THE SOIREES AT ARAD
Despite his misgivings, Count Kengyelesy succeeded in reaching his home
at Arad without being robbed by Fatia Negra.
During the evenings of his visit at Hidvár he had won back everything
which he had lost on the occasion of his friend Hátszegi's visit at
Kengyelesy, and in the joy of his heart he gave his countess _carte
blanche_ in the matter of entertaining her friends and opened his halls
freely to the elegant world of Arad.
For the society of Arad is distinctly elegant. Excepting Pest, there is
no other place in Hungary where the aristocratic element is so strongly
represented. Nay, it has this advantage over Pest that its society does
not scatter as the seasons change. Such pleasure-resorts as Csákó,
Ménes, Magyarát and Világos and the castles of the magnates residing on
the circumjacent _puszta_ are all of a heap, so to speak, around Arad;
so that there is no occasion for acquaintances to separate in spring or
autumn; wherefore to all those who would devote themselves
uninterruptedly to social joys, Arad is a veritable Eldorado.
There was no need to offer the Countess Kengyelesy such an opportunity
twice,--the very next day the round of visiting began. All the
notabilities of the higher circles got themselves introduced to her
ladyship by mutual friends, and the lesser fry, whom nobody knew, were
introduced to her by the count himself. Amongst those who came from afar
was a young man from Pest who had an official post in the county, a rare
distinction in those days, who was much praised for his culture and who
had spoken once or twice very sensibly at Quarter Sessions,--a certain
Szilard Vamhidy. But what interested the ladies in the young man far
more than his official orations was the rumour connecting his name with
a romantic attachment he was said to have had with the daughter of a
wealthy merchant of Pest. The young man, being disappointed in his love,
had resolved to kill himself, and had persuaded the girl to do likewise
at the same time. Only with difficulty had they been snatched from the
threshold of death. Subsequently, on account of this very thing, the
girl had been compelled to become the wife of the wealthy Hátszegi.
The countess quickly made up her mind that such a young man as this was
an indispensable acquaintance. What! Henrietta's ideal, with whom she
had been in love and who would have gladly embraced death with her! Here
indeed was a rare species, especially in these modern days, which
deserved to be exhibited; and she gave her husband no rest till he had
promised to introduce the young man to her. To this end it was necessary
that he should first of all make the young man's acquaintance himself,
but this was an easy matter. The deputy Lord-lieutenant of the county
knew them both and at his house they learnt to know each other. And
Count Kengyelesy was one of those men whom it is impossible to avoid
when once you have made his acquaintance. It was not very long,
therefore, before he took his new friend, absolutely under his
protection and hauled him off to his wife.
The usual stiffness of a first introduction was speedily broken down by
the quaint conceits of the count.
The countess had donned a flowing antique _moiré_ dress and wore her
hair in long English curls to match.
"Come now, friend Szilard!" cried the count, "what do you say? this
dress and that _coiffure_ hardly suit the countess's style of face--eh?"
Many a worthy young man would have been plunged into confusion by such a
silly question, but our Szilard's eternally composed countenance was not
ruffled for an instant.
"Everything becomes the countess," he replied; "but I know of something
which is still more charming and would make any fair woman still more
beautiful."
"Really! You make me quite curious," said the countess.
"Why, Szilard, you a connoisseur!--you surprise me!" cried the count.
"I mean those blue stuff gowns with white spots, which lend quite a
peculiar charm to our women, especially if you set it off with an
old-fashioned _csipkeköto_."[29]
[Footnote 29: A Hungarian headdress made of black lace. The dress
suggested was also of native Hungarian manufacture worn at one time by
the greatest ladies.]
At the very next _soirée_ the Countess Kengyelesy was attired in one of
these blue stuff gowns with white spots, of home manufacture, and with a
black lace head-dress--exactly as Szilard had described it to her.
"My dear friend, be so good as to look there!" said the count
appropriating Szilard while he was still only half through the doorway.
"There she is costumed from head to foot exactly as you advised. Ah! I
pity you. You are already in the toils."
Szilard hastened at once to greet the countess, who treated the handsome
young fellow with marked distinction all through the evening. Indeed she
made no secret of it.
