WHO IT WAS THAT RECOGNIZED FATIA NEGRA
The events at the Mikalai _csárdá_ considerably upset Hátszegi. He
returned home very sulky and was unusually ungracious towards Henrietta.
There were several violent scenes between them, in the course of which
the baron twitted his wife with having betrayed him and hinted that it
was all in consequence of her own and her brother's bad conduct that she
had been disinherited by her grandfather. He revealed to her that he
knew everything. He was well aware, he said, that in her girlhood she
had had a rascally young attorney as a lover and had thereby incurred
her grandfather's anger.
Henrietta, poor thing, had not the spirit to answer him back: "If you
knew this, why did you marry me? Why did you not leave me then to him
with whom I should have been happy if poor?" She could only reply with
tears. She trembled before him while she loathed him.
And yet how dependent she was on him.
She was well aware now of what her brother was accused, and never
doubted for a moment what she ought to do. She ought to atone for his
fault by an act of self-sacrifice. She must recognize the forgery as her
real signature. But what then? The recognition of the signature must
needs have consequences. What would be the result of her action?
She could see she had no help to expect from her husband. At every step
she perceived that he eagerly sought occasion to quarrel with her and
seized every pretext for avoiding her. And now to add to her
embarrassment, there was this unlucky Mikalai accident. It seemed just
to have come in the nick of time so far as he was concerned, just as if
he had actually agreed with Fatia Negra that the latter should rob him
on the high road in the most artful manner so that she might not have
the slightest hope left of being relieved from her anxieties by the
assistance of her husband. The baron, now could always end every
_tête-à-tête_ by remarking that that rogue Fatia Negra had relieved him
of all his money, and he knew not how to make good his loss.
One day, while away from home hunting at Csáko, Baron Leonard learnt
that the Countess Kengyelesy's latest ideal was Szilard Vámhidy and when
chance soon afterwards brought him also to Arad, he could see for
himself that the countess really did load the young man with distinction
in society.
The circumstance began to irritate him.
This pale-faced youth with the big burning eyes had turned the head of
his own consort once upon a time, and now he was making other enviable
conquests. The idea occurred to Hátszegi to knock this "student chap"
out of his saddle a second time. Heretofore he had never regarded the
countess as a particularly pretty woman, but now he very readily
persuaded himself that he was over head and ears in love with her.
He began to pay his court to her--and he was lucky. At least everybody
believed it--himself included.
The countess always seemed pleased to see him, and the oftener he paid
his visits, the less frequent grew the visits of Szilard. Occasionally
they met at the countess's and then Szilard would hastily step aside, as
vanquished rivals are wont to do when their conquerors appear. At last
Leonard was a daily institution at the countess's, while Szilard only
appeared there occasionally.
Yet one day, while Hátszegi was in the drawing room of the countess,
paying his court to her most assiduously, Vámhidy entered _sans gêne_;
whereupon the countess hastily springing up from her _causeuse_ asked
leave of the baron to withdraw for a moment and there and then conducted
Vámhidy into her private boudoir and remained closeted with him for a
good quarter of an hour, whilst Hátszegi, yellow with jealousy, was left
alone with the countess's French companion, who could answer nothing but
"oui" and "non" to all his remarks.
When the countess emerged from her room, she seemed to be in a very good
humour. She accompanied Szilard all the way to the drawing-room door,
pressed his hand, and when they parted at the door exchanged a
significant look with him, at the same time touching her lips with her
index finger--a very confidential piece of pantomime as any connoisseur
will tell you.
And all this Hátszegi saw reflected in the mirror, opposite to which he
sat.
As soon as the countess sat down, her companion, as if at a given
signal, arose and left the room.
Scarcely were they alone when the baron petulantly remarked: "It appears
as if your ladyship and our young friend rejoiced in very intimate
mutual relations."
"Oh, very intimate. I assure you he is a most worthy, honourable man."
"So I observe."
"I am quite in earnest. I find him quite a treasure, and he is
extraordinarily attached to me."
"Very nice of him, I'm sure."
"Oh, you gentlemen, what mockers you are. There are men, I can tell you,
who for all that they are poor are more capable of self-sacrifice than
the haughtiest nabobs who make such a fuss over us till we are in
trouble and then snatch up their hats and fly from the house. You also
belong to that class, my lord!"
"I don't understand you."
"Suppose, for instance, I were to say to you: my dear friend, I have
fallen into quite an awkward predicament and to-day or to-morrow they
will distrain upon me for 40,000 florins."
The baron burst out laughing.
"Don't laugh, for so it really is. That need cause _you_ no anxiety,
however, I only ask you to tell nobody, especially my husband. He would
be capable of making an end of me if he knew it."
"But seriously, countess, who could ever have lent you 40,000 florins?"
