"Poor Fanny, the old faggot will beat you, too."

"Poor Fanny!"

"My poor girl!"

"Poor little sister!"

They quite frightened the child with all these lamentations, and it was at last determined that if Fanny would say to papa, if he pressed her, that she did not want to go to Aunt Teresa, they would all take her part.

At that same moment Meyer's steps were audible upon the staircase. He rushed into the room with his hat on—but, indeed, in such a house as that it was not usual to take off one's hat at all at any time. He knew that every one was looking at his face, but he also knew that his face was distorted enough to frighten any one who looked at it.

Without bestowing a glance on any one, he simply said to Fanny—

"Put on your hat and cloak, and look sharp about it!"

"Why, papa?" asked Fanny. Like all badly-brought-up children, she always said, "What for?" before doing anything she was told to do.

"You are to come with me."

"Where?"

"To Aunt Teresa's."

Every one present affected an air of astonishment. Fanny cast down her eyes, and twisting a ribbon round her finger, "I don't want to go to Aunt Teresa," she faltered timidly.

A disjointed embroidering frame was lying on the table.

Fanny stole a glance at her mother and sisters, and meeting with looks of encouragement, repeated, this time in a bold, determined voice—

"I don't want to go to Aunt Teresa!"

"What? You don't want to go, eh?"

"I want to stay here with my mother and sisters."

"With your mother and sisters, eh? and become what they are, I suppose?" and seizing the girl with one hand, he snatched up with the other one of the sticks of the embroidering frame, and, before Fanny had time to be frightened, he thrashed her in a way that made his own heart bleed for her.

The sisters tried to interfere, and got their share also, for papa Meyer broke all the remaining sticks of the frame over their shoulders, so that when it came to his wife's turn, he had to pummel her with his fists till she collapsed in a corner.

A few years sooner a moderate dose of this discipline might have been of use, now it only caused physical pain. And all the time Mr. Meyer never said a word; he simply gratified his rage, like a wild beast that has escaped from its cage.

After that he seized Fanny by the hand, and without taking leave of any one, dragged her along with him to Aunt Teresa's. The child wept all the way.

The chastised damsels wished, in their wrath, that their departing father might never return again. And their wish was gratified, for Mr. Meyer never did return home again. From henceforth he vanished from Pressburg. Where he went or what became of him nobody ever knew. Some maintained that he had jumped into the Danube, others that he had emigrated; and years afterwards distant travellers sent word home from time to time that they had seen a man greatly resembling him, some said in England, some in Turkey.



CHAPTER V.

THE TEMPTER IN CHURCH.

Three years had passed since Fanny went to live with Aunt Teresa. Those three years had a great influence upon her youthful and pliable disposition. At first Teresa was severe and stony-hearted towards the child; her obstinacy, like a thorny hedge, had to be broken down. The smallest fault was chastised, every moment of her time had its allotted task, of which she had to give an account, not a single contradiction, not the slightest sulkiness was put up with. Then, too, she was never able to escape detection, a far-seeing, austere pair of eyes was ever upon her, making falsehood impossible, looking through her very soul, seizing and pruning down every thought as it arose. The weeds had to be extirpated before the seeds of nobler flowers could be sown.

When, however, she had at last brought under the child's unruly disposition and convinced her that it was of no use to play the hypocrite or tell lies, inasmuch as there is a Being Who sees behind all our thoughts, Who is everywhere present and watchful, Whom nothing escapes, and Who watches over us even when we are asleep, so that we are bound from very necessity to be just and honest; when she had brought her charge as far as this, I say, Teresa began gradually to teach her how conversion could have its pleasant side likewise. Teresa's confidence grew proportionately with Fanny's candour. She frequently left the child to herself, ceased to supervise her allotted tasks, showed her that she believed what she said, and thereby gradually exalted and purified her whole disposition. Perceiving that her rigorous mentor trusted her, Fanny began to discover what self-respect means. And what a precious treasure that is! and what a pity more attention is not paid to it!

Teresa never alluded to the child's relatives; on the contrary, whenever her thoughts seemed to be turning that way she would divert them into a different direction. And gradually, as Fanny's notions of right and wrong grew clearer and firmer, she felt less and less of a desire to inquire after the members of her own family. At last it came to this—that when, one day, having obtained Teresa's permission to go somewhere, she suddenly came face to face in the street with Matilda, who was riding in an open carriage, she fled terror-stricken into the court-yard of the house where dwelt a lady of her acquaintance, in order that her sister might not see her.

Teresa heard of this, and ever afterwards treated Fanny much more tenderly.

One day, while sitting at her work, the girl sighed heavily. Teresa knew at once that she was thinking of her relatives.

"Why do you sigh?" she asked.

"Poor Matilda!" said the girl; and she spoke with quite genuine emotion, for she really did pity her sister who rode in a carriage and wore Brabant lace, while she herself was so happy at home over her sewing.

Teresa made no reply, but, full of emotion, she clasped the child to her breast. God had at last rewarded her for all the labours and anxieties of the last three years, for Fanny was now saved, and doubtless reserved for a happier future.

And, indeed, poverty in itself is not such a very great calamity, after all. Those who have a close acquaintance with it will tell you that it possesses joys of its own which are not to be bought with heaps of gold pieces. Besides, Teresa was not absolutely destitute. She received five hundred florins a year from an insurance office for life, with one half of which she not only supported the pair of them comfortably, but even left a margin for a little recreation. The other half she carefully put by, that Fanny might have something when she herself was gone. And the girl made a little money as well; she earned something by her needlework. Oh, ye men and women who swim in luxury, you do not know what delight, what rapture it is when a young man or woman receives the reward of his honest labour for the first time; you know nothing of the proud consciousness of being self-sufficient, of being able to live without the compassion, without the assistance, of other people!

And Fanny's work was very well paid, too!

In the house where they lived there was an Hungarian cabinet-maker, who owned several houses in Pressburg, John Boltay by name. This rich artisan, long, long ago, when he had only just served his apprenticeship, was tenderly disposed towards Teresa, and offered her his hand. But Teresa's relatives would not give him the girl, although she loved him; their family belonged to the official class, and looked down upon a mere workman. So Boltay went away and married some one else, and the marriage turned out unhappy and childless; and by the time his wife died both he and Teresa had grown old. Teresa had never married at all. For forty years she had been growing old and grey, but she had never forgotten her first love. In the mean time her family had gone down in the world, and she had been obliged to live in a house in the suburbs, where she had remained for five-and-twenty years. Boltay meanwhile had become a rich man, and had purchased the house in which Teresa lived, and this gave him an opportunity of doing little kindnesses to Teresa, which she could not very well refuse. Thus, he turned the yard into a garden, gave the noisier of his tenants notice to quit, and charged her a purely nominal rent. And yet, for all that, they never exchanged a word together. Boltay himself lived at the opposite end of the town, over his shop; but he knew very well, all the same, what was going on at Teresa's. He knew, too, that she had adopted Fanny, and about this time he frequently sent over his head journeyman (a worthy, honest young fellow, and his favourite, whom he meant to make his heir, so people said, for he had no relatives) to purchase Fanny's handiwork, for which he paid very handsomely. He would not have dared to offer Teresa any direct assistance; but Teresa, for the girl's sake, felt bound to accept what he offered in this way.

Maybe both she and Boltay thought what a pretty pair the two young people would make. Alexander (to give the young journeyman his name for the first time) was a tall, muscular, well-built fellow, with blonde curly locks, ardent blue eyes, and a bold, manly face. There was nothing slovenly or commonplace in his bearing, nor, on the other hand, did he affect gentility; but there was that quiet self-confidence about him which belongs to the man whose mind and body are equally developed. The girl was a slender, ideal creature, with languishing black eyes and a rosy, chubby face so full of colour that even round her eyes one could not detect a spot of pallor—just such a beauty, in fact, as the world is apt to make much of. They contrasted prettily enough—blonde and brunette, blue eyes and black; he so bold, vigorous, and sedate, she so overflowing with tenderness and feeling; yet who can tell what is written concerning them in the stars?

Amongst Teresa's acquaintances was a dapper little man who was generally known, not by his real name, but by his official title—the precentor. One evening the worthy precentor happened to hear light-hearted Fanny sing the snatch of some song or other, and, surprised, connoisseur as he was, by the music of her pretty voice, suggested that he should teach her an air from the "Stabat Mater," that she might sing it in the choir at church.