Three days later Szilard was bound, by custom to pay a complimentary
visit upon the Countess. He purposely chose an hour when he knew she
would not be at home, and left his card, but the same evening he
encountered her at the theatre. It was in the entrance hall, where she
was waiting for her carriage, and till it drove up Szilard could not
very well leave her.
"Ah, ah! my honoured friend," cried the countess archly, "this won't do.
You wait till I am not at home, and then you go and leave your card
upon me as a token of respect. But I don't mean to let you off so
easily. I have got a lot to say to you which I am determined you shall
listen to. You must therefore promise to come to my house at twelve
o'clock to-morrow, or else I shall astonish the world by inviting you to
come along with me this instant in my carriage."
A man, in another mood, could scarcely have resisted the temptation of
replying that he would be delighted if the countess put her threat into
execution then and there, even at the risk of astonishing the world.
Szilard merely looked grave and said that he would be happy to pay his
respects to the countess at twelve on the morrow.
He went accordingly. His pulses beat no more quickly than usual as he
entered the countess's private apartment, although she gave the footman
to understand in a low voice that she would be at home to nobody else,
and invited the young man to sit down close beside her, face to face.
The countess was a beautiful woman, and she possessed the art of
dressing beautifully likewise. The countess had beautiful eyes and she
could smile beautifully with them, too. The countess had an extremely
pretty mouth, and when she spoke it was prettier still, for she had a
witty way with her. The danger of the situation was very appreciable.
"My dear, good Szilard," began the countess, with that light, natural
_naïveté_ which so easily disarms the strongest of us, "do not take it
ill of me if I speak to you confidentially. The world will very soon be
saying that you are in love with me and I with you. I shall not believe
the former and you will not believe the latter. Let the world say what
it likes. I have a real blessing of a husband, whom it would be a shame
to offend, and you have quite other ideas. I know what they are. Don't
be angry, don't frown! I am not exacting. I don't want to fetch you away
from other people. I will not ask where you have buried your treasures.
I will merely say to you that I know you have treasures and that they
are buried. Is it not so? You need not be afraid of me."
Szilard was a little taken aback by this unexpected turn. Could it be
sheer curiosity, he thought?
"I have nothing to be afraid of, countess," remarked Szilard, smiling,
"I have no buried secrets. I was a young man once, that is all. I have
had my foolish illusions, like other people, and like other people I
have cured myself of them."
"Nay, nay, sir, now you are not quite sticking to the truth; you are
_not_ cured of them. But before I go any further let me tell you that
all this is not mere feminine curiosity on my part. I want you to trust
me and I will trust you equally. Believe me when I say that if I love to
make fun of empty-headed noodles, I can always respect a good heart
because it is a rarity. The lady I want to speak to you about is my
dear friend and she is very, very unhappy."
Szilard was bound to believe that this was true, for tear-drops sparkled
in the countess's eyes.
"Is it my fault?" he asked bitterly.
"It is neither your fault nor hers. I know that as a fact. The cause of
it all is money, the thirst for money. There is not a more miserable
creature in the wide world than the daughter of a rich man. But that is
the least of her misfortunes. They married her to a man who did not love
her, who only took her because her grandfather was a millionaire. Her
grandfather frightened her into the match by threatening her with his
curse and now, when she has become the wife of this man who does not
even feel friendship for her, I hear that this same old grandfather has
made another will depriving her of everything."
Szilard's lips trembled at these words.
"You can imagine what will be the result. This young woman loves not and
is not loved. They gave her away to an Oriental nabob who, imagining his
wife to be wealthy, scatters his money like a prince. And now this man
has suddenly been startled by the report that his wife has absolutely
nothing!--do you know the meaning of the expression: bread of charity?"
"I have heard the expression, but the bread itself I have never tasted."
"Then you can have no idea what that sort of bread is like which a man
gives to the wife whom he finds to be poor, when he fancied her to be
rich--oh! that sort of bread is very, very bitter!"
Ah! thought Szilard, the bread that _I_ offered her was only dry--not
bitter.