"Nobody, and yet I am indebted to that amount. You must know that once
upon a time, many years ago, when we lived at Vienna, I was given to
card playing. We played for high stakes in those days. One evening not
only did I lose all my cash, but had to give I.O.U.'s for 1,000 florins
besides. Debts contracted at play cannot remain unpaid for more than a
couple of days. It was absolutely indispensable that I should procure
these thousand florins somehow. I would not ask my husband for them and
that was very foolish of me. I got the amount at last from a wretched
usurer at an enormous rate of interest. When the amount plus interest
became due again, I was still more afraid to tell my husband, and so
kept on giving fresh bills, with the result that the amount of my
indebtedness grew and grew as the years rolled on, till it resembled the
egg of the widow in the nursery tale--out of which came first two cocks,
then a bristling boar, then a camel, and finally a carriage and four,
for at last my original poor little debt of one thousand florins swelled
into forty thousand and the usurers became importunate and would allow
me no more credit. Once when I was in a very bad humour, I let out my
secret before Szilard, and the worthy young man undertook to relieve me
of my burden. I don't know whether he detected a technical flaw in my
bonds or whether he found out some other means of frightening my
creditor; anyway, he assured me I only need pay the original sum with
interest upon it at the legal rate. Moreover, he undertook to procure me
an honourable loan on easy conditions, which to me was a veritable
godsend. And so now you know, my dear friend, why Vámhidy is so welcome
a guest at my house that I leave even you all alone with my companion
when he comes. But you can see for yourself how dear and necessary he is
to me and how much I owe to him."
Hátszegi remained in a brown study for several moments, and began biting
his lips. The countess sat down at the piano with the most amiable
nonchalance as if she gave not another thought to what she had been
speaking about.
"If only I had not had the misfortune to be robbed!" cried Hátszegi at
last.
"Do you know what, my dear friend," said the countess, at the same time
letting her fingers glide lightly over the ivory keys of the piano, "I
consider the whole of that affair as simply incredible. Two shots so
close to a man and no result!--why it borders a little upon the
fabulous!"
"Then I suppose you think it was the innkeeper himself who robbed me?"
The countess shrugged her round shoulders slightly and went on playing.
"That is not possible," resumed the baron, answering his own query, "for
I myself saw the blow which Makkabesku received on the head from the
butt of the musket, and I can tell your ladyship that there are no four
thousand ducats in the world for the sake of which I could lend my head
to such a blow."
The countess interrupted her _roulades_ for a moment:
"You saw it, eh? And did anybody else see it?"
Hátszegi was strangely surprised by this question.
"What is in your mind, Countess?" he asked.
"I am thinking, my dear friend, that you have some particular reason for
playing the injured man, and I have read the whole tale of the Maccabees
in some history or other of the Jews which you would now palm off upon
the world as something new."
"Your jests are most unmerciful, Countess; but may I beg of you to give
that piano a little rest, especially as it wants tuning. I should like
to speak seriously to you for a moment or two."
"About the Maccabees, eh?" enquired the countess, laughing.
"No. About myself. I am quite serious when I say I have had losses.
Your ladyship need not know how. But for all that I know what a
gentleman ought to do after such a revelation as that with which the
countess has just honoured me and which I accept as a most flattering
mark of confidence."
"Impossible."
"What I say is never impossible; but what that student fellow has chosen
to palm off on your ladyship that _is_ impossible. He will not be able
to help your ladyship without a great scandal. Naturally a mere attorney
looks upon that as a matter of course. He does not understand that there
are cases in which a person would rather spring into a well than risk
her reputation in the eyes of the world by appealing to the courts for
redress. I make your ladyship another proposal: I will exchange a bond
of my own against the bond of the countess to an equal amount. I feel
confident that the usurers will lend readily on my paper and will jump
at the exchange."
"Oh, many thanks, many thanks! But, first of all, I should like to know
what interest you mean to charge me; for I am not going to pay anything
usurious again."
"Legal and Christian interest, I assure you. But I must impose one
condition: your ladyship's doors must henceforth be closed against this
lawyer fellow."
"Are you serious, Baron?"
"Perfectly so."
"Are you not afraid I shall take you at your word?"
"By doing so you will satisfy my desires. Look, Countess! I consider
myself as one of your most sincere admirers and it wounds me to hear all
this tittle-tattle circulating in our set which links your ladyship's
name with that of young Vámhidy."
"But will it not injure the respect you entertain for me if your name
takes the place of Vámhidy's in the gossip you complain of?"
"All that I desire is that a certain man shall be excluded from this
house, and if the countess desires it I will then keep away likewise."
The countess hastened to press Hátszegi's hand as a sign that _she_ did
not desire _that_.
"Very well, then, to prove to you that my relations with Vámhidy were
purely professional, I will break off all further intercourse with him."
"Then we'll clinch your ladyship's determination at once. May I make use
of your writing table? Have you any other ink than this rose-coloured
ink, with which to be sure, your ladyship generally writes your letters,
but which is a little unusual in official documents?"
"Everything you desire, sealing-wax included."
"That is not necessary for bills. What a fortunate thing that I have a
blank form with me."
The baron discovered in his pocket a blank form, without which no
gentleman ever goes about, and filled it up in the usual way. The
countess, with her elbows on the back of the armchair, looked over the
baron's shoulder while he signed the precious document, and thought to
herself: what an odd thing it is when a rich and influential man
refuses, with a heart of iron, to give his wife a little assistance
which would make her happy and save her brother from dishonour, and yet
lightly pitches the very sum required out of the window for the sake of
a pretty speech from another woman who is almost a stranger to him!
