creature, and must become food for

fishes. Marie, however, prayed so fervently that nothing might come of

Ludwig's fury that Heaven heard the prayer. The weather changed suddenly

in the afternoon. A cold west wind succeeded to the warm August

sunshine; clouds of dust arose; then came a heavy downpour of rain.

Ludwig was obliged to forego his intention to row about on the lake in

the evening. He spent the entire evening in his room, leaving Marie to

complain to her cats; but they were sleepy, and paid no attention to

what she said.

The little maid had no desire to go to bed; she was afraid she might

dream again of horrible things. The heavy rain beat against the windows;

thunder rumbled in the distance.

"I should not like to venture out of the house in such weather," said

Marie to her favorite cat, who was dozing on her knee. "Ugh-h! just

think of crossing the lonely court, or going through the dark woods!

Ugh-h! how horrible it must be there now! And then, to pass the

graveyard at the end of the village! When the lightning flashes, the

crosses lift their heads from the darkness--ugh-h!"

The clock struck eleven; directly afterward there came a hesitating

knock at her door.

"Come in! You may come in!" she called joyfully. She thought it was

Ludwig.

The door opened slowly, only half-way, and the voice which began to

speak was not Ludwig's; it was the groom.

"Beg pardon, madame!" (thus he addressed the little maid).

"Is it you, Henry? What do you want? You may come in. I am still up."

The groom entered, and closed the door behind him. He was a tall,

gray-haired man, with an honest face and enormously large hands.

"What is it, Henry? Did the count send you?"

"No, madame; I only wish he were able."

"Why? What is the matter with him?"

"I don't know, indeed! I believe he is dying."

"Who? Ludwig?"

"Yes, madame; my master."

"For God's sake, tell me what you mean!"

"He is lying on his bed, quite out of his mind. His face is flushed,

his eyes gleam like hot coals, and he is talking wildly. I have never

seen him in such a condition."

"Oh, heaven! what shall we do?"

"I don't know, madame. When any of us gets sick the count knows what to

do; but he does n't seem able to cure himself now; the contents of the

medicine-chest are scattered all over the floor."

"Is there no doctor in the village?"

"Yes, madame; the county physician."

"Then he must be sent for."

"I thought of that, but I did not like to venture to do so."

"Why not?"

"Because the count has declared that he will shoot me if I attempt to

bring a stranger into his room, or into madame's. He told me I must

never admit within the castle gate a doctor, a preacher, or a woman; and

I should not think of disobeying him."

"But now that he is so ill? and you say he may die? Merciful God! Ludwig

die! It cannot--must not--happen!"

"But how will madame hinder it?"

"If you will not venture to fetch the doctor, then I will go myself."

"Oh, madame! you must not even think of doing this!"

"I think of nothing else but that he is ill unto death. I am going, and

you are coming with me."

"Holy Father! The count will kill me if I do that."

"And if you don't do it you will kill the count."

"That is true, too, madame."

"Then don't you do anything. _I_ shall do what is necessary. I will put

on my veil, and let no one see my face."

"But in this storm? Just listen, madame, how it thunders."

"I am not afraid of thunder, you stupid Henry. Light a lantern, and arm

yourself with a stout cudgel, while I am putting on my pattens. If

Ludwig should get angry, I shall be on hand to pacify him. If only the

dear Lord will spare his life! Oh, hasten, hasten, my good Henry!"

"He will shoot me dead; I know it. But let him, in God's name! I do it

at your command, madame. If madame is really determined to go herself

for the doctor, then we will take the carriage."

"No, indeed! Ludwig would hear the sound of wheels, and know what we

were doing. Then he would jump out of bed, run into the court, and take

a cold that would certainly be his death. No; we must go on foot, as

noiselessly as possible. It is not so very far to the village. Go now,

and fetch the lantern."

Several minutes afterward, the gates of the Nameless Castle opened, and

there came forth a veiled lady, who clung with one hand to the arm of a

tall man, and carried a lantern in the other. Her companion held over

her, to protect her from the pouring rain, a large red umbrella, and

steadied his steps in the slippery mud with a stout walking-stick. The

lady walked so rapidly that her companion with difficulty kept pace with

her.

CHAPTER IV

Dr. Tromfszky had just returned from a _visum repertum_ in a criminal

case, and had concluded that he would go to bed so soon as he had

finished his supper. The rain fell in torrents on the roof, and rushed

through the gutters with a roaring noise.

"Now just let any one send again for me this night!" he exclaimed, when

his housekeeper came to remove the remnants of cheese from the

supper-table. "I would n't go--not if the primate himself got a

fish-bone fast in his throat; no, not for a hundred ducats. I swear it!"

At that moment there came a knock at the street door, and a very

peremptory one, too.

"There! did n't I know some one would take it into his head to let the

devil fetch him to-night? Go to the door, Zsuzsa, and tell them that I

have a pain in my foot--that I have just applied a poultice, and can't

walk."

Frau Zsuzsa, with the kitchen lamp in her hand, waddled into the

corridor. After inquiring the second time through the door, "Who is it?"

and the one outside had answered: "It is I," she became convinced, from

the musical feminine tone, that it was not the notorious robber, Satan

Laczi, who was seeking admittance.

Then she opened the door a few inches, and said:

"The Herr Doctor can't go out any more to-night; he has gone to bed, and

is poulticing his foot."

The door was open wide enough to admit a delicate feminine hand, which

pressed into the housekeeper's palm a little heap of money. By the light

of the lamp Frau Zsuzsa recognized the shining silver coins, and the

door was opened its full width.

When she saw before her the veiled lady she became quite complaisant.

Curiosity is a powerful lever.

"I humbly beg your ladyship to enter."

"Please tell the doctor the lady from the Nameless Castle wishes to see

him."

Frau Zsuzsa placed the lamp on the kitchen table, and left the visitors

standing in the middle of the floor.

"Well, what were you talking about so long out yonder?" demanded the

doctor, when she burst into his study.

"Make haste and put on your coat again; the veiled lady from the

Nameless Castle is here."

"What? Well, that is an event!" exclaimed the doctor, hurriedly

thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his coat. "Is the count with

her?"

"No; the groom accompanied her."

These magic words, "the veiled lady," had more influence on the doctor

than any imaginable number of ducats.

At last he was to behold the mythological appearance--yes, and even hear

her voice!

"Show her ladyship into the guest-chamber, and take a lamp in there," he

ordered, following quickly, after he had adjusted his cravat in front of

the looking-glass.

Then she stood before him--the mysterious woman. Her face was veiled as

usual. Behind her stood the groom, with whose appearance every child in

the village was familiar.

"Herr Doctor," stammered the young girl, so faintly that it was

difficult to tell whether it was the voice of a child, a young or an

old woman, "I beg that you will come with me at once to the castle; the

gentleman is very seriously ill."

"Certainly; I am delighted!--that is, I am not delighted to hear of the

worshipful gentleman's illness, but glad that I am fortunate enough to

be of service to him. I shall be ready in a few moments."

"Oh, pray make haste."

"The carriage will take us to the castle in five minutes, your

ladyship."

"But we did not come in a carriage; we walked."

Only now the doctor noticed that the lady's gown was thickly spattered

with mud.

"What? Came on foot in such weather--all the way from the Nameless

Castle? and your ladyship has a carriage and horses?"

"Cannot you come with us on foot, Herr Doctor?"

"I should like very much to accompany your ladyship; but really, I have

_rheumatismus acutus_ in my foot, and were I to get wet I should

certainly have an _ischias_."

Marie lifted her clasped hands in despair to her lips, but the

beseeching expression on her face was hidden by the heavy veil. Could

the doctor have seen the tearful eyes, the trembling lips!

Seeing that her voiceless petition was in vain, Marie drew from her

bosom a silken purse, and emptied the contents, gold, silver, and copper

coins, on the table.

"Here," she exclaimed proudly. "I have much more money like this, and

will reward you richly if you will come with me."

The doctor was amazed. There on the table lay more gold than the whole

county could have mustered in these days of paper notes. Truly these

people were not to be despised.

"If only it did not rain so heavily--"

"I will let you take my umbrella."

"Thanks, your ladyship; I have one of my own."

"Then let us start at once."

"But my foot--it pains dreadfully."

"We can easily arrange that. Henry, here, is a very strong man; he will

take you on his shoulders, and bring you back from the castle in the

carriage."

There were no further objections to be offered when Henry, with great

willingness, placed his broad shoulders at the doctor's service.

The doctor hastily thrust what was necessary into a bag, locked the

money Marie had given him in a drawer, bade Frau Zsuzsa remain awake

until he returned, and clambered on Henry's back. In one hand he held

his umbrella, in the other the lantern; and thus the little company took

their way to the castle--the "double man" in advance, the little maid

following with her umbrella.

The doctor had sufficient cause to be excited. What usurious

gossip-interest might be collected from such a capitol! Dr. Tromfszky

already had an enviable reputation in the county, but what would it

become when it became known that he was physician in ordinary to the

Nameless Castle?

The rain was not falling so heavily when they arrived at the castle.

Marie and Henry at once conducted the doctor to Ludwig's chamber. Henry

first thrust his head cautiously through the partly open door, then

whispered that his master was still tossing deliriously about on the

bed; whereupon the doctor summoned courage to enter the room. His first

act was to snuff the candle, the wick having become so charred it

scarcely gave any light. He could now examine the invalid's face, which

was covered with a burning flush. His eyes rolled wildly. He had not

removed his clothes, but had torn them away from his breast.

"H'm! h'm!" muttered the doctor, searching in his bag for his

bloodletting instruments. Then he approached the bed, and laid his

fingers on the invalid's pulse.

At the touch of his cold hand the patient suddenly sat upright and

uttered a cry of terror:

"Who are you?"

"I am the doctor--the county physician--Dr. Tromfszky. Pray, Herr Count,

let me see your tongue."

Instead of his tongue, the count exhibited a powerful fist.

"What do you want here? Who brought you here?" he demanded.

"Pray, pray be calm, Herr Count," soothingly responded the doctor, who

was inclined to look upon this aggressive exhibition as a result of the

fever. "Allow me to examine your pulse. We have here a slight paroxysm

that requires medical aid. Come, let me feel your pulse; one, two--"

The count snatched his wrist from the doctor's grasp, and cried angrily:

"But I don't need a doctor, or any medicine. There is nothing at all the

matter with me. I don't want anything from you, but to know who brought

you here."

"Beg pardon," retorted the offended doctor. "I was summoned, and came

through this dreadful storm. I was told that the Herr Count was

seriously ill."

"Who said so? Henry?" demanded the count, rising on one knee.

Henry did not venture to move or speak.

"Did you fetch this doctor, Henry?" again demanded the invalid, with

expanded nostrils, panting with fury.

The doctor, fancying that it would be well to tell the truth, now

interposed politely:

"Allow me, Herr Count! Herr Henry did not come alone to fetch me, but

he came with the gracious countess; and on foot, too, in this weather."

"What? Marie?" gasped the invalid; and at that moment his face looked as

if he had become suddenly insane. An involuntary epileptic convulsion

shook his limbs. He fell from the bed, but sprang at the same instant to

his feet again, flung himself like an angry lion upon Henry, caught him

by the throat, and cried with the voice of a demon:

"Wretch! Betrayer! What have you dared to do? I will kill you!"

The doctor required nothing further. He did not stop to see the friendly

promise fulfilled, but, leaving his lances, elixirs, and plasters behind

him, he flew down the staircase, four steps at a time, and into the

pouring rain, totally forgetting the ischias which threatened his leg.

Nor did he once think of a carriage, or of a human dromedary,--not even

of a lantern, or an umbrella,--as he galloped down the dark road through

the thickest of the mud.

When the count seized Henry by the throat and began to shake him, as a

lion does the captured buffalo, Marie stepped suddenly to his side, and

in a clear, commanding tone cried:

"Louis!"

At this word he released Henry, fell on his knees at Marie's feet,

clasped both arms around her, and, sobbing convulsively, pressed kiss

after kiss on the little maid's wet and muddy gown.

"Why--why did you do this for me?" he exclaimed, in a choking voice.

The doctor's visit had, after all, benefited the invalid. The

spontaneous reaction which followed the violent fit of passion caused a

sudden turn in his illness. The salutary crisis came of its own accord

during the outburst of rage, which threw him into a profuse

perspiration. The brain gradually returned to its normal condition.

"You will get well again, will you not?" stammered the little maid

shyly, laying her hand on the invalid's brow.

"If you really want me to get well," returned Ludwig, "then you must

comply with my request. Go to your room, take off these wet clothes, and

go to bed. And you must promise never again to go on another errand like

the one you performed this evening. I hope you may sleep soundly."

"I will do whatever you wish, Ludwig--anything to prevent your getting

angry again."

The little maid returned to her room, took off her wet clothes, and lay

down on the bed; but she could not sleep. Every hour she rose, threw on

her wrapper, thrust her feet into her slippers, and stole to the door of

Ludwig's room to whisper: "How is he now, Henry?"

"He is sleeping quietly," Henry would answer encouragingly. The faithful

fellow had forgotten his master's anger, and was watching over him as

tenderly as a mother over her child.

"He did not hurt you very much, did he, Henry?"

"No; it did not hurt, and I deserved what I got."

The little maid pressed the old servant's hand, whereupon he sank to his

knees at her feet, and, kissing her pretty fingers, whispered:

"This fully repays me."

The next morning Ludwig was entirely recovered. He rose, and, as was his

wont, drank six tumblerfuls of water--his usual breakfast.

Of the events of the past night he spoke not one word.

At ten o'clock the occupants of the Nameless Castle were to be seen out

driving as usual--the white-haired groom, the stern-visaged gentleman,

and the veiled lady.

That same morning Dr. Tromfszky received from the castle a packet

containing his medical belongings, and an envelop in which he found a

hundred-guilder bank-note, but not a single written word.

Meanwhile the days passed with their usual monotony for the occupants of

the Nameless Castle, and September, with its delightfully warm weather

drew on apace. In Hungary the long autumn makes ample amends for the

brief spring--like the frugal mother who stores away in May gifts with

which to surprise her children later in the season.

Down at the lake, a merry crowd of naked children disported in the

water; their shouts and laughter could be heard at the castle. Ludwig

fully understood the deep melancholy which had settled on Marie's

countenance. Her sole amusement, her greatest happiness, had been taken

from her. Other high-born maidens had so many ways of enjoying

themselves; she had none. No train of admirers paid court to her. No

strains of merry dance-music entranced her ear. Celebrated actors came

and went; she did not delight in their performances--she had never even

seen a theater. She had no girl friends with whom to exchange

confidences--with whom to make merry over the silly flatterers who paid

court to them; no acquaintances whose envy she could arouse by the

magnificence of her toilets--one of the greatest pleasures in life!

She had no other flatterers but her cats; no other confidantes but her

cats; no other actors but her cats. The world of waves had been her sole

enjoyment. The water had been her theater, balls, concert--the great

world. It was her freedom. The land was a prison.

Again it was the full of the moon, and quite warm. The tulip-formed

blossoms of the luxuriant water-lilies were in bloom along the lake

shore. Ludwig's heart ached with pity for the little maid when he saw

how sorrowfully she gazed from her window on the glittering lake.

"Come, Marie," he said, "fetch your bathing-dress, and let us try the

lake again. I will stay close by you, and take good care that nothing

frightens you. We will not go out of the cove."

How delighted the child was to hear these words! She danced and skipped

for joy; she called him her dear Ludwig. Then she hunted up the

discarded Melusine costume, and hastened with such speed toward the

shore that Ludwig was obliged to run to keep up with her. But the nearer

she approached to the bath-house, the less quickly she walked; and when

she stood in the doorway she said:

"Oh, how my heart beats!"

When Ludwig appeared with the canoe from behind the willows, the

charming Naiad stepped from the bath-house. The rippling waves bore the

moonlight to her feet, where she stood on the narrow platform which

projected into the lake. She knelt and, bending forward, kissed the

water; it was her beloved! After a moment's hesitation she dropped

gently from the platform, as she had been wont to do; but when she felt

the waves about her shoulders, she uttered a cry of terror, and grasped

the edge of the canoe with both hands.

"Lift me out, Ludwig! I cannot bear it; I am afraid!"

With a sorrowful heart the little maid took leave of her favorite

element. The hot tears gushed from her eyes, and fell into the water; it

was as if she were bidding an eternal, farewell to her beloved. From

that hour the child became a silent and thoughtful woman.