"I can tell you on very good authority," resumed the countess, "that the
baron's conduct towards his wife has completely changed since he
discovered that she has been disinherited. He had lost heavily at cards
when the news first reached him, and he took no pains to conceal his
ill-humour from his wife in consequence. The poor of the district had
got to regard Henrietta as their ministering angel because of her
labours of love among them, but now she can play the part of lady
bountiful no longer. She has to shut her door in the faces of her poor
petitioners, for her husband will not allow any unnecessary expense.
Nay, more, they say that Hátszegi now keeps his wife's private jewels
under lock and key to prevent her from pawning them and relieving the
needs of the poor with the proceeds, as she was wont to do, and only
brings them out on state occasions when he compels her to pile them all
on her person. Isn't that a humiliation for a woman?"
"If only you had become mine," Szilard mentally apostrophized poor
Henrietta, "you would now have had a cosey little chimney-corner, and a
nice little room all to yourself; and though I could not have bought you
jewels, the best of every morsel of food we shared together would always
have been yours."
"And," pursued the countess, "most degrading experience of all,
Hátszegi no longer attempts to conceal from his wife his outrageous
_liaisons_ with pretty peasant women. The thing has long been a byeword,
though his wife knew nothing of it--but she knows it now. Nor is this
all, my dear Vámhidy. Poor Henrietta's heart is suffering from another
sorrow which she feels all the more keenly because it smarts
unceasingly. Her young brother, Koloman, has suddenly disappeared from
Pest and left no trace behind him. They say all sorts of things about
him, which I do not care about telling you, but most of them are bad
enough. On the news reaching Henrietta, she asked her husband to make
enquiries as to the cause of Koloman's disappearance. Hátszegi wrote to
his agent and received an answer which he will not show to Henrietta on
any consideration; nay, more, he commanded his wife never to mention
Koloman's name before him again. The poor woman is naturally in despair.
She cannot conceive why the cause of her brother's disappearance should
be hidden from her. And now I am coming to the end and aim of all this
rigmarole. Henrietta believes, and I am likewise convinced of it, that
if her brother be alive, there is only one person in the world whom he
will try and seek out and that is yourself."
"Poor lad! he loved me much," sighed Szilard.
"And now you understand what I am driving at, don't you? If anybody can
find out the whereabouts of Henrietta's brother and the real reason why
he fled from his relations at Pest and took refuge neither with his
aunt, Madame Langai, who, I hear, has taken his part all through, nor
yet with his sister, it is most certainly you. This is no lawyer's
business, for a lawyer would set about it too gingerly. Here sympathy
and chivalry are before all other things necessary, and if the husband
declines this noble task, we have nobody to turn to except--the man who
has been sacrificed."
Szilard bit his lips to prevent the tears from coming. Who could ever
have thought that so frivolous a woman would have had so much feeling
for her friend? Then he rose, bowed and curtly informed the countess
that he would undertake the commission.
The countess pressed his hand affectionately: "And keep me informed of
everything," said she, "for I am the common post between you two."
Szilard thanked the countess and withdrew. He pondered the matter
carefully till the evening, and by that time he had a plan all ready in
his head.
For a whole week after this, nothing was to be seen of Vámhidy. Count
Kengyelesy sought him everywhere and could find him nowhere. Every day
he asked his countess what she had done with the young man.
Ten days after the first _soirée_ the date for another had been fixed.
Szilard did not appear even at this. Kengyelesy hunted for him from
pillar to post, but could not discover what had become of him. Nobody
had heard anything of him.
"He has poisoned himself," said Kengyelesy at last to a group of his
sporting friends. "It is quite plain to me. When a fellow has got that
sort of thing into his head once, he will try it again and again. I wash
my hands of the business, it is all the fault of the countess. Why does
she play her tricks with such people? No doubt he has swallowed poison
and then crawled away into some nook or corner of a forest. In a month
or two, I suppose, we shall come upon him unexpectedly."
"Whom shall we come upon unexpectedly?" cried a voice behind his back.
He looked around and there was the long lost Szilard.
"Oh, there you are, eh? What have you been doing with yourself all this
time? Come along with me--and Heaven help you!--I will take you to my
wife. Poor young chap! I thought you had already had enough of it and
made away with yourself in consequence."