After signing the document Leonard did not linger another instant, but
snatched up his hat and hastened off so as to avoid the suspicion that
he was expecting some little gratification on account.
The pressure of the hand which the countess exchanged with him at
parting assured him that this conquering manoeuver on his part was a
complete success.
Subsequently, however, as, stretched at full length on his sofa, he was
smoking his first pipe of tobacco, he grew suspicious, and speedily felt
convinced that the countess's tale of the usurers was a fable from
beginning to end and that Vámhidy was some broker or other who lent
money privately; and he began to be not quite so proud at having ousted
the fellow from her ladyship's drawing room.
But a still greater surprise awaited him.
He had a shrewd suspicion that the Countess Kengyelesy did not require
the bill he had signed to discharge any debt to usurers; but not even
in his dreams would it ever have occurred to him that Madame Kengyelesy,
at the very moment when he had gone out into the street, had sat down on
the very same chair from which the baron had arisen, taken into her hand
the very same pen in which the ink he had used was not yet dry, and
selecting a sheet of letter paper, written a few lines of her long
pointed pot-hooks to her friend, the Baroness Hátszegi: informing her in
a most friendly manner that she had succeeded in persuading Hátszegi to
exchange the bill that Koloman was suspected of forging for one of his
own in order to give his wife the opportunity of acknowledging the
signature as her own and putting a stop to all further legal
proceedings. All this was set forth with far greater elaboration than it
is here, but was nevertheless perfectly intelligible. The original bill
was appended to the letter and the letter was posted. Henrietta was
bound to receive it next day.
Imagine then the surprise of Hátszegi, who for the last three days had
been pacing impatiently up and down his room, naturally expecting every
moment that the countess would surrender at discretion and send for him
out of sheer gratitude, when the door was suddenly opened with
considerable impetuosity and in came--Henrietta. Before he could
sufficiently recover from his amazement to ask her what she was looking
for there, his wife fell on his neck, and, sobbing with emotion, came
out with some long rigamarole about delicacy,--gratitude--a delightful
surprise--and only half suspected kindness of heart--and a lot more of
unintelligible nonsense, winding up by begging his pardon if ever she
had unwittingly offended him and promising him that _after this_ she
would ever be his faithful slave!
_After this!_--after _what_?
It was only when his wife told him that she was alluding to that bill
for 40,000 florins which he had been so kind as to send her through the
countess, that some inkling of the truth burst upon him.
"Oh, that eh! It quite escaped my memory and is not worth mentioning,"
he cried, hiding his astonishment beneath the affectation of a
magnanimity which scorned even to remember such trifles.
Oh, if the countess had been able to see him at that moment, how she
would have laughed!
Every drop of Leonard's blood seemed to turn to gall. How ridiculous he
had been made to appear by a woman's nobility, and the consciousness
thereof was still further embittered by the artless and innocent
gratitude of that other woman--his own wife. He could have torn the pair
of them to pieces. What a pretty fool he had made of himself. He had
purchased the love of his wife for 40,000 florins. He could not demand
back the bill from her, nor could he explain to her the compromising
origin of that document. And in addition to that, he must play the part
of dignified pater familias which his wife had assigned to him in this
domestic drama, instead of that of first lover which was so much more to
his liking.
"All right, Henrietta," said he, assuming a calmness he was far from
feeling. "If you like to give me the bill, I'll see that it is posted to
your lawyer at Pest, Mr. Sipos."
Henrietta thanked him sincerely, but said she would rather take it to
Pest herself in order that she might have a long confidential talk with
Mr. Sipos personally about her poor brother.
"Then wait, Henrietta, till the Arad races are over. You know I am
greatly interested in them. If I am not there myself they are quite
capable of striking my horses out."
"My dear Leonard, I don't want you to interrupt any of your business or
pleasure on my account. I can easily go by myself. But I don't want to
postpone the matter a single day. You know how anxious I am about my
poor brother."
"Well, but you know that the roads are very dangerous just now. You know
what happened to myself a little while ago."
"Oh, I have my plan all cut and dried. I am prepared for the very worst.
If robbers attack me I will give up to them, at the first challenge, all
the cash I have about me. What I am most afraid of is the bill, but I
will hide that so that nobody can find it."
"My dear, these men are very artful."
"Oh, they won't find it, I can tell you. The insides of my
upper-sleeves consist of steel rings which fasten close to the arms, and
I will roll up my bill, insert it within my sleeve and draw a steel ring
over it. They will never guess that, will they?"
"A good idea, certainly."
Yet, good idea as he thought it, Hátszegi nevertheless complained to his
friend Gerzson, whom he met at the club the same evening, how anxious he
was about his wife, who was going all the way to Pest next day, and how
glad he would be, since he was unable to accompany her himself, if
someone would persuade her not to go.
Naturally Mr. Gerzson at once offered to dissuade the baroness, as
Hátszegi had anticipated, and was invited to tea by him the same day
with that express purpose, but, talk as he might, he could not prevail
with Henrietta. In reply to all his arguments, she pleaded for her poor
brother, whose fate, she added, with tears, depended upon her instant
action.