Teresa trembled at the thought. Matilda at once occurred to her mind; yet, after all, it is one thing to sing frivolous love ditties on an open stage in fancy costume, face to face with a lot of lazy young loungers, and quite another to sing in the Church of God, behind a closed screen, sublime and edifying hymns for the benefit of devout worshippers, although, of course, the Evil One, who is always seeking his prey, may find his victim in the Church of God itself. Teresa, therefore, felt bound to allow Fanny to go to the precentor, who instructed her with great enthusiasm, and was never weary of praising her. The girl, indeed, rarely went there alone. Either Teresa herself, or a worthy crony of Teresa's, Dame Kramm by name, regularly accompanied Fanny to the precentor's dwelling, and in an hour's time returned to fetch her away again. That the rumour of Fanny's beauty and virtue should not have spread through the town was too much to expect. There are always a number of unoccupied young gentlemen about, whose sole mission in life seems to be to make such discoveries, and the number of these pleasure-hunters was considerably increased on the occasion of the assembling of the Diet at Pressburg, when many of our younger conscript fathers spread the report of newly found female virtue as far as possible. Who did not know of the Meyer girls in those days?—and those who did, could not help knowing likewise that there was a fifth sister. Now, where was this last little sister hiding? Why, it was the most natural question in the world.

The girls themselves made no mystery of the matter. They explained with whom Fanny was, and where and when she might be seen. Ah! and this was much more than mere giddiness; it was shamelessness, jealousy, hatred! Matilda could not forgive Fanny for avoiding her in the street, and the others could not pardon her for possessing a treasure which they possessed no longer—innocence! What a dish for the fine palate of a connoisseur! What a rare fruit of paradise! A child of fifteen or sixteen, whose diamond soul has been cleansed from mud and filth, who is still conscious of God, and capable of pure delights, whose tender loving heart, perhaps, is in the safekeeping of some honest, romantic youth—what a fine thing to root her up unmercifully, to tear off her budding leaves one by one, hurl her back again into the mire from which she has been plucked, and make her acquainted with that new, that withering, consuming fire of infernal passion begotten among the souls of the nether world!

So the chase was let loose after the tender roe that had emerged from the garden of paradise. Swarms of those knight-errants who have nothing else to do waylaid and accosted her in the streets and byways, and offered her their flattery, their homage, their gifts, but above the head of the fairy roe rested a star, which suffered not the darts of the huntsmen to hit their mark. That star was the star of purity.

The discomfited youths, more and more angry every day, used to meet at the Meyers' and deride one another at the failure of their endeavours. Very often, too, heavy bets on the issue of the event were offered and taken, just as if it were a horse-race or a coursing-match. At length a well-known dandy, Fennimore by name, resolved to try the effect of an open direct attack; it was, he opined, the best way of conquering the sex. So one day, when he had ascertained that Fanny was alone at home, he sent her a splendid bouquet of hot-house flowers, in which was concealed a billet-doux of the following purport: If Fanny were inclined to reward the devotion of a loving heart, she was to leave the back door of the garden open in the evening. There are cases, he argued, in which similar proposals lead most rapidly to the end desired.

The inexperienced girl, in the innocence of her astonishment, accepted the proffered bouquet. This was adroitly calculated upon by the sender. Any other missive might have aroused her suspicion and made her more cautious, but flowers harmonize so well with a young girl's disposition that how could she refuse them?

Only when the bearer of the missive had withdrawn did Fanny observe a letter concealed among the flowers, and immediately, just as if she had caught sight of a venomous spider, she threw away the bouquet, and ran weeping to Dame Kramm, and sobbing bitterly, related the incident. She fancied she was disgraced already.

Shortly afterwards Teresa returned home, and she and Dame Kramm held a consultation over the sealed letter. Fanny was inconsolable when Dame Kramm confided to her its contents. She seriously believed that the bare receiving such a letter had dishonoured her for ever and ever, and despite the consolations of the two worthy old spinsters, she lay in a fever the whole night.

Meanwhile the two old ladies were concocting a plan of vengeance against the originator of all this trouble, and, believe me, ancient spinsters know how to be revengeful! They left the back door of the garden wide open, laid in wait till the cavalier had entered, and then closed it again. Then they took it in turns to watch from the garret window how the valiant young woman-hunter, the would-be seducer, who had himself fallen into the pit, cooled his heels for hours in the mouse-trap they had prepared for him, and when at last the rain began to fall, they went to bed full of malicious joy, with the house-keys tucked snugly beneath their pillows, and listening with delight to the rain pattering against the window-panes.

This very considerable defeat only raised the ardour of the huntsman still higher. What, to surrender to an inexperienced child! to be worsted by a pair of old women! Why, l'esprit de corps could not let matters rest there; and Abellino, who was the leader of the band, took upon himself to rehabilitate their renommee, as he called it, and with proud self-confidence laid a bet to a very considerable amount that, within twelve months' time, he would induce this beauty to quit her paradise and come and live with him—naturally not as his consort.

On the following Sunday Fanny sang the "Stabat Mater Dolorosa" in the cathedral sublimely, and the heart of every worshipper was filled with devotion. Dame Kramm, decked out in all her Sabbath finery, was sitting by one of the side altars, enjoying in her own way the child's beautiful singing, when she heard an enraptured voice close beside her sigh, "Oh, what splendid, what sublime singing!"

She immediately felt bound to turn round and see who it was that was pouring forth the rapture of his soul so abundantly.

She saw before her a modestly attired gentleman, who wore mourning on his hat, and had just dried a tear from his upturned eye. It was Abellino Karpathy.

"She sings beautifully, sir, does she not?" said the good spinster, proudly.

"Like an angel! Ah, madam, every time I hear such singing the tears start from my eyes." And the sensitive youth put his handkerchief to his eyes again. Then he departed without saying another word to Dame Kramm.

The whole week through Dame Kramm was tortured by curiosity. What could be amiss with this mysterious youth? Would he come again on the following Sunday?

And come again he did, and now they greeted one another like old acquaintances.

"Look ye, madam," said the young gentleman, with a mournful countenance, "ten years ago I had a sweetheart, a betrothed, who used to sing the 'Stabat Mater' with just such a beautiful voice; it makes me actually think that I can hear her now. She died on the very day fixed for our wedding. On her death-bed she made me promise that if ever I found a poor young lady who could sing these divine canticles with just such a beautiful voice as she had, I was, in memory of her, to devote every year the sum of three thousand florins to enable such young lady to cultivate to the utmost her noble art, and thus secure for herself a happy future. I only imposed one condition before consenting to my betrothed's desire: I insisted that the young lady in question should be just as pure, just as innocent, as was my beloved, my never-to-be-forgotten Maria!" And the young man again applied his pocket-handkerchief to his eyes.

"What genuine grief!" thought the old lady to herself.

"I must regretfully confess, madam," pursued the young dandy, in a shaky voice, "that I have not been able to carry out the desire of my deceased bride. So far as natural gifts are concerned, there were heaps and heaps of candidates, but in the way of virtue they all failed me. I think of them with shame, and yet there are some among them whom the world has loaded with its applause. And every fresh attempt has proved a fresh illusion."

And here he again broke off the conversation, and left Madam Kramm to cogitate upon this strange story for another week. She said not a word about it to any one.

On the following Sunday, Abellino again made his appearance. He kept silence till the singing was quite over, but it was clear from his face that there was something he would very much have liked to ask, had he not been too shy to do so. At last, however, he constrained himself to speak.

"Pardon me for troubling you with such a question, madam, and do not take it ill of me; but do you not know the singer personally? I have so many times been deceived in my benevolent intentions that I scarce dare to approach any one without making preliminary inquiries. I have heard the most astonishing reports of this young woman's family, which seem to prove that virtue is in no very great request there."

At this Dame Kramm also became loquacious. "Whatever this young woman's relations may be, sir, she has had absolutely nothing to do with them since she was a child. Her heart is as pure as a child's, and her education has been so austere that, even if she were now to be abandoned entirely to herself, not the shadow of a vice could possibly find admittance in her breast."

"Ah, madam, you have made me altogether happy!"

"How so, sir?"

"The soul of my Maria will at length be able to rest in peace."

And off he went again, leaving Dame Kramm to think the matter over for another week.

On the following Sunday he honoured the worthy spinster with his entire confidence.

"Madam," said he, "I am convinced that your young charge is quite worthy of my protection. That girl will one day become a famous artiste, and her rare virginal modesty will raise her far above all her fellows. But a strict watch must be kept upon her. I am well aware that sundry rich young men are lying in wait for her. Be careful, madam, and warn the young woman's guardians to look well after her! Excessive light blinds the greatest characters; but I have determined to save her from their nefarious intrigues. She shall be an artiste. In her voice she possesses such a treasure that, if only it be properly cultivated, all these cavaliers, with all their wealth to boot, will seem but beggars beside her; and then, if she preserve within herself the source of her riches, she will escape the danger with which wealth always threatens innocence."

Madam Kramm thoroughly believed him. Her thoughts now began to turn from the church to the theatre, and she looked forward to the day when she should applaud Fanny's singing.