* * * * *

Then followed the stormy days of autumn, the long evenings, the weeks

and months when nothing could be done but stay in doors and amuse one's

self with books--Dante, Shakspere, Horace. To these were occasionally

added learned folios sent from Stuttgart to Count Ludwig, who seemed to

find his greatest enjoyment in perusing works on philosophy and science.

Meanwhile the communication by letter between the count and the erudite

shepherd of souls in the village was continued.

One day Herr Mercatoris sent to the castle a brochure on which he had

proudly written, "With the compliments of the author." The booklet was

written in Latin, and was an account of the natural wonder which is, to

this day, reckoned among the numerous memorable peculiarities of Lake

Neusiedl,--a human being that lived in the water and ate live fishes.

A little boy who had lost both parents, and had no one to care for him,

had strayed into the morass of the Hansag, and, living there among the

wild animals, had become a wild animal himself, an inhabitant of the

water like the otters, a dumb creature from whose lips issued no human

sound.

The decade of years he had existed in the water had changed his skin to

a thick hide covered with a heavy growth of hair. The phenomenon would

doubtless be accepted by many as a convincing proof that the human being

was really evolved from the wild animal.

Accompanying the description was an engraved portrait of the natural

wonder.

The new owner of Fertöszeg, Baroness Katharina Landsknechtsschild, had

been told that a strange creature was frightening the village children

who bathed in the lake. She had given orders to some fishermen to catch

the monster, which they had been fortunate enough to do while fishing

for sturgeon. The boy-fish had been taken to the manor, where he had

been properly clothed, and placed in the care of a servant whose task

it was to teach the poor lad to speak, and walk upright instead of on

all fours, as had been his habit. Success had so far attended the

efforts to tame the wild boy that he would eat bread and keep on his

clothes. He had also learned to say "Ham-ham" when he wanted something

to eat; and he had been taught to turn the spit in the kitchen. The

kind-hearted baroness was sparing no pains to restore the lad to his

original condition. No one was allowed to strike or abuse him in any

way.

This brochure had a twofold effect upon the count. He became convinced

that the monster which had frightened Marie was not an assassin hired by

her enemies, not an expert diver, but a natural abnormity that had acted

innocently when he pursued the swimming maid. Second, the count could

not help but reproach himself when he remembered that _he_ would have

destroyed the irresponsible creature whom his neighbor was endeavoring

to transform again into a human being.

How much nobler was this woman's heart than his own! His fair neighbor

began to interest him.

He took the pamphlet to Marie, who shuddered when her eyes fell on the

engraving.

"The creature is really a harmless human being, Marie, and I am sorry we

became so excited over it. Our neighbor, the lovely baroness, is trying

to restore the poor lad to his original condition. Next summer you will

not need to be afraid to venture into the lake again."

The little maid gazed thoughtfully into Ludwig's eyes for several

moments; evidently she was pondering over something.

There had risen in her mind a suspicion that Ludwig himself had written

the pamphlet, and had had the monster's portrait engraved, in order to

quiet her fears and restore her confidence in the water.

"Will you take me sometime to visit the baroness?" she asked suddenly.

"And why?" inquired Ludwig, in turn, rising from his seat.

"That I, too, may see the wonderful improvement in the monster."

"No," he returned shortly, and taking up the pamphlet, he quitted the

room. "No!"

"But why 'No'?"

PART IV

SATAN LACZI

CHAPTER I

Count Vavel (thus he was addressed on his letters) had arranged an

observatory in the tower of the Nameless Castle. Here was his telescope,

by the aid of which he viewed the heavens by night, and by day observed

the doings of his fellow-men. He noticed everything that went on about

him. He peered into the neighboring farm-yards and cottages, was a

spectator of the community's disputes as well as its diversions. Of

late, the chief object of his telescopic observations during the day

were the doings at the neighboring manor. He was the "Lion-head" and the

"Council of Ten" in one person. The question was, whether the new

mistress of the manor, the unmarried baroness, should "cross the Bridge

of Sighs"? His telescope told him that this woman was young and very

fair; and it told him also that she lived a very secluded life. She

never went beyond the village, nor did she receive any visitors.

In the neighborhood of Neusiedl Lake one village was joined to another,

and these were populated by pleasure-loving and sociable families of

distinction. It was therefore a difficult matter for the well-born man

or woman who took up a residence in the neighborhood to avoid the jovial

sociability which reigned in those aristocratic circles.

Count Vavel himself had been overwhelmed with hospitable attentions the

first year of his occupancy of the Nameless Castle; but his refusals to

accept the numerous invitations had been so decided that they were not

repeated.

He frequently saw through his telescope the same four-horse equipages

which had once stopped in front of his own gates drive into the court at

the manor; and he recognized in the occupants the same jovial blades,

the eligible young nobles, who had honored him with their visits. He

noticed, too, that none of the visitors spent a night at the manor. Very

often the baroness did not leave her room when a caller came; it may

have been that she had refused to receive him on the plea of illness.

During the winter Count Vavel frequently saw his fair neighbor skating

on the frozen cove; while a servant propelled her companion over the ice

in a chair-sledge.

On these occasions the count would admire the baroness's graceful

figure, her intrepid movements, and her beautiful face, which was

flushed with the exercise and by the cutting wind.

But what pleased him most of all was that the baroness never once during

her skating exercises cast an inquiring glance toward the windows of the

Nameless Castle--not even when she came quite close to it.

On Christmas eve she, like Count Vavel, arranged a Christmas tree for

the village children. The little ones hastened from the manor to the

castle, and repeated wonderful tales of the gifts they had received from

the baroness's own hands.

Every Sunday the count saw the lady from the manor take her way to

church, on foot if the roads were good; and on her homeward way he could

see her distribute alms among the beggars who were ranged along either

side of the road. This the count did not approve. He, too, gave

plenteously to the poor, but through the village pastor, and only to

those needy ones who were too modest to beg openly. The street beggars

he repulsed with great harshness--with one exception. This was a

one-legged man, who had lost his limb at Marengo, and who stationed

himself regularly beside the cross at the end of the village. Here he

would stand, leaning on his crutches, and the count, in driving past,

would always drop a coin into the maimed warrior's hat.

One day when the carriage drew near the cross, Count Vavel saw the old

soldier, as usual, but without his crutches. Instead, he leaned on a

walking-stick, and stood on two legs.

The count stopped the carriage, and asked: "Are not you the one-legged

soldier?"

"I am, your lordship," replied the man; "but that angel, the baroness,

has had a wooden leg made for me,--I could dance with it if I

wished,--so I don't need to beg any more, for I can cut wood now, and

thus earn my living. May God bless her who has done this for me!"

The count was dissatisfied with himself. This woman understood

everything better than he did. He felt that she was his rival, and from

this feeling sprang the desire to compete with her.

An opportunity very soon offered. One day the count received from the

reverend Herr Mercatoris a gracefully worded appeal for charity. The new

owner of Fertöszeg had interested herself in the fate of the destitute

children whose fathers had gone to the war, and, in order to render

their condition more comfortable, had undertaken to found a home for

them. She had already given the necessary buildings, and had furnished

them. She now applied to the sympathies of the well-to-do residents of

the county for assistance to educate the children. In addition to food

and shelter, they required teachers. Such sums as were necessary for

this purpose must be raised by a general subscription from the

charitably inclined.

The count promptly responded to this request. He sent the pastor fifty

louis d'or. But in the letter which accompanied the gift he stipulated

that the boy whose mother was in prison should not be removed from Frau

Schmidt's care to the children's asylum.

It was quite in the order of things that the baroness should acknowledge

the munificent gift by a letter of thanks.

This missive was beautifully written. The orthography was singularly

faultless. The expressions were gracefully worded and artless; nothing

of flattery or sentimentality--merely courteous gratefulness. The letter

concluded thus:

"You will pardon me, I trust, if I add that the stipulation which you

append to your generous gift surprises me; for it means either that you

disapprove the principle of my undertaking, or you do not wish to

transfer to another the burden you have taken upon yourself. If the

latter be the reason, I am perfectly willing to agree to the

stipulation; if it be the former, then I should like very much to hear

your objection, in order that I may justify my action."

This was a challenge that could not be ignored. The count, of course,

would have to convince his fair neighbor that he was in perfect sympathy

with the principle of her philanthropic project, and he wrote

accordingly; but he added that he disapproved the prison-like system of

children's asylums, the convict-like regulations of such institutions.

_He_ thought the little ones would be better cared for, and much

happier, were they placed in private homes, to grow up as useful men and

women amid scenes and in the sphere of life to which they belonged.

The count's polemic reply was not without effect. The baroness, who had

her own views on the matter, was quite as ready to take the field, with

as many theoretic and empiric data and recognized authorities as had

been her opponent. The count one day would despatch a letter to the

manor, and Baroness Katharina would send her reply the next--each

determined not to remain the other's debtor. The count's epistles were

dictated to Marie; he added only the letter V to the signature.

This battle on paper was not without practical results. The baroness

paid daily visits to her "Children's Home"; and on mild spring days the

count very often saw her sitting on the open veranda, with her companion

and one or two maid-servants, sewing at children's garments until late

in the evening. The count, on his part, sent every day for his little

protégé, and spent several hours patiently teaching the lad, in order

that he might compete favorably with the baroness's charges. The task

was by no means an easy one, as the lad possessed a very dull brain.

This was, it must be confessed, an excellent thing for the orphans. If

the motherly care which the baroness lavished on her charges were to be

given to all destitute orphans in children's asylums, then the "convict

system" certainly was a perfect one; while, on the other hand, if a

preceptor like Count Vavel took it upon himself to instruct a forsaken

lad, then one might certainly expect a genius to evolve from the little

dullard growing up in a peasant's cottage.

Ultimately, however, the victory fell to the lady. It happened as

follows:

One day the count was again the recipient of a letter from his neighbor

at the manor (they had not yet exchanged verbal communication).

The letter ran thus:

"HERR COUNT: I dare say you know that the father of your little protégé

is no other than the notorious robber, Satan Laczi, whom it is

impossible to capture. The mother of the lad was arrested on suspicion.

She lived in the village under her own honest family name--Satan Laczi

being only a thief's appellation. As nothing could be proved against

her, the woman has been set at liberty, and has returned to the village.

Here she found every door closed against her--for who would care to

shelter the wife of a robber? At last the poor woman came to me, and

begged me to give her work. My servants are greatly excited because I

have taken her into my employ; but I am convinced that the woman is

innocent and honest. Were I to cast her adrift, she might become what

she has been accused of being--the accomplice of thieves. I know she

will conduct herself properly with me. I tell you all this because, if

you approve what I have done, you will permit the lad you have taken

under your protection to come to the manor, where he would be with his

mother. If, however, you condemn my action, you will refuse to grant my

request, and generously continue to care for the lad in your own way.

The decision I leave to you."

Count Vavel was forced to capitulate. The baroness's action--taking into

her household the woman who had been repulsed by all the world--was so

praiseworthy, so sublime, that nothing could approach it. That same day

he sent the lad with Frau Schmidt to the manor, and herewith the

correspondence between himself and the baroness ceased. There was no

further subject for argument.

And yet, Count Vavel could not help but think of this woman. Who was

she?

He had sought to learn from his foreign correspondents something

concerning the Baroness Katharina, but could gain no information save

that which we have already heard from the county physician: disappointed

love and shame at her rejection had driven the youthful baroness to this

secluded neighborhood.

This reason, however, did not altogether satisfy Count Vavel. Women,

especially young women, rarely quit the pleasures of the gay world

because of one single disappointment.

And for Count Vavel mistrust was a duty; for the reader must, ere this,

have suspected that the count and the mysterious man of the Rue

Mouffetard were identical, and that Marie was none other than the child

he had rescued from her enemies. Here in this land, where order

prevailed, but where there were no police, he was guarding the treasure

intrusted to his care, and he would continue to guard her until relieved

of the duty.

But when would the relief come?

One year after another passed, and the hour he dreamed of seemed still

further away. When he had accepted the responsible mission he had said

to himself: "In a year we shall gain our object, and I shall be

released."

But hope had deceived him; and as the years passed onward, he began to

realize how vast, how enormous, was the task he had undertaken. It was

within the possibilities that he, a young man in the flower of his

youth, should be able to bury himself in an unknown corner of the world,

to give up all his friends, to renounce everything that made life worth

living, but that he should bury with himself in his silk-lined tomb a

young girl to whom he had become everything, who yet might not even

dream of becoming anything to him--that was beyond human might.

More and more he realized that his old friend's prophetic words were

approaching fulfilment: "The child will grow to be a lovely woman.

Already she is fond of you; she will love you then. Then what?"

"I shall look upon myself as the inhabitant of a different planet," he

had replied; and he had kept his promise.

But the little maid had not promised anything; and if, perchance, she

guessed the weighty secret of her destiny, whence could she have taken

the strength of mind to battle against what threatened to drive even the

strong man to madness?

Ludwig was thirty-one years old, the fourth year in this house of

voluntary madmen. With extreme solicitude he saw the child grow to

womanhood, blessed with all the magic charms of her sex. Gladly would he

have kept her a child had it been in his power. He treated her as a

child--gave her dolls and the toys of a child; but this could not go on

forever. Deeply concerned, Ludwig observed that Marie's countenance

became more and more melancholy, and that now it rarely expressed

childlike naïveté. A dreamy melancholy had settled upon it. And of what

did she dream? Why was she so sad? Why did she start? Why did the blood

rush to her cheeks when he came suddenly into her presence?

CHAPTER II

Count Vavel had made his fair neighbor at the manor the object of study.

He had ample time for the task; he had nothing else to do. And, as he

was debarred from making direct inquiries concerning her, or from

hearing the current gossip of the neighborhood, he learned only that

about her which his telescope revealed; and from this, with the aid of

his imagination, he formed a conclusion--and an erroneous one, very

probably.

His neighbor lived in strict seclusion, and was a man-hater. But, for

all that, she was neither a nun nor an Amazon. She was a true woman,

neither inconsolably melancholy nor wantonly merry. She proved herself

an excellent housewife. She rose betimes mornings, sent her workmen

about their various tasks, saw that everything was properly attended to.

Very often she rode on horseback, or drove in a light wagon, to look

about her estate. She had arranged an extensive dairy, and paid daily

visits to her stables. She did not seem aware that an attentive observer

constantly watched her with his telescope from the tower of the Nameless

Castle. So, at least, it might be assumed; for the lady very often

assisted in the labor of the garden, when, in transplanting tulip bulbs,

she would so soil her pretty white hands to the wrists with black mold

that it would be quite distressing to see them. Certainly this was

sufficient proof that her labor was without design.

And, what was more to the purpose, she acted as if perfectly unaware of

the fact that a lady lived in the Nameless Castle who possibly might be

the wife of her tenant. Common courtesy and the conventional usages of

society demanded that the lady who took up a residence anywhere should

call on the ladies of the neighborhood--if only to leave a card with the

servant at the door. The baroness had omitted this ceremony, which

proved that she either did not know of Marie's hiding-place, or that she

possessed enough delicacy of feeling to understand that it would be

inconvenient to the one concerned were she to take any notice of the

circumstance. Either reason was satisfactory to Count Vavel.

But a woman without curiosity!

Meanwhile the count had learned something about her which might be of

some use to Marie.

He had received, during the winter, a letter from the young law student

with whom he had become acquainted on the occasion of the

vice-palatine's unpleasant visit to the castle. The young man wrote to

say that he had passed his examination, and that when he should receive

the necessary authority from the count he would be ready to proceed to

the business they had talked about.

The count replied that a renewal of his lease was not necessary. The new

owner of the castle having neglected to serve a notice to quit within

the proper time, the old contracts were still valid. Therefore, it was

only necessary to secure the naturalization documents, and to purchase a

plot of ground on the shore of the lake. The young lawyer arranged these

matters satisfactorily, and the count had nothing further to do than to

appoint an _absentium ablegatus_ to the Diet, and to take possession of

his new purchase, which lay adjacent to the Nameless Castle.

The count at once had the plot of ground inclosed with a high fence of

stout planks, engaged a gardener, and had it transformed into a

beautiful flower-garden.

Then, when the first spring blossoms began to open, he said to Marie,

one balmy, sunshiny afternoon: "Come, we will take a promenade."

He conducted the veiled maiden through the park, along the freshly

graveled path to the inclosed plot of ground.