Now, Mr. Gerzson was a gentleman--every inch of him. He was also
kind-hearted to a fault, and when he beheld the poor woman in despair,
he put an end to the difficulty by saying: "Very well, my lady, then I
will escort you to Pest myself."
At this Hátszegi fairly lost all patience. "Why, what can you be
thinking of?" cried he.
"Your pardon, Leonard, but I suppose you may regard me as old enough and
honourable enough to fill the place of a father to your wife on an
occasion like this! It appears to me that it will never enter anybody's
head to speak slightingly of a lady because she travelled alone with
me."
Good, worthy old man, he was quite proud that no woman could look at his
face without a shudder.
"And then I fancy that there's still quite enough of me left to defend a
woman against anybody, even though it were the devil himself. And I
should advise that worthy Fatia Negra not to show his mug to me, for my
stunted hand does not fire guns as our friend Makkabesku is in the habit
of doing, nor will my bullets be caught like flies, I warrant."
"You will be done out of the horse-racing, all through me," remarked
Henrietta sadly.
"Oh, it does not interest me much. I don't care much about it."
This was not true, but it was all the nicer of the old man to say so.
"Then you really mean to escort my wife to Pest?" said Hátszegi, at
last.
"With the greatest of pleasure."
"Very well. At any rate, I will see to all the travelling arrangements
that there may be no delay at any of the stages. Which way do you prefer
to go _via_ Csongrad or _via_ Szeged?
"By way of Csongrad."
"Well, 'tis the shorter of the two certainly, but at this season of the
year the road is as hard as steel. It will be as well to provide my
horses with fresh shoes."
"It is now ten o'clock. By midnight your coachman will have managed to
do all that. The baroness would do well if she had a little sleep now.
Meanwhile I will go home for my luggage and my weapons; at two o'clock
in the morning I shall be here again, and at three we can start."
"I will be awake and watching for you, and I thank you with all my
heart."
Mr. Gerzson drank up his tea and hastened home. Leonard advised
Henrietta to go and sleep--and she really was very sleepy--while he went
to the stables to see to the horses.
It was about midnight when he returned. He looked very tired, like one
who has had a great deal of bustling about. He was alone in the drawing
room, so he stirred up the fire, lit a cigar and waited in silence.
At half past two Mr. Gerzson rang the gate-bell; he entered the
drawing-room very boisterously like one resolved to wake up the whole
house. A little coffer hung upon his stunted arm, in the other hand he
carried a double-barrelled gun, and from a pouch, fastened by straps to
his shoulder, peeped forth two four-barrelled pistols.
"Why, plague take it!" laughed Hátszegi, "you are armed for a whole
guerilla warfare."
"No more than Fatia Negra deserves," replied Mr. Gerzson with a sombre
grimace. "Is your wife up and dressed?"
"I fancy she lay down ready dressed."
"All the better. It'll be as well if we start early."
"I hear the opening and closing of doors in her apartments, no doubt
your ringing disturbed her. She will be here in an instant, for she is
very impatient."
"That is only natural."
"And in the meantime, let us have something to strengthen the heart,"
said Hátszegi producing a flask of _szilvapalinka_[34] and filling his
own and his guest's glass. "If you have a chance of shooting Fatia
Negra, you must give me one half of the thousand ducats set upon his
head, because I have abandoned this fine opportunity to you."
[Footnote 34: Hungarian cherry brandy.]
At this Mr. Gerzson coughed.
"I have also provided you with a good wooden flask of _Hegyalja_,"[35]
said Leonard, taking from the sideboard a handsome flask bound in
foal-skin.
[Footnote 35: A species of Tokay.]
"Therein you acted wisely."
"All this side of the Theiss you will get no drinkable water, and
Henrietta always gets ague at once if the water is bad. Although but a
child, she will never take any wine unless you force her to do so. I
earnestly beg of you to take great care of her. I don't like this
journey a bit. A letter would have done the business just as well; but I
make it a rule never to thwart her when she gets these ideas into her
head. All I say is: take care of her."
"I'll watch over her as if she were my own child."
In a quarter of an hour Henrietta appeared in full travelling costume.
The lacquey brought in breakfast. The gentlemen also sat down to it lest
the lady should breakfast alone.
"We shall have splendid weather, Baroness," observed Mr. Gerzson,
dipping his cake into his black coffee. "The sky is full of stars, we
could not wish for better travelling weather."
"The sky is nice enough, but the ground is a little stumbly," put in
Hátszegi. "Around Dombhegyhaza in particular the roads will spill you if
you don't look out."
"I don't care a bit, for I mean to drive the horses myself."
"Oh, that I will not allow," said Henrietta. "It is no joke to hold the
reins, for hours at a stretch, on bad roads."
"I do it because I like it, your ladyship. You know I love my pipe, and
how can I smoke it in a covered carriage?"
Shortly afterwards Mr. Gerzson asked leave to go out and inspect the
coach and the coachman, and after closely investigating everything and
wrangling a little with the coachman, purely from traditional habit,
just to show the fellow that he understood all about it, he ascended to
the drawing-room again and announced that the horses had been put to.