"A couple of years will make a thorough artiste of her. Great care, and a very trifling expenditure is all that is wanted. I will take upon myself the rest, for my dead bride's sake. I will make no presents, I will give nothing gratis; what I advance will be only as a loan. When she has grown rich she shall repay me, so that I may be able to make others happy also. I will give you three thousand florins every month, that the young woman may be able to pay for the necessary tuition; but pray do not let her know that the money comes from a young man, or she might possibly refuse it. Use the name of my dead bride, Maria Darvai, to designate the mysterious benefactor; and, indeed, she does send it, even if it be from Heaven. I impose but one condition: she must remain virtuous. If I should ascertain the contrary, my patronage will instantly cease. Be so good, then, as to now accept from me the first monthly instalment, and employ it conformably to my wishes; and, once more, I beg of you to say nothing about me. I ask it simply for the girl's sake. You know what an evil tongue the world has."

Dame Kramm took the money. Why, indeed, should she not have taken it? Any one else, in her place, would have done the same thing. The secret benefactor had given her no cause for suspicion. He remained unknown to her, and insisted on remaining unknown; but he had forewarned her of the machinations of others, and acted himself as the guardian of defenceless virtue. What more could he do?

Madam Kramm took the money, I say, and secretly hired music and singing masters for Fanny, to whom alone she told anything about the matter. Of course, it was a mistake on her part not to have admitted Teresa into her confidence; but, perhaps, she surmised—and no doubt her surmise was correct—that that austere old lady would have incontinently pitched the money out of the window, with the remark that a virtuous girl ought, under no pretext whatever, to accept money which she has not honestly earned. And then, too, that other point—an artistic career? That would certainly have encountered vigorous opposition on the part of Teresa. Why, it was a subject which could not even be broached in her presence.

But the affair was no secret to Teresa, after all. From the very first she noticed the change that had taken place in Fanny's disposition. In the girl's mind the idea that she possessed a treasure which would raise her far above her competitors on the path of glory had already taken root. She had no longer any heart for the simple tasks, the humble pastimes, in which she had rejoiced heretofore. She no longer conversed as openly as before with the young journeyman. She would sit and brood for hours together, and after such broodings she would frequently say to her aunt that one day she would richly requite her for her labour and trouble.

How Teresa used to tremble at these words!

The girl was dreaming of riches. The Evil One had shown her the whole world and said, "All this I will give thee: worship me." And it never occurred to her to reply, "Get thee hence, Satan!"

The huntsman had laid his snare right well.

A feeling of gratitude often urged the girl to beg Dame Kramm to take her to this unknown benefactor, that she might express her burning thanks to her, and take further counsel of her. She also wished to tell her aunt of the unselfish kindness of which she was the object. These repeated entreaties drove the worthy old spinster at last into such a corner that she, one day, suddenly blurted out that this mysterious benefactor was not a woman, but a man, who wished to remain for ever in the background.

This discovery at first terrified Fanny greatly; but subsequently it tickled her fancy all the more. Who could this man be who wished to make her happy without ever appearing to have a hand in it, and who was so anxious, so fearful, lest his honest gifts should cast the slightest slur on her reputation that he would not so much as allow his name to be mentioned?

What more natural, then, that the girl should draw, in her imagination, an ideal picture of her unknown defender? She represented him to herself as a tall, gloomy, pale-faced youth, who never smiled except when doing good, and his gentle look frequently followed her into her dreams.

Whenever she went for a walk in the streets and encountered young cavaliers there she would steal glances at them and say to herself, "I wonder if that one is he, or that?" But not one of them fitted into the place that she held vacant in her heart.

At last, one day, she did meet with a face with eyes and features and looks similar to the ideal of her dreams. Yes, she had pictured him just like that. Yes, this must be her secret tutelary deity, who did not want himself to be known to her. Yes, yes, this was the hero she was wont to dream of, with the beautiful blue eyes, the noble features, and the handsome figure!

Poor girl! That was not her benefactor. That was Rudolf Szentirmay, one of the noblest and most patriotic of the younger noblemen of Hungary, already happily married to the lady of his choice, the Countess Flora. He had no thought of her whatever. But she had got the idea into her head that he was her benefactor, and nobody could drive it out again.

She begged and prayed Dame Kramm repeatedly to show her, if even at a distance, the man who had so mysteriously taken charge of her fate. But when, at last, the good-natured lady had resolved to satisfy her desire, it was not in her power to do so; for Abellino no longer appeared in church on Sundays. Nay, he had not, as usual, given her the three thousand florins for the coming month personally, but had sent it to her in advance by an old lackey.

What fine calculation!

Dame Kramm could only believe that the unknown gentleman was determined at all hazards not to approach the girl, and that an effort would have to be made to find him. She therefore humbly asked the lackey whether it was not possible to catch a glimpse of his master in a public place, even if only at a distance and but for a moment.

The lackey replied that his master would be visible at the public session of the Upper House of the Diet on the morrow, and that he would be sitting opposite the fifth pillar.

Oh ho! So he was a great nobleman, then—one of the fathers of the Fatherland who are occupied day and night with the thought of how to make the realm and the nation happier! And still greater confidence arose in her heart. He to whom the destiny of the realm is entrusted could scarcely be a fribbler!

Dame Kramm informed Fanny that she would be able to see her unknown benefactor on the morrow in the Diet; that she could pick him out from among the throng without anybody being the wiser, and that the whole affair would only take a moment or two.

So Fanny went to the gallery of the Diet, where Dame Kramm pointed out to her her mysterious benefactor.

Fanny fell down from heaven forthwith. She had expected to see some one quite different. The face which Dame Kramm pointed out had no attraction for her. On the contrary, it filled her heart with a feeling of distrust and consternation. She hurried Dame Kramm away from the gallery, and carried her poor disillusioned heart home. There she took her aunt into her confidence, and revealed everything—her dreams, her ambitious longings, and her disappointment. She confessed that now she loved—yes, loved—a man who was her ideal, whose name she knew not, and she begged to be defended against herself, for she felt tottering on the edge of an abyss. She was mistress of her own heart no longer.

Next day, when Dame Kramm came for Fanny to take her to the singing-master, she found Teresa's house deserted. The doors and windows were shut, and the furniture had been removed. Nobody could tell where she had gone.

She had taken it into her head to flit in the night-time. Her rent she had deposited with the caretaker, unknown porters had removed everything, and she had left no address behind for kind inquirers.



CHAPTER VI.

PAID IN FULL.

And whither, then, had Fanny vanished so suddenly, so untraceably, with her aunt?

It was with a feeling of despair that Teresa had listened to her niece's confession. The girl had told her honestly that she was in love, in love body and soul, with all the fervour of her nature, with an ideal whom she had believed to be identical with the benefactor whose benefits she had one day meant to repay with a love stronger than death; and now, discovering that her secret patron was not he whom she had dreamed of, he whom once she had actually seen, and could never again forget, her heart was full of horror. She now felt that she had acted improperly in accepting money from that other man under any pretext whatsoever, for by so doing she had placed herself under an obligation, and she trembled at the thought of it, and feared to show her face in the street lest she should meet him. A distrust of that face grew up in her heart, and she shuddered at the idea that that man was thinking of her, perhaps. Ah, that was indeed a thorn in her soul! And the other, the ideal, there was no reason for thinking of him at all now; and yet cast him out of her heart again she could not. She knew him not, she knew not even his name, yet she felt that she would love him henceforth to the last moment of her life.

Poor Alexander!

So Teresa saw the labours of these many years all in ruins, and in the bitterness of her despair she brought herself to take a step which, at one time, the greatest misery would have been powerless to make her do—she went to Boltay, told him everything, and entreated him to defend, to protect the girl, for this was a case where female protection was insufficient.

Boltay accepted the guardianship with joy. The coarse-handed artisan's big face turned dark red with rage, and he did not go to his factory that day, lest he should pitch into some one; but he gave orders that Teresa's belongings should be carried into his house that very night. Alexander, who heard everything, became very sorrowful, but was doubly attentive to Fanny. It was a case of hopeless love all round. He loved the girl and the girl loved another, and both were very unhappy.

Every one in the family knew the secret, but nobody said a word about it. The two old people often laid their heads together, and sometimes Alexander was admitted to this family council.

The good old people tried to find out the name of the unknown nobleman, as they wanted to send back to him the whole of the money that he had forwarded to Fanny. A debtor under such an obligation could not feel free. They wanted to pay him back as soon as possible, in just the same coin, florin for florin, three thousand down in one lump, lest any one should say he did not get back exactly what he had given.

Yes, but how were they to find out his name? Fanny herself did not know it, and she would not have pointed him out in the street if she had had to die for it. Boltay took the trouble to frequent the coffee-houses and the meetings of the merchants, and listened with all his ears in case he might hear any talk of a shop-girl who had accepted earnest money from a rich gentleman as the price of her virtue. But there was no such talk anywhere. This was reassuring in one way, as tending to show that nobody knew anything about it, and therefore the trouble was not so great as it might have been; but the name, the name?

At last Abellino himself came to help them in their search.