"Here is your garden," he said, opening the gate. "Now you, too, own a

plot of ground."

Count Vavel had expected to see the little maid clap her hands with

delight, and hasten to pluck the flowers for a nosegay.

Instead, however, she clung to his arm and sighed heavily.

"Why do you sigh, Marie? Are you not pleased with your garden?"

"Yes; I think it beautiful."

"Then why do you sigh?"

"Because I cannot thank you as I wish."

"But you have already thanked me."

"That was only with words. Tell me, can any one see us here?"

"No one; we are alone."

At these words the little maid tore the veil from her face, and for the

first time in many years God's free sunlight illumined her lovely

features. What those features expressed, what those eyes flashed through

their tears, that was her gratitude.

When she had illumined the heart of her guardian with this expressive

glance, she was about to draw the veil over her face again; but Ludwig

laid a gently restraining hand on hers, and said: "Leave your face

uncovered, Marie; no one can see it here; and every day for one hour you

may walk thus here, without fear of being seen, for I shall send the

gardener elsewhere during that time."

When they were leaving the garden, Marie plucked two forget-me-nots, and

gave one of them to Ludwig. From that day she had one more pleasure: the

garden, a free sight of the sky, the warmth of the sunlight--enjoyments

hitherto denied her; but, all the same, the childlike cheerfulness faded

more and more from her countenance.

Ludwig, who was distressed to see this continued melancholy in the

child's face, searched among his pedagogic remedies for a cure for such

moods. A sixteen-year-old girl might begin the study of history. At this

age she would already become interested in descriptions of national

customs, in archaeological study, in travels. He therefore collected for

Marie's edification quite a library, and became a zealous expounder of

the various works.

In a short time, however, he became aware that his pupil was not so

studious as she had been formerly. She paid little heed to his learned

discourses, and even neglected to learn her lessons. For this he was

frequently obliged to reprove her. This was a sort of refrigerating

process. For an instructor to scold a youthful pupil is the best proof

that he is a being from a different planet!

One day the tutor was delineating with great eloquence to his

scholar--who, he imagined, was listening with special interest--the

glorious deeds of heroism performed by St. Louis, and was tracing on the

map the heroic king's memorable crusade. The scholar, however, was

writing something on a sheet of paper which lay on the table in front of

her.

"What are you writing, Marie?"

The little maid handed him the sheet of paper. On it were the words:

"Dear Ludwig, love me."

Map and book dropped from the count's hands. The little maid's frank,

sincere gaze met his own. She was not ashamed of what she had written,

or that she had let him read it. She thought it quite in the order of

things.

"And don't I love you?" exclaimed Ludwig, with sudden sharpness. "Don't

I love you as the fakir loves his Brahma--as the Carthusian loves his

Virgin Mary? Don't I love you quite as dearly?"

"Then don't love me--quite so dearly," responded Marie, rising and going

to her own room, where she began to play with her cats. From that hour

she would not learn anything more from Ludwig.

The young man, however, placed the slip of paper containing the words,

"Dear Ludwig, love me," among his relics.

* * * * *

Since the new mistress's advent in the neighboring manor Count Vavel had

spent more time than usual in his observatory. At first suspicion had

been his motive. Now, however, there was a certain fascination in

bringing near to him with his telescope the woman with whom he had

exchanged only written communication. If he was so eager to behold her,

why did he not go to the manor? Why did he look at her only through his

telescope? She would certainly receive his visits; and what then?

This "what then?" was the fetter which bound him hand and foot, was the

lock upon his lips. He must make no acquaintances. Results might follow;

and what then?

The entombed man must not quit his grave. He might only seat himself at

the window of his tomb, and thence look out on the beautiful, forbidden

world.

What a stately appearance the lady makes as she strolls in her long

white gown across the green sward over yonder! Her long golden hair

falls in glittering masses from beneath her wide-rimmed straw hat. Now

she stops; she seems to be looking for some one. Now her lips open; she

is calling some one. Her form is quite near, but her voice stops over

yonder, a thousand paces distant. The person she calls does not appear

in the field of vision. Now she calls louder, and the listening ear

hears the words, "Dear Ludwig!"

He starts. These words have not come from the phantom of the

object-glass, but from a living being that stands by his side--Marie.

The count sprang to his feet, surprised and embarrassed, unable to say a

word. Marie, however, did not wait for him to speak, but said with eager

inquisitiveness:

"What are you looking at through that great pipe?"

Before Ludwig could turn the glass in another direction, the little maid

had taken his seat, and was gazing, with a wilful smile on her lips,

through the "great pipe."

The smile gradually faded from her lips as she viewed the world revealed

by the telescope--the beautiful woman over yonder amid her flowers, her

form encircled by the nimbus of rainbow hues.

When she withdrew her eye from the glass, her face betrayed the new

emotion which had taken possession of her. The lengthened features, the

half-opened lips, the contracted brows, the half-closed eyes, all these

betrayed--Ludwig was perfectly familiar with the expression--jealousy.

Marie had discovered that there was an enchantingly beautiful woman upon

whose phenomenal charms _her_ Ludwig came up here to feast his eyes. The

faithless one!

Ludwig was going to speak, but Marie laid her hand against his lips, and

turned again to the telescope. The "green-eyed monster" wanted to see

some more!

Suddenly her face brightened; a joyful smile wreathed her lips. She

seized Ludwig's hand, and exclaimed, in a voice that sounded like a sigh

of relief:

"What you told me was true, after all! You did not want to deceive me."

"What do you see?" asked Ludwig.

"I see the water-monster that frightened me. I believed that you

invented a fable and had it printed in that book in order to deceive me.

And now I see the creature over yonder with the beautiful lady. She

called to him, and he came walking on his hands and feet. Now he is

standing upright. How ridiculous the poor thing looks in his red

clothes! He does n't want to keep on his hat, and persists in wanting to

walk on all fours like a poodle. Dear heaven! what a kind lady she must

be to have so much patience with him!"

Then she rose suddenly from the telescope, flung her arms around

Ludwig's neck, and began to sob. Her warm tears moistened the young

man's face; but they were not tears of grief.

Very soon she ceased sobbing, and smiled through her tears.

"I am so thankful I came up here! You will let me come again, won't you,

Ludwig? I will come only when you ask me. And to-morrow we will resume

our swimming excursions. You will come with me in the canoe, won't you?"

Ludwig assented, and the child skipped, humming cheerily, down the tower

stairs; and the whole day long the old castle echoed with her merry

singing.

CHAPTER III

And why should not Baroness Landsknechtsschild take observations with a

telescope, as well as her neighbor at the Nameless Castle?

She could very easily do so unnoticed. From the outside of a house, when

it is light, one cannot see what is going on in a dark room.

This question Count Vavel was given an opportunity to decide.

The astronomical calendar had announced a total eclipse of the moon on a

certain night in July. The moon would enter the shadow at ten o'clock,

and reach full obscuration toward midnight.

Ludwig had persuaded Marie to observe the phenomenon with him; and the

young girl was astonished beyond measure when she beheld for the first

time the full moon through the telescope.

Ludwig explained to her that the large, brilliant circles were extinct

craters; the dark blotches, seas. At that time scientists still accepted

the theory of oceans on the moon. What interested Marie most of all,

however, was the question, "Were there people on the moon?" Ludwig

promised to procure for her the fanciful descriptions of a supposed

journey made to the moon by some naturalists in the preceding century.

Innocent enough reading for a girl of sixteen!

"I wonder what the people are like who live on the moon?"

And Ludwig's mental reply was: "One of them stands here by your side!"

After a while Marie wearied of the heavenly phenomena, and when the hour

came at which she usually went to bed she was overcome by sleep.

In vain Ludwig sought to keep her awake by telling her about the Imbrian

Ocean, and relating the wonders of Mount Aristarchus. Marie could not

keep from nodding, and several times she caught herself dreaming.

"I shall not wait to see the end of the eclipse," she said to Ludwig.

"It is very pretty and interesting, but I am sleepy."

She was yet so much a child that she would not have given up her sweet

slumbers for an eclipse of all the planets of the universe.

Ludwig accompanied her to the door of her apartments, bade her good

night, and returned to the observatory.

Already the disk of the moon was half obscured. Ludwig removed the

astronomical eye-piece from the telescope, and inserted the tellurian

glass instead; then he turned the object-glass toward the neighboring

manor instead of toward the moon. Now, if ever, was the time to find out

if his fair neighbor possessed a telescope. If she had one, she would

certainly be using it now.

It was sufficiently light to enable him to see quite distinctly the

baroness sitting, with two other women, on the veranda. She was

observing the eclipse, but with an opera-glass--a magnifier that

certainly could not reveal very much.

Of this Count Ludwig might rest satisfied. And yet, in spite of the

satisfaction this decision had given him, he continued to observe the

disappearance of the moonlight from the veranda of the manor with far

more attention than he bestowed upon the gradual darkening of the

heavenly luminary itself. Then there happened to the baroness's

companions what had happened to Marie: the women began to nod, whereupon

the baroness sent them to bed. There remained now only the count and his

fair neighbor to continue the astronomical observations. The lady looked

at the moon; the count looked at the lady.

The baroness, as was evident, was thorough in whatever she undertook.

She waited for the full obscuration--until the last vestige of moonlight

had vanished, and only a strange-looking, dull, copper-hued ball hung in

the sky.

The baroness now rose and went into the house. The astronomer on the

castle tower observed that she neglected to close the veranda door.

It was now quite dark; the silence of midnight reigned over everything.

Count Vavel waited in his observatory until the moon emerged from

shadow.

Instead of the moon, something quite different came within the field of

vision.

From the shrubbery in the rear of the manor there emerged a man. He

looked cautiously about him, then signaled backward with his hand,

whereupon a second man, then a third and a fourth, appeared.

Dark as it was, the count could distinguish that the men wore masks, and

carried hatchets in their hands. He could not see what sort of clothes

they wore.

They were robbers.

One of the men swung himself over the iron trellis of the veranda; his

companions waited below, in the shadow of the gate.

The count hastened from his observatory.

First he wakened Henry.

"Robbers have broken into the manor, Henry!"

"The rascals certainly chose a good time to do it; now that the moon is

in shadow, no one will see them," sleepily returned Henry.

"I saw them, and I am going to scare them away."

"We can fire off our guns from here; that will scare them," suggested

Henry.

"Are you out of your senses, Henry? We should frighten Marie; and were

she to learn that there are robbers in the neighborhood, she would want

to go away from here, and you know we are chained to this place."

"Yes; then I don't know what we can do. Shall I go down and rouse the

village?"

"So that you may be called on to testify before a court, and be

compelled to tell who you are, what you are, and how you came here?"

impatiently interposed the count.

"That is true. Then I can't raise an alarm?"

"Certainly not. Do as I tell you. Stop here in the castle, take your

station in front of Marie's door, and I will go over to the manor. Give

me your walking-stick."

"What? You are going after the robbers with a walking-stick?"

"They are only petty thieves; they are not real robbers. Men of this

sort will run when they hear a footstep. Besides, there are only four of

them."

"Four against one who has nothing but a cudgel!"

"In which is concealed a sharp poniard--a very effective weapon at close

quarters," supplemented the count. "But don't stop here talking, Henry.

Fetch the stick, and my driving-coat, into the pocket of which put my

bloodletting instruments. Some one might faint over yonder, and I should

need them."

Henry brought the stick and coat. Only after he had gone some distance

from the castle did Count Vavel notice that some heavy object kept

thumping against his side. The faithful Henry had smuggled a

double-barreled pistol into the pocket of his coat, in addition to the

bloodletting instruments. The count did not take the road which ran

around the cove to the manor, but hurried to the shore, where he sprang

into his canoe, and with a few powerful strokes of the oars reached the

opposite shore. A few steps took him to the manor. His heart beat

rapidly. He had a certain dread of the coming meeting--not the meeting

with the robbers, but with the baroness.

The gates of the manor were open, as was usual in Hungarian manors day

and night. The count crossed the court, and as he turned the corner of

the house there happened what he had predicted: the masked man who was

on watch at the door gave a shrill whistle, then dashed into the

shrubbery. Count Vavel did not give chase to the fleeing thief, but,

swinging his cudgel around his head, ran through the open door into the

hall. Here a lamp was burning. He hurried into the salon, and saw, as he

entered, two more of the robbers jump from the window into the garden.

Count Ludwig hurried on toward the adjoining room, whence came the faint

light of a lamp. The light came from another room still farther on. It

was the sleeping-chamber of the lady of the house. There were no robbers

here, but on the table lay jewelry and articles of silver which had been

emptied from the cases lying about the floor. In an arm-chair which

stood near the bed-alcove reclined a female form, the arms and hands

firmly bound with cords to the chair.

What a beautiful creature! The clinging folds of her dressing-robe

revealed the perfect proportions of her figure. Her hair fell like a

golden cataract to the floor. Modest blushes and joy at her deliverance

made the lovely face even more enchanting when the knightly deliverer

entered the room--a hero who came with a cudgel to do battle against a

band of robbers, and conquered!

"I am Count Vavel," he hastened to explain, cudgel in hand, that the

lady might not think him another robber and fall into a faint.

"Pray release me," in a low tone begged the lady, her cheeks crimsoning

with modest shame when he bent over her to untie the cords.

The task was quickly performed; the count took a knife from his pocket

and cut the cords; then he turned to look for a bell.

"Please don't ring," hastily interposed the baroness. "Don't rouse my

people from their slumbers. The robbers are gone, and have taken

nothing. You came in good time to help me."

"Did the rascals ill-treat you, baroness?"

"They only tied me to this chair; but they threatened to kill me if I

refused to give them money--they were not content to take only my

jewelry. I was about to give them an order to the steward, who has

charge of my money, when your arrival suddenly ended the agreement we

had made."

"Agreement?" repeated the count. "A pretty business, truly!"

"Pray don't speak so loudly; I don't want any one to be alarmed--and

please go into the next room, where you will find my maid, who is also

bound."

Count Vavel went into the small chamber which communicated with that of

the baroness, and saw lying on the bed a woman whose hands and feet were

bound; a handkerchief had been thrust into her mouth. He quickly

released her from the cords and handkerchief; but she did not stir: she

had evidently lost consciousness.

By this time the baroness had followed with a lighted candle. She had

flung a silken shawl about her shoulders, thrust her feet into Turkish

slippers, and tucked her hair underneath a becoming lace cap.

"Is she dead?" she asked, lifting an anxious glance to Ludwig's face.

"No, she is not dead," replied the count, who was attentively scanning

the unconscious woman's face.

"What is the matter with her?" pursued the baroness, with evident

distress.

The count now recognized the woman's face. He had seen her with the lad

who had been his protégé, and who was now a member of the baroness's

household. It was the wife of Satan Laczi.

"No, she is not dead," he repeated; "she has only fainted."

The baroness hastily fetched her smelling-salts, and held them to the

unconscious woman's nostrils.

"Peasant women have strong constitutions," observed the count. "When

such a one loses consciousness a perfume like that will not restore her;

she needs to be bled."

"But good heavens! What are we to do? I can't think of sending for the

doctor now! I don't want him to hear of what has happened here

to-night."

"I understand bloodletting," observed Vavel.

"You, Herr Count?"

"Yes; I have studied medicine and surgery."

"But you have no lance."

"I brought my chirurgic instruments with me."

"Then you thought you might find here some one who had fainted?"

exclaimed the baroness, wonderingly.

"Yes. I shall require the assistance of a maid to hold the woman's arm

while I perform the operation."

"I don't want any of the servants wakened. Can't I--help you?" she

suggested hesitatingly.

"Are not you afraid of the sight of blood, baroness?"

"Of course I am; but I will endure that rather than have one of my maids

see you here at this hour."

"But this one will see me when she recovers consciousness."

"Oh, I can trust this one; she will be silent."

"Then let us make an attempt."

The result of the attempt was, the fainting maid was restored to

consciousness by the skilfully applied lance, while the face of the

assisting lady became deathly pale. Her eyes closed, her lips became

blue. Fortunately, she had a more susceptible nature than her maid. A

few drops of cold water sprinkled on her face, and the smelling-salts,

quickly restored her to consciousness. During these few moments her head

had rested on the young man's shoulder, her form had been supported on

his arm.

"Don't trouble any further about me," she murmured, when she opened her

eyes and saw herself in Vavel's arms; "but attend to that poor woman";

and she hastily rose from her recumbent position.

