THE HUNTER IN THE SNARE.
Boltay and Teresa said not a word against Fanny's resolution, nor did
they talk about the wedding, but in the meantime they began to provide
the _trousseau_, for though as the wife of a magnate, she might come to
wear far more splendid things, she might nevertheless keep what they
gave her as a souvenir, and, amidst the whirl and bustle of the great
world, reflect from time to time, when she looked at their gift, on the
modest domestic joys that she had left behind her. At the same time the
preparations for Fanny's marriage were kept so secret that nobody could
possibly have known anything of that interesting event; it was not in
their natures either to brag about or lament over it.
Now a very singular thing happened about this time.
One day, when Master Boltay was at home in his factory, there rushed
into the place a shabbily, not to say raggedly, attired female whom
Master Boltay could not recognize as belonging to the circle of his
acquaintances. But there was no need for him to puzzle his head over it,
for the miserable creature herself hastened to inform him who she was.
"I am the unfortunate Mrs. Meyer, Fanny's mother," sobbed the woman in
the bitterness of her heart, throwing herself at Boltay's feet, and
covering first his hands and then his knees, and then his very boots
with her kisses, and shedding oceans of tears. Boltay, who was not used
to such tragical scenes, could only stand there as if rooted to the
spot, without asking her to get up or even tell him what was the matter.
"Oh, sir! oh, my dear sir! most worthy, honourable, magnanimous Mr.
Boltay, suffer me to kiss the dust from your boots! Oh, thou guardian
angel of the righteous, thou defender of the innocent, may God grant
thee many, many years upon earth, and, after this life, all the joys of
heaven! Was there ever a case like mine? My heart faints within me at
the thought of telling my tale; but tell it I must. The whole world must
know; and, above all, Mr. Boltay must know what an unfortunate mother I
am. Oh, oh, Mr. Boltay, you cannot imagine what a horrible torture it is
for a mother who has bad daughters--and mine are bad; but it serves me
right! I am the cause of it, for I have always let them have their own
way. Why did I not throw myself in the Danube after my poor dear
husband? But, sir, a mother's heart is never entirely lost to feeling,
and, even when her children are bad, she still loves them, still hopes
and believes that they may grow better. For four mortal years I have
stood the shame of it, and it is a miracle I have a hair still left on
my head for worry and vexation; but at last it has become too much for
me; I can stand it no longer. If I were to tell of the abominations that
go on in my house every day, Mr. Boltay, your hair would rise up with
horror! Only yesterday I spoke to my daughters, I upbraided them; and
the words were no sooner out of my mouth than, like harpies incarnate,
they fell upon me, all four of them: 'What do you mean by preaching at
us? What business is it of yours what we do? Don't we keep you like a
lady? The very dress on your back, the very cap on your head, you got
from us! There's not a stick or a straw in the whole house that belongs
to you. We earned it all!' I was terror-stricken. Was this my sole
reward for so many bitter, sleepless nights, which I had passed at their
sick-beds? for taking the very food from my own mouth to give it to
them? for humbling myself and going in rags and tatters that they might
dress in fine feathers? Then, sir, instead of being ashamed, the eldest
of them stood up to me, and told me straight out that if I did not like
to live in the same house with, and be kept by them, I might go and
shift for myself, for Pressburg was large enough, and turned me into the
street. I did not know what to do. My first thought was to make for the
Danube; but, at the selfsame instant, it seemed as if some angel
whispered in my ear, 'Have you not a daughter whom good, benevolent
people are bringing up in all honour and virtue? Go there! These good
people will not reject you; they will even give you some corner or other
where you may stretch your limbs until it please God to take you away.'
And so, sir, I came on here, just as you see me. I have absolutely
nothing under heaven I can call my own. I have not tasted a bit of food
this day; and if you turn me from your door, and if my daughter will not
see me, I must die of hunger in the street; for I would rather perish
than accept another morsel from my ungrateful and shameful children."
The part of all this rigmarole which appealed to Master Boltay most
strongly was that this worthy woman had eaten no food that day. So he
considered it his Christian duty to there and then take a plate of
lard-dumplings and a tumbler full of wine from a cupboard, place them
before her on the table, and compel her to fall to, so that, at any
rate, he might save her from dying of hunger.
"Oh, sir, a thousand thanks; but I am not a bit hungry. I am too put
out to eat, and, at the best of times, I have no more appetite than a
little bird. The little I ever eat at table would never be missed. But
what I should desire more than all the riches in the world would be to
hear a kind word from the mouth of my darling Fanny. Is such a thing
possible? Do you think she would look at her poor mother? Would she be
ashamed at the sight of me? Perhaps she would no longer recognize me, in
such misery as I am, in rags and wretchedness, and so old and haggard.
Might I see her for an instant, if only once? I do not ask to speak to
her, but if I might just see her at a little distance--through a window,
perhaps--just catch a peep at her surreptitiously, see her pass before
me, hear her speaking to some one else---- Oh, then, all my desires
would be satisfied!"
Master Boltay was quite touched by these words, though it did occur to
him that he had witnessed a somewhat similar scene in some German
tragedy.
"Come, come," said he to the weeping mother, "don't take on so! You
shall assuredly have your wish. You shall both see your daughter and
speak to her. You shall live here too, if you like. It will be very nice
for us to all live together, and will do no harm, that I can see."
"Oh, sir, you speak like an angel from heaven. But my daughter? Oh, my
daughter! She will not be able to love me any more. She will loathe me."
"Make your mind easy on that score, madam. Nobody has ever disparaged
you in your daughter's hearing; and Fanny is much too generous to spurn
her mother in adversity. I'll take you home with me, for I have sent her
into the country to be out of harm's way. There she lives with a
kinswoman of her father's--a somewhat severe personage, I admit; but
I'll reconcile her to you."
"Oh, sir, I don't expect that Teresa will raise me up to her level, but
I shall be content to be her servant, her kitchen-wench, if only my
daughter be about me."
"What nonsense you are talking, my worthy woman!" blurted out honest
Boltay, awkwardly. "I've servants enough of my own, so there's no need
for my ward to do manual labour. In half an hour we will set out
together, and just leave the rest to me."
Mrs. Meyer would thereupon have kissed Mr. Boltay's boots again, but the
worthy man escaped from the sentimental creature in time, and employed
the half-hour during which he was absent from her in scouring about the
slop-shops and collecting all sorts of ready-made garments, and returned
home with a complete suit, which Mrs. Meyer, despite her lady-like
squeamishness, was obliged to put on instead of her disgraceful rags.
And here I may mention, lest any of my readers should be blessed with as
strong a credulity as Mr. Boltay, that there was not one word of truth
in the tragic monologue above described. Mrs. Meyer had _not_ fallen out
with her daughters; they had _not_ turned her adrift; there was no need
for her to leap into the Danube. The matter stood simply thus: Abellino,
since his late rebuffs, had, full of passionate frenzy, plunged deeper
and deeper into his unsuccessful enterprise. He had just demanded from
Monsieur Griffard the last hundred thousand florins of the second
million promised to him. Abellino was constantly attended by a spy in
the service of the genial banker, who had immediately hastened to
acquaint his principals in Paris with the latest tidings from
Kárpátfalva, notably of what had happened on the night of Squire John's
birthday. Monsieur Griffard, learning that Squire John was at the last
gasp, had sent Abellino not one, but two hundred thousand florins, for
which, of course, he was naturally expected to pay back as much again
at the proper time. A few days later, he learnt, from a second letter,
that the uncle was still alive, and likely to live; but, by that time,
the money was well on its way, and reached Abellino punctually, to his
great delight.