Hátszegi helped his wife to adjust her mantle over her shoulders, and
impressed a cold kiss upon her forehead. Henrietta once more thanked him
warmly for being so good to her and allowed Mr. Gerzson to escort her
down the steps. The old gentleman, however, would not allow himself to
be persuaded to take his place in the carriage by her side. His hands
itched to hold the reins and he would, he said, be sure to go to sleep
and make himself a nuisance if he sat inside. So he had his way, and
indeed in all the Hungarian plain a more adroit and careful driver could
not have been found.
Gradually the night began to die away and the sky began to grow lighter
behind the mountains of Bihar, which they had now left behind them. The
smaller stars vanished in groups before the brightening twilight; only
the larger constellations still sparkled through the dawn. Presently a
hue of burning pink lit up the sky and long straight strips of cloud
swam, like golden ribbons, before the rising sun whose increasing
radiance already lit up the broad cupolas of the dark mountains. Before
the travellers extended the endless plain of the _Alföld_,[36] like a
bridge rising from her bed to greet her beloved Lord, the Sun.
[Footnote 36: The great Hungarian plain.]
On Mr. Gerzson, however, the romantic spectacle of sunrise on the
_puszta_ produced no romantic impression whatsoever. He neither observed
the golden clouds in the sky, nor the dappled shadows flitting across
the dewy fields, nor the lilac-coloured nebulous horizon. He saw none
of these things, I say, but he saw something else which did not please
him at all.
"I say, Joska, the right leader is limping."
"Yes, it certainly is," replied the coachman.
"Get down and see what's the matter."
The coachman got down, lifted the horse's leg, brushed away the dust
from around the hoof and said with the air of a connoisseur: "This
horse's hoof has been pricked."
"What the devil...!" rang out Mr. Gerzson, but there he stopped, for
it is not becoming to curse and swear when a lady is in the carriage
behind you, even if she does not hear.
Meanwhile the coachman mounted up beside him and they drove on again.
"Well we cannot drive that horse much further," grumbled Mr. Gerzson,
"the other three must pull the carriage. At Csongrad we must get another
to take its place and leave it behind there."
A long discussion thereupon ensued between him and the coachman as to
the clumsiness of smiths in general, who when they pare away a horse's
hoofs in order to shoe it, so often cut into the living flesh, which is
very dangerous, and is technically known as "pricking."
They had scarce proceeded for more than another half hour when Mr.
Gerzson again began to cast suspicious glances down from the box-seat.
"I say, Joska," he cried at last, "it seems to me the left leader, the
whip horse, is also limping."
Down leaped the coachman, examined the horse's foot and pronounced that
the hoof of the left leader had also been pricked.
"Devil take...!" cried Mr. Gerzson, but once more he did not
enlighten the devil as to the particular individual he was desirous of
drawing his attention to.
"Well, I suppose we must go on as best we can with two horses now, for
the first two are good for nothing." And in the spirit of a true driver
he stuck his whip beneath him, as being a thing for which there was now
no further use, and resumed his argument with the coachman about the
inefficiency of smiths in general.
"As soon as we reach Oroshaza, we'll get two fresh horses; we ought to
be getting there now."
Yet the steeple of Oroshaza was, as yet, scarcely visible and midday was
already approaching. There was no intermediate station where they could
change horses.
Half an hour later Mr. Gerzson dashed his clay pipe against the wheel of
the coach and swore that he would be damned if ever such a silly-fool
thing had ever befallen him before, for now the thill horse also began
to limp.
Naturally, that also was found to have been pricked.
"May the devil take all those scamps of smiths who look after the poor
beasts so badly! A pretty fix we are in now. We may thank our stars if
we are able to crawl into Oroshaza before nightfall. A pretty amble we
shall have now, I'll be bound."
And indeed ambling was about all they could do. As for the Oroshaza
steeple, so far from drawing any nearer, it seemed to be travelling away
from them, and with very much better horses than they had. It seemed to
get further off every moment.
"Well, all we want now is for the saddle horse also to throw up the
sponge and we shall be complete."
If that were Mr. Gerzson's one remaining wish, Fate very speedily
granted it to him, for they had not gone another quarter of an hour when
all four horses began to limp together, one with the right foot, another
with the left, the third with the fore and the fourth with the hind leg,
till it was positively frightful to look at them.
Mr. Gerzson leaped from the box, and in his rage and fury dashed his
pipe-stem into a thousand pieces.
"What can the smith have been about!" whined the coachman shaking his
head, "and yet his lordship had a look at them too!"
"Devil take your smith, and his lordship also for the matter of that.
The whole lot of you deserves hanging." And it was a good thing for the
coachman that he happened to be standing on the other side of the
horses, as otherwise he would certainly have had a taste of Squire
Gerzson's riding whip.
Henrietta, who had hitherto been sleeping quietly in the carriage,
aroused by the loud voices, put her head out of the window and timidly
inquired what was the matter. At the first sound of her voice, Squire
Gerzson grew as mild as a lamb.
"Nothing much," said he. "I have only been trying to put together again
my broken pipe-stem, the carriage-wheel has gone over my pipe, that is
all."
"But where are we now?" asked Henrietta, peeping curiously out of the
carriage. Then of course they had to tell her the truth.
"We are three leagues from the station in front of us, and about four
from the one behind us, and there is no prospect of our getting on any
further. All four horses are lame, they have been damaged during the
shoeing."