The woman was shivering with a chill--or was it the result of extreme

terror? If the former, then a little medicine would soon help her; but

if it was terror, there was no remedy for it.

To all questions she returned but the one answer: "Oh, my God! my God!"

The baroness and Count Vavel now returned to the outer room.

"I regret very much, baroness, that you have had an unpleasant

experience like this--here in our peaceful neighborhood, where every one

is so honest that you might leave your purse lying out in the court; no

one would take it."

The baroness laughingly interrupted him:

"The robber adventure amused more than it frightened me. All my life I

have wanted to see a real Hungarian robber, of whom the Viennese tell

such wonderful tales. My wish has been gratified, and I have had a real

adventure--the sort one reads in romances."

"Your romance might have had a sorrowful conclusion," responded Count

Ludwig, seriously.

"Yes--if Heaven had not sent a brave deliverer to my rescue."

"You may well say Heaven sent him," smilingly returned the count; "for

if there had not been an eclipse of the moon to-night, which I was

observing through my telescope, and at the same time taking a look about

the neighborhood, I should not have seen the masked men enter the

manor."

"What!" in astonishment exclaimed the baroness; "you saw the men through

a telescope? Truly, _I_ shall have to be on my guard in future! But,"

she added more seriously, lifting from the table the count's

walking-stick, toward which he had extended his hand, "before you go I

want to beg a favor. Please do not mention the occurrence of this night

to any one. I don't want the authorities to make any inquiries

concerning the attempted robbery."

"That favor I grant most willingly," replied Count Vavel, who had not

the least desire for a legal examination which would require him to tell

who he was, what he was, whence he came, and what he was doing here.

"I can tell you why I don't want the affair known," continued the

baroness. "The woman in yonder is the one of whom I wrote you some time

ago--the wife of Ladislaus Satan, or, as he is called, Satan Laczi.

Should it become known that a robbery was attempted here, the villagers

will say at once, 'It was the wife of the robber Satan Laczi who helped

the men to rob her mistress,' and the poor woman will be sent back to

prison."

"And do you really believe her innocent?"

"I can assure you that she knew nothing about this matter. I shall not

send her away, but, as a proof that I trust her entirely, shall let her

sleep in the room next to mine, and let her carry all my keys!" To

emphasize her declaration, she thumped the floor vigorously with Vavel's

iron-ferruled stick.

Involuntarily the count extended his hand to her. She grasped it

cordially, and, shaking it, added: "Don't speak of our meeting to-night

to any one; I shall not mention it, I can promise you! And now, I will

give you your stick; I am certain some one at home is anxious about you.

God be with you!"

At home Count Vavel found Henry on guard at the door of Marie's room,

his musket cocked, ready for action.

"Did anything happen here?" asked the count. "Did Marie waken?"

"No; but she called out several times in her sleep, and once I heard her

say quite distinctly: 'Ludwig, take care; she will bite!"

* * * * *

Count Vavel could not deny that his fair neighbor had made a very

favorable impression on him. In astronomy she had taken the place of the

moon, in classic literature that of an ideal, and in metaphysics that of

the absolutely good.

He had sufficient command of himself, however, to suppress the desire to

see her again. From that day he did not again turn his telescope toward

the neighboring manor. But to prevent his thoughts from straying there

was beyond his power. These straying thoughts after a while began to

betray themselves in his countenance and in his eyes; and there are

persons who understand how to read faces and eyes.

"Are you troubled about anything, Ludwig?" one day inquired Marie,

after they had been sitting in silence together for a long while.

Ludwig started guiltily.

"Ye-es; I have bad news from abroad."

Such a reply, however, cannot deceive those who understand the language

of the face and eyes.

One afternoon Marie stole noiselessly up to the observatory, and

surprised Ludwig at the telescope.

"Let me see, too, Ludwig. Are you looking at something pretty?"

"Very pretty," answered Ludwig, giving place to the young girl.

Marie looked through the glass, and saw a farm-yard overgrown with

weeds. On an inverted tub near the door of the cottage sat a little old

grandmother teaching her grandchildren how to knit a stocking.

"Then you were not looking at our lovely neighbor," said Marie. "Why

don't you look at her?"

"Because it is not necessary for me to know what she is doing."

Marie turned the telescope toward the manor, and persisted until she had

found what she was looking for.

"How sad she looks!" she said to Ludwig.

But he paid no attention to her words.

"Now it seems as though she were looking straight into my eyes; now she

clasps her hands as if she were praying."

Ludwig said, with pedagogic calmness:

"If you continue to gaze with such intensity through the telescope your

face will become distorted."

Marie laughed. "If I had a crooked mouth, and kept one eye shut, people

would say, 'There goes that ugly little Marie!' Then I should not have

to wear a veil any more."

She distorted her face as she had described, and turned it toward

Ludwig, who said hastily: "Don't--don't do that, Marie."

"Is it not all the same to you whether I am ugly or pretty?" she

retorted. Then, as if to soften the harshness of her words, she added:

"Even if I were ugly, would you love me--as the fakir loves his Brahma?"

* * * * *

Ludwig continued his correspondence with the learned Herr Mercatoris. He

always dictated his letters to Marie. No one in the neighborhood had yet

seen his own writing. Therefore, it would have been impossible for him

to ask the pastor anything relating to the baroness without Marie

knowing it. In one of his letters, however, he inquired how the mother

of the lad he had once had in his care was conducting herself at the

manor, and was informed that the woman had disappeared--and without

leaving any explanation for her conduct--a few days after the eclipse of

the moon. The baroness had been greatly troubled by the woman's going,

but would not consent to having a search made for her, as she had taken

nothing from the manor.

This incident made Count Vavel believe that the woman had secretly

joined the band of robbers, and that there would be another attempt made

sometime to break into the manor.

From that time the count slept more frequently in his observatory than

he did in his bedchamber, where an entire arsenal of muskets and other

firearms were always kept in readiness.

One evening, when he approached the door of his room, he was surprised

to see a light through the keyhole; some one was in the room.

He entered hastily. On the table was a lighted candle, and standing with

his back toward the table was a strange man, clad in a costume unlike

that worn by the dwellers in that neighborhood.

For an instant Count Vavel surveyed the stranger, who was standing

between him and his weapons; then he demanded imperiously:

"Who are you? How came you here, and what do you want?"

"I am Satan Laczi," coolly replied the man.

On hearing the name, Count Vavel sprang suddenly toward the robber, and

seized him by the arms. The fellow's arms were like the legs of a

vulture--nothing but bone and sinew. Count Vavel was an athletic man,

strong and powerful; but had the room been filled with men as strong and

powerful as he, and had they every one hurled themselves upon Satan

Laczi, he would have had no difficulty in defending himself. He had

performed such a feat more than once. This evening, however, he made no

move to defend himself, but looked calmly at his assailant, and said:

"The Herr Count can see that I have no weapons; and yet, there are

enough here, had I wanted to arm myself against an attack. I am not here

for an evil purpose."

The count released his hold on the man's arms, and looked at him in

surprise.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"First, because I want to tell the Herr Count that it was not I who

attempted to rob the baroness, nor were those thieves comrades of mine.

I know that the people around here say it was Satan Laczi; but it

was n't, and I came to tell you so. I confess I have robbed churches;

but the house which has given shelter and food to my poor little lad is

more sacred to me than a church. The people insist that I was guilty of

such baseness because I am Satan Laczi; but the Herr Count, who has

doubtless read a description of my person, can say whether or no it was

I he saw at the manor."

With these words he turned his face toward the light. It was a very

repulsive countenance.

"Do you think there is another face that the description of mine would

fit, Herr Count?" he asked, a certain melancholy softening the

repulsiveness of his features. "But what is the use of such senseless

chatter?" he added hastily. "I am not silly enough to come here seeking

honor and respect--though it does vex me when people say that one man

with a cudgel put to flight Satan Laczi and three of his comrades. I

came here to-night because the Herr Count rescued my poor little lad

from the morass, gave him shelter and food, and even condescended to

teach him. For all this I owe you, Herr Count, and I am come to return

favor for favor. You are thinking: 'How can this robber repay me what he

owes?' I will tell you: by giving you a robber's information. I want to

prove to the Herr Count that the robber--the true robber who understands

his trade--can enter this securely barred castle whenever he is so

minded. The locks on the doors, the bolts on the windows, are no

hindrance to the man who understands his business, and the way _I_ came

in another can come as well. It is said that the Herr Count guards a

great treasure here in this castle. I don't know, and I don't ask, what

this treasure is. If I should find it, I would n't take it from the Herr

Count, and if any one else took it I should try to get it back for him.

But some one may steal in here, as I did, while the Herr Count is

looking at the stars up in the tower, and carry off his carefully

guarded treasure."

Count Vavel gave utterance to a groan of terror; his knees gave way

beneath him; a chill shook his entire frame.

"Marie!" he gasped, forgetting himself.

Then, hastily snatching the candle from the table, he rushed

frantically toward the young girl's sleeping-chamber, leaving Satan

Laczi alone in his room.

Since he had ceased guarding Marie's door at night by sleeping on the

lounge in her room, he had cautioned her to lock the door before

retiring. Now he found the door open.

Breathless with fear, the count sprang toward the alcove and flung back

the bed-curtains. The little maid was sleeping peacefully, her face

resting against her arm. Her favorite cat was lying at her feet, and on

the floor by the bedside lay the two pugs. But the door of the

wall-cupboard in which was hidden the steel casket stood wide open, and

on the casket was a singular toy--a miniature human figure turning a

spinning-wheel.

For an instant Count Vavel's heart ceased beating. Here was sufficient

proof that the maid, together with the steel casket, might have been

carried away during his absence.

He took the curious image, which was molded of black bread, and returned

to his room.

As he crossed the threshold, Satan Laczi pointed to the toy and said:

"I left it on the casket as a remembrance in exchange for the little

stockings some one in this house knit for my little lad. We learn to

make such things in prison, where time hangs heavily on one's hands."

"But how did you manage to open the door when it was locked and the key

inside?" inquired the count.

Satan Laczi showed him the tools which he used to turn keys from the

outside.

"Any burglar can open a door from the outside if the key is left in the

lock, Herr Count. Only those doors can be securely locked which have no

keyholes outside."

"I have no idea how that could be arranged," said Count Vavel.

"I am acquainted with a jack of all trades here in the neighborhood who

could make such a door for you if I told him how to make it. He is a

carpenter, locksmith, and clock-maker, all in one person."

The count shook his head wonderingly. The robber was to direct the

locksmith how to fashion a lock that no one could open!

"Shall I send the man to the castle?" asked Satan Laczi.

"Yes; if the fellow is sensible, and does not chatter."

"But he is a fool that never knows when to stop talking. But he talks

only on one subject, so you need not be afraid to employ him. He

understands everything you tell him, will do just as you say, but will

not talk about what he is doing for you. There is only one subject on

which he will chatter, and that is, how Napoleon might be beaten. He is

continually talking about stratagems, infernal machines, and how to win

a battle. On this subject he is crazy. He will make doors for the Herr

Count that can't be opened, and tell everybody else only how to make

infernal machines, and how to build fortifications."

"Very good; then send him to me."

"But--I must say something else, Herr Count--no matter how secure your

locks may be, that treasure is best guarded against robbers which is

kept in the room you sleep in. A man of courage is worth a hundred

locks. I am not talking without a purpose when I say the Herr Count must

look after his treasure. I know more than I say, and Satan Laczi is not

the greatest robber in the world. Be on your guard!"

"I thank you."

"Does the Herr Count still believe that it was I and my comrades who

broke into the manor?"

"No; I am convinced that it was not you."

"Then my mission here is accomplished--"

"Not yet," interposed the count, stepping to a cupboard, and taking from

it a straw-covered bottle and a goblet. "Here,"--filling the goblet and

handing it to the robber,--"he who comes to my house as a guest must not

quit it without a parting glass."

"A strange guest, indeed!" responded the robber, taking the proffered

glass. "I came without knocking for admittance. But I performed a

masterpiece to-day; the Herr Count will find it out soon enough! I do

not drink to your welfare Herr Count, for my good wishes don't go for

much in heaven!"

The count seated himself at the table, and said: "Don't go just yet, my

friend; I want to give you a few words of advice. I believe you are a

good man at heart. Quit your present mode of life, which will ultimately

lead you--"

"Yes, I know--to the gallows and to hell," interposed the robber.

"Take up some trade," pursued the count. "I will gladly assist you to

become an honest man. I will lend you the money necessary to begin work,

and you can pay me when you have succeeded. Surely honest labor is the

best."

"I thank you for the good advice, Herr Count, but it is too late. I know

very well what would be best for me; but, as I said, it is too late now.

There was a time when I would gladly have labored at my trade,--for I

have one,--but no one would tolerate me because of my repulsive face.

From my childhood I have been an object of ridicule and abuse. My father

was well-born, but he died in a political prison, and I was left

destitute with this hideous face. No one would employ me for anything

but swine-herd; and even then luck was against me, for if anything went

wrong with a litter of pigs, I was always blamed for the mishap, and

sent about my business. Count Jharose gave me a job once; it was a

ridiculous task, but I was glad to get any kind of honest work. I had to

exercise the count's two tame bears--promenade with them through the

village. The bears' fore paws were tied about their necks, so that they

were obliged to walk on their hind feet, and I had to walk between them,

my hands resting on a fore leg of each animal, as if I were escorting

two young women. When we promenaded thus along the village street, the

people would laugh and shout: 'There go Count Jharose's three tame

bears.' At last I got out of the way of doing hard work, and got used to

being ridiculed by all the world. But I had not yet learned to steal.

The bears grew fat under my care. I was given every day two loaves of

bread to feed to them. One day I saw, in a wretched hut at the end of

the village, a poor woman and her daughter who were starving. From that

day the bears began to grow thin; for I stole one of the loaves of bread

and gave it to the poor women, who were glad enough to get it, I can

tell you! But the steward found out my theft, and I was dismissed from

the count's service. The poor women were turned out of their miserable

hut. The mother froze to death,--for it was winter then,--and the

daughter was left on my hands. We got a Franciscan monk, whom we met in

the forest, to marry us--which was a bad move for the girl, for no one

would employ her, because she was my wife. So the forest became our

home, hollow trees our shelter; and what a friend an old tree can

become! Well, to make a long story short, necessity very soon taught me

how to take what belonged to others. I got used to the vagrant life. I

could not sleep under a roof any more. I could n't live among men, and

pull off my hat to my betters. When the little lad came into the world,

I said to my wife: 'Do you quit the forest, and look for work in some

village. Don't let the little one grow up to become a thief.' She did as

I bade her; but the people who hired her always found out that she was

the wife of Satan Laczi, and then they would not keep her, and she would

have to come back to me in the forest. And that is where I shall end my

days--in the forest. I am not good for anything any more; I could n't

even plow a furrow any more. I shall end on the gallows--I feel it. I

should have liked the life of a soldier, but they never would take me;

they always said I would disgrace any regiment to which I might belong.

Yes, I would rather have been a soldier than anything else; but what is

not to be will not be! I shall keep to my forest. I am obliged to the

Herr Count for his good wishes and this delicious brandy."

The robber placed the empty glass on the table, took up his hat, and

walked with heavy steps toward the door. Here he halted to say:

"I must tell you that the touch-holes of all your firearms are filled

with wax. Have them cleaned, or you will not be able to shoot with

them."

The count rose, and hastened to convince himself that this statement was

true. He found that his firearms had indeed been rendered useless; the

robber had taken good care to protect himself from an attack. When Vavel

looked around again, Satan Laczi had disappeared.

CHAPTER IV

The afternoon of the following day, Henry entered the count's study to

announce that a crazy person was below, who insisted on speaking to the

lord of the castle. The stranger said he had invented a cannon that

would at one shot destroy fifteen hundred men. He would take no denial,

but insisted that Henry should tell the Herr Count that Master Matyas

had arrived.

"Yes; I sent for him to come here," answered the count. "Show him up."

The appearance of the man whom Henry conducted to his master's presence

was certainly original. He wore a costume unlike any prevailing fashion.

His upper garment was so made that it might be worn either as a coat or

a mantle; if sleeves were desired there were sleeves, and none if none

were required. Even his shoes were inventions of his own, for no regular

shoemaker could have fashioned them. He held between the fingers of his

right hand a bit of lead-pencil, with which he would illustrate what he

described on the palm of his left hand.

"You come in good time, Master Matyas," said the count.