So now he had a hundred thousand more florins than he had reckoned upon,
and at such times a man is apt to feel confident. He therefore concocted
a little scheme whereby Mrs. Meyer (the girl's own mother!) should
artfully worm her way into the Boltay family, so as to get at her last
daughter, and--we know the rest!
She was to have sixty thousand florins down if the plan succeeded. "Is
it possible!" you will cry. Yes, quite possible. Say not that I paint
monsters; it is life that I describe.
Mrs. Meyer, no doubt, reflected that sixty thousand florins was a nice
little sum, and she meant to deposit thirty thousand of it in the
savings bank on her own account, and thirty thousand on Fanny's, and
thus the pair of them would be amply provided for for life. And what was
to be given in exchange for this nice sum of money? Why, nothing at all,
so to speak--a mere chimera, which is no good to anybody while they have
it, and only becomes profitable when it is parted with--a woman's
virtue.
* * * * *
An hour later, the carriage stood before the door.
Master Boltay did not take his seat beside Mrs. Meyer, but went and sat
by the coachman, and, taking the reins and the whip, galloped at full
speed from the town, as if it were a question of some great mortal
disaster which he wished to prevent.
When they reached the outskirts of the village, he dismounted from the
waggon, and, with downcast eyes and much stammering, informed Mrs. Meyer
that he had a little job to see to; he had to say a few words to a
Jew--he meant a Greek. Would she go on to the house? He would go a
quicker way among the gardens, and would be at home as soon as the
waggon.
To tell a simple lie was almost more than the worthy man could manage.
No doubt it was the first time he had ever told a lie in his life, and
only urgent necessity drove him to it now. It was true, however, that he
did want to get to the house through the gardens a little beforehand, in
order to tell Teresa and Fanny of Mrs. Meyer's arrival, and beg them to
treat her as kindly as possible, and not appear alarmed when they saw
her. At the same time, he told them the cause of Mrs. Meyer's flight,
and all this he explained with such brevity that he had quite finished
by the time the coach was heard rumbling along the road outside, and was
already standing outside in the gate to receive his guest.
The two women were by this time in the passage. Fanny had just come from
the garden, and had taken off her straw hat, which might have impeded
her mother's embraces. Teresa, too, had put aside for once that
_perpetuum mobile_ which women call knitting, lest she might poke out
her kinswoman's eye with it.
On perceiving her daughter, Mrs. Meyer would not descend from the coach.
Master Boltay and the coachman had to pull her down by main force, and
when she did touch _terra firma_ it was only to grovel at the feet of
Teresa and Fanny till Boltay, who had no desire that she should make a
scene in his courtyard for the benefit of the village loafers, raised
her to her feet again.
The worthy artisan did his very utmost to keep Mrs. Meyer in an upright
position, but all to no purpose, for by the time she had reached Fanny,
down she plumped on her knees again, and tried to discover Fanny's tiny
feet that she might kiss them. This greatly alarmed Fanny, for, having
been engaged in gardening from an early hour, she had put nothing on her
tiny feet but two little old house-slippers, and consequently Mrs.
Meyer's strenuous endeavours threatened to reveal to the world, the
disgraceful circumstance, that--she had no stockings on. Blushing at the
thought of such a scandal, she stooped hastily and raised Mrs. Meyer up
in her arms, whereupon the sensitive mother hid her face in her
daughter's bosom, wept, sobbed, and kissed and embraced her with all her
might. Fanny simply stood still and held her, without being able to make
up her mind whether she should return these tears, sobs, and embraces.
At length the united efforts of the whole family succeeded in dragging
Mrs. Meyer from the hall into the parlour, where they compelled her to
sit down, and made her understand, at last, that she was to live there.
At first she insisted upon sleeping on the floor; then, in the kitchen
among the servants; finally, she begged and prayed that, if they were
determined she should have a room of her own, it must be the tiniest of
attics in which she could only squeeze by huddling all her limbs
together, a room no larger than a coal-cellar, from which she might now
and then get a peep at her daughter. Unfortunately, in Mr. Boltay's
house there was no room of that size, except a granary.
So, at last, she had to let them be hospitable to her in their own way,
and Teresa and Fanny got ready for her a cabinet next to Fanny's
music-room. When all was ready, Teresa took Fanny's two hands in hers,
and, looking tenderly into her eyes, said in a confidential tone:
"Fanny, be kind, tender, and affectionate towards your mother! So far
from avoiding, do your utmost to anticipate, her wishes. You see that
she loves you dearly, you love her too. One thing, however, I beg of
you: say nothing, before her, of your approaching wedding. Keep it a
secret for a time--to please me."
And Fanny promised to keep it secret.
* * * * *
On the appointed day, old Kárpáthy--if it be right to call our intending
bridegroom old--sent Palko to Boltay's, and with great delight received
the message that he was to come for the ring himself.
He flew--nay, that would be saying too much for him; but he hastened to
the house as fast as a pair of legs could carry him. On reaching it, he
must needs embrace Mr. Boltay himself willy-nilly, and insisted on being
conducted to the bride at once. The thought that this wondrously
beautiful damsel was ready to take him for a husband, made him
positively love her. Mr. Boltay was obliged to call his attention to the
fact that the marriage must be preceded by sundry legal and other
formalities, which the magnate, despite the fact of his being a member
of the legislature, had clean forgotten, though this only shows how
completely he was carried away by the idea of his own wedding. Kárpáthy,
therefore, had to content himself with requesting his future
father-in-law--who, by the way, was a good score of years younger than
himself--to keep the whole affair a profound secret in the meantime, as
he had his own peculiar reasons for so doing. Boltay promised, and only
after the magnate's departure, did he recollect that Teresa and Fanny
had demanded a similar promise of secrecy, so he told Teresa of the
coincidence.
This circumstance confirmed Teresa's suspicions. If it was for the
interest of both parties to keep the matter secret till the wedding-day,
Mrs. Meyer could not possibly know anything about it, and therefore she
must have another reason for coming here, for that she had a reason
Teresa felt quite certain.
It was only natural too, under the circumstances, that a certain
estrangement should gradually arise between Teresa and Fanny. Teresa
could not forget that Fanny was now the bride of a millionaire, and
Fanny felt ashamed to be as familiar with her aunt and guardian as she
used to be. "What will they think of me?" she thought. "They will put it
all down to vaingloriousness and affectation." Thus it came about that a
sort of cold reserve was observable among the members of the family.
Everybody seemed to be upon his guard; and they might have been deaf and
dumb for all that they said to each other at meals.
The person who observed this atmosphere of reserve and suspicion with
the liveliest attention was undoubtedly Mrs. Meyer. "The girl is not
happy," she thought. "They are too severe with her. Teresa is cold and
unsympathetic. The girl is bored, and feels wretched, plunged as she is
up to the neck in this overbearing rural felicity. All day long she
never sees any suitable young fellow of her own age, and the desires of
her heart are all the stronger in consequence. Yes, something will come
of this, I'm sure."