Then he drew his arm through Szilard's and tripped off to the countess.
"Here he is!" he cried. "We have found him, do not abandon yourself to
despair on his account. Be so good as to sit down beside him!--here's a
chair! I'll take care nobody disturbs you!"
The countess pressed Szilard's hand and made a sign to him to remain.
"I have just arrived from Pest," said Szilard.
"Really! Well?"
"I have found out everything, or rather, I should say, a good deal."
"Do pray tell me at once. All the people are dancing, they will take no
notice of us."
"Ever since old Lapussa's death," began Szilard, "for he died soon after
he had altered his will, all the members of his family have been at
bitter variance. Madame Langai, the old man's widowed daughter, disputes
the validity of the last will--whereby Mr. John Lapussa becomes heir to
the exclusion of everybody else, and has instituted legal proceedings to
upset it. Madame Langai seeks to prove that old Lapussa was _non compos
mentis_ when he disinherited the other members of his family, and she
also maintains, that the old fellow had no reason whatever for hating
his grandchildren and reducing them to beggary as he has done. On the
other hand, Mr. John maintains that his dear father had excellent
reasons for detesting his grandchildren because the Baroness Hátszegi
has never written a letter to her grandfather since her marriage and
both she and her husband have expressed themselves, at home, in the most
disrespectful terms imaginable concerning the old gentleman, even giving
it to be understood that they would be very glad if they had not to wait
too long for the curtain to fall on the fifth act of his life's drama.
He calls as his witness one Margari, who was formerly old Lapussa's
reader before the girl was married, and since then has been compelled
to act as secretary to Hátszegi, or rather as a spy upon him. This
fellow, who is now the mere tool of Mr. John, is quite prepared to
retail all sorts of horrors about the Hátszegis. As to the other
grandchild, the boy Koloman I mean, his uncle has saddled him with a
terrible charge. He has produced a bill for 40,000 florins which he
accuses the lad of forging in the name of his sister, the Baroness
Hátszegi."
"Ah!" exclaimed the countess in an incredulous voice.
"The thing is ridiculously incredible, I know, yet there the bill is; I
have seen it, for it has been sequestered by the Court. It is obviously
in the youth's handwriting as also is the very bad imitation of his
sister's signature. In connection therewith is the fact of the youth's
sudden disappearance (and every attempt to trace his whereabouts has
failed), for, on the very day when the subject of the bill was first
broached, he vanished from his college, and apparently he had been
preparing for flight some time before."
"But what could have induced a mere child to do such a thing, he is
scarcely thirteen years old?"
"He was always somewhat flighty by nature, though that, of course, is
not sufficient to explain how he came to forge his sister's name on a
draft for 40,000 florins."
"But why will not the baron tell his wife all about it?"
"Does not your ladyship see?--It is quite plain to me. Hátszegi
understands his wife thoroughly. He feels certain that as soon as the
baroness hears of what her brother is accused, she would not hesitate a
moment to acknowledge the forged signature as really her own."
"True, true. And then I suppose her brother could be saved."
"Completely."
"And then, I suppose, she would have to pay the money?"
"Either pay it or be sued for it."
"Poor woman! I know she has no money. A most awkward position, most
awkward. But it does not matter; if her jewels are under lock and key,
nobody guards mine."
At these words which came straight from the best of hearts, Szilard
could not restrain himself from impressing a burning kiss on the
countess's hand so affected was he by this outburst of generosity.
"Ah, ha!" cackled the count behind his back, "so we have got as far as
that already, eh! Capital, capital, upon my word! Nay, nay, my young
friend, don't be afraid of me. Do not put yourself out in the least on
my account! God bless you, my boy!"
"To-morrow, we'll plan it all out, I'll be waiting for you at one
o'clock," whispered the countess to Szilard, "now I must go, the
cotillion is beginning."
"Don't you dance then?" enquired the count of Szilard. "Nonsense!
they'll say you are mourning somebody. Thank God, old Lapussa was not
_your_ father-in-law, but Hátszegi's. It is for him to pull a long face,
but you go and dance!"