"Yes--yes. If only I had been in good time at the battle of Marengo!"

sighed the singular man.

"Too late now for regrets of that sort, Master Matyas," smilingly

responded Count Vavel. "Facts cannot be changed! I have a task for you

which I desire to have completed as quickly as possible. Come, and I

will show you what I want you to do."

It was the hour Marie spent in her garden; consequently the count was at

liberty to conduct the jack of all trades to the young girl's apartment,

and explain what he wished to have done.

Master Matyas listened attentively to what the count said, and took the

necessary measurements. When he had done so, he turned toward his

patron, and said in a serious tone:

"Do you know why we lost the battle of Marengo? Because General

Gvozdanovics, when Napoleon's cavalry made that famous assault, was not

clever enough to order three men into every tree on that long

avenue--two of the men to load the muskets, while the third kept up a

continual fire. The French horsemen could not have ridden up the trees,

and the entire troop of cavalry would have dropped under the continuous

fire! The general certainly should have commanded: 'Half battalion--half

left! Up the trees--forward!'"

"That is true, Master Matyas," assented Count Vavel; "but I should like

to know if you fully understand what I want you to do, and if you can do

it?"

Master Matyas's face brightened suddenly. "I 'll tell you what, Herr

Count; if I succeed in doing what you want, I shall be able, if ever

Napoleon makes another attack on us, to pen him up, with his entire

army, so securely that he won't be able to stir!"

"I have no doubt of that!" again assented the count. "What I want,

however, is a secure barrier that cannot be opened from the outside.

Pray understand me. I want this barrier made in such a manner that the

person within the barricade will have sufficient light and air, but be

invisible to any one outside, and be perfectly secure from intruders.

Could not you let me have a little drawing of what you propose to do?"

"Certainly"; and taking a small sketch-book from his pocket, Master

Matyas proceeded to do as he was requested--first, however, explaining

to the count a drawing of the cannon which would mow down at one shot

fifteen hundred men. "You see," he explained, "here are two cannon

welded together at the breech, with their muzzles ten degrees apart. But

one touch-hole suffices for both. The balls are connected by a long

chain, and when the cannon are fired off, the balls naturally fly in

opposite directions and forward at the same time, and, stretching the

chain, mow off the heads of every man jack with whom it comes in

contact! Fire! Boom! Heads off!"

The count was perfectly satisfied with Master Matyas. He had found a man

who fully understood his business, and who knew how to hold his tongue

on all subjects but on that of his infernal machines, and of his

stratagems to defeat Napoleon. For two weeks Master Matyas labored

diligently at his task in the Nameless Castle, during which time Henry

heard so much about warlike stratagems that his sides ached from the

continued laughter. But when the villagers questioned Master Matyas

about his work at the castle, they could learn nothing from him but

schemes to capture the ever-victorious Corsican.

"Herr Count," one day observed Henry, toward the close of the second

week, "if I hear much more of Master Matyas's wonderful battles, I shall

become as crazy as he is!"

And the count replied:

"You are crazy already, my good Henry--and so am I!"

At last the task was completed. Count Vavel was satisfied with the work

Master Matyas had performed, and it only remained for Marie to express

herself satisfied with the arrangement which would barricade her every

night as securely as were the treasures of the "green vault" in Dresden.

A few days afterward was Marie's sixteenth birthday. Count Vavel had

come to her apartments, as usual, to congratulate her, and to hear what

her birthday wish might be. But the young girl, whose sparkling eyes had

become veiled with melancholy, whose red lips had already learned to

express sadness, had no commands to give to-day.

After dinner the count, on some pretence, detained Marie in the library

while Master Matyas completed his task in her room.

This masterpiece was a peculiar curtain composed of small squares of

steel so joined together that light and air could easily penetrate the

screen. It was fitted between the two marble columns which supported the

arch of the bed-alcove. When the metal curtain was lowered, by means of

a cord, two springs in the floor caught and held it so securely that it

could not be lifted from the outside. To raise the screen the person in

the alcove had only to touch a secret spring near the bed, when the

screen would roll up of itself.

"And hast thou no wish this year, Marie?" asked the count, adopting, as

usual on this anniversary, the familiar "thou."

"Yes, I have one, dear Ludwig," replied the young girl, but with no

brightening of the melancholy features. "I have lost something, but thou

canst not give it back to me."

"And what may this something be? What hast thou lost, Marie? Tell me."

"My former sweet, sound sleep! and thou canst not buy me another in

Vienna or Paris. I used to sleep so soundly. I used to be so fond of my

sweet slumber that I could hardly wait to say my prayers, and often I

would be in dreamland long before I got to the 'Amen.' And if by any

chance I awoke in the night and heard the clock strike, I would beg of

it not to hurry along the hours so fast--I did not want morning to come

so soon! But now that I have to sleep with locked doors, I lie awake

often until midnight--terrified by I know not what. I dread to be so

entirely alone when everything is so quiet; and when it is dark I feel

as if some one were stealthily creeping about my room. When I hear a

noise I wonder what it can be, and my heart beats so rapidly! Then I

draw the covers over my head to shut out all sound, and if I fall asleep

thus I have such disagreeable dreams that I am glad when I waken again."

Count Vavel gently took the young girl's hand in his.

"Suppose I could restore to thee thy former sweet slumber, Marie?

Suppose I take up my old quarters on the lounge by the door?"

The young girl gazed into his eyes as if she would penetrate his very

soul. Then she said sorrowfully: "No, dear Ludwig; that would not

restore my slumber."

"Then suppose I have thought of something that will? Come with me, and

see."

She laid her hand on his arm, and went with him to her room.

Ludwig conducted her into the alcove, and stepped outside.

"Draw the cord which hangs at the head of the bed," he said, smiling at

her wondering face.

Marie did as he bade her, and the metal screen unrolled, and was caught

in the springs in the floor.

"Oh, how wonderful!" she exclaimed in amazement. "I am a prisoner in my

own alcove."

"Only so long as you care to remain in your prison," returned Count

Vavel. "No one can lift the screen from this side; but if you will press

your foot on the little brass button in the floor at the foot of the

column to your left, you will be at liberty again."

The next instant Master Matyas's handiwork was rolled up to the ceiling.

Marie was filled with delight and astonishment.

"There is another work of art connected with this wonderful mechanism,"

said the count, after Marie had rolled and unrolled the screen several

times. "The cord which releases the screen rings a bell in my room. When

I hear the bell I shall know that you have retired; then I shall bring

my books and papers into your room out yonder, and continue my work

there. Only enough light will penetrate the screen to the alcove to

prevent utter darkness. You will not need to be afraid hereafter, and

perhaps the sweet, sound sleep will return to you."

Marie did not offer to kiss her guardian for this birthday gift. She

merely held out both hands, and gave his a clasp that was so close and

warm that it said more than words or kisses. She waited impatiently for

evening to test the working of her wonderful screen. She did not amuse

herself with her cards, as usual, but went to bed at ten o'clock. At the

same moment that the screen unrolled and was caught by the springs in

the floor, Count Ludwig's footsteps were heard in the corridor. In one

hand he carried a two-branched candlestick, in the other his pistol-case

and ink-horn. His pen was between his lips; his books and papers were

held under his arm. He seated himself at a table, and resumed his

studies.

Marie would have been untrue to her sex had she not watched him for

several minutes through her metal screen--watched and admired the superb

head, supported on one hand as he bent intently over his book, the

broad brow, the classical nose, the chin and lips of an Achilles--all as

motionless as if they had been molded in bronze. A true hero--a hero who

battled with the most powerful demons of earth, the human passions, and

conquered. From that day Marie found her old sweet sleep again.

The second day Marie's curiosity prompted her to signal to Ludwig half

an hour earlier. He heard, and came as readily at half-past nine

o'clock. And then the little maid (like all indulged children) abused

her privileges: she signaled at nine o'clock, and at last at eight

o'clock--retiring with the birds in order to test if Ludwig would obey

the signal.

He always came promptly when the falling screen summoned him.

And then Marie said to herself:

"He loves me. He loves me very much--as the fakir loves his Brahma, as

the Carthusian loves his sainted Virgin. That is how he loves me!"

PART V

ANGE BARTHELMY

CHAPTER I

So far as Marie's safety from robbers was concerned, Count Vavel might

now rest content. Satan Laczi's advice had been obeyed to the letter.

But how about Baroness Landsknechtsschild? Danger still threatened her.

Count Vavel was seriously concerned about his fair neighbor, and

wondered how he might communicate his extraordinary discovery to her.

What could he do to warn her of the danger which still threatened her?

Should he call in person at the manor, and tell her of his interview

with Satan Laczi?

A propitious chance came to Count Vavel's aid in his perplexity.

One afternoon the sound of a trumpet drew him to his window. On looking

out, he beheld a division of cavalry riding along the highway toward the

village. They were dragoons, as their glistening helmets indicated.

When the troop drew near to the village, the band struck up a lively

mazurka, and to this spirited march the soldiers made their entry into

Fertöszeg. Ludwig could see through his telescope how the men were

quartered in the houses in the village; and in the evening, after the

retreat had been sounded, he also saw that the windows of the hitherto

unused wing of the manor were brilliantly illuminated. Evidently the

officers in command of the troop had taken up their quarters there,

which was proper. The armed guard on duty at the manor gates verified

this supposition.

Count Vavel might now feel perfectly sure that no robbers would attempt

to break into the manor; they were too cunning to come prowling about a

place where cavalry officers were quartered.

And with the arrival of the troop another danger had been averted. Now

Baroness Katharina would not break into the Nameless Castle and despoil

Count Vavel of something which Satan Laczi could not, with all his

cunning, have restored to him--his heart!

Count Ludwig did not trouble himself further about the manor. He was

convinced that enough gallant cavalrymen were over yonder to entertain

the fair mistress, so that she would no longer wait for any more

tiresome philosophizing from him.

Every evening he could hear the band playing on the veranda of the

manor, and very often, too, the merry dance-music, which floated from

the open windows until a late hour of the night. They were enjoying

themselves over yonder, and they were right in so doing.

How did all this concern him?

In one respect, however, the soldiers taking up their quarters in

Fertöszeg concerned him: they exercised daily on the same road over

which it was his custom to take his daily drive with Marie. In order to

avoid meeting them, he was obliged to change the hour to noon, when the

soldiers would be at dinner.

Several days after the arrival of the troop at Fertöszeg, the officer in

command paid a visit at the Nameless Castle--a courtesy required from

one who was familiar with the usages of good society. At the door,

however, he was told by the groom that Count Vavel was not at home. He

left his card, which Henry at once delivered to his master, who was in

his study.

The card bore the name:

"Vicomte Leon Barthelmy, K. K., Colonel of Cavalry."

Count Vavel tried to remember where he had heard the name before, but

without success. He quieted his dread which this act of ceremony had

aroused in him by the thought that it contained no further significance

than the conventional courtesy which a stranger felt himself called upon

to pay to a resident.

The call would, of course, have to be returned. From his observatory

Count Vavel informed himself at what hour the colonel betook himself to

the exercise-ground, and chose that time to make his visit. Naturally he

found the colonel absent, and left a card for him. A few days afterward

Colonel Barthelmy again alighted from his horse at the door of the

Nameless Castle, and again met with a disappointment--the Herr Count was

not at home to visitors; he was engaged, and had given orders not to be

disturbed.

Again the troop's commander left his card, determining to remain indoors

at the manor until the return visit had been paid, which would have to

be done within twenty-four hours if no rudeness were intended.

He was not a little astonished to find, on returning to the manor, that

Count Vavel had left a card for him with the porter. Such promptness

perplexed the colonel. How had the count managed to reach the manor

before he did? The porter informed him that the gentleman from the

Nameless Castle had rowed across the cove, which was a much shorter way

than by the carriage-road around the shore.

The colonel now determined to prove that he was an obstinate and

persistent admirer of the occupant of the Nameless Castle. He paid a

third visit at eight o'clock the next evening. This time Henry informed

the visitor that the count had gone to bed.

"Is he ill?" inquired the colonel.

"No; this is his usual hour for retiring."

"But how can a man who is not ill go to bed at eight o'clock?"

And again he handed Henry a card.

This visit Count Vavel returned the next morning at three o'clock. At

this hour, as may be supposed, every soul in the manor was still sound

asleep. Only the guards on watch at the gate demanded: "Halt! Who comes

there?"

On learning that the intruder was a "friend," they allowed him to waken

the porter, who thrust his frowzy head from the half-open door to ask,

in surprise, what was wanted.

"Is the Herr Colonel at home?" inquired Count Vavel.

"Yes, your lordship; but he is in bed."

"Is he ill?"

"No, your lordship; but he is in bed, of course, at this hour."

"Why, how can a man who is not ill stay in bed until three o'clock?"

The count turned over a corner of his card, and handed it to the porter.

This, at last, the colonel understood, and left no more cards at the

Nameless Castle.

* * * * *

The officers quartered at the manor were agreeable companions. Vicomte

Leon Barthelmy was a true courtier, a brave soldier, an entertaining

comrade, and a generous master. Even his enemies would have admitted

that his manners were irresistible in the salon, as well as on the

battle-field. Every one knew that Colonel Barthelmy was a married

man--that he had a wife with whom, however, he did not live, but from

whom he had not been divorced.

Susceptible feminine hearts did not risk a flirtation with the

fascinating soldier, being forewarned by the canonical laws of the

church, which forbade more intimate relations. There was no need to fear

for so prudent and discreet a woman as the Baroness Katharina

Landsknechtsschild. Her principles were very sound, and firmly grounded.

She permitted no familiarities beyond a certain limit, but made no coy

pretence of avoiding innocent amusements. Her affable treatment of the

officers was easily explained. She had not received the gentlemen

residing in the neighborhood, because they would very soon have visited

the manor with a special object--they would have come as suitors for her

hand. She would have been compelled to reject such offers, and would

have given rise to all sorts of gossip. Moreover, these country magnates

were tiresome persons; for, when they were once gathered about a

gaming-table, the four ladies in a pack of cards engrossed so much of

their attention that they had no thought for any of the living women

about them.

The sons of Mars, on the contrary, were devoted entirely to the service

of the fair sex. Many of the officers' wives accompanied the regiment,

and these helped to make up the quadrille, the mazurka, the redowa,--at

that time the latest dance,--and every day saw a merry gathering of

revelers.

One day there would be a series of entertaining games; another day there

would be a play on a hastily improvised stage, in which the baroness

herself would take a part, and win well-deserved applause by her

graceful and artistic acting.

There were several skilled amateur jugglers among the merry company, who

would give performances _à la_ Bosko and Philadelphia; and others would

delight the audience with the wonderful scenes of a magic lantern.

Once the baroness arranged a chase, and herself joined in the hunt after

the pheasants and deer on her estate, proving herself a skilled Amazon

in the saddle and in the management of her rifle. Then, the officers

improvised a horse-race; and once they even got up a circus, in which

all look part.

Count Vavel, in his tower, was an interested spectator of many of these

amusements. There had been a time when he, too, had taken part in and

enjoyed just such sports. He was a lover of the chase and of

horse-racing. No one knew better than he the keen delights of a clean

vault over ditches and hedges. If only he might join the merry company

down yonder, _he_ could show them some riding!

And as for hunting? He could spend whole days on the mountains,

clambering after the fleet-footed chamois, following the larger game

through morass and forest. He had grown up amid exhilarating sports such

as these.

And the dance-music! How alluring were the strains! and how often

through the day he found himself humming the melodies which had floated

to him from the open windows of the manor! Once he, too, had taken

pleasure in jesting with fair women until their white shoulders would

shake with merry laughter. And all this he must look upon and hear at a

distance, since he had made himself his own jailer!

* * * * *

During these weeks Marie was very restless. The sound of the trumpets

startled her; the unusual noises terrified her. She whose nightly

slumbers had been guarded from the barking of dogs and the crowing of

fowls now was obliged to listen half the night to clarionet, horn, and

piccolo, and to wonder what these people could be doing that they kept

their music going until such late hours.

One circumstance, however, reconciled Marie to the excitement of these

days: Ludwig spent more time with her; and though his face was as stern

as ever, she could not detect in it the melancholy which cannot be

concealed from the eyes of the woman who can look into the depths, of

the soul.

CHAPTER II

At last, one day late in the autumn, Count Vavel received from his

correspondent, Herr Mercatoris, the information that the dragoon

regiment was going to change its quarters, and that the departure from

Fertöszeg would be celebrated by various amusements, among them a

regatta with colored lanterns on the lake and magnificent fireworks on

the shore.