One day Teresa went to Pressburg to see how the wedding-garments were
getting on--all the preparations for the marriage were being made
outside the house--and as they were not ready, she felt obliged to
remain in town all night, and sent Boltay back to guard the house.
Hitherto, Fanny had never lain alone in her room. Her aunt had always
slept in the cabinet, and the door between the two rooms had been left
open; and on very stormy nights, when the rain beat against the
window-panes, when the wind slammed the doors, and the dogs were howling
in the yard below, it was nice to reflect that near her was resting a
good faithful soul who, next to God, was her most watchful guardian.
This particular night, too, was very stormy. The rain poured, the
tempest shook the trees, the roaming dogs barked and howled as if they
were hunting down some one, and the wind shook the doors as if some one
was repeatedly trying to open them from the outside. So Fanny invited
her mother to come and spend the night with her.
Mrs. Meyer came, of course, and watched her daughter undress. Why should
she not? she was her own mother! She looked at her often, and she looked
at her long, in fact, she could scarce take her eyes off her. The girl
seemed to fill her with equal astonishment and rapture. At each moment
the contours of her virginal figure revealed fresh charms. Ah! in the
eyes of real connoisseurs sixty thousand florins were but a bagatelle
for such a matchless creature!
* * * * *
At night, in the dark, when the candles are extinguished, old women can
chatter their best, especially when they light upon some one who does
not easily doze off and is prepared to patiently listen to all they have
to say, and even to spur them on from time to time with expressions of
amazement, horror, approbation, or other stimulating interjections. Such
occasions are the most convenient time for recounting all that has
happened ten, twenty, even fifty years ago, beginning from births and
christenings, and going right on through engagements and marriages to
deaths and burials, till at last a half-snore from one quarter or
another puts an end to the discourse. Mrs. Meyer, too, was inclined to
be talkative, and she could not have had a better opportunity than when
they were both lying in bed.
"Oh, oh! my darling girl!" she began; "my sweet, pretty girl, never did
I think I should be so fortunate as to sleep in the same room with you.
How oddly things come about, to be sure! Here am I with four foolish
girls, each one madder than the other; for if they were not mad, they
would not behave as they have behaved. Each one of them had an
honourable attachment, and well for them had they stopped there! but no,
they were not content, they would have the whole world at their feet,
and so they lost their opportunity."
This was the first assault.
Fanny, however, never answered a word. Mrs. Meyer, therefore, left well
alone. She had made a move in the right direction, as she thought, so
she now passed on to something else.
"How happy you are in this house! I see that every one loves you.
They're a little strict, perhaps, but what good honest people! A
thousand times fortunate you are to have found your way hither, where
you have everything you can desire. Here you can live in perfect
contentment so long as old Boltay lives. God preserve him for many years
to come! And yet I fear that he may one day die suddenly, for his blood
is very thick, and his father and his two brothers all died of apoplexy
much about the same time of life. I know very well that he would not
leave you in want--he would provide for you, of course, if he had not
got a nephew who is an advocate, to whom, perhaps, he will leave
everything. That is family pride, and very natural, after all. Blood,
you know, is thicker than water."
This was the second assault. Frighten the girl with the thought of what
will become of her if Boltay dies! "Waste your precious youth while
Boltay is alive, and then it will be too late to sigh and groan over the
reflection, 'How much better it would have been to have sold it for so
much!'"
And the horror of it was that Fanny understood everything quite well.
She knew what her mother was talking about, what she was aiming at, how
she was tampering with and tempting her, and she fancied that, through
the darkness, she could see her cunning face, and through that cunning
face right into that cunning soul, and she closed her eyes and stopped
up her ears that she might not either see or hear, and yet she saw and
heard all the same.
"Ay, ay!" sighed Mrs. Meyer, by way of announcing that she was about to
begin again.
"Are you asleep, Fanny?"
"No," stammered the girl. She was not even sly enough to leave the
question unanswered, in which case Mrs. Meyer would, perhaps, have
fancied she had dozed off, and not said anything more.
"Are you angry with me for talking? If you don't like it, say so."
Fanny, involuntarily trembling, uttered, with an effort, a scarcely
audible "Go on!"
"I should scarcely have recognized you if I had seen you. If I had met
you in the street, I should certainly have passed you by without
speaking. Yes, it is quite true. What a tiny little girl you were when
they took you away from me! Ah! why did not all my girls remain little!
Ay, ay! how poor people's daughters do grow up to be sure! Every time a
poor man's daughters grow up he has more cause for sorrow than for joy.
What will become of them? who will bring them up? Nowadays nobody cares
about marrying. Trade brings in less and less, the expenses of
housekeeping increase every day, and if a girl here and there does marry
after all, what does she gain by it? Why, a worthless sot of a husband,
and a life of misery, care, and anxiety. She'll go from bad to worse,
have to slave like a maid-of-all-work, be saddled with a lot of wicked
children, and when she gets old they'll pitch her into the street. Ay,
ay! the best thing a mother could do for her daughter when it is born
would be to bury it!"
Thus she emphasized, for the girl's benefit, all the difficulties of
marriage, and laid stress upon the more disagreeable features of
domestic life. And the girl knew quite well why she spoke to her in this
way, for that one word, "How beautiful you are!" had suddenly
enlightened her mind, and she also began to entertain the suspicion
which, by the way, Teresa had never dared to communicate, that her
mother had come to her as a tempter.
"Are you cold, Fanny?"
"No," stammered the girl, huddling up beneath the bed-clothes.
"I thought I heard you shiver."
"No, I didn't."
"You used to know Rézi Halm, didn't you?"
"Yes," faltered Fanny, in a low voice, wondering what was coming next,
and what fresh attack was going to be made upon her.
"What a proud girl she was, eh? The whole lot of them were so proud--you
remember, surely?--they were neighbours, you know. There was no speaking
to them at all. When that misfortune happened to your eldest sister,
they would not even look at us. And now do you know what has happened to
those girls? A rich country gentleman fell in love with Rézi and carried
her off. At first they cursed her, they rejected her. Later on the
gentleman gave the girl a nice little property, and then they were
reconciled to her, and went to live with her--yes, the whole lot of
them, those stuck-up things who were so quick to judge other folks! And
now they say there's nothing to make a fuss about; the girl is happier
than any lady, and her lover is more faithful to her than many a husband
is to his wife--fulfils all her desires, and gives her whatever she
wants. The servants call her 'my lady,' and they are glad to see her in
polite society, and ask no questions."
Here Mrs. Meyer paused for a moment, to give Fanny time to take it all
in and think it all over. Then she went on again as follows: "I don't
know how it is, but I don't feel a bit sleepy to-night. Perhaps it is
because I am in a strange room. I am always fancying the window to be
where the door is. I say, Fanny," she added suddenly, "can you do
embroidery?"
It seemed an innocent question enough, so Fanny answered that she could.
"It has just occurred to me that the last piece of embroidery you did is
at home--that sofa-cover, you know, with the kissing doves on it. It
stands just below your portrait which that young artist--you
remember--painted for nothing. Ah! since then he has become a famous
artist; since then he has painted your portrait in at least three
hundred different ways, and sent it to all the exhibitions, and there
the greatest noblemen pay him large sums of money for that very
portrait. Yes, and bid against each other for it, too. I might say that
that painter has founded his reputation on that one portrait, for since
then his name is familiar in all first-class houses. That picture did
the whole thing."