Alexander used to go every Sunday to the church which Dame Kramm frequented, and, leaning against a column, would watch to see with whom the spinster conversed.

On the third Sunday Abellino appeared upon the scene also.

The worthy spinster told him the marvellous story of how Fanny and her aunt had unexpectedly disappeared one night without telling her whither they had gone, which was not very nice of them; but she suspected that they had flitted to Mr. Boltay's house, and Teresa had kept it quiet, no doubt, because there had been certain relations between her and Boltay in their younger days, or perhaps she went to see him because Boltay's adopted son wanted to marry Fanny. As for herself, she did not mean to trouble her head about them any more.

Abellino bit his lips till the blood came, he was so angry. Could these Philistines smell a rat, then?

"What sort of an artisan is this Boltay?" he inquired of Dame Kramm.

"A carpenter," was the reply.

"A carpenter!" and in a moment Abellino had a new plan already in his head.

"Well, God be with you, madam!" said he; and, having no further use of her, he hurried out of the building, with Alexander at his heels. So at last, then, he had found the tempter in church.

Abellino marched rapidly to the corner of the street, with Alexander after him all the way. There he got into a carriage which was awaiting him. Alexander threw himself into a hackney-coach and trundled after him. He overtook him at the Michael Gate, and here the gentleman got out, while the carriage clattered into the courtyard. A big porter in bearskins was standing at the entrance.

"Who was that gentleman who went in there just now?" inquired Alexander of the porter.

"The Honourable Abellino Karpathy, of Karpath."

"Thank you."

So his name, then, was Abellino Karpathy! Alexander hastened home with his discovery.

On that day the whole family had such a vicious expression of countenance that every one who came to see them was positively afraid of them.

The following day was a work-day, so everybody went about his own business. Mr. Boltay, with his sleeves tucked up, worked away with a will among his apprentices; but in vain was all the noise and racket—every tool he took up seemed to repeat one name continually in his ear, Karpathy, Karpathy!

Meanwhile Teresa and Fanny were sitting at one of the windows overlooking the street, occupied with needlework. They spoke not a word to each other; it was a way they had got into lately.

Suddenly a handsome carriage turned into the street, and stopped in front of Boltay's house.

Fanny, young girl as she was, peeped out of the window. The person sitting in the carriage was just about to get out. Terrified, all trembling, she drew back her head; her face was pale, her eyes looked feverish, her hands hung down by her side.

Presently the footsteps of the visitor were audible on the staircase. They heard some one outside making inquiries in an arrogant tone, and then the antechamber also was invaded. Would he presume, then, to come into their room also?

Fanny leaped from her chair, and, rushing despairingly to her aunt, knelt down before her and hid her face in her bosom, sobbing loudly.

"Don't be afraid! don't be afraid!" whispered Teresa; but every muscle in her body trembled. "I am here."

But at that moment the outer door also opened, and Mr. Boltay entered the antechamber in time to receive the newly arrived guest.

"Ah, good day!" cried that gentleman with friendly condescension, as he caught sight of the artisan. "Mr. Boltay, I presume? Ah, I thought so, my worthy fellow! You have a great reputation everywhere; they praise your workmanship to the skies, my good, honest fellow. Fresh from your workshop, eh? Well, that, now, is what I like to see. I hold industrious citizens in the highest esteem."

Mr. Boltay was not the sort of man to accept indiscriminate laudation from any one, so he somewhat curtly interrupted this eulogistic flux of words.

"To whom have I the pleasure of speaking, pray? and what are your honour's commands?"

"I am Abellino Karpathy," replied the stranger.

It was only the armoury behind him that prevented Mr. Boltay from falling flat. On such a surprise as this he had not counted.

The great gentleman did not condescend to observe the expression of the artisan's face, opining, as he no doubt did, that an artisan's face has no business to have any expression whatever; but he continued as follows:—

"I have come to you to bespeak an order for a whole etablissement, and I have come personally because I hear that you draw very fine, artistic specimens of furniture."

"Sir, it is not I who draw, but my head apprentice, who lives at Paris."

"That doesn't matter. I have come myself, I say, that I may choose from these patterns, for I should like something particularly neat, and at the same time a simple middle-class production, quite in the middle-class style, you understand. And I'll tell you why. I am about to marry, and my future wife is a young girl, a citizen's daughter. Does it surprise you that I am going to make a middle-class girl my actual, lawful wife? Why do I do this? you may ask. Well, I have my own special reasons for it. I am a bit of an oddity, you must know. My father before me was an oddity, and so is every member of my family. Now, I had resolved to marry, and my sweetheart was a small tradesman's daughter, who used to sing beautifully in church."

Aha! the old story!

"And marry her I would have done," continued the fluent dandy, "but the poor thing died. I then determined that I would never marry until I had found another middle-class girl who should be just as beautiful, just as virtuous, as she was, and who could sing the 'Stabat Mater' just as nicely. And now I have been knocking about in the world these nine years without being able to find what I seek; for either she whom I found sang well and was not beautiful, or she was beautiful but not virtuous, or she was virtuous but could not sing, and therefore could not be mine. And now, sir, in this little town, I have actually found at last the very thing I seek—a girl who is beautiful, virtuous, and can sing; and her I am going to take to wife. So now I want your advice as to what sort of furniture I am to give her as wedding-present."

All these words were plainly audible in the adjoining room. Teresa involuntarily covered Fanny's head, which was hidden in her breast, as if she feared that this artless tale would win her credence, and so deceive her youthful mind, for young girls are so very credulous. Why, they even inquire of the flowers, "Does he love me, or does he not love me?" What will they not do, then, if any one looks straight into their eyes?

Mr. Boltay had gradually pulled himself together during the course of this speech, and all the answer he gave when it was quite finished was to step to a writing-table, search diligently for something, and begin to write rapidly.

"I suppose he is looking up his patterns and making out his account," thought Abellino to himself; and meanwhile he began looking about him, wondering in which of the rooms this Philistine kept his little sugar-plum, and whether the girl had heard what he had just been saying.

The master-carpenter had by this time finished his scribbling and rummaging, and he now beckoned Karpathy to the table, and counted out before him a bundle of hundred-florin notes in six lots, together with four florins in twenty-kreutzer pieces, and thirty red copper kreutzers besides.

"Look here!" said he; "count. There are one, two, three, four, five, six thousand florins in notes, twenty florins in silver, and thirty copper pieces"—and he indicated the money with a wave of his hand.

"What the deuce does this Philistine mean by showing his dirty halfpence to me?" thought Abellino.

"And now be so good as to sit down and write me a receipt."

And he thrust into the young gentleman's hand a form of receipt for six thousand florins, with four florins thirty kreutzers interest, which amount was declared to have been a loan to the undermentioned "Miss Fanny Meyer," but was now discharged in full on the date indicated.

Abellino was immensely surprised. That these dull Philistines with fat, fleshy cheeks should see through his whole design—for this he was not in the least prepared. On the other hand, he could not have had a better opportunity for playing the injured gentleman.

With silent, grandseignorial, superciliousness he surveyed the artisan from head to foot, cracking his horse-whip once or twice by way of expressing that language was here superfluous, then he turned to go.

All this time there was deep silence in the room, and the trembling women in the adjoining chamber hung upon this silence with beating hearts, well aware what a storm of passion was brooding within it.

Boltay, perceiving that the dandy was preparing to withdraw, spoke once more in a voice all the more emphatic because of its visibly suppressed emotion.

"Take that money, sir, and subscribe that receipt, for I assure you you will be sorry if you do not."

Karpathy turned contemptuously on his heel and, banging the door to behind him, withdrew. Only when he was already sitting in his carriage did the thought occur to him—"Why did I not box that man's ears?" And yet, somehow, he could not help feeling very thankful that he had omitted doing so.

Abellino durst not recount this scene to his comrades. He felt that whatever turn he might give to the affair, the artisan could not fail to appear triumphant.

But the matter did not end here.

Master Boltay did not put back in his pocket the money lying on the table, but swept it up, sent it to the editor of the Pressburger Zeitung, and the next day the following notice was to be read in the columns of that respectable newspaper: "A pater-familias residing in this town presents through us six thousand florins thirty kreutzers to the civic hospital, which amount the honourable Abellino Karpathy was pleased to offer as a gift to the daughter of the donor in question, who, however, thought the sum more suitably applied to charitable purposes."

The affair made a great stir. The name advertised was well known in the highest circles. Some were amused, others amazed at the comic announcement. A couple of wits belonging to the opposition complimented Abellino in front of the green table in the name of suffering humanity. As for Abellino, he strutted up and down the town all day on the offchance of calling some one out; but as nobody gave him the opportunity, he and the other young elegants finally held a conference at the Meyers' house, and it was decided that a challenge should be sent to this advertising pater-familias.