"We shall manage somehow to live through it," was the count's mental

comment on the news. He knew Marie's horror of fire--how she suffered

with terror when she saw a conflagration, no matter how distant. She was

even afraid of the rockets and paper dragons which were used at the

celebration at the conclusion of the grape harvest every year. On the

evening of the merrymaking Marie was afraid to go to bed. She begged

Ludwig to close the blinds and to read to her in a loud voice, so that

she might not see the light of the fireworks or hear the tumult on the

lake shore. That which amused the revellers at the manor was a terror

for this timid child.

And that they were amusing themselves over at the manor was beyond a

doubt. The program for the evening's entertainment was a varied one.

Colonel Barthelmy was in the gayest of humors. The surprise of the

evening was to conclude the entertainment, and was called on the program

"The Militiaman." Every one in the audience expected that Colonel

Barthelmy, who had arranged this part of the entertainment, would

produce something extremely amusing. The reality surpassed all

expectations.

The figure conducted on to the stage by the colonel was no other than

the little water-monster, Baroness Katharina's protégé. He was clad in

the uniform of a soldier, with a wooden sword and gun, a hat decorated

with crane-feathers, a canteen at his side, and a knapsack on his back.

An enormous false mustache extended from ear to ear, and a short-stemmed

pipe was thrust between his lips.

"This, gentlemen and ladies, is a militiaman." The colonel was

interrupted by a burst of merriment from his audience. Even the baroness

laughed immoderately, but suppressed it hastily when she remembered the

telescope on the tower of the Nameless Castle.

"Poor little fellow!" she murmured, with difficulty keeping her face

straight.

"Attention!" called the colonel, snapping the whip he held in his hand.

"What does the militiaman do when he is in a good humor?"

A bagpipe behind the curtain now began to play a familiar air, whereupon

the little monster first touched his finger to his hat, then slapped his

thighs with both hands, and lifted first one foot, then the other.

The baroness hid with her fan that side of her face which was toward the

neighboring castle, and joined in the uproarious laughter.

"You see, gracious baroness," continued the colonel, "that I have

accomplished what I determined I would do--made quite a man of the

little fellow."

He snapped his whip again, and called sharply:

"Now let the militiaman show us what he does when he is in an ill

humor."

The bagpipe struck up a different air. The dwarf muttered something

unintelligible into his mustache, and grimaced hideously. Then he took

from his tobacco-pouch flint, tinder, and steel, and struck fire in the

proper manner; he thrust the burning tinder into his pipe, and pressed

it down with his finger.

Tremendous applause rewarded this exhibition.

"Do you see, gracious baroness, what a complete man he is become? He can

even strike fire and light a pipe!"

By this time the gnome began to understand that his antics amused the

audience, and he, too, enjoyed them. For the first time an emotion was

expressed on his stolid countenance; but it was not an agreeable

transformation. The corners of his mouth widened until they reached his

ears, which stood still farther out from his head; he closed one eye,

and opened the other to its farthest extent; and pressing the stem of

his pipe more firmly between his teeth, he blew the smoke and fire from

the bowl like a miniature volcano. The thicker the smoke and sparks came

from the pipe, the more furious became the strange creature's glee,

while the entire company shouted and clasped their hands. Even the

colonel himself was amazed at the performance of his dull pupil.

"Why have we not a Hogarth among us to perpetuate this caricature?" he

exclaimed delightedly.

"Horrible! I cannot bear to look at him," said the baroness, holding her

fan in front of her face. "Pray take him away, Herr Colonel--take him

away."

"Presently. Ho, there, my little man! What does the militiaman do when

he sees the enemy?"

The whip snapped, and the bagpipe set up a discordant shriek, upon which

the actor sprang with one bound from the stage, and vanished behind the

curtain, wooden sword and gun clattering after him, while the audience

showered applause on the successful instructor.

"Herr Colonel," observed the baroness, when quiet had been restored, "I

am very much afraid that your instructions will cause me some trouble in

the future."

"Why, how so?" in surprise questioned the colonel.

"You have taught a wild creature to kindle a fire, and thus aroused in

him a dangerous passion. His desire to amuse himself with the dangerous

element will develop into a mania, and he will end by setting fire to

houses and other buildings."

"I will tell you what to do, baroness. In order that the little monster

may not play his tricks about here, give him to me; I will take him with

me."

"No; I had rather keep him here. I shall take good care, however, that

he does not get hold of tinder and flint, and have him constantly

watched. You have quite ruined my system of education. _I_ taught him to

kneel and fold his hands to the music of the organ; _you_ taught him to

dance and grimace to the drone of the bagpipe. You have even accustomed

him to drink wine, which is unchristian."

The company laughed at this harmless anger.

Then came the fireworks.

When the Roman candles and the fire-wheels illumined the darkness, it

became impossible to control the little monster. He rushed into the

thickest of the rain of fire, and tried to catch the red and blue stars

in his hands. The sparks burned holes in his clothes, and he would not

have escaped a severe burning himself had not some one thrown a pail of

water over him. It was impossible to restrain him. He struck out with

hands and feet, and bit at any one who attempted to prevent him from

running into the fire. Suddenly a rocket shot in an oblique direction,

and dropped into the lake. When the human beast saw this he uttered a

yell, and dashed into the water. He thought that the beautiful fire

belonged to him because it had fallen into his lake, and he went to hunt

for it. He did not return. The baroness had search made for him; but he

knew so well how to escape his pursuers that he was not seen again at

the manor.

The next morning, while yet the stars were glittering in the sky, the

trumpets sounded the departure of the regiment.

The sounds were familiar to Count Vavel. Even yet, when the blare of

trumpets roused him from sleep, he felt as if he must hasten to the

stable, saddle his horse, and buckle on his sword. But those days were

past. His trusty war-horse had become used to the carriage-pole, and the

keen Toledo blades were drawn from their scabbards only when they were

to be oiled to prevent the rust from corroding them.

The departure of the troops removed one care from Count Ludwig's mind:

the noise and turmoil would cease, and peace would again return to the

silent neighborhood.

One morning when Frau Schmidt brought her basket, as usual, to the

castle, there was a letter in it for the count. He recognized the hand

at once; it was from his fair neighbor at the manor.

"HERR COUNT: As I have something of the utmost importance to

communicate to you, I beg that you will receive a call from me this

morning before you take your usual drive. Answer when it will be

convenient for you to see me."

What did it mean? Something of the utmost importance? Why could she not

have asked him to come to the manor? The count was puzzled. And how was

he to answer this most singular request? He could not write it himself;

was it not said that he was unable to hold a pen? He could not dictate

the letter to Marie appointing a meeting with the baroness. Henry was a

very shrewd fellow, but he had never learned to write.

At last Count Vavel bethought him of an expedient. He marked on the back

of his card the Roman numerals XI, and trusted that the baroness would

understand that she was expected at eleven o'clock. When the appointed

hour drew near, curiosity began to torture the count. He could not wait

indoors, but hurried into the park, where he paced restlessly to and fro

amid the fallen leaves.

He listened anxiously to every sound, and consulted his watch every few

minutes. At last the gate bell rang. He hastened to admit the visitor,

and found that the baroness had understood his reply. He recognized her

figure, for the face was closely veiled. She wore a pale-blue silk gown

with wide sleeves--Marie's favorite costume.

"It is I, Herr Count," she said in a low tone, looking anxiously about

her.

"How did you come? I did not hear the carriage," said Count Vavel.

"I rowed across the cove--alone, because no one must know that I came.

Can any one see us here?"

"No one."

"We need not go into the house," she continued; "I can tell you here why

I came."

Ludwig was more and more perplexed. He had believed the baroness wished

to enter the Nameless Castle out of curiosity.

"My visit," pursued the lady, "has as little conventionality about it as

had yours. The magnitude of the danger which prompted yours must also

excuse mine; I am come to repay the debt I owe you."

"Danger?" repeated the count.

"Yes; danger threatens you--and some one else! Let us come farther into

the park, that no one may by a possible chance overhear me."

When they had reached a sheltered spot the lady again spoke:

"Do you know anything about Colonel Barthelmy?"

"I received the cards he left here when he called," indifferently

replied Count Vavel.

"You certainly have heard more about him," returned the baroness, a

trifle impatiently. "His domestic troubles were in all the

newspapers--it was a _cause célèbre_. He was a major in the French army,

under the Directory, but entered our service when the Empire was

established. The domestic troubles I referred to occurred while he was

still in France. His young and beautiful wife ran away with another

man--a man who is unknown to Barthelmy, who is pursuing the fugitives

over the whole world--"

"Ah! I remember now reading something about it. That is why his name

seemed familiar to me."

"I thought you must have heard something about him," responded the

baroness, in a peculiar tone. Then, with a sudden movement, she seized

his hand and whispered:

"And you are the unknown who abducted Colonel Barthelmy's wife."

"I?" in boundless amazement ejaculated the count. Then he laughed

heartily.

"Yes, you; and you are living here in seclusion with the lovely woman

whose face no one is permitted to see."

Ludwig ceased laughing, and replied very seriously; "Gracious baroness,

were I the person you believe me to be, I should have been glad to meet

the man who compelled me to live here in seclusion. A skilful

sword-thrust or a well-aimed bullet would have released me from this

prison."

"And yet, everybody believes Count Vavel to be Ange Barthelmy's lover,"

responded the baroness.

"Do _you_ believe it, baroness?"

"I? Perhaps--not. But Colonel Barthelmy believes it all the more firmly

because you refused to see him."

"And suppose he had seen me?"

"He would have asked you to introduce him to your--family."

"Then he would have learned that I have no family."

"But you could not have refused to tell him what relation you bear to

the lady at the castle."

"My answer would have been very brief had he asked the question," was

the count's grim response.

"I know what men mean by a 'brief' answer; the result is usually fatal."

"And does your ladyship imagine that I fear such a result?"

"So far as courage is concerned, I should not give any one precedence to

Count Vavel. A regular duel, however, requires more than courage.

Colonel Barthelmy is a soldier by profession; you are a philosopher who

lives amid his studies, and whose right hand is unable to hold a pen,

let alone a sword or a pistol!"

Count Vavel was touched on the spot where men are most susceptible.

"Who can tell whether I have always been a studious hermit?" he demanded

proudly. "Besides, might it not be that my hand is unable only when I

don't want to use it?"

"That may be," retorted the lady. "But Barthelmy, who is perfectly

insane on the subject of his wife's infamy, would have the advantage of

you. He is suspicious of every stranger; and of all the gossip which

environs you, the legend of that elopement is the mildest."

"Indeed? This is very flattering! Probably I am also said to be a

counterfeiter?"

"I am not jesting, Herr Count. While Colonel Barthelmy was my guest I

was able to prevent him from taking any aggressive steps toward you;

this is why you did not hear from him again after his last call on

you--"

"I certainly am greatly indebted to you," interrupted Count Vavel, with

visible irony.

"You owe me no thanks, Herr Count. When a woman tries to prevent a

quarrel between two men, she does so, believe me, out of pure self-love.

The emotions which electrify your nerves torment ours. I could not have

continued to live here had a tragic occurrence made the place memorable.

That is why I prevented an encounter between you and the colonel; so you

need not thank me. However, the evening before the regiment took its

departure the colonel said to me: 'I have kept my word to you, baroness;

but to-morrow I cease to be your guest. I shall take steps then to learn

if the mysterious lady at the Nameless Castle be Ange Barthelmy or some

one else.'"

At these words a deep flush crimsoned Count Vavel's face. "I should like

to know how he proposes to settle that question?" he said, in a voice

that trembled with suppressed rage.

"I will tell you. Just listen to the ridiculous plan which the man

betrayed in his fury. He is quartered in the neighboring village to the

edge of which you and a certain person drive every day. He is going to

rise, with several friends, along the road; and when he meets your

carriage, he is going to stop it, introduce himself, and demand if the

lady by your side be Mme. Ange Barthelmy."

Count Vavel clenched his hands and closed his lips tightly. After a

brief struggle he regained command of himself, and said quietly:

"I shall, of course, reply: 'On my word as a man of honor, this lady is

not Ange Barthelmy.'"

"But if that does not satisfy him? Suppose he should insist on seeing

the lady? Suppose he even attempts to lift the lady's veil?"

"Then he dies!" The count gave utterance to these words in a tone that

sounded more like the growl of a lion that has the neck of his prey

between his teeth.

"He is capable, in his present mood, of doing anything rash," murmured

the baroness, with an expression of terror in her eyes.

"And I am capable of an equally rash act," responded the count.

"I believe it; I have heard of such courage before. But _you_ must not

forget that you do not belong to yourself; there is some one else you

must think of before you risk your life."

Count Vavel started violently; he opened his lips as if to speak, but

the baroness quickly raised her hand and interposed.

"I am not trying to pry into your secret, Herr Count; I am no spy--you

must have seen that ere this. All I know is that there is under your

protection a woman to whom you are everything, and who will have no one

should she lose you."

"But what can I do?" in desperation exclaimed Count Vavel. "I cannot

hide in my castle until Colonel Barthelmy leaves the neighborhood. Would

you have me confess to all the world that I am a coward?"

"Let me advise you, Herr Count," with sudden resolution responded the

baroness. "Turn this matter, which you look upon as a tragedy, into a

capital jest. Take _me_ to drive with you to-day instead of

your--friend."

Count Vavel suddenly burst into a loud laugh--from extreme anger to

unrestrained merriment.

But the baroness did not laugh with him.

"I am in earnest, Count Vavel. Now you will understand why I came here

this morning." She drew her veil over her face, and asked: "Am I enough

like her to take her place in the carriage?"

Count Vavel was astounded. The likeness to Marie was perfect. The gown,

the hat, and veil were exactly like those Marie was wont to wear when

she drove out with him. The daring suggestion, however, amazed him more

than anything else.

"What! You, baroness? You would really venture to drive with me? Have

you thought of the risk--the danger to yourself?"

"I have given it as much thought as did you when you risked coming to

the manor with nothing but a walking-stick to battle with four thieves.

One ought not stop to think of the risk when a danger is to be averted.

This adventure may end as harmlessly as the other."

"And suppose the colonel should by any chance see your face? No, no,

baroness; there is no comparison between my venture and this plan you

propose. If I had had an encounter with those thieves I might have

received a wound that would soon have healed; but your pure reputation

as a woman might receive a wound that would never heal."

A bitter smile wreathed the lady's lips as she replied: "Could any wound

that I might receive increase the burden on my heart?" She laughed

harshly, then asked suddenly: "Perhaps you are afraid the colonel will

think I am the mysterious lady of the Nameless Castle?"

Count Vavel's face reddened to the roots of his hair.

Again the lady laughed, then said apologetically: "Pardon me, but the

idea amused me. But, to return to Colonel Barthelmy, he is going very

shortly to Italy with his regiment; therefore, I need not care what

fables he thinks of me--or repeats. The few persons whose opinion I care

for will not believe him; as for the others--pah! Come, your hand on it!

Let us perpetrate this joke. If _I_ am willing to run the risk, you

surely need not hesitate."

And yet he hesitated.

"Don't speak of this plan of yours as a mischievous trick, baroness," he

said earnestly. "It is a great, a noble sacrifice--so great, indeed,

that living woman could not perform a greater--to be willing to blush

with shame while innocent. She who blushes for her love does not suffer;

but to flush with shame out of friendship must be a torture like that

endured by martyrs."

"Very well, then; let it be a sacrifice--as you will! I am a willing

victim! I owe you a debt of gratitude; I want to pay it. Now go and

order the carriage; I will wait here for you."

Every drop of blood in his body rebelled against his accepting this

offer. A woman rescue a strong man from a threatened danger! And at what

a risk!

"Well," a trifle impatiently exclaimed the baroness, as he still

lingered, "are n't you going to fetch your cloak? I am ready for the

drive."

Without another word the count turned and strode toward the castle.

Marie was satisfied with the excuse he made for not taking her with him

as usual: he said he had urgent business in the neighboring village, and

would have to drive there alone.

Then he ordered Henry to harness the horses to the carriage, and drive

down to the gate, where he would await him.

He found the baroness waiting for him where he had left her.

"Well," she began, when he came near enough to hear her, "have you

decided to take me with you?"

"No."

"Then you are going to take the lady?"

"No."

"Not? Then who is going with you?"