Ah! now she is trying the door of vanity!
"The man himself would not believe it," pursued Mrs. Meyer. "A great
nobleman, a very great nobleman, became so enamoured of the
portrait--naturally he saw it abroad--that he came, post-haste, all the
way to Pressburg, to convince himself that the subject of the portrait
really lived in our city. He came to our house, and you should have seen
his despair when he was told that you lived there no longer. At first he
wanted to blow his brains out. He succeeded, subsequently, however, in
finding out where you were--saw you, and since then he has been worse
than ever. He would come to our house, sit down on the sofa which he
knew you had embroidered, and stare at your portrait for hours at a
stretch. Your sisters were angry with him because he had not a look for
them; but I liked him, because I always used to hear something of you
from him. He was always following you, and I could at least learn from
him whether you were well or poorly off. Oh! that man was positively mad
about you!"
So we've got as far as this, eh?
Fanny now raised herself on her elbows, and listened to her mother's
conversation with something of that shuddering curiosity with which
Damiens regarded the wounds made in his body for the reception of the
burning oil.
"Oh, what absurdities that gentleman perpetrated!" continued Mrs. Meyer,
noisily shifting her pillows from one side to the other. "The man was
not aware that they were laughing at and making fun of him. Not a day
passed without his coming to our house, and he said, over and over
again, that if you had been there, he would have made you his wife on
the spot. 'Go along with you, sir!' said I. Ah, my dear sweet girl,
beware when a great nobleman says he will marry you! It is all nonsense;
he wants to make a fool of you!"
Here Mrs. Meyer rested a little, and thus gave Fanny time to complete in
her own mind the suggestion insinuated above as follows--
"But if he says, 'I won't marry you, but I'll give you money,' that's
reason--listen to him. It is only little clerks and twopenny-halfpenny
swells that deceive girls with promises of marriage, and these you must
avoid; but a real gentleman always begins by giving something, and him
you may listen to."
And the shame, the disgrace? Pooh, such is life!
Fanny, horror-stricken, waited to see what else her mother was going to
say. Presently she went on again--
"I didn't know whether to be sorry for or disgusted with the poor man
when I saw him so far gone. Suddenly you disappeared from the town. Then
he gave way to despair altogether, for he fancied that they had got you
married somewhere or other. At any rate, he came to me like a madman and
asked what had become of you. 'I don't know, sir,' said I; 'they took
her away from me long ago. Possibly she is married.' I had no sooner
uttered these words than the young man grew quite pale, and cast himself
on the very sofa which you embroidered, on which is a couple of billing
doves in the middle of a wreath of roses. I was sorry for the poor man,
as he was a fine, handsome young fellow; in fact, I never saw a
handsomer man in my life. What eyebrows! And his face, too, so pale and
refined, a hand like velvet, a beautiful mouth, and a commanding figure.
I cannot get him out of my head. I asked him why he did not make haste
about it if his intentions with regard to you were so serious. He said
he was only waiting for the death of his uncle, who was greatly against
the marriage. 'That's all very well, sir,' I replied, 'but you cannot
expect the girl to wait till your uncle dies; she herself would be
getting old by then. It is not a fair thing to expect any girl to do.'
Then he said he would swear fidelity to you in the mean time. 'Alas,
sir!' I said, 'it is hard to believe in that; one cannot trust the men
nowadays. You would only make the girl unhappy, and the marriage would
remain an eternal secret.' Thereupon he said that if I did not believe
his word of honour and his oath, he was ready to deposit with me sixty
thousand florins, ready money, and if ever he should be such a scoundrel
as to fall short of his word and desert you, he would forfeit the money.
Now, sixty thousand florins is a great sum of money. Nobody would be
such a fool as to lightly chuck it away. A man would think twice about
breaking his word when all that was at stake, especially when he had
given his word to such a wondrously lovely girl as my Fanny."
"Good night; I want to go to sleep," stammered Fanny, sinking back again
between her pillows; and for a long time afterwards she tossed about in
her bed, whilst hatred, horror, and disgust struggled together in her
soul. Only the late dawn brought rest at last to her weary eyelids.
The sun was already shining through the window-panes when Fanny awoke.
Mrs. Meyer must have got up and gone out much earlier, for there was no
sign of her. Her good humour returned, therefore, and she arose and
dressed hastily, scarcely allowing herself time to arrange her hair in
the simplest manner possible.
Breakfast was already awaiting her. Mrs. Meyer meanwhile was in the
kitchen outside making the coffee and the toast. She would not hear of
the servants helping her; such a sweet pretty daughter deserved that her
mother should take a little trouble on her account.
Fanny and her mother were alone over their coffee. Fanny had wished her
mother good morning and kissed her hand, whereupon Mrs. Meyer gave her
back tit for tat by kissing her hand also.
"Oh, what a pretty hand, what an elegant hand! Oh, my darling, my only
girl! Ah, how blessed I am in living so near to you! Permit me to give
you your coffee. I know exactly how you like it, don't I?--a little
sugar and lots of milk, that's it, isn't it? I have forgotten nothing,
you see."
The woman was quite loquacious. Whenever Teresa was present she hardly
ventured to address the girl at all. Teresa's cold, perpetually watchful
eyes, always had a disquieting effect upon her; now she was freed from
that restraint.
Fanny primly sipped her coffee, looking from time to time at her mother,
who never once ceased praising her beauty and goodness, and would have
compelled her to eat up every bit of breakfast if she could have had her
way.
"Mamma," said the girl, taking her mother's hand (she was no longer
afraid of her), "what was the name of that gentleman who was making
inquiries about me?"
Mrs. Meyer's eyes began to sparkle villainously. Ah ha! the timid
creature was approaching the snare!
If, however, she had regarded her daughter's face a little more
attentively, she would have noticed that in putting the question she did
not even blush, but remained cold and pale.
Looking round very mysteriously to make sure that nobody was within
hearing distance, she drew her daughter's head down towards her, and
whispered in her ear--
"Abellino Kárpáthy."
"Oh, 'tis he, then!" exclaimed Fanny, with a peculiar, a very peculiar
smile.
"Then you know him?"
"I have seen him once, a long way off."
"Oh, what a handsome, refined, pleasant man he is! Never in my life have
I seen such a figure of a man!"
Fanny began brushing the crumbs off the table-cloth and playing with the
coffee-spoon.
"Yes, mother; sixty thousand florins is a lot of money, isn't it?"
Ah, the hunted creature is already in the snare! Quick, quick!
"Yes, my darling, a lot of money indeed; the legal rate of interest upon
it is three thousand six hundred florins. A poor man would have to put
his nose to the grindstone for a long, long time before he could earn
that."
"Tell me, mamma, was papa's income as much as that?"
"Alas! no, my daughter. It was much for him when it came to nine hundred
florins, and that is only the fourth part of this. Fancy, four times
nine hundred florins!"
"Now say, mamma, has Abellino really said that he would marry me?"
"He said he would give a solemn assurance to that effect any moment you
like."
Fanny appeared to be considering. "Well, if he deceives me, so much the
worse for him, the sixty thousand florins will be ours in any case."
"Ah, what a prudent girl it is! She is not a feather-brain like her
sisters. She will not make a fool of her old mother. She is, indeed, my
own true girl!" thought Mrs. Meyer to herself, and she rubbed her hands
for joy.