"What, Master Boltay? The master-carpenter! Why, that would be a mere jest. Suppose he refused to come out? Why, then he shall be insulted all over the place till he is forced to leave Pressburg."

"But why?"

"Why, to frighten the Philistine, of course. Cow him, tame him, take all the pluck out of him. Why, there's not a more amiable fellow in the world than a thoroughly cowed and tamed foe, for he will always be trying to make up for his earlier misdeeds. And then? Why, then the enchanted maiden, her guardian dragon once subdued, will fall an easy prey."

As to whether it was becoming for a person of quality to fight a duel with an artisan who perhaps was no gentleman, or, if he was, had forfeited the respect due to a gentleman by engaging in manual labour in order to live thereby, such a question never once arose. We all know what these honest Philistines are, and how they shake with terror even when they have to fire off their own guns on the occasion of the solemn procession on Corpus Christi Day! He'll never accept the duel, but will give explanations and offer apologies, and we'll drink a toast together with the pretty little fugitive, as Hebe, pouring wine into our glasses and love into our hearts. That will be the most natural termination to such an affair.

So in the afternoon Abellino sent his seconds to the carpenter. The first was named Livius. In all affairs of honour his opinion was a veritable canon to the jeunesse doree of the day. The other second, Conrad, was an herculean, athletic-looking fellow, whom, on that very account, every challenger tried to secure in those cases when a little judicious bullying might be necessary. This swash-buckler had, moreover, a most imposing countenance, and a voice capable of frightening even a bear back into its den.

These two estimable gentlemen then, having, pro superabundante, written out the challenge, in case the Philistine should deny himself or hide away from them, sought out the house of Mr. Boltay and made their way into his workroom.

The master was not at home. He had got into a cart very early in the morning with Teresa and Fanny, and from the nature of his arrangements there was reason to suspect that he would be absent for some time.

Alone in the room sat Alexander drawing patterns on a piece of paper fastened to the table.

The two gentlemen wished him bon jour. He responded in a similar strain, and, approaching, asked them what were their commands.

"Hem! young man!" began Conrad, in a thunderous voice, "is this Master Boltay's house?"

"It is," replied Alexander. There is surely no need for much growling, thought he.

Conrad, snorting violently, glanced round the room like one of those fairy-tale dragons that scents human flesh, and then roared—

"Let the master be sent for!"

"He is not at home."

Conrad glanced at Livius, murmuring, "Didn't I say so?" Whereupon he planted one fist on the table, flung the other behind his back, and thrusting forward his chest, regarded the youth with a savage stare.

"Then where is the master?"

"He did not so far honour me with his confidence as to tell me," replied Alexander, who had sufficient sang-froid to assume an expression of utter indifference.

"'Tis well," said Conrad, and he drew from an inner pocket a sealed letter. "What's your name, young man?"

Alexander began looking at his interlocutor with surprise and annoyance.

"Come, come!" said Conrad, "don't be afraid. I don't mean to frighten you. I only want to know your name."

"My name is Alexander Barna."

Conrad took a note of the fact in his pocket-book, and then ceremoniously holding the letter by the edge of the envelope, he said—

"Then listen to me, my dear Mr. Alexander Barna." He laid particular stress upon the word "Mr." that the lad might be duly sensible of the honour done to him thereby. "This letter tells your master——"

"You may give it me, sir. I am Mr. Boltay's confidential agent, and during his absence he has entrusted me with the transaction of all his business."

"Then take this letter," remarked Conrad in voice of thunder; and was on the point of adding something of a very imposing character, when Alexander completely disconcerted him by indiscreetly tearing open the letter addressed to his master, and approaching the window that he might be able to read it better.

"What are you doing?" cried both the seconds at the same time.

"I am authorized by Mr. Boltay during his absence to open all letters addressed to him, and discharge all debts or claims that may come in."

"But this is a purely personal matter which does not concern you."

Meanwhile Alexander had been glancing through the letter. He now came straight towards the two seconds.

"Gentlemen, I am at your service," he said.

"How! What business is it of yours?"

"Mr. Boltay has empowered me to satisfy any claim whatever that may be made upon him."

"Well, what then?"

"Why, then," said Alexander, smoothing out the letter with his hand, "I am ready to settle this account also whenever and wherever you please."

Conrad looked at Livius. "This lad seems disposed to joke with us," said he.

"I am not joking, gentlemen. Since yesterday I have become Mr. Boltay's partner, and all the obligations of the firm are binding upon both of us equally. The credit of the establishment demands it."

Conrad began to doubt whether the youth was in his right mind or knew how to read.

"Have you read what is in that letter?" he roared.

"Yes. It is a challenge."

"And what right have you to accept a challenge which is meant for some one else?"

"Because my partner, my foster-father, is not present, and everything, be it ill or good fortune, disaster or annoyance, which touches him, touches me equally. If he were present he would answer for himself. Now, however, he is away, and he has his own reasons, no doubt, for not telling me whither he has gone or how long he will be absent; and therefore, gentlemen, you must either take away this challenge or let me give you satisfaction."

Conrad drew Livius aside to consult him as to whether this was regular according to duelling rules. Livius recalled similar cases, but only as between gentlemen.

"Hark ye, Alexander Barna," said Conrad, "what you propose is only usual among gentlemen."

"Well, gentlemen, I am not the challenger; the challenge comes from you."

This was unanswerable.

Conrad folded his terrific arms over his immense chest, and roared this question almost down the young man's throat—

"Can you fight?"

Alexander could scarce refrain from smiling. "I can fight with either swords or pistols, gentlemen," said he; "'tis all one to me. Let me tell you that I was at Waterloo and there won a decoration."

"Who are your seconds?" asked Livius, coldly. "Give me the names of two of your acquaintances."

"My acquaintances are all peaceable working men, who would have nothing to do with so risky an affair. I might possibly shoot down the challenger, and in that case, I should not like to make exiles of two innocent men; but if you will be so good as to choose for me two seconds from your own honourable circle, I will accept them whoever they may be."

"We will let you know the time and place of the meeting at once," said Livius; and with that they took up their hats and withdrew.

"It seems to me," said Livius to Conrad, as they went away, "that that young fellow has as stout a heart as any gentleman could have."

"We'll see what he's made of early to-morrow morning," returned the other.

That same evening a gorgeous silver-laced heyduke might have been seen looking for Master Boltay's workshop, and making inquiries for Alexander Barna. There was a letter in his hand.

"Be so good as to tell me," said the heyduke in a courteous voice (a sure sign that he was accustomed to polite treatment from his superiors), "whether you used to work in Monsieur Gaudehoux's atelier at Paris?"

"Yes, I did."

"And three years ago you met three Hungarian gentlemen in the Ermenouville Forest, did you not?"

"Yes, I did meet them," replied Alexander, surprised that anybody should bear in mind such minutiae of his past life.

"Then this letter will be meant for you," said the heyduke, delivering the letter. "Be so good as to read it. I await a reply."

Alexander broke open the letter, and, as was his wont, looked first of all at the signature. A cry of astonishment burst from his lips. There stood two names written one beneath the other which every Hungarian, who accounted himself a good patriot and a man of honour and enlightenment, held in the highest veneration—Rudolf and Michael.

What could such as they have to write to a poor orphan like him, they the great men, the idols of the nation, the popular heroes of the day, to a poor unknown artisan like him?

The letter said—

"You worthy young man, you have acted quite rightly. In your place any one of us would have done the same thing. If you will accept our assistance, for old acquaintance sake, we are ready to place our service as gentlemen at your disposal."

Alexander folded up the letter with great satisfaction. He had a vivid recollection of the two young noblemen who had met him by accident at Paris, and treated him as a friend.

"I am much honoured by their lordships' offer," said he, turning to the heyduke, "and will accept it in any case."

The messenger respectfully bowed and withdrew.

In half an hour's time Rudolf and Michael appeared, and the former said that a written authorization on Alexander's part was necessary, lest Conrad and Livius should give him seconds that he did not like.

"Then there are others, also, who would offer their assistance?"

"Oh, no end to them! There is quite a competition among these young lions as to which of them shall be present at the tragi-comedy, as they call it."

"It will not be a tragi-comedy; I can tell them that."

"That is principally what induced us to offer you our services. We do not see any particular glory in hounding men on against each other, and making them fight duels which our age, unfortunately, considers such an excellent pastime. On the other hand, we regard it as our duty as gentlemen to offer you our assistance, and thereby put a stop to what might become a senseless and insulting jest, which if our feather-brained friends had their way might even have a very serious termination."

Alexander thanked them for their kindness, and early next morning the two young men appeared again in a hired coach. Alexander was ready waiting for them. He had only to seal a few letters which he had written overnight, one to his master, reporting in what state he had left the business, and the other to Fanny, begging her to do him the favour to accept as his heir the little property which his thrift had accumulated.