"These two pistols," replied the count, flinging back his cloak and

revealing the weapons thrust into his pocket. "With these two companions

I am going to meet the gentleman who is so determined to see the face of

the veiled lady. I shall show him a lady whose face is not a subject of

gossip."

The baroness uttered a cry of terror, and seized Count Vavel's hand.

"No, no; you shall not go alone. Listen. I was prepared for just such a

decision on your part, so I wrote this letter. If you persist in going

alone to meet the colonel, I shall hurry back to the manor, send my

groom on the swiftest horse I own with this letter to Colonel Barthelmy.

Read it."

She unfolded the letter she had taken from her pocket, and held it so

that Count Vavel might read, without taking it in his hands:

"HERR COLONEL: You need not seek Mme. Ange Barthelmy at the

Nameless Castle. The veiled lady seen in company with Count Vavel

is

"B. KATHARINA LANDSKNECHTSSCHILD."

In speechless amazement Count Vavel looked down at the baroness, who

calmly folded the letter and returned it to her pocket.

"Now you may go if you like," she said coolly, "and I, too, shall do as

_I_ like! The colonel will then have written proof to justify him in

dragging my name in the dust!"

The count gazed long and earnestly into the lovely face turned

defiantly toward him. What was said by those glowing eyes, what was

expressed by those lips trembling with excitement, could not be mere

sport. There is only one name for the emotion which urges a woman to

risk so much for a man; and if Count Vavel guessed the name, then there

was nothing for him to do but offer his arm to the lady and say:

"Come, baroness, we will go together."

When the count assisted his veiled companion into the carriage, and took

his seat by her side, not even Henry could have told that it was not his

young mistress from the castle who was going to drive, as usual, with

her guardian.

It was with a singular feeling that Count Vavel looked at the woman

beside him, to whom he was bound for one hour by the strongest, most

dangerous of ties. Only for one hour! For this one hour the woman

belonged to him as wholly, as entirely as the soul belongs to the living

human being. And afterward? Afterward she would be no more to him than

is the vanished soul to the dead human being.

The carriage had arrived at the boundary of the neighboring village,

where the usual turn was made for the homeward drive, and they had not

yet seen any one. Had Colonel Barthelmy's words been merely an idle

threat?

Henry knew that he was not to drive beyond this point; he mechanically

turned the horses' heads in the homeward direction, as he had done every

day for years.

On the return drive the carriage always stopped at the edge of the

forest, where a shaded path led through the dense shrubbery to a cleared

space some distance from the highway. This was the spot for their daily

promenade.

The count and his companion had gone but a short distance along the path

when they saw coming toward them three men in uniform. They were

cavalry officers. The two in the rear had on white cloaks; the one in

front was without, an outer garment--merely his close-fitting uniform

coal.

"That is Barthelmy," whispered the baroness, pressing the arm on which

she was leaning.

The count's expression of calm indifference did not change. He walked

with a firm step toward the approaching officers.

Very soon they stood face to face.

The colonel was a tall, distinguished-looking man; he carried his head

well upright, and every movement spoke of haughty self-confidence and

pride.

"Herr Count Vavel, I believe?" he began, halting in front of Ludwig and

his companion. "Allow me to introduce myself; I am Colonel Vicomte Leon

Barthelmy."

Count Vavel murmured something which gave the colonel to understand that

he (the count) was very glad to learn the gentleman's name.

"I have long desired to make your acquaintance," continued the colonel

(his companions had halted several paces distant). "I was so unfortunate

as not to find you at home the three calls I made at your castle. Now,

however, I shall take this opportunity to say to you what I wanted to

say then. First, however, let me introduce my friends,"--waving his hand

toward the two officers,--"Captain Kriegeisen and Lieutenant Zagodics,

of Emperor Alexander's dragoons."

Count Vavel again gave utterance to his pleasure on making the

acquaintance of the colonel's friends. Then he said courteously:

"In what way can I serve you, Herr Colonel?"

"In a very simple manner, Herr Count," responded the colonel. "I have

had the peculiar misfortune which sometimes overtakes a married man; my

wife deceived me, and ran away with her lover, whom I do not even know.

As mine is not one of those phlegmatic natures which can meekly tolerate

such an indignity, I am searching for the fugitives--for what purpose I

fancy you can guess. For four years my quest has been fruitless; I have

been unable to find a trace of the guilty pair. A lucky chance at last

led me to this secluded corner of the earth, and here I learned

that--but, to be brief, Herr Count, I owe it to my heart and to my honor

to ask you this question: Is not this lady by your side, who is always

closely veiled, Ange Barthelmy, my wife?"

"Herr Vicomte Leon de Barthelmy," calmly replied Count Vavel, "I give

you my word of honor as a cavalier that this lady never was your wife."

The colonel laughed in a peculiar manner.

"Your word of honor, Herr Count, would be entirely satisfactory in all

other questions save those relating to the fair sex--and to war. You

will excuse me, therefore, if I take the liberty to doubt your assertion

in this case, and request you to prove that my suspicions are at fault.

Without this proof I will not move from this spot."

"Then I am very sorry for you, Herr Colonel," returned Count Vavel, "but

I shall be compelled to leave you and your suspicions in possession of

this spot."

He made as if he would pass onward; but the colonel politely but with

decision barred the path.

"I must request that you wait a little longer, Herr Count," he said, his

face darkening.

"And why should I?" demanded the count.

"To convince me that the lady on your arm is not my wife," was the

reply, in an excited tone.

"You will have to remain unconvinced," in an equally excited tone

retorted Count Vavel; and for a brief instant it was a question which

of the two enraged men would strike the first blow.

The threatening scene was suddenly concluded by the baroness, who flung

back her veil, exclaiming: "Here, Colonel Barthelmy, you may convince

yourself that I am _not_ your wife."

Leon Barthelmy started in amazement, and hastily laid his hand against

his lips as if to repress the words which had rushed to them. Then he

bowed with exaggerated courtesy, and said: "I most humbly beg your

pardon, Herr Count Vavel. This lady is _not_ Ange Barthelmy. These

gentlemen are witnesses that I have asked your pardon in the proper

form."

The colonel's companions, who had come hastily forward at the threatened

conflict between their superior and the count, were gazing in a peculiar

manner at the lady whose hospitality they had so lately enjoyed. Colonel

Barthelmy also, although he bowed with elaborate courtesy before the

baroness, cast upon her a glance that was full of insulting scorn.

The situation had changed so rapidly--as when a sudden flash of

lightning illumines the darkness of night; and like the electric flash a

light sped into Vavel's heart and illumined it with a delicious, a

heavenly warmth that made it throb madly. But only for an instant. Then

he realized that this woman who had dared everything for his sake had

been insulted by the glance of scorn and derision.

He had now lost all control of himself. He snatched a pistol from his

pocket, directed the muzzle toward Colonel Barthelmy's sneering face,

and said in a voice that quivered with savage fury:

"I demand that you beg this lady's pardon."

"You do?" coolly returned the colonel, still smiling, and gazing calmly

into the muzzle of the pistol.

"Yes--or I will blow out your brains!"

The two officers accompanying the colonel drew their swords. The

baroness uttered a cry of terror, and flung herself on Vavel's breast.

"I presume you will allow me to inquire, first, what relation this lady

bears to you?"

Colonel Barthelmy asked the question in measured tones; and without an

instant's hesitation came Count Vavel's reply:

"The lady is my betrothed wife."

The sneer vanished from the colonel's lips, and the swords of his

companions were returned to their scabbards.

"I hasten to apologize," said the colonel. "Accept, madame, my deepest

reverence, and do not refuse to forgive the insulting scorn my ignorance

caused me to express. Permit me to convince you of my sincere homage, by

this salute."

He bent his head and pressed his lips to one of the lady's hands, which

were clasped about Count Vavel's arm. Then, with his helmet still in his

hand, he turned to Count Vavel, and added: "Are you satisfied?"

"Yes," was the curt reply.

"Then let us shake hands--without malice. Accept my sincerest

congratulations. To you, baroness, I give thanks for the lesson you have

taught me this morning."

He bowed once more, then stepped to one side, indicating that the way

was clear.

The baroness drew her veil over her face, and, clinging tremblingly to

the arm of her escort, walked by his side back to the highway, the three

officers following at a respectful distance.

When they emerged from the forest they saw the three horses which had

been left by the colonel and his companions in charge of the grooms.

Henry must have told the gentlemen where to find his master.

With what different emotions Count Vavel returned to the castle! The

dreamer in his slumbers had given utterance to words which betrayed what

he had been dreaming, and he compelled the vision to abide with him even

after he had wakened. He felt that he had the right to do what he had

done. This woman loved him as only a woman can love; and what he had

done had only been his duty, for he loved her! What he had said was no

falsehood--the words had not been forced from him merely to preserve her

honor; they were the truth.

Count Vavel stopped the carriage at the park gate, assisted his

companion to alight, and sent Henry on to the castle with the horses.

"What have you done?" in a deeply agitated voice exclaimed the baroness,

when they were alone in the park.

"I gave expression to the feeling which is in my heart."

"And do you realize what that has done?"

"What has it done?"

"It has made it impossible for us to meet again--for us ever to speak

again to each other."

"I cannot see it in that light."

"You could were you to give it but a moment's serious thought. I do not

ask what the mysterious lady at the castle is to you; I know, however,

that you must be everything to her. Pray don't believe me cruel enough

to rob her of her whole world. I cannot ask you to believe a lie--I

cannot pretend that you are nothing to me. I have allowed you to look

too deeply into my heart to deny my feelings. But there is something

besides love in my heart! it is pride. I am too proud to take you from

the woman to whom you are bound--no matter by what ties. Therefore, we

must not meet again in this life; we may meet again in another world!

Pray do not come any farther with me; I can easily find the way to my

boat. No one at the manor knows of my absence. I must be careful to

return as I came--unseen. And now, one request: Do not try to see me

again. Should you do so, it will compel me to flee from the

neighborhood. Adieu!"

She drew her veil closer over her face, and passed swiftly with

noiseless steps through the gateway.

Ludwig Vavel stood where she had left him, and looked after her until

she vanished from his sight amid the trees. Then he turned and walked

slowly toward the castle.

CHAPTER III

Count Vavel did not see Marie, after his return from the drive with the

baroness, until dinner. He had not ventured into her presence until

then, when he fancied he had sufficiently mastered his emotions so that

his countenance would not betray him. The consciousness of his

disloyalty to the young girl troubled him, and he could not help but

tremble when he came into her presence. It was not permitted to him to

bestow his heart on any one. Did he not belong, soul and body, to this

innocent creature, whom he had sworn to defend with his life?

From that hour, however, Marie's behavior toward him was changed. He

could see that she strove to be attentive and obedient, but she was shy

and reserved. Did she suspect the change in him? or could it be possible

that she had seen the baroness driving with him? It was very late when

her bell signaled that she had retired, and when Ludwig entered the

outer room, as usual, he found a number of books lying about on the

table. Evidently the young girl had been studying.

The next morning Ludwig came at the usual hour to conduct her to the

carriage.

"Thank you, but I don't care to drive to-day," she said.

"Why not?"

"Riding out in a carriage does not benefit me."

"When did you discover this?"

"Some time ago."

Ludwig looked at her in astonishment. What was the meaning of this?

Could she know that some one else had occupied her place in the carriage

yesterday?

"And will you not go with me to-morrow?"

"If you will allow me, I shall stay at home."

"Is anything the matter with you, Marie?"

"Nothing. I don't like the jolting of the carriage."

"Then I shall sell the horses."

"It might be well to do so--if you don't want them for your own use. I

shall take my exercise in the garden."

"And in the winter?"

"Then I will promenade in the court, and make snow images, as the

farmers' children do."

And the end of the matter was that Ludwig sold the horses, and Marie's

outdoor exercises were restricted to the garden. Moreover, she studied

and wrote all day long.

When she went into the garden, Josef, the gardener's boy, was sent

elsewhere so long as she chose to remain among the flowers.

One afternoon Josef had been sent, as usual, to perform some task in the

park while Marie promenaded in the garden. He was busily engaged raking

together the fallen leaves, when Marie suddenly appeared by his side,

and said breathlessly:

"Please take this letter."

The youth, who was speechless with astonishment and confusion at sight

of the lady he had been forbidden to look at, slowly extended his hand

to comply with her request when Count Vavel, who had swiftly approached,

unseen by either the youth or Marie, with one hand seized the letter,

and with the other sent Josef flying across the sward so rapidly that he

fell head over heels into some shrubbery.

Then the count thrust the letter into his pocket, and without a word

drew the young girl's hand through his arm, and walked swiftly with her

into the castle. The count conducted his charge into the library. He had

not yet spoken a word. His face was startlingly pale with anger and

terror.

When they two were alone within the four walls of the library, he said,

fixing a reproachful glance on her:

"You were going to send a letter to some one?"

The young girl calmly returned his glance, but did not open her lips.

"To whom are you writing, Marie?"

Marie smiled sadly, and drooped her head.

Vavel then drew the letter from his pocket, and read the address:

"To our beautiful and kind-hearted neighbor."

The count looked up in surprise.

"You are writing to Baroness Landsknechtsschild!" he exclaimed, not

without some confusion.

"I did not know her name; that is why I addressed it so."

Vavel turned the letter in his hands, and saw that the seal had been

stamped with the crest which was familiar to all the world.

He hurriedly crushed it into bits, and, unfolding the letter, read:

"DEAR, BEAUTIFUL, AND GOOD LADY: I want you to love my Ludwig. Make

him happy. He is a good man. I am nothing at all to him.

"MARIE."

When he had read the touching epistle, he buried his face in his hands,

and a bitter sob burst from his tortured heart.

Marie looked sorrowfully at his quivering frame, and sighed heavily.

"Oh, Marie! To think you should write this! Nothing at all to me!"

murmured the young man, in a choking voice.

"'Nothing at all,'" in a low tone repeated Marie.

Vavel moved swiftly to her side, and, looking down upon her with his

burning eyes still filled with tears, asked in an unsteady voice:

"What do you want, Marie? Tell me what you wish me to do."

Marie softly took his hand in both her own, and said tremulously:

"I want you to give me a companion--a mother. I want some one to

love,--a woman that I can love,--one who will love me and command me. I

will be an obedient and dutiful daughter to such a woman. I will never

grieve her, never disobey her. I am so very, very lonely!"

"And am not I, too, alone and lonely, Marie?" sadly responded Vavel.

"Yes, yes. I know that, Ludwig. It is your pale, melancholy face that

oppresses me and makes me sad. Day after day I see the pale face which

my cruel, curse-laden destiny has buried here with me. I know that you

are unhappy, and that I am the cause of it."

"For heaven's sake, Marie! who has given you such fancies?"

"The long, weary nights! Oh, how much I have learned from the darkness!

It was not merely caprice that prompted me to ask you once what death

meant. Had you questioned me more fully then, I should have confessed

something to you. That time, when you rescued me from death, you gave my

name to Sophie Botta, who also took upon herself my fate. I don't know

what became of her. If she died in my stead, may God comfort her! If

she still lives, may God bless and help her to reign in my stead! But

give me the name of Sophie Botta; give me the clothes of a working-girl;

give me God's free world, which she enjoyed. Let me become Sophie Botta

in reality, and let me wash clothes with the washerwomen at the brook.

If Sophie and I exchanged lives, let the exchange become real. Let me

learn what it is to live, or--let me learn what it is to die."

In speechless astonishment Count Vavel had listened to this passionate

outburst. It was the first time he had ever heard the gentle girl speak

so excitedly.

"Madame," he said with peculiar intonation, when she had ceased

speaking, "I am now convinced that I am the guardian of the most

precious treasure on this terrestrial ball. Henceforward I shall watch

over you with redoubled care."

"That will be unnecessary," proudly returned the young girl. "If you

wish to feel certain that I will patiently continue to abide in this

Nameless Castle, then make a home here for me--bring some happiness into

these rooms. If I see that you are happy I shall be content."

"Marie, Marie, the day of my perfect happiness only awaits the dawn of

your own! And that yours will come I firmly believe. But don't look for

it here, Marie. Don't ask for impossibilities. Marie, were my own

mother, whom I worshiped, still living, I could not bring her within

these walls to learn our secret."

"The woman who loves will not betray a secret."

For an instant Ludwig did not reply; then he said:

"And if it were true that some one loves me as you fancy, could I ask

her to bury herself here--here where there is no intercourse with the

outside world? No, no, Marie; we cannot expect any one else to become an

occupant of this tomb--the gates of which will not open until the trump

of deliverance sounds."