Now the iron is hot, now is the time to strike!
"Ah, my daughter, romance is, no doubt, a very fine thing, but it will
soon bring you to starvation if you have nothing else to depend upon.
Those poetic gentlemen love to scribble about ideals and such like
rubbish, yet they themselves are always looking out for the trees on
which money grows. Why, the whole world runs after money, nothing but
money, and he who has money has honour into the bargain. A beggar may be
as honourable as you like, but nobody takes any notice of him. You are
young now, and handsome, and can get something on the strength of it;
but how long will your beauty last? In ten years' time it will be gone.
Nay, more, your loveliness may not even last so long as ten years if you
continue to live as you are living now, for those damsels who stint
themselves of the joys of life, wither the quickest----"
"Hush! Mr. Boltay is coming."
The old man entered, wished them good morning, and inquired if they
wanted anything brought from town, as the horses were already being put
to, and he would be off at once.
"Mamma wants to go away," said Fanny, with the utmost composure; "would
you be so good, daddy, as to take her along with you?"
Mrs. Meyer stared with all her eyes, and all her mouth too; she had
never said that she wanted to go away.
"Very happy!" replied Boltay. "Where does she want to go?"
"She wants to go home to her daughters (Mrs. Meyer looked frightened).
There are some embroideries of mine there which I do not want my sisters
to throw away or sell in the rag-market; bring them back to me."
(Ah, what a sage damsel! what a golden-minded damsel!)
"I am thinking especially of a sofa that is there. Mamma knows which it
is, for I embroidered the cover; it has two doves worked upon it. I
would not let my sisters have that on any account; do you understand?"
Why, of course she understood! This was the girl's way of showing that
she accepted the offer of the gentleman who was so fond of sitting on
the sofa, and how delicately she conveyed her consent--that blockhead of
a Boltay did not suspect anything. Oh, a sage damsel! a golden-minded
damsel!
Boltay went out for a moment to tell the coachman to prepare a seat for
a lady, and taking advantage of this moment, Mrs. Meyer whispered in her
daughter's ear--
"When may I come back for you?"
"The day after to-morrow."
"And what answer shall I give?"
"The day after to-morrow," repeated Fanny.
Here Boltay popped in again.
"Wait a moment, my dear uncle," said Fanny; "I want to write a few lines
to Aunt Teresa, which you can take with you."
"All right, though it is a pity to ink your fingers, I think, for I can
give her the message all the same, if you tell me what it is."
"Very well, daddy, tell aunty to bring me a ball of _cashmir harras_, a
yard of _pur de laine_, or _poil-de-chevre_----"
Boltay was frightened at all those foreign words.
"It will be better, after all, if you write it down," said he; "I can
never learn all that."
Fanny, smiling all the time, produced her writing materials and wrote a
short letter, which she folded up, sealed, and gave to Boltay.
Mrs. Meyer cast a significant glance at the girl out of the corner of
her eye, allowed herself to be lifted up into the cart; the whip
cracked, and off they went.
Fanny remained looking after them for some time, and then with a cold,
contemptuous expression, returned to her room, watered her flowers, fed
her birds, and sang herself back into a good humour again.
On reaching town, Boltay dismounted at the first shop (he pretended he
had some indispensable purchase to make), and bade the coachman take
Mrs. Meyer to where she wanted to go. He would find his way to his house
on foot, he said.
Not very long afterwards Mrs. Meyer found herself once more in the
circle of her well-beloved. Abellino had just looked in, and the girls
were wild to know how their mother had fared.
It took Mrs. Meyer a good couple of hours to tell them all about her
happy adventure: how she had struggled, how much eloquence she had
expended till she had compelled the girl to surrender. For the girl was
frightfully modest, she said, and she had to make her believe that the
gentleman really meant to make her his wife, and had said so all along.
Abellino, in his joy, could scarce restrain himself from embracing the
duenna at intervals, during the course of her entertaining narrative,
especially when she told him what a splendid picture she had drawn of
him to Fanny.
Well, let us leave them all making merry together, and accompany Boltay
homewards also. Teresa was already awaiting him in the doorway, for the
coachman had arrived first, and told her he was coming. His first care
was to give her the letter.
"I have brought you a letter," said he, "but its contents are Greek to
me. Why, I couldn't even pronounce the lingo!"
Teresa broke open the letter, read it through, and looked at Boltay.
Then she read it through again. She read it through a third time, and
again she looked at Boltay.
"It is Greek, indeed," said she. "I don't understand it. You have a look
at it."
And she handed the letter to Boltay.
"Hum!" growled the old gentleman, fancying that the letter was full of
stupid foreign terms, and, to his amazement, he read these words--
"MY DEAR AUNT,
"I know everything. Don't let that woman, whom I cannot call mother
without a feeling of horror, come to our house again. Send word to
Mr. John Kárpáthy, and tell him to come to me at once. I have
something very serious to say to him, which admits of no delay.
Send immediately.
"Your affectionate kinswoman,
"FANNY."
What was the meaning of it? What had happened? When had there been time
for anything to happen? They had had their coffee so nicely and quietly
together, whispering so confidentially all the time, and kissed each
other's hands at parting. Mr. Boltay did not understand it at all.
But Teresa began to understand.
So they had to send at once to John Kárpáthy. Who was to go? Boltay
resolved to go himself. He had good legs, and would be there in a
moment. So he went and gave the message to old Palko, who communicated
it to his master forthwith. The bridegroom understood it in a moment,
and lost no time in getting into his carriage and setting out. Boltay
and Teresa sat beside him in the carriage. Nobody saw them through the
closed windows, and five fiery steeds carried them along the king's
high-road at a gallop, taking but a couple of hours to accomplish the
journey, whereas Master Boltay at his more leisurely pace would have
taken four at least.
Fanny herself received her distinguished guest with a face even paler
than usual; but this pallor rather became her. Squire John was beside
himself for rapture. He would not give his fair bride time to approach
him, but, putting his hand solemnly upon his breast, addressed her in
language very unusual for him--
"My dear young lady, so help me God, the one object of my life will be
how to make you happy!"
"And I, sir," said Fanny, in a calm and resolute voice, "shall consider
it my highest duty to do honour to your name. And now I would ask you
all three, my friends, to grant me a few hours' private interview where
we shall not be disturbed."
These words were spoken in such a calm and resolute voice that they felt
bound to obey, and all four withdrew into the innermost chamber, locking
the door behind them.
A few hours later the door was reopened, and they all four appeared
again.
But how every face had changed!
Fanny's face was no longer pale, but as red as the dawn, serene, and
open as a half-blown rose.
Master Boltay was twisting his moustache as if he meditated something
terrible; but for an occasional chuckle, one would have said that he
was very angry indeed.
Even honest Teresa's eyes sparkled, but the sparks of triumphant revenge
were in them after all.
And then the bridegroom, Squire John! Where was he, and what had become
of the old Nabob? Could any one have recognized him? Was this merry,
sprightly, leaping, smiling, triumphant creature the same man? Why, he
had grown twenty years younger at the very least! It was a changeling,
surely!
"To-morrow, then, in the afternoon," said he, with a voice that trembled
for joy.
"Yes, to-morrow," replied Fanny. Their eyes flashed with a strange fire
as they looked at each other.