These letters, enclosed in a third envelope, he gave to the caretaker of the house, with the request that if he, Alexander, did not return by twelve o'clock, the envelope was to be opened and the documents inside forwarded to their respective addresses. Then he got into the carriage where Rudolf and Michael were awaiting him; a surgeon followed them in another carriage.

The youths were surprised to observe that the young artisan's face showed no signs of anxiety or trouble, nay, he bore himself as calmly and nonchalantly as if he were used to such situations.

It was still very early when they crossed the bridge leading into the park, where a freshly erected tent was standing. The youths then told the coachman to stop, and asked Alexander whether he would not like a little breakfast first of all.

"No, thank you," he replied. "People might say I wanted something to put pluck into me. Let us say afterwards—if an afterwards there be!" he added lightly, and in the best of humours.

They proceeded onwards through the wood to the spot agreed upon, and they had not waited more than a few moments before their antagonists also arrived upon the ground.

It was a cloudy, gloomy morning, and there was an expression of gloomy sang-froid on the faces of the young men which suited very well with the morning.

The enemy, smiling, and with nonchalant haughtiness, came strolling arm in arm through the silver poplar woods—Abellino, the large-limbed Conrad, and Livius. A surgeon and a servant brought up the rear.

The four seconds went apart and conversed together in a low voice; they were evidently arranging the details of the affair. They soon came to an agreement. The extreme retiring distance was fixed at five-and-forty paces, the barriers at five-and-twenty.

During this negociation, Abellino produced a pair of good flint-locked Schneller pistols, and exhibited his skill before the company. He ordered his lackey to throw linden leaves up into the air in front of him, and riddled them with bullets three times running. This he did simply to fill the adversary with terror. Michael, fathoming his object, whispered confidentially in the young artisan's ear—

"We are not going to fire with those pistols, but with ours, which are quite new, and it will not be so easy to show off with them."

Alexander smiled bitterly. "It is all one to me. My life is no more precious to me than those linden leaves."

All the necessary formalities having been arranged, the seconds attempted to reconcile the combatants. Abellino thereupon offered to withdraw his challenge under two conditions: (1) If the challenged, in the name of the firm he was defending, publicly declared that there was no intention to insult in the advertisement complained of, and (2) if Mr. Boltay caused to be inserted in the same newspaper in which the offensive advertisement had appeared a notification to the effect that Karpathy had given the amount in question to the girl's guardian from purely artistic motives of the noblest description.

Alexander's seconds laid these conditions before him.

He immediately sent one of them back. Did they wish to insult him? He meant in the plainest, most unmistakable manner, and with the fullest knowledge of what he was doing, to take all the responsibility of the alleged insult on his own shoulders, and he had nothing to retract.

Ah! he had far better reasons for fighting than the mere love of swagger. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to fight.

Conrad thereupon turned towards the surgeon whom they had brought with them, and roared in a stentorian voice—

"Have you your instruments with you? Then, mind you hold them in readiness. There will not be much need of blood-letting, I fancy. What! not brought your bone-saw with you, eh? My friend, your thoughtlessness is disgraceful! It happens in duels sometimes that a man is not shot through the head or the heart straight off; but the bullet may hit him in the arm or leg, and then if the bone is injured and he has to wait for an amputation till he is carried into town erysipelas may set in."

"Take your places, gentlemen! take your places!" shouted Rudolf, putting an end to this cruel prolonging of the agony.

Abellino thereupon pierced his fourth linden leaf at twenty-five paces.

"Those pistols must be put aside, as they are evidently old acquaintances," said Rudolf. "Mine are new."

"We agree," replied Conrad; "only you must take care," he continued, turning towards Abellino, "that when you prepare to take aim you do not lower your arm from your shoulder downwards, but raise it from your hip gradually upwards, so that if you aim at the chest, and the pistol kicks downwards, you may be able to hit him in the stomach, but if it kicks upwards you may hit him in the skull."

Meanwhile they were loading the pistols, dropping the bullets into the barrels in every one's sight. The challenged party then chose one of them.

Then the antagonists were placed at the two extremities of the ground, and the barriers were indicated by white pocket-handkerchiefs.

The seconds stepped aside, forming two separate groups. Conrad placed himself behind a huge poplar, capable of shielding even his bulky frame.

A clapping of hands, thrice repeated, was the signal for the opponents to advance.

Alexander remained standing in his place for some seconds, holding his pistol in his hand pointed downwards. A cold calmness was written on his face—regret you might even have called it, were not regret under such circumstances somewhat akin to cowardice. Abellino, holding himself sideways, advanced with little mincing steps, frequently pointing his pistol as if he were on the point of firing. He meant to torture his adversary by holding him in suspense as long as possible without firing. And you should have seen the malicious smile, the expression of teasing, provoking scorn, with which Abellino tried to throw his adversary into confusion. Why, a man who can pierce a falling leaf with a bullet, may be pretty sure of his man in a duel!

"Poor young fellow!" sighed Rudolph to himself, while his fellow-second was just about to call out to Abellino that such tricks were not permissible in encounters between gentlemen, when Alexander suddenly started from his place and walked with firm, unfaltering steps right up to his barrier, there stopped, raised his pistol, and took aim. His eyes sparkled with a strange fire, and his hand was perfectly steady.

This was an unheard-of audacity. Before the first shot it is most unusual for any one to walk right up to his own barrier, for, in case of ill luck, he gives his adversary a great advantage. This boldness, however, had the effect of making Abellino stop short six paces from his own barrier, and move away his thumb from the trigger of his pistol, where he had hitherto held it.

What happened the next moment nobody was able to exactly explain.

A report rang out, and half a minute afterwards another. The seconds hastened to the spot, and found Alexander standing erect in his place; but Abellino had turned right round, and his hand was over his left ear. The surgeons came running up with the others.

"Are you wounded?" they asked Abellino.

"No, no!" said he, keeping one hand continually over his ear. "Deuce take that bullet, it flew so damned close to my ear that it has almost made me deaf. I can't hear a word of what I am saying. Curse the bullet! I would much rather that it had gone through my ribs."

"I wish it had with all my soul!" roared Conrad, who now came rushing up. "You are a damned fool, for you shot me instead of your opponent! Look, gentlemen! You see that tree by which I was standing? Well, the bullet burrowed right into it. What! fire at your own seconds? Do you call that discretion? If that tree had not been there, I should have been as dead as a ducat—as dead as a ducat, I say!"

So this is what must have happened. At the very moment when Alexander's bullet whizzed past Karpathy's ear he must have been so startled by the shock as to have involuntarily wheeled round and clapped one hand to his ear, and the same instant the loaded pistol in his other hand must have gone off sideways. At any rate, Karpathy was found standing, after the shot was fired, with his back to his opponent.

He himself heard none of Conrad's reproaches, and the blood slowly began to trickle in little drops from his ear. He did not show it otherwise, but from the paleness of his face it was plain that he was suffering torments. The doctors whispered, too, that the membrane of the ear was ruptured, and that all his life long he would be hard of hearing.

Karpathy had to be conducted to his carriage. But for his sufferings he would have sworn. He would much rather have had a bullet in his lungs.

Rudolf and Michael then approached the seconds of the opposite party, and asked whether they considered the satisfaction given sufficient.

Livius admitted that everything was now perfectly in order, but Conrad declared that he was so completely satisfied with this duel that he would deserve to be called thief and robber if ever he took part in another as long as he lived.

"Then be so good, gentlemen, as to receipt this bill," said Alexander, turning to the seconds, and producing the written challenge which they had addressed to his master. "Kindly write at the bottom of it, 'Discharged in full.'"

The seconds laughed immensely at the idea, and, procuring a pen and ink from the first shanty they came to, they duly wrote at the bottom of the challenge the words, "Paid in full."

The young man thereupon thrust the attested document into his pocket, thanked his own seconds for their kind services, and returned on foot to town.



CHAPTER VII.

THE NABOB'S BIRTHDAY.

Squire John's birthday was approaching, and a famous, notable day it always was for the whole county of Szabolcs. The clergymen in all the surrounding villages ordered new frock-coats from Debreczin or Nagy-Kun-Madaras a month beforehand, at the same time directing the tailors to make the pockets "extra large;" the Lemberg firework-makers collected hay and straw far and wide for the rockets; the students of Debreczin learnt nice congratulatory odes, and set fine old folk-ballads to music; the gipsy primas bought up all the resin in the shops he could lay his hands on, and the Strolling Players' Society began, in secret, to plan how they could best escape from Nyiregyhaza.[6]

[Footnote 6: The county town, where they had a standing engagement.]

In more distinguished circles, where prudent housewives are wont to take their unfortunate husbands in hand, and exercise towards them that office which guardian angels perform in heaven, and police-constables perform on earth, the advent of Squire John's birthday festival was the signal for domestic storms. The festival itself used to last for a week. On the first day thereof every well-ordered female being fled from the place, and on the last day thereof those of the nobler masculine race who had remained behind, came tottering home—some half-dead, others wholly drunk, and all of them more or less battered and penniless.