"What steeple is that in front of us?"
"Oroshaza, I fancy, but with these four lame horses I don't believe we
shall get there before midnight."
Henrietta perceived the confusion of the old gentleman, who for sheer
rage and worry could not keep his hat on his burning head, so she tried
to comfort him.
"Never mind, dear papa Gerzson, not far from here must lie Leonard's
_csárdá_. You and I, papa Gerzson, might go on there with the horses
while the coachman makes the best of his way on foot to Oroshaza, where
he can get fresh horses and join us early in the morning at the
_csárdá_."
Squire Gerzson jerked his head significantly.
"I don't want to alarm you, my dear Baroness," said he, "but that
_csárdá_ lies in the beat of the "poor vagabonds"--you may have heard of
them."
"Oh, I have spent a night there already. I know the innkeeper's wife.
She is a very good sort of woman, who told us tales all night long while
she worked her distaff at my bedside. I should very much like to see her
again. Besides, I know the "poor vagabonds" also. All of them kissed my
hand in turn when I was there. If, however, anybody should be rude to
me, have I not papa Gerzson?--when he is by I fear nobody."
"Noble heart!--very well, be it so! If your ladyship fears nothing, I
think I may very well say the same."
Whereupon Squire Gerzson gave the coachman two florins to speed him on
to Oroshaza, where he was to get fresh horses and come on the same night
to the _csárdá_, so that they might be able to set off again before dawn
on the morrow. He himself then quitted the highroad in the direction of
the well-known _csárdá_ which, with sound horses, he might have reached
in about an hour, but which with lame ones he only got up to towards
evening, having repeatedly to rest on the way. Squire Gerzson kept on
asking Henrietta whether she was hungry or thirsty and offered her his
flask again and again; but she always gently declined it, the old man
feeling in honour bound to follow her example. He comforted her,
however, with the assurance that the _csárdá_-woman was a dab hand at
turning out all sorts of good old savoury Hungarian dishes.
At last, after a weary journey, when evening was already closing upon
them, Henrietta perceived the _csárdá_ gleaming white behind the acacia
trees. When they stumbled into the courtyard they found nobody, and
nobody came out of the door to meet them.
"All the better, nobody will see these game-legged nags," growled Squire
Gerzson as he helped Henrietta out of the carriage.
"It is odd that the woman of the inn does not come out to meet me," said
Henrietta. "She liked me so. How pleased she will be to see me."
Nevertheless no one came. Squire Gerzson grew impatient. He could not
leave the coach and horses all by themselves.
"Hie! somebody! Who's at home? Landlady, wenches, or whoever you are,
can't you creep out of your hole?"
In reply to his hallooing, a hoarse voice resounded from the taproom:
"Who is it? Can't you come inside instead of standing and bawling
there?"
"What, you scoundrel! Come out this instant, Sirrah, do you hear, or do
you want me to come and fetch you?"
At this categorical command, the speaker inside made his appearance.
Henrietta recognized him at once, though Squire Gerzson saw him now for
the first time. It was old Ripa.
"I am a guest here myself," said he.
"Thou blockhead! by the soul of thy father I charge thee--where is the
hostess?"
"She is outside in the cool air."
"What is she doing there?"
"She is guarding the moles"--which means in the flowery language of the
_puszta_: "she is dead."
"Surely she is not dead?"
"Yes--she did away with herself."
"When?"
"The day before yesterday."
"What was the matter with her?"
"She drank too much water."
"Where?"
"In the hurdle well."
"Why?"
"Because her feet did not reach the bottom."
"She leaped in then?"
"It looks something like it."
"But why did she do so?"
"She was much upset about her lover."
"Did he leave her?"
"The rope-girl[37] took him."
[Footnote 37: _I.e._, the gallows.]
Henrietta listened with a sort of stupefaction to the cynical answers
of the old scoundrel, and her heart grew heavy within her. To think that
that merry, rosy cheeked young woman should have killed herself out of
grief for her lover.
"Then who is carrying on the house?" enquired Squire Gerzson.
"Nobody. All the servants bolted after the funeral, in order that they
might not appear as witnesses."
"Then why do you remain here all alone?"
"Because if I went on my way, everyone would be sure to say that I had
murdered the hostess, I mean to remain here till they come for me."
"Yes, you old swine, and drink up every drop of wine that remains in the
meantime."
"Your pardon, sir, but it all turned to vinegar when the landlady killed
herself. That is always the case."
"None of your nonsense, Sirrah, but listen to me. There's a shilling for
you, forget for the time that you are a guest here. Take out the horses,
put them into the stable, give them hay at once and water them in about
an hour's time. Don't steal them for they are lame and you would be
caught at once. We shall remain here till our coachman returns with four
fresh horses. Should any troublesome person look in, you may tell him
that the consort of Baron Hátszegi is here and that Gerzson of
Satrakovics is mounting guard before her door."
Old Ripa kissed her ladyship's hand without so much as thanking Squire
Gerzson for his tip, but he quietly unyoked the horses and brought into
the house some of the things he found in the coach.
And Henrietta stood once more in the landlady's room and gazed pensively
out of the window. Her meditations were presently disturbed by Squire
Gerzson.