Thereupon Squire John rushed to his carriage, opened the door himself,
without waiting for Palko to let down the steps, and, turning round,
shouted once more, "To-morrow afternoon!"
"Hush, hush!" said Fanny, putting her index-finger to her pretty little
lips.
"Drive into Pressburg!" cried Squire John with impatient celerity, while
Palko clambered up on to the box from whence he phlegmatically looked
down upon his master.
"What are you staring at, sirrah? Drive on, I say."
"We have left something behind here," said the old servant.
"What have we left behind, eh?"
"Twenty years of your age, my honoured young sir," replied Palko,
without the suspicion of a smile.
Squire John laughed good-naturedly at the comic rejoinder, and a few
moments later a cloud of dust far away on the high-road was all that was
to be seen of the carriage.
* * * * *
Early next morning a servant arrived at Boltay's country house by the
market cart, with the embroidered sofa which Mrs. Meyer sent to Fanny.
The servant whispered secretly that a letter had been thrust into the
bottom of the sofa; and so it was.
Fanny searched for the letter till she found it. It was in her mother's
handwriting. The rich gentleman was delighted, it said, so delighted in
fact, that he had arranged to give a grand party in Fanny's honour at
Mr. Kecskerey's rooms; and a beautiful invitation card was enclosed,
addressed to--"Mademoiselle Fanny de Meyer avec famille."
Quite a family party, you see!
Fanny sent back the servant with the message that she accepted the
invitation to supper, and sent her best greetings to Mr. Kecskerey.
But who was this Mr. Kecskerey you will ask? Well, he was a worthy
gentleman who was wont to play no inconsiderable part in the refined
society of the day, and supplied one of the most crying necessities of
the age. Every one knew him, everybody, that is, who prided himself upon
being somebody, whether he was a great nobleman or a great artist. His
rooms, his suppers, his breakfasts were the usual rallying points of the
whole world of fashion.
Eminent damsels, whose enthusiasm for art constrained them to come to
closer quarters than usual with this or that famous artist;
liberal-minded amazons, who extended their tender relations beyond the
chains of Hymen; lively dames, who loved to see around them
good-humoured, free-and-easy folks, instead of the usual dull and
dignified drawing-room loungers; foreign millionaires, who desired to be
regaled with an exhibition of beauty and enjoyment; _blasé_ souls, who
infected others with the contagion of their own disgust; crazy poets,
who needed but a nod to immediately rise to their feet and declaim
their own verses; two or three newspaper correspondents, who describe in
their journals everything that they hear, see, eat, and drink at Mr.
Kecskerey's suppers, and many others of a like kidney, were the sort of
guests who frequented these saloons of an evening, generally twice a
week.
It must not be supposed for a moment, however, that there was ever the
slightest breach of good manners at Mr. Kecskerey's social evenings. Any
one supposing the contrary would be making the greatest mistake in the
world. The most rigorous propriety was the order of the day, or rather
of the evening. First of all, the artists and _artistes_ recited, sang,
and played the piano, and then those who chose might dance a few modest
quadrilles and waltzes together. Then every one went to supper in the
most perfect order, the ladies sitting down and the gentlemen standing
while they ate and drank. Sometimes a few glasses of champagne were
drained to toast the ladies who were present, or, perhaps, some of the
celebrities of the day. Then, after a little brief but lively
conversation, a few more quadrilles and waltzes would be danced, and at
eleven o'clock the ladies would rise and retire, and only a few
dandies--the younger and the older men as a rule--would remain behind
for a glass or two, or a hand at cards.
From this every one can easily see that at these evening entertainments
there was not the slightest thing that could be considered an offence
against good manners or good morals. Oh no! Mr. Kecskerey would never
have allowed such a thing; he was too proud of his renown for that. He
was no minister of love, not he! He only gave people the opportunity of
meeting together if they liked, and that is entirely a personal matter,
of course.
An especially grand assembly was to be held at Mr. Kecskerey's on the
day fixed for Fanny's appearance by Abellino and his friends. They
naturally sent out all the invitations, as the money for the
entertainment came out of their pockets, and all the elegant world of
their acquaintance was to do honour to the occasion.
On the morning of the critical day Mrs. Meyer, dressed in the self-same
garments which Master Boltay had got for her, took her seat in a
hackney-coach, and drove out of town. All the way along she was
concocting the further details of the great affair. Leaving the coach
standing on the outskirts of the wood, she would make her way on foot to
Boltay's dwelling, and there she would say that she had brought the
things from town. Fanny would then go out for a walk with her under the
pretext of looking at the crops, and on reaching the coach they would
step in, shut the door, and off they would set at full tilt without
asking leave of anybody.
Maturing thus her amiable designs, she safely reached the meadows near
Boltay's dwelling. Providence was so far merciful to her that she did
not break an arm or a leg on the way. On reaching her journey's end,
however, a very cruel surprise awaited her, for in reply to her
inquiries about Fanny, the servants informed her that the young lady had
driven into Pressburg early that very morning.
She was amazed, and not without reason.
"I suppose the old people took her to town?" said she.
"No; they went away at daybreak. The young lady had departed only a
couple of hours ago in a hired carriage."
Alas, alas! What was the girl thinking about? Perhaps she only wanted to
steal a march upon her mother, and look after the lucrative business
herself unaided? Perhaps some one had explained to her that it was best
altogether to dispense with the services of go-betweens in such
affairs? Well, it would be a pretty thing indeed if she had wiped her
mother out of the reckoning altogether!
Away! Back to the coach! Back to Pressburg in hot haste, if the horses
died for it. But where could the girl be? What if she had gone quietly
off with Abellino in the meantime; or, still worse, with some one else,
and did not turn up at all? Oh, what bitter grief and anguish a mother's
heart has to contend with!
Meanwhile, all the guests were assembled in Mr. Kecskerey's saloons. One
after another bevies of charming women alighted at the entrance with
delicate coquetry, permitting the eye-glassed cavaliers to catch
glimpses of their tiny beribboned feet as they dismounted from their
equipages. In the hall, liveried footmen distributed tickets for shawls
and slippers. The master of the house, the honourable Mr. Kecskerey,
with dignified condescension, received the arrivals in the doorway.
Everybody knows that Kecskerey's money does not pay for the evening's
entertainment, and he himself knows that they know it. And yet, for all
that, they bow and scrape to one another as politely as if he were a
real host and they were real guests. Mr. Kecskerey's shrill nasal voice
resounded above all the din and bustle.
"I am so delighted that you have not rejected my modest invitation. Your
excellency has, indeed, honoured my poor house by your presence.
Mesdames, so kind of you not to forget the most sincere of your
servants. Sir, it is really too good of you to neglect your important
studies on my account! Countess, your siren song is generally
acknowledged to be the gem of the evening, etc."
The amiable host laid himself out to make the diversion of his guests as
free and unconstrained as possible. Those who did not know and wished to
know each other were immediately introduced, though it is possible that
they had known each other of old, without his or any one else's
intervention. He gave the poets printed sheets, in which they could read
their own works. He made the musicians sit down before the piano, and
placed behind their backs some one to praise them, and he possessed the
art of saying something obliging, something interesting, to every one;
he scattered freshly done-up gossip and piquant anecdotes amongst the
thronging crowds, he knew how to make tea better than any one else, and
his eye was upon everybody, so that nobody felt neglected. A model host,
indeed!