Squire John himself was so much accustomed to the delights of that day, that he would have considered the year lost in which he did not duly celebrate it; and any of his acquaintances who should have neglected to appear before him on the day itself would have been thenceforth regarded by him as his mortal enemies. Death was regarded as the one legitimate excuse.

The festivities were this year to be celebrated at the Castle of Karpatfalva, Squire John's favourite residence, where nobody ever lived but his cronies, his servants, and his dogs; and he obtained special permission from his Highness the Palatine to absent himself for a fortnight from his legislative duties at Pressburg, in order that, as a good host, he might devote himself entirely to his guests.

As the day approached, an unwonted piety used to take possession of Squire John. The buffoons and the peasant wenches were excluded from the castle, and his reverence the village priest took their place, and was closeted long and frequently with the squire; the dogs and the bears were locked out of the courtyard, that they might not, as usual, tear approaching mendicants to pieces; and the Nabob and all his retainers went to church to partake of the sacrament, the former vowing on his knees before the altar that he would mark the day by giving all his enemies the right hand of fellowship and forgiveness. Then came the regulation interview between the Nabob and his steward, Mr. Peter Varga, who was such a fool that he not only did not know how to steal, but was by no means willing to even receive presents except for services rendered. Anybody else in his place would long since have become a millionaire; but he had not got much beyond fastening a pair of silver spurs in his Kordovan leather boots, and making use of a ramshackle old caleche, to which he attached two horses, trained by his own hand ever since they were colts. This, moreover, was only when he wanted to cut a figure.

And now, too, we see him descending from this venerable conveyance. He forbears to drive right in, lest the cranky wheels of his carriage should cut up the beautiful round pebbles with which the courtyard is covered.

The inside of the carriage was chock-full of longish tied-up bundles of documents, which Mr. Peter first of all crammed into the arms of the two heydukes hastening to meet him, and sent on before him, whilst he, picking his way along, with his spurred feet at a respectable distance from each other, straddled leisurely into the presence of Master Jock, who was awaiting him in the office of the family archives, whose gigantic whitewashed and gilded coffers, in their worm-eaten cases, rose up to the ceiling, filled with the mummies of old deeds and discharged accounts, which, for a long series of years, had been disturbed by nobody except an ostracized mouse or two; and what accursed appetite or hereditary perversity constrained even them to feed upon such meagre fare, when the granaries and bacon-larders were in such tempting proximity, Heaven only knows.

Master Jock, on perceiving the approaching steward, leaned forward in his armchair, and held out his hand. Peter, however, instead of advancing straight towards the hand extended towards him, retreated backwards all round the large oak table, to avoid the discourtesy of approaching his honour from the left hand; and, even when he got where he thought he ought to be, he remained standing before him, at three paces' distance, and bowed with deep respect.

"Come, come, man! Draw nearer!" cried the confidential heyduke Palko,[7] who was also present. "Don't you see that his honour has been holding out his front paw for ever so long?"

[Footnote 7: I.e., Little Paul.]

"Crying your pardon," said the worthy steward, drawing his hands away, "I am not worthy of so much honour!"

And not for the whole world could he have been brought to extend his hand towards Master Jock, to whom he alone of all the world gave his proper title. It was also impossible to ever get him to sit down by the side of his honour. Palko had to hold him down in a chair by main force, but he would always jump up again, and remain standing before his master as soon as the pressure was removed.

And, indeed, his honour, the steward, and the heyduke made up an odd-looking trio between them. Karpathy's face, at such moments, was always unusually serene, his great bald forehead shone like the cupola of a temple, the scanty remains of his grey hair curled round his forehead and the nape of his neck in silvery wisps; he was shaved beautifully smooth, save for a well-kept moustache curling elegantly upwards at both ends; the fiery redness of his eyes had vanished, and there was no longer any trace of deforming wrinkles.

Opposite him stood the worthy steward, with the old-fashioned, scrupulously obsequious, and infallibly respectful homage of a former generation writ large on every feature of his bronzed countenance. His moustache was clipped close to save trouble, but all the more care had he bestowed upon his marvellous powdered top-knot—itself a survival—which respectable elevation the worthy fellow revealed to the light of day, neatly bound up with a black ribbon. Behind him stands the old heyduke Palko in a laced dolman. He is just as old as they are. All three have grown up together, all three have grown old together; and now, too, Palko is as familiar with his honour as he used to be in the days when they played and fought together in the courtyard. The old fellow's head is grey now, but not a hair of it has he lost, and its flowing abundance is brushed backwards and kept in its place by a circular comb; his moustache is more pointed than a shoemaker's awl, and waxed to a fearful extent at both ends; his features are so simple that a skilful artist could have hit them off in three strokes, only the colouring would have given him something to think about, for it is a little difficult to paint-in blood-red on scarlet.

"Would his honour," said Peter, standing by the table, "be graciously pleased to cast his eyes over these accounts? I have made so bold as to most humbly make out a brief summary thereof, that his honour may find the examination a little easier." And with that he beckoned to Palko to put down the documents.

The latter venomously banged down the whole bundle on the table, but he could not refrain from observing, "What a shame to spoil such a lot of nice clean paper by scribbling on it!"

"You speak like a fool," growled Master Jock.

"It would be all the same, so far as your honour is concerned, if they put blank paper before your honour; for they don't pay the slightest attention to what your honour says. It is not enough to know that they do rob you; I should also like to know how much they rob you of."

"Come, come, my heart's best son, what do you mean by talking to your master like that? Look now! you shall look through all the accounts along with me, from beginning to end, so just stand behind my chair, and hold your tongue."

"I am ready to eat up all that your honour looks through," murmured the old servant to himself.

Thereupon Master Jock, with commendable determination, extended his hand towards the top-most bundle lying before him, which contained the accounts of his agent Janos Karlats, and began fumbling about with it till he arrived at the conviction that he could make neither head nor tail of it, whereupon he handed it back to Mr. Peter, who immediately found the schedule he was looking for.

"This is a schedule of the income and expenditure of your Kakadi estate."

And now, reader, let us listen. You may find it a trifle tedious, perhaps, but you could not have a better opportunity of seeing how the estates of the Nabob were administered.

"With your honour's gracious permission, I would beg to call your attention to a few notes in the margin concerning the exact position of affairs, if your honour will listen to them."

Master Jock intimated that he would undertake to do as much as that.

"To begin, then, the Kakadi estate this year yielded twelve thousand bushels of pure wheat, consequently, the richest soil scarcely produced sufficient grain to pay for the expense of cultivating it."

"It was a bad year, you know," objected Master Jock. "The corn was levelled with the ground by hailstorms in the spring, and there was so much rain afterwards that it sprouted in the stack."

"That, indeed, is what your agent said," returned Mr. Peter; "but he could have insured against hail at Pressburg, and there's such an enormously big barn on the estate, that the whole crop could have been safely housed, and then there would have been no fear of its sprouting."

"Very well, Master Peter, go on! Another time things shall be different; you may rely upon me for that."

"The twelve thousand bushels of corn were sold at nine florins the bushel to a corn-dealer of Raab, I see, thus making a total of one hundred and eight thousand florins, although I notice from the newspapers that good wheat was selling all the time at Pest at twelve florins the bushel, and the corn might easily have been transported thither, for, owing to the inundations, the oxen had no work to do."

"Yes; but those very inundations carried away the bridge, so that it was impossible to cross the Theiss."

"It was a pity, truly, that the water carried away the bridge, but if the dyke had been kept in proper repair, the water would not have got at the bridge."

"Never mind; rely upon me in the future. Go on!"

"The millet-seed, it is said, got musty from waiting too long for purchasers, so that we could only get eight thousand florins for it. Now, that is a misstatement. I know as a fact that there was no rain just then; but the agent, in order that he might attend a christening, stacked the crop so hastily that it got black and sour from heat."

"No, really! And would you, as a Christian man, I ask, have the agent postpone the baptism of his son even for the sake of all the millet-seed in the world? Leave that to me, and go on!"

"The water carried away the hay because, just in the middle of harvest-time, your honour required the services of every man capable of holding a hay-fork at a big hunt. Otherwise nice large sums would, as usual, have been entered to your honour's credit under this item."

"Well, then, it is simply my fault this time; the poor fellows are not to blame. Rely upon me in the future."

"On that account, however, the receipts are increased by a new item, to wit, the hides of the sheep and oxen, which fell dead in heaps from want of fodder."

"Ah, you see it is an ill wind that brings nobody any good."

"On the other hand, our receipts are less, so far as the item of wool is concerned, which usually is considerable."

"Yes, I know, the price was low; there was scarce any demand for it."

"Moreover——"

"Let that be, Peter. We know that you are a worthy, honest man, and that everything is in order. What is that other bundle there?"