"And will it be long before that trump sounds, Ludwig?"

"I believe--nay, I know it must come very soon. The signs of the times

are not deceptive. Our resurrection may be nearer than we imagine; and

until then, Marie, let us endure with patience."

Marie pressed her guardian's hand, and drew a long sigh.

"Yes; we will endure--and wait," she repeated. "And now, give me back my

letter."

"Why do you want it, Marie?"

"I shall keep it, and sometime send it to the proper address--when the

angel of deliverance sounds his trump."

"May God hasten his coming!" fervently appended the count.

But he did not give her the letter.

* * * * *

Count Vavel now rarely ventured beyond the gate of the Nameless Castle.

The weather had become stormy, and a severe frost had robbed the garden

of its beauties. The very elements seemed to have combined against the

dwellers in the castle. Even the lake suddenly began to extend its

limits, overflowing its banks, and inundating meadows and gardens.

Marie's little pleasure-garden suffered with the rest of the flooded

lands, and threatened to become an unsightly swamp.

Count Vavel, knowing how Marie delighted to ramble amid her flowers,

determined to protect the garden from further destruction. Laborers were

easily secured. The numerous families of working-people who had been

rendered homeless by the inundation besieged the castle for assistance

and work, and none were turned empty-handed away. A small army was put

to work to construct an embankment that would prevent further

encroachment upon the garden by the water, while to Herr Mercatoris the

count sent a liberal sum of money to be distributed among the sufferers

by the flood.

This gift renewed the correspondence between the castle and the

parsonage, which had been dropped for several months.

The pastor, in acknowledging the receipt of the money, wrote:

"The flood has made a new survey of the lake necessary, as the evil

cannot be remedied until it has been determined what obstructs the

outlet. Our surveyor made a calculation as to the probable cost of the

work, and found that it would require an enormous sum of money--almost

five thousand guilders! Where was all this money to come from? The

puzzling question was answered by that angel from heaven, Baroness

Landsknechtsschild. When she heard of the sufferings of the poor people

who had been driven from their homes by the inundation, she offered to

supply the entire sum necessary. Now, it seems, something besides the

money is required for the undertaking.

"The surveyor, in order to calculate the distances which cannot be

measured by the chain, needs a superior telescope, and such a glass

would cost two or three thousand guilders more. As your lordship is the

owner of a telescope, I take it upon myself to beg the loan of it--if

your lordship can spare it to the surveyor for a short time."

The next day Count Vavel sent his telescope to the parsonage, with the

message that it was a present to the surveyor. Then, that he might not

be again tempted to look out upon the world and its people, the count

closed the tower windows.

PART VI

DEATH AND NEW LIFE IN THE NAMELESS CASTLE

CHAPTER I

Since Count Vavel had ceased to take outdoor exercise, he had renewed

his fencing practice with Henry, who was also an expert swordsman.

In a room on the ground floor of the castle, whence the clashing of

steel could not penetrate to Marie's apartments, the two men, master and

man, would fight their friendly battles twice daily, and with such vigor

that their bodies (as they wore no plastrons) were covered with

scratches and bruises.

One morning the count waited in vain for Henry to make his appearance in

the fencing-hall. It was long past the usual hour for their practice,

and the count, becoming impatient, went in search of the old servant.

The groom's apartment was on the same floor with the kitchen, adjoining

the room occupied by his wife Lisette, the cook.

The door of Henry's room which opened into the corridor was locked; the

count, therefore, passed into the kitchen, where Lisette was preparing

dinner.

"Where is Henry?" he asked of the unwieldy mountain of flesh, topped by

a face as broad and round as the full moon.

"He is in bed," replied Lisette, without looking up from her work.

"Is he ill?"

"I believe he has had a stroke of apoplexy."

She said it with as little emotion as if she had spoken of an underdone

pasty.

The count hastened through Lisette's room to Henry's bedside.

The poor fellow was lying among the pillows; his mouth and one eye were

painfully distorted.

"Henry!" ejaculated the count, in a tone of alarm; "my poor Henry, you

are very ill."

"Ye-es--your--lord-ship," he answered slowly, and with difficulty;

"but--but--I shall soon--soon be--all right--again."

Ludwig lifted the sick man's hand from the coverlet, and felt the pulse.

"Yes, you are very ill indeed, Henry--so ill that I would not attempt to

treat you. We must have a doctor."

"He--he won't come--here; he is--afraid. Besides, there is nothing--the

matter with--any part of me but--but my--tongue. I can--can

hardly--move--it."

"You must not die, Henry--you dare not!" in an agony of terror exclaimed

Ludwig. "What would become of me--of Marie?"

"That--that is what--troubles--troubles me--most, Herr Count. Who

will--take my--place? Perhaps--that old soldier--with the machine leg--"

"No! no! no! Oh, Henry, no one could take your place. You are to me what

his arms are to a soldier. You are the guardian of all my thoughts--my

only friend and comrade in this solitude."

The poor old servant tried to draw his distorted features into a smile.

"I am--not sorry for--myself--Herr Count; only for you two. I have

earned--a rest; I have--lost everything--and have long ago--ceased to

hope for--anything. I feel that--this is--the end. No doctor can--help

me. I know--I am--dying." He paused to breathe heavily for several

moments, then added: "There is--something--I should--like to

have--before--before I--go."

"What is it, Henry?"

"I know you--will be--angry--Herr Count, but--I cannot--cannot die

without--consolation."

"Consolation?" echoed Ludwig.

"Yes--the last consolation--for the--dying. I have not--confessed

for--sixteen years; and the--multitude of my--sins--oppresses me.

Pray--pray, Herr Count, send for--a priest."

"Impossible, Henry. Impossible!"

"I beseech you--in the name of God--let me see a priest. Have mercy--on

your poor old servant, Herr Count. My soul feels--the torments of hell;

I see the everlasting flames--and the sneering devils--"

"Henry, Henry," impatiently remonstrated his master, "don't be childish.

You are only tormenting yourself with fancies. Does the soldier who

falls in battle have time to confess his sins? Who grants him

absolution?"

"Perhaps--were I in--the midst of the turmoil of battle--I should not

feel this agony of mind. But here--there is so much time to think. Every

sin that I have committed--rises before me like--like a troop of

soldiers that--have been mustered for roll-call."

"Pray cease these idle fancies, Henry. Of what are you thinking? You

want to tell a priest that you are living here under a false name--tell

him that I, too, am an impostor? You would say to him: 'When the

revolutionists imprisoned my royal master and his family, to behead them

afterward, I clothed my own daughter in the garments belonging to my

master's daughter, in order to save the royal child from death, I gave

up my own child to danger, and carried my master's child to a place of

safety. My own child I gave up to play the rôle of king's daughter, when

kings and their offspring were hunted down like wild beasts; and made of

the king's daughter a servant, that she might be allowed to go free. I

counterfeited certificates of baptism, registers, passports, in order to

save the king's daughter from her enemies. I bore false

witness--committed perjury in order to hide her from her persecutors--'"

"Yes--yes," moaned the dying man, "all that have I done."

"And do you imagine that you will be allowed to breathe such a

confession into a human ear?" sternly responded the count.

"I must--I must--to make my peace with God."

"Henry, if you knew God as He is you would not tremble before him. If

you could realize the immeasurable greatness of His benevolence, His

love, His mercy, you would not be afraid to appear before Him with the

plea: 'Master, Thou sentest me forth; Thou hast summoned me to return. I

came from Thee; to Thee I return. And all that which has happened to me

between my going and my coming Thou knowest.'"

"Ah, yes, Herr Count, you have a great soul. It will know how to rise to

its Creator. But what can my poor, ignorant little soul do when it

leaves my body? It will not be able to find its way to God. I am afraid;

I tremble. Oh, my sins, my sins!"

"Your sins are imaginary, Henry," almost irritably responded Count

Vavel. "I swear to you, by the peace of my own soul, that the load

beneath which you groan is not sin, but virtue. If it be true that human

speech and thought are transmitted to the other world, and if there is a

voice that questions us, and a countenance that looks upon us, then

answer with confidence: 'Yes, I have transgressed many of Thy laws; but

all my transgressions were committed to save one of Thy angels.'"

"Ah, yes, Herr Count, if I could talk like that; but I can't."

"And are not all your thoughts already known to Him who reads all

hearts? It does not require the absolution of a priest to admit you to

His paradise."

But Henry refused to be comforted; his eyes burned with the fire of

terror as he moaned again and again:

"I shall be damned! I shall be damned!"

Count Vavel now lost all patience, and, forgetting himself in his anger,

exclaimed:

"Henry, if you persist in your foolishness you will deserve damnation.

Did not you say so yourself, when you pledged your word to me on that

eventful day? Did you not say, 'The wretch who would become a traitor

deserves to be damned'?"

With these words he rose and strode toward the door. But ere he reached

it his feeling heart got the better of his anger. He turned and walked

back to the bed, took the dying man's ice-cold hand in his, and said

gently:

"My old comrade--my brave old companion in arms! we must not part in

anger. Don't you trust me any more? Listen, my old friend, to what I say

to you. You are going on before to arrange quarters; then I will follow.

When I arrive at the gates of paradise, my first question to St. Peter

will be, 'Is my good old comrade, the honest, virtuous Henry, within?'

And should the sainted gatekeeper reply, 'No, he is not here; he is down

below,' then I shall say to him, 'I am very much obliged to you, old

fellow, for your friendliness, but a paradise from which my old friend

Henry is excluded is no place for me. I am going down below to be with

him.' That is what I shall say, so help me Heaven!"

The sufferer who stood on the threshold of death strove to smile. He

could not return the pressure of his master's hand, but he slowly and

with painful effort turned his head so that his cold lips rested against

the count's hand.

"Yes--yes," he whispered, and his dim eyes brightened for an instant.

"If we were down there together--you and I--we should not have to stop

long there; some one with her prayers would very soon win our release."

Count Vavel suddenly beat his palm against his forehead, and exclaimed:

"I never once thought of her! Wait, my brave Henry. I will return

immediately. I cannot allow you to have a priest, but I will bring an

angel to your bedside."

He hastened to Marie's apartments.

"You have been weeping?" she exclaimed, looking up into his tear-stained

eyes with deep concern.

"Yes, Marie; we are going to lose our poor old Henry."

"Oh, my God! How entirely alone we shall be then!"

"Will you come with me to his bedside? The sight of you will cheer his

last moments."

"Yes, yes; come quickly."

A wonderful light brightened Henry's face when he saw his young

mistress. She moved softly to the head of his bed, and with her delicate

fingers gently stroked the cheeks of the trusty old servant.

He closed his eyes and sighed when her hand touched his face.

"Is he smiling?" whispered Marie to Ludwig, gazing with compassionate

awe on the distorted countenance. Then she bent over him and said:

"Henry--my good Henry, would you like me to pray with you?"

She knelt beside the bed and in a feeling tone repeated the beautiful

prayer which the good Père Lacordaire composed for those who journey to

the other world, pausing from time to time to let the dying man repeat

the words after her.

Henry's tongue became heavier and heavier as he repeated, with visible

effort, the soul-inspiring words.

Then Marie repeated the Lord's Prayer. Even Ludwig could not do

otherwise than bend his knee upon the chair by which he stood, and bow

his skeptical head, while the innocent maid and his dying servant prayed

together.

When Marie rose from her knees, the painful smile had vanished from

Henry's lips; his face was calm and peaceful; the distortion had

disappeared from his countenance.

* * * * *

After Henry's death, life for the occupants of the Nameless Castle

became still more uncomfortable. Ludwig Vavel had lost his only

friend--the only one who had shared his cares and his confidences. He

was obliged to hire a servant to assist Lisette, and, remembering what

Henry had advised, took the old soldier with the wooden leg into the

castle. For the old invalid, the change from hard labor to comfortable

quarters and easy work was certainly an improvement. Instead of cutting

wood all day long for a mere pittance, he had now nothing to do but

brush clothes which were never dusty, polish the furniture, receive the

supplies from and deliver orders to Frau Schmidt every morning, to place

the newspapers on the library table, and convey the victuals from the

kitchen to the dining-room.

But two weeks of this easy work and good wages, and the comforts of the

castle, were all that the old soldier could endure. Then he took off his

handsome livery, and begged to be allowed to return to his former life

of hardship and poverty. Afterward he was heard to aver that not for the

whole castle would he consent to live in it an entire year--where not

one word was spoken all day long; even the cook never opened her lips.

No, he could not stand it; he would rather, a hundred times over, cut

wood for five groats the day.

No sooner did Baroness Katharina learn that Count Vavel was again

without a man-servant than she sent to the castle Satan Laczi's son, who

was then twelve years old, and a useful lad.

Two leading ideas now filled Count Vavel's entire soul.

One was an enthusiastic admiration for a high ideal, whose embodiment he

believed he had found in the lovely person of his young charge. All the

emotions that a man of deep and profound nature lavishes on his faithful

love, his only offspring, his queen, his guardian saint, Count Ludwig

now bestowed on this one woman, who endured with patience, renounced

with meekness, forgave and loved with her whole heart, and who, even in

her banishment, adored her native land which had repulsed and cruelly

persecuted her.

The second idea encompassed all the emotions of an opposing passion: a

boundless hatred for the giant who, with strides that covered kingdoms

and empires, was marching over the entire eastern hemisphere, marking

his every step with graves and human skeletons; an enmity toward the

Titan who was using thrones as footstools, and who had made himself a

god over a greater portion of Europe,

Count Vavel was not the only one who cherished a hatred of this sort; it

was felt all over Europe. What was happening in those days could be

learned only through the English newspapers. Liberty of speech was

prohibited throughout the entire continent. Only an indiscreet

correspondent would trust his secret to the post; and Ludwig Vavel only

by the exercise of extreme caution could learn from his banker in

Holland what was necessary for him to know. Through this medium he

learned of the general discontent with the methods of the all-powerful

one. He learned of the plans of the Philadelphia Club, which counted

among its members renowned officers in the army of France. He heard that

a number of distinguished Frenchmen had offered their services and

swords to the foreign imperial army against their own hated emperor. He

heard of the dissatisfied murmuring among the French people against the

frightful waste of human life, the never-ending intrigues, the

approaching shadows of the coalition.

All this he heard there in the Nameless Castle, while he waited for his

watchword, ready when it came to reply: "Here!"

And while he waited he interested himself also in what was going on in

the land in which he sojourned. He had two sources for acquiring

information on this subject--Herr Mercatoris in Fertöszeg, and the young

attorney, who was now living in Pest. The count corresponded with both

gentlemen,--personally he had never spoken to the pastor, and but once

to his attorney,--and from their letters learned what was going on in

that portion of the world in the vicinity of the Nameless Castle.

However, as there was a wide difference between the characters of his

two correspondents, the count was often puzzled to which of them he

should give credence. The pastor, who was a student and a philosopher,

and a defender of the existing state of affairs, affirmed that there was

not on the face of the globe a more contented and peace-loving folk than

the Hungarians. The young lawyer, on the other hand, asserted that the

existing system was all wrong; that general dissatisfaction prevailed

throughout Hungary. His irony did not spare the great ones who swayed

the destiny of the country. In a word, resentment against oppression,

and discontent, might be read in every line of his epistles.

Count Vavel was rather inclined to believe that the younger man

expressed the temper of the nation. In reality, however, it was only the

discontent of a small social body, which found quite enough room for its

meetings in the sleeping-chamber of one of the sympathizers. Within this

circumscribed space, and amid a lively interchange of opinions,

originated many a daring project that was never carried beyond the

threshold of the hall of meeting.

Ludwig Vavel, on reading the young man's letters, had come to the

conclusion that Hungary awaited his (Vavel's) enemy as its liberator.

The Diet, it is true, had authorized the "recruit contingent," but the

recruits were not taken from those who were inspired with love for the

fatherland, and who would do battle for an idea. The enlisted men were

chiefly homeless wanderers. This "cannon-fodder" would go into battle

without enthusiasm, would perform what was required of them like

obedient machines.

Of what good would be such a crew against a host that had called into

being a great national consciousness, a host that was made up of the

best force of a vigorous people, a host whose every member was proud of

his ensign with its eagle, and who held himself superior to every other

soldier in the world?

Vavel well knew that the giant of the century could be conquered only by

heroes and patriots. A hireling crew could not enter the field against

him.