At last Abellino arrived. It was not in his power to be punctual. An
elderly foreign gentleman was leaning on his arm, and he led him
straight up to the host, and introduced him.
"Friend Kecskerey--Monsieur Griffard, the banker."
Fresh bowings and scrapings and shaking of hands.
"Pardon me, honoured host, for my indecent haste in introducing among
the _élite_ of your distinguished guests as if he were a bosom friend,
such a cosmopolitan celebrity, who, only this very hour, has
unexpectedly arrived here from Paris."
Oh, as for that, Mr. Kecskerey, so far from granting his pardon,
expressed himself obliged and gratified a thousand times over at having
been afforded the felicity of an introduction to such a distinguished
personage. And all this took place with as much solemnity as if Abellino
was not in reality the host of the evening, and as if everybody did not
know it!
As a matter of fact, the worthy banker had come all the way from Paris
(and there was no railway communication between the two places then,
remember) on purpose to convince himself with his own eyes, whether the
old Nabob, on whose skin he had staked such a pile of money, was really
going to die or not?
Mr. Kecskerey lavished his most delicate attentions upon the eminent
stranger, conducting him into the society of the most charming women,
his principal object therein being to relieve Abellino of this incubus.
As for Abellino, he withdrew, meanwhile, with a few young bucks of his
own age, into the card-room, where he was likely to pass the time most
agreeably until the arrival of Fanny.
A good many people were already seated round the green table, amongst
them being Abellino's rival, Fennimore, at the sight of whom Abellino
burst into a noisy impertinent laugh.
"Ah, Fennimore!" cried he. "You certainly ought to have mighty good luck
at cards to-day, for, so far as love is concerned, everything is going
against you. Diable! you will have to win a jolly lot, for you've lost a
thousand ducats to me already. You laid a wager that I would not win the
girl, eh? You shall see presently. And perhaps you all fancy that the
expenses of this evening will come out of my pocket? You are very much
mistaken, I can tell you. It is Fennimore who will have to pay. Here,
give me an inch of room at the table, and I'll try my luck."
Fennimore said not a word; he was keeping the bank just then. A few
moments later the bank was broken. Abellino won heaps and heaps.
"Ah, ah, my friend! the proverb 'Luckless at cards, lucky at love,' does
not seem to apply to you. Poor Fennimore, God help thee!"
Fennimore arose; he would play no more. He was livid with rage. He had
lost his wager (he had bet Abellino a thousand ducats that he would
never seduce Fanny)--he had lost his money, and he had to bear, besides,
the stinging sarcasms of his triumphant rival. His heart was full of
gall and venom. More than once he was on the point of making a vigorous
demonstration with a heavy candlestick; but he thought better of it, and
at last got up and quitted the room.
Abellino went on playing and winning, and in his teasing, tormenting way
stung those who lost to the very quick. He was stupefied by the day's
good luck. He could not restrain his laughter.
"Well," cried he at last, sweeping into his pocket the banknotes piled
up before him, "Fennimore's twofold ill luck has given the lie to the
proverb. I am going to contradict it with my twofold good fortune."
In the very next room he came face to face with a lackey who had long
been looking for him. Mrs. Meyer was waiting for him, the man said; she
was in the ante-chamber, but could not come in, for she had only just
returned from a journey, and had not had time to change her dress.
Ugh! that was not a good sign. Abellino immediately hastened out to have
a word with her. She said that she had not come across the girl, but she
was sure to come, as otherwise she would not have accepted the
invitation.
Abellino received the pleasant tidings very angrily, and left Mrs. Meyer
alone in the antechamber. Diable! if they should make a fool of him,
after all!
There, however, he could not afford to display his anger; no, there he
had to carry it off with a joyous, triumphant, provocative face to the
very end. He would rather lose all his money than be left in the lurch
by the girl now.
Presently he went out again to ask Mrs. Meyer whether she had not told
the girl that he meant to make her his wife.
Oh yes; and the girl seemed greatly delighted at the idea.
And again he cheered up a bit, and returned to the assembly room, and
did his best to amuse Monsieur Griffard.
They were handing round the tea, and the Countess X---- had just begun
to sing the "Casta Diva," when Abellino's lackey sidled up to his master
and whispered in his ear--
"I have just seen Miss Fanny Meyer descending from a carriage."
Abellino pressed into the servant's hand as many ducats as he happened
to have about him, pulled himself together, and got up and looked at
himself in a mirror. He was elegant and genteel, at any rate, that
everybody would be bound to allow. His whole get-up was
unexceptionable--his chin was clean-shaven, his moustache and whiskers
were downright picturesque, his cravat was ravishing, and his vest
magnificent.
And now the flunkey whose duty it was to announce the arrivals, entered
the room (Abellino caught sight of him in the mirror), and announced in
his ceremonious _salon_ voice, "Madame Fanny de Kárpáthy, _née_ de
Meyer!"
"The deuce!" thought Abellino; "the wench is making pretty free with my
name. Can she be taking me seriously? Well, she may do so if she likes.
It doesn't matter much."
"Ah, a wedding!" exclaimed Mons. Griffard. "Then you are marrying, eh?"
"Oh, it is only a left-handed marriage," said Abellino, jocosely.
Some of the guests, full of curiosity, pressed forward to meet the new
arrivals. The host, I mean Mr. Kecskerey, went towards the entrance; the
lackey threw open the folding-doors, and a young lady entered,
accompanied by a gentleman. For a moment the whole company was dumb with
amazement. Was it the sight of the young lady that amazed them so? She
was beautiful, certainly. A simple but costly lace mantle floated,
wave-like, round her superb figure; the rich tresses of her hair were
covered by a slight veil of Brussels lace, which allowed her long curls
_à l'Anglaise_ to sweep down on both sides over her marble-smooth
shoulders and ravishingly beautiful bosom. And then that face, that
complexion like a faintly blushing rose, that look worthy of a goddess,
those burning black eyes so full of vivacity and passion, and
contrasting so strangely with the childlike lips suggestive of sleeping
innocence, but harmonizing on the other hand with the dimples on her
rosy chin and cheeks, set there surely for the undoing of any human soul
who saw a smile upon them!
And there was a smile upon them now, as Mr. Kecskerey came forward
without exactly knowing what to say.
Fanny greeted him.
"I was very pleased to accept your honoured invitation," said she, "and
I have brought my family with me also, as you see. I mean, of course, my
husband, Mr. John Kárpáthy;" and she indicated the gentleman by her
side.
Mr. Kecskerey could only say that his delight was infinite, but all the
time his eyes were anxiously searching for Abellino in the most evident
embarrassment.
As for Abellino, he remained standing before the mirror and looking just
like Lot's wife at the moment when she was turned into a pillar of salt.
But meantime John Kárpáthy, the good-humoured, merry, radiant Squire
John, pressed the hand of the master of the house as if he were an old
acquaintance, at the same time keeping his wife's little hand safely
tucked under his arm.
"Congratulate me, my worthy friend," said he. "I have won to-day a
treasure, a heavenly treasure. I am blessed indeed. I have no need of
any other paradise, for this world is now a paradise to me."
And laughing aloud, and with a beaming countenance, he mingled with the
company, presenting his wife to the most distinguished persons present,
who overwhelmed him with congratulations.
And Abellino was obliged to look on all the time!