"That is the account of Taddeus Kajaput, the overseer of the Nyilasi estate."

"Ah! that is generally interesting reading. Any fresh discoveries?"

The gentleman in question was an enterprising soul, who had started model farming on the estate committed to his care, but this model farming cost infinitely more than it brought in. Moreover, amongst other things he had started glass-works, sugar-works, a silk-factory, a post-office, laid down fir plantations in drift-sand, not to mention many other wonderful things, all of which had come to grief.

"So that is what comes of your scientific gentlemen taking up economical questions," observed Master Jock, sententiously, when he had laughed heartily over each separate item.

"I humbly crave your honour's pardon," said Peter, "but it is not the scientific but the semi-scientific who do the mischief. Science is one of those poisons of which a good deal cures but a little kills."

"Well, well, let us go on with the rest. What is that slender little bundle over there?"

"That is the report of the lessee of the opal mines. He has paid the four thousand florins rent in precious stones, which we could have bought in the market for a thousand florins, if we had paid cash for them."

"But what is the poor man to do? He must live. I know he has children to support."

"But there was a merchant here from Galicia a little time ago who looked at the mine and offered twenty thousand florins rent for it straight off."

"What? Would you have me give the mine to a man from Galicia—to a foreigner? Not if he paid me for it with the stars of heaven! Let us stick by the old agreement. What is that other bundle?"

"That is the account of the Talpadi Forest."

"The Talpadi Forest! Why, it is now twelve years since I have seen any accounts at all from that quarter. Don't you recollect how you and I were out coursing a little time ago, and the rain overtook us? It doesn't matter, said I. We must be near my Talpadi forest; let us gallop thither and shelter till the storm has blown over. So we galloped thither in hot haste, and when we got there not a trace of the forest was to be seen. At last I asked a maize-reaper I fell in with, where on earth the Talpadi forest was? Over there, said he, pointing to a spot where some fifty birch-trees were withering in the sand like so many broomsticks, all set nicely in a row. And that, if you please, was the Talpadi forest which I had planted at a very great cost! You had better tell the man to plant out a few more broomsticks if he wants me to see my forest in the future."

"This, again, is the account of the miller of Tarisa. He always mixes bran with his meal."

"Let him alone; he has a pretty wife."

"Pretty, but bad, your honour."

Upon this moral observation, Master Jock thought fit to make the following philosophical commentary:—

"My friend, bad women are a necessity in this world. For inasmuch as there are dissolute men, it is needful that there should be dissolute women also, for otherwise the dissolute men would of necessity cast their eyes upon the virtuous women. You just leave that to me."

"Yes, you leave the wife of the miller of Tarisa to his honour," observed Paul, from behind his master's chair.

"What, sir, you presume to speak again, eh?"

"I? I never said a word."

"Come, then, Peter, let us make an end of these accounts quickly. Surely, there's no need of so much fussing. What else is there?"

"Your honour's donations and charities."

"Don't undo them. You need only tell me which are paid. Are there any fresh claims upon us?"

"Yes. The college at A—— has not received its annual gift."

"It did not get it because it did not send in a petition on my birthday last year."

"Then if it sends the petition this year you will give the donation, I suppose?"

"Yes, and for last year too."

"There are, besides, a heap of petitions and circulars."

"What for?"

"This is an invitation to subscribe to the foundation of a Hungarian learned society."

"Not a farthing will I give. The kingdom was happy enough till the pedants got into it. We learn quite enough at college."

"Here is the specimen-sheet of a newspaper about to be started."

"Newspaper!—a parcel of lies! I'll not spoil my den with that rubbish, I warrant you."

"Here is a proposal to found a permanent Hungarian theatre at Buda-Pest."

"Whoever wants play-acting can come here to me. There's a theatre here and lots to eat, and they can stay, if they like, all their days."

"Here is a suggestion for bettering the position of the National Museum."

"I'll wager I have far better collections here than there are in the National Museum."

And this was the way in which the Hungarian magnate examined his accounts every year.

When the worthy steward had withdrawn, the Nabob sent for his fiskal, or family lawyer, who found him looking out of the window, motionless, with his hands behind his back.

The fiskal stood and waited for his master to turn round. He waited a good half-hour, but the Nabob turned round at last, and said to his man of business, "Pray sit down, sir, and write."

An unusual embarrassment was observable in the Nabob's voice, which would certainly have surprised anybody else but the fiskal.

"My dear younger brother," old Karpathy began to dictate, "inasmuch as you are living at present in this realm, and I do not wish the name of Karpathy to be slighted on this particular day when I have made peace with all who ever angered me, therefore I now, as becometh a kinsman, offer my hand to you also, my younger brother,[8] in the hope that you will not reject it; and I, at the same time, send you, my younger brother, two hundred thousand florins, which you shall receive from me, so long as I live, from year to year. And I hope that henceforth we shall continue to be good kinsmen."

[Footnote 8: Oecse, a familiar and affectionate salutation from an elder to a younger kinsman.]

The old man's eyes were wet while he recited these words, and if a more sympathetic man than the fiskal had been present, there might have been something like a tender scene.

"Wrap it up and write on the outside: To the Honourable Bela Karpathy of Karpat, at Pressburg. A stable lad must mount a horse at once, and deliver this letter personally."

Then he gave a great sigh of relief, as if two hundred thousand stones had been lifted from his heart with these two hundred thousand florins. He had never felt so happy as he was at that moment.

How Abellino received this noble disposition to stretch out the right hand of fellowship and forgiveness, we shall see presently.

* * * * *

Master Jock could scarce await the dawn of St. John Baptist's Day; he was as delighted as a child who knows that some long-wished-for amusement awaits him. He was awakened long before sunrise by the baying of the dogs and the rattling of the baggage-waggons into the courtyard. The huntsmen were coming back from the forest with newly shot game; over the sides of the lofty wains the horned heads of the noble antlered stags bobbed up and down; heaps of pheasants were carried between two poles; well-fattened heath fowl were slung over the shoulders of the beaters. The cook came forth to meet them in his white kantus, and tapped row after row of the fat game, his face beaming with satisfaction all the time. Master Jock himself was looking down from the latticed-window into the courtyard; even then the day had only just begun to dawn, and the eastern curtain of the sky was aflame with purple, pink, carmine, and saffron hues. The whole plain around was calm and still; and silver mists lay here and there over the fields like fairy lakes.

And now the Nabob lay down for another little snatch of slumber. We know, of course, that early morning dreams are the sweetest. And he dreamt that he was speaking to his eagerly desired nephew Bela, sitting beside him, and drinking the loving cup with him; and so it came about that the sun was already high in the heavens when Palko shook him out of his slumbers by bawling in his ear: "Get up! Here are your boots!"

Master Jock leaped out of his bed with the vigour of a sprightly lad. The first question he asked was: "Has any one come?"

"As many as muck," replied the old servant; thereby showing his appreciation of the arrivals.

"Is Mike Kis here?" continued Master Jock, as he drew on his boots.

"He was the first of all. His father could not have been a gentleman; no gentleman could have had a son who is up and about two hours after dawn."

"Who else is here?"

"There's Mike Horhi. No sooner had he got to the door than he suddenly recollected that he had left his tobacco-pouch in the inn at Szabadka, and would have gone back for it had I not torn him out of the carriage by force."

"The fool! And who else is there?"

"All the good birds of the order of gentleman have already appeared. Friczi Kalotai is also here, in his own conveyance. I wonder where he stole it?"

"But you're as big a fool as he, Palko. Any more?"

"More!—more! There's no end to them, of course. How do you suppose I can carry the names of all of them in my head? Come, and look at them yourself; you'll soon have your fill of 'em, I warrant."

Meanwhile the trusty heyduke had dressed his master, brushed him down and smoothed him out, till there was not a spot or wrinkle to be seen on any portion of his attire.

"But is there not some other, some strange, unusual guest, the sort of man, I mean, who is not in the habit of visiting me? Eh?"

Palko regarded his master for a moment with wide-open mouth and eyes, not knowing what to answer.

"I want to know," continued Karpathy, in a solemn voice, "whether my little brother Bela is here?"

Palko made a wry face at these words, and dropped the velvet brush with which he was just preparing to smooth out the collar of his master's mente.

"What! that weather-cock?"

"Come, come! None of that! Don't you know that a Karpathy should always be spoken of respectfully?"

"What!" cried Palko, "the man who insulted your honour so grossly?"

"What business is it of yours?"

"Oh, no business of mine, of course, not a bit! I am only a good-for-nothing old heyduke. What right have I to poke my nose into your honour's affairs? Make friends with him again, by all means! What do I care. Kiss and hug each other if you like, I don't care. It was not me but your honour whom the worthy man insulted, and if your honour likes that, why, be it so—that's all!"

"Come, come, don't make a fool of yourself, Palko," said Master Jock, more jocosely. "Have the comedians arrived?"