"My dear good lady," he began, "fate has certainly sworn to be our enemy
in every possible way to-day. I would not have believed it myself if I
had not actually experienced it. First of all, all our four horses fall
lame on the road. Then, at the very place where we decide to take up our
quarters, we find that the landlady has jumped down the well. Truly fate
pursues us with a vengeance. But we'll defy it, won't we my lady? Fate
is very much mistaken if it fancies it will get the better of us, eh? it
does not know with whom it has to deal, I'll be bound. For our hearts
are in the right place and we'll pretty soon show that we have not lost
our heads. Our greatest misfortune is that the fine supper we promised
ourselves has vanished to dust beneath our very noses. Never mind. We
have brought with us in our knapsack, after the custom of our ancestors,
some good ham, some hung beef and some white loaves, to say nothing of a
flask of prime wine; we don't mean to starve ourselves do we, my lady?"
The good old gentleman then took out of his knapsack all these good
things and piled them up on the table, then he fetched the carriage lamp
to light up the room a bit and politely invited Henrietta to partake of
his simple banquet.
The young lady smilingly took her place on the bench.
"We really cannot drink the water here, your ladyship," said Gerzson,
handing her his flask; "to all appearance nobody will ever drink the
water out of the well of this shanty again. Such wells are generally
walled up."
Merely to oblige the old man, Henrietta raised the flask to her lips and
pretended to drink out of it so as not to spoil her companion's good
humour, but really she drank not a drop. She never used to drink wine
and wiped off the drops that remained on her lips with her pocket
handkerchief. Nor did she eat anything except an apple which was just
sufficient to keep the pangs of hunger off.
Mr. Gerzson, however, fell to like a man. He had generally a good
appetite, and the lack of a dinner, the worry and trouble of the
journey, and the labour of driving had made him hungrier than ever. He
cut such whacking slices off the loaf and off the good red ham beside
him that it was a joy to watch him; after he had raised the
cluck-clucker[38] to his lips, his conversation became so entertaining
that Henrietta listened to him with delight.
[Footnote 38: _I.e._, the wine-flask.]
"But now I am not going to drink any more," said Mr. Gerzson at last,
"for it is apt to make me sleepy and I don't want to sleep to-night.
About midnight the coachman will arrive with the fresh relay of horses.
Won't your ladyship rest a little in the adjoining room?"
Henrietta shook her head.
"Well, I suppose you are right. How indeed could you remain all alone in
the room of a suicide? Let us stay together then and tell each other
tales."
"Yes, that will be nice, and I'll begin by telling papa Gerzson
something."
"I could go on listening to you till morning, it will be like the angels
singing in my ears."
So Henrietta began to tell him all about the dead hostess and about her
love, and also the story of the robber who was hanged for his companion.
Mr. Gerzson, with his head supported by his hand, listened religiously
and struck himself violently on the mouth when he was seized by an
involuntary fit of gaping.
"I cannot understand why I am so sleepy,--my eyes seem to be closing in
spite of me."
"Why don't you have a pipe then? Come light up!"
"What, light up? Your ladyship will really allow me? You are sure you
don't mind tobacco smoke? You are indeed a blessed creature. But are you
sure it won't make your head ache?"
"On the contrary, I like tobacco smoke."
Squire Gerzson half drew out his cigar case, but he immediately shoved
it back again.
"No, I won't smoke a cigar. One ought not to abuse one's good fortune. I
shall get on well enough."
Then Henrietta began to tell him of Fatia Negra's Transylvanian
exploits, of the Lucsia Cavern, of the capture of the coiners--and then
she observed that Mr. Gerzson's eyelids were sinking lower and lower and
he was nodding his head violently.
"Now you really must light up, papa Gerzson," she cried, "or you'll
never be able to keep awake."
On being thus accosted, Mr. Gerzson bobbed up his head with a frightened
air and rubbed his eyes, like one who has been suddenly aroused from
slumber and knows not what is going on under his very nose.
"I am not asleep, 'pon my word I'm not. I was only nodding a little."
"Light a cigar."
"No I won't. I prefer to go out and have a turn in the open air and get
the cobwebs out of my head. I'll have a look round outside a bit."
And with that he planted both his arms on the table, laid his head upon
them and fell fast asleep.
Henrietta could not help smiling. Poor old gentleman, he had had a good
deal of exertion and no doubt that wine was uncommonly strong. Let him
rest a bit. He had had no sleep the night before. It would be quite
sufficient if one of them kept awake.
Then she took up the lamp and went out into the hall observing to her
great satisfaction that the door thereof was provided with a good lock.
So she locked and fastened it. With timid curiosity she then explored
every corner with the lamp and came upon nothing suspicious. Finally she
returned to the guest room, locked the door of that also and placed the
carriage lamp on the table, turning its shade towards the sleeping old
man so that he might not be awakened by the glare of the lamp; and there
she remained all alone, watching in the _csárdá_ of the desolate
_puszta_, patiently waiting for the night to pass over her homeless
head.
So patient was she that only once did she take her watch from her bosom
to see what the time was.
* * * * *
It was now past midnight.