To think that this girl, whom he had pursued so ostentatiously with his
love, should have become his uncle's wife, and consequently, henceforth
and for evermore, inaccessible to himself!
Why, if she had been carried up to the heights of heaven or down to the
depths of hell; if she had been fenced about in a rock-girt fortress, or
if wrathful archangels had guarded her with flaming swords, she would
not have been so completely shielded from him as by that talismanic
name--"Madame John Kárpáthy!"
It was impossible for him to have any relations whatever with Madame
John Kárpáthy!
Every eye that had sated itself with gazing on the beautiful young
bride, strayed back to him, and every look fixed upon him was full of
scorn and ridicule. The dandy, who was celebrating his uncle's wedding!
The outwitted suitor, whose adored one gave her hand--not to him, but to
his uncle!
It almost did Abellino good to see some one in the company who seemed to
be as hard hit as himself--namely, Monsieur Griffard, and true, even
now, to his malicious nature, he turned towards the banker and inquired
mockingly--
"Qu'en dites vous, M. Griffard?"
"C'est bien fatal!"
"Mon cher Abellino!" said Fennimore, who chanced to be standing by him,
and never had his thin drawling voice seemed so offensive, "it looks
very much as if you owed me a thousand ducats. Ha, ha, ha!"
Abellino turned furiously upon him, but at that instant his eyes met
those of Squire John, who had just then reached the place where he was
standing, with his wife under his arm, and introduced them to each other
with the most benevolent smile in the world.
"My dear wife, this is my dear little brother Bélá Kárpáthy. My dear
little brother, I recommend my dear wife to your kinsmanlike regard!"
Ah, this was the moment which he had so joyfully anticipated; this was
the exquisite vengeance, the thought of which had grown up in the heart
of the persecuted girl, and made the eyes of the gentle creature sparkle
so brightly.
The hunter had fallen into the snare--the snare that he himself had
laid. He had been hoodwinked, rejected, worsted utterly.
Abellino bowed stiffly, biting his lips hard all the time; he was as
white as the wall.
Then Squire John passed on and had himself specially introduced to
Monsieur Griffard, who expressed his intense gratification at finding
the Nabob in the possession of such excellent health.
But Abellino, the moment they had passed by, stuck his thumbs into the
corners of his vest, and humming a tune, and holding his head high, as
if he were in the best of humours, strolled from one end of the large
assembly room to the other, feigning ignorance of the fact that the
whispering and tittering that resounded on every side was so much scorn
and ridicule directed against him.
He hastened to the card-room.
As he passed through the door he heard how everybody there was laughing
and sniggering. Fennimore's shrill voice resounded through the din. The
moment they saw him the peals of laughter broke off suddenly, all signs
of hilarity disappeared, everybody tried to put on a solemn and
expectant look. Could anything in the world be more aggravating?
Abellino dragged a chair to the table and sat down among them. Why did
they not go on laughing; why did they not continue their conversation?
Why did Fennimore make such efforts to put on a solemn face, when his
mouth was regularly twitching?
The cards were dealt.
It was now Abellino's turn to keep the bank.
He began to lose.
Fennimore was sitting at the other end of the table, and he won
continually; he doubled, trebled, quadrupled his stakes; he doubled them
again, and still he won. Abellino began to lose his _sang-froid_ and get
flurried. He did not keep a proper watch on the stakes, and often swept
in the stakes of the winners and paid the losers. His mind was
elsewhere.
And now Fennimore again won four times as much as he had staked.
He could not restrain a laugh of triumph.
"Ha! ha! Monsieur de Kárpáthy, the proverb ill applies to you also: you
are unlucky at cards, and unlucky in love as well. Poor Abellino! Heaven
help you! You owe me a thousand ducats."
"I?" asked Abellino, irritably.
"Yes, you. Did you not bet me that you would seduce Fanny? And how
splendidly it has turned out! Abellino flies from the embraces of his
uncle's wife like a new Joseph fleeing from a new Madame Potiphar! You
had much better take care lest the lady takes a fancy to some other nice
young man. Ah, ah, ah! Abellino as the protector of virtue! Abellino as
a garde des dames! Why, it's sublime! You might make a capital farce out
of it."
Every word was as venom to his ears, every word cut him to the quick,
cut him to the very marrow. Abellino turned pale and shivered with rage.
What Fennimore said was true. He must needs tremble now at the thought
that this woman would find some one to love. Damnation! Damnation!
And still he kept on losing.
He scarce noticed now what he dealt. Fennimore again won four times the
amount of his stakes. Abellino only paid him double.
"Oh, my friend, you have made a mistake! I laid as much again."
"I did not observe it."
"Why, this is pure filibustery!" cried Fennimore, with insolent
indignation.
At this insulting word, Abellino instantly sprang to his feet, and flung
the whole pack of cards right between Fennimore's eyes.
Fennimore's naturally pale face grew blue and green, and, seizing the
chair on which he had been sitting, he made a rush at Abellino; but the
company intervened, and dragged Fennimore back.
"Let me go--let me go! Give me a knife!" he roared, with foaming lips;
while Abellino, breathing hard, regarded him with bloodshot eyes. Only
with the greatest difficulty were they prevented from tearing each other
to pieces.
At this unseemly disturbance, Mr. Kecskerey rushed in with a very
alarmed expression of face, forced his way through the ranks of the
wranglers, and, assuming his most imposing manner, exclaimed with a
voice that rang out like a clarion, "Respect the sanctity of my house!"
This intervention brought the combatants to their senses. They began to
recognize that this was not the place for adjusting affairs of honour.
The appeal to the sanctity of Mr. Kecskerey's house also did something
to restore the good-humour of the majority. Fennimore and Abellino were
therefore advised by their friends to go home, and settle their little
matter the next morning. They departed accordingly, and the company was
disturbed no more. A few minutes afterwards every one knew that
Fennimore and Abellino had quarrelled at cards, but every one pretended
that he knew nothing at all about it.
* * * * *
But the quarrel in the card-room of Mr. Kecskerey's establishment had
serious consequences for both the principal disputants. There could be
no thought of a reconciliation after such a deliberate and public
affront as that inflicted upon Fennimore by Abellino; so they sent their
seconds to each other, and it was arranged that they should fight the
matter out in the large room of The Green Tree tavern. They met
accordingly, and a stubborn contest ensued, marked on both sides by an
altogether unprecedented display of vindictive temper. Finally,
Fennimore, after treacherously wounding Abellino in the back during a
suspension of hostilities, and again on the shoulder when the fight was
resumed, was himself transfixed by his adversary's sword, and died
without uttering a sigh or groan, or moving a muscle of his face. As for
Abellino, he was confined to his bed for a whole month, and when he had
partially recovered, he received a hint from his well-wishers to the
effect that, until the affair had blown over a little, it would be as
well if he took the air somewhere abroad; and that, too, not in any
civilized kingdom, for there they would not be very long in nabbing a
man like him who had so many creditors and loved to make a stir, but in
some nice Oriental empire where he would be out of harm's way. So it
ended in his setting off for Palestine, to visit the Holy Sepulchre,
where, said the wags, he was going to do penance for his sins. Thither
we need not follow him.
But Squire John Kárpáthy, the happy, the more than happy Nabob, set off
with his fair consort for Kárpátfalva, there to spend their honeymoon.