She began to calculate how long it would take the coachman to get to
Oroshaza and how much time he would require to reach this place. If he
had got horses at once he ought to be near now.
A short time afterwards she heard the tread of horses' feet in the
courtyard. Those must be our horses, thought she, and hastening to the
window looking out upon the courtyard, she pulled the blind a little to
one side and looked out.
The night was so light outside that she could see the four horses quite
plainly in the courtyard--but she observed that a man was sitting on
_each_ of them.
"This is very curious," thought she, "_two_ men would have been quite
sufficient to bring along the relay."
Three of the four men dismounted from their horses and a fifth came out
of the stable and had a short consultation with them; then the three
approached the _csárdá_ door and tried to open it.
This struck Henrietta as suspicious and she thought it was now high time
to awake Mr. Gerzson.
"Pardon, papa Gerzson, but four men have arrived here."
Still Mr. Gerzson did not awake.
Henrietta approached, bent over him and gently insisted:
"My dear papa Gerzson, just wake up for a moment, somebody wants to come
in."
Even then Mr. Gerzson did not awake.
Henrietta listened. Outside, the hall door was beginning to groan and
rock. They were forcing it.
Full of terror now, she seized Mr. Gerzson's arm.
"Sir, sir! robbers are upon us. Awake, awake. This is no time for
slumber."
But Mr. Gerzson still slumbered on--he might have been dead. In vain she
tore him away from the table, he fell back again all of a heap and went
on slumbering.
The strangers were now in the hall, and a heavy hand was trying the
latch of the guest chamber.
"My God, my God!" moaned Henrietta, wringing her hands and rushing up
and down the room, terrorstricken, not knowing where to look now for
refuge.
A violent thud resounded against the door. Someone had placed his
shoulder against it. Henrietta clung to the table to save herself from
falling.
At last the lock burst, the door flew open, and Fatia Negra with two
masked companions stood before the lady. The same instant Henrietta
recovered her presence of mind. At a pace's distance from danger she
ceased to tremble and calmly addressed them: "What do you want?"
"Why are you not asleep now like your companion?" enquired Fatia Negra
in a low voice.
One of his comrades approached the sleeper and held the barrel of his
pistol to his temples. In Fatia Negra's hand there was only a dagger.
"Don't wake him," he whispered to Henrietta, "for if he should but raise
his head his brains will be blown out."
"Do him no harm!" implored the lady. "I will give you everything you
want. Here is my pocketbook, here are my jewels, and you shall have my
watch too. See, I will draw off my rings, only don't touch me. But if
possible let me keep this round ring for it is my wedding ring."
"All that is nothing," whispered Fatia Negra, "nor do we want these
things. Your ladyship has received a bill for 40,000 florins from your
husband; give up that and swear that you will not say anything about it
to anyone for three days so that we may have time to turn it into cash."
At the mention of the bill Henrietta felt her head reel, the blood stood
still in her veins, she could scarce keep her feet. Her voice trembled
as she lied to the robber denying that she had any such thing.
"We will search you, my lady, if you do not give it up voluntarily."
Henrietta persisted in her falsehood: "I have nothing upon me. I posted
it in order that it might get to its destination more safely."
"My lady, you are only wasting our time. Turn round, take that steel
netting out of your puffed sleeves and hand it over to us."
At these words, all the blood flew to Henrietta's head. It was no longer
fear but the fury of despair that possessed her. It suddenly occurred to
her that here was the man whom nobody had ever recognized; the man who
had made so many people unhappy; who had robbed her husband and would
now stifle her last hope of saving her brother from disgrace. Who could
this terrible man, this accursed wretch, be? And so, as Black Mask drew
near to her, flashing his dagger before her eyes, she, the weakest, the
most timid of women, made a sudden snatch at the mask and tore it off.
She saw his face and recognized him. . . .
For an instant her eyes gazed upon him and then she collapsed on the
ground in a swoon.
* * * * *
It was pretty late next morning when Mr. Gerzson raised his muddled head
from the table. The sun was shining brightly through the blinds.
He looked around him. He was quite alone.
He looked for Henrietta, he called her by name. She was nowhere to be
seen. Their luggage had also disappeared. He went into the courtyard and
looked for the carriage. That also was nowhere to be seen. Only the four
horses were in the stable, and they were neighing for water; nobody had
watered them.
After that Mr. Gerzson's head grew more muddled than ever.
What had become of the lady? What had happened during the night? How was
it that he remembered nothing about it, he who generally used to sleep
so lightly that the humming of a midge was sufficient to awake him?
Gradually he bethought him that the evening before he had drunk some
wine with an unusual flavour. Even now he was conscious of a peculiar
taste in his mouth. Yet no wine in the world had ever been able to do
him harm. He returned to the room to examine the contents of his flask.
But even the flask was now nowhere to be seen. There was not a single
forgotten object, not a single indication to give him a clue in this
obscure confusion. What could have happened here?--he had not the
faintest idea.
He went and stood in front of the _csárdá_. He gazed out upon the
desolate _puszta_ stretching around him in every direction. From every
point of the compass wagon tracks, some old, some still fresh,
zig-zagged to and from the _csárdá_ and he could not make up his mind
which of them to take in order to reach the world beyond.