"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 Vamhidy."

"But will it not injure the respect you entertain for me if your name takes the place of Vamhidy'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 Hatszegi's hand as a sign that she did not desire that.

"Very well, then, to prove to you that my relations with Vamhidy 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 Vamhidy 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 Hatszegi: informing her in a most friendly manner that she had succeeded in persuading Hatszegi 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 Hatszegi, 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, Hatszegi 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 Hatszegi 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 Hatszegi 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 Hatszegi, 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 Hatszegi, "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 Hatszegi 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 Hatszegi. "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.

Hatszegi 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 Alfoeld,[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 csarda. 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 csarda."

Squire Gerzson jerked his head significantly.

"I don't want to alarm you, my dear Baroness," said he, "but that csarda 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 csarda, 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 csarda 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 csarda-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 csarda 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 Hatszegi 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 csarda 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 csarda 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 csarda. 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 csarda and he could not make up his mind which of them to take in order to reach the world beyond.



CHAPTER XVI

LEANDER BABEROSSY

Whenever one carts away a heap of stones which have been lying undisturbed for years, or whenever one removes the shingle-roof of an ancient tenement, or drains off the water from a marshy place, one generally stumbles upon all sorts of hitherto undiscovered, curious beetles, odd looking moths and spiral-shaped, creeping things in these routed out lurking places, which nobody ever saw before or read of in the natural history books; and at such times a man bethinks him how wonderful it is of Mother Nature to provide even such holes and corners as these with living inhabitants which never see the light of day at all.

Once, while on circuit, Vamhidy was obliged to lie one night at a village within his jurisdiction whose inhabitants were a strong mixture of Hungarian, Servian and Wallachian ingredients. Arriving late, it was a long time before he could go to sleep, and he was awakened rather late next morning by an unusual hubbub. His bedchamber was only separated from the large drinking room by a door and through this door broke every now and then very peculiar sounds the meaning of which, on a first hearing, it was very difficult to explain.

It sounded as if a couple of women and a couple of men were roundly abusing one another, sometimes in a low tone and sometimes in a loud, and the most peculiar thing about the whole business was that two of them never spoke at once but each one of them allowed each of the others to have his say out to the end. All at once the noise grew more alarming and broken outbursts plainly suggested that someone in the adjoining room wanted to murder somebody else. Vamhidy leaped from his bed and was about to intervene when in came the landlord with his coffee.

"What is that row going on next door?" enquired Szilard irritably.

"Oh, I cry your honour's pardon," replied the innkeeper with a proud smile, "it is only our actors. They are rehearsing a new piece which they are going to act this evening. I hope your honour will condescend to go and see it—it will be real fine."

"What, actors in this village?" cried Szilard in amazement. "Why, where do they come from?"

"Nobody knows where they came from or whither they mean to go, your honour."

"How many of them are there then, and who is their manager?"

"Well, it seems that there is only one man among them and he is half a child; all the others are women and girls, even to the ticket taker and the prompter."

"And what sort of pieces do they act?"

"Oh, all sorts, your honour. Those of the women who have the deepest voices dress up as men, stick on beards and mustaches and act much better than men would, because they don't get drunk."

"And they are able to make a living here? Who goes to the theatre then?"

"Well, the rustics about here come if there is anything to grin at. They don't give money because they have none themselves; but they bring corn, potatoes, sausages and hams and the actors live upon the proceeds as best they can. When they have made any debts they cannot pay they simply bolt on the first fine night and go somewhere else."

"But don't they leave their decorations or their wardrobe in pledge behind them?"

At this the landlord laughed aloud as if it were a capital joke.

"Decorations, wardrobes, indeed! Why their stage curtain consists of a large piece of threadbare sackcloth pasted over with tricolored paper on which they have painted the national coat of arms. Their wardrobe too is of the very simplest description. When they play a piece in which kings and queens appear, they borrow the gold bespangled dresses of the rich Servian women of the district to serve them as royal mantles. All they require besides is a little tinsel, some spangles and some pasteboard—and there you are! The manager, as I have said, is still but a child, but so ingenious is he that he can make moonshine out of a yellow gourd and produce thunder and lightning,—but that is a professional secret. It is true they have only six pieces in all, and when they have played these through they begin them all over again. The public, naturally, does not like to see the same piece twice, so the manager gives the piece another title, changes the titles of all the characters and represents the piece over again as a brand new one."

"I should like to see to-day's representation," said Szilard, whose curiosity had been excited by this peculiar description.

"I'll fetch your honour a play bill immediately," said the innkeeper.

Off went mine host returning in a few moments with a MS. play bill on which was written in large red letters: "Hernani or Castilian Honour," followed by the names of the personages. Hernani was naturally the manager himself, Leander Baberossy,[39] Elvira was to be played by Miss Palmira, the other gentlemen were simply indicated by N. N., X. X. or * *. "They are all women you know," explained the innkeeper, "who don't want to advertise their names. The charge for the front seats is 21/2d, for the second-class places, a penny."

[Footnote 39: I.e., Laurel bearer.]

"The gentry can sit where they please, I presume?"

"I suggested to the manager that he should write that on the play bill, but he replied that that would be an impertinence. I also advised him to take the play bill to your honour himself and was almost kicked out of the room for my pains. Did I take him for a bill poster? he said."

"This manager of yours seems to have a pretty good opinion of himself."

"Oh, he is frightfully proud, your honour. He will play no other pieces but sword pieces because, says he, they are classical. The poor fellow is so very young you know. When he grows a little older and learns to starve a bit he will soon lower his crest."

"I like him none the less for holding up his head. I will come to the play."

"But you must be there at seven o'clock sharp. He always begins punctually; whether there is any audience or not."

"The lad has character, I see; pray give him this"—and he handed the innkeeper half a sovereign. He quickly returned with the reply that the manager could not for the moment give change.

"But I meant him to keep the whole of it as an admittance fee."

"Ah, yes."

A short time afterwards, the innkeeper reappeared with a whole bundle of admission tickets for Szilard, saying that the manager thanked him for his sympathy, but as he was not in the habit of accepting presents from anyone, he assumed that his honour meant to engage the whole house for himself that evening and he, the manager, would therefore give a representation for his honour's sole benefit.

Szilard laughed heartily at this comical conscientiousness, and after dressing, he went about his official business with as much dispatch as possible in order to arrive at the play at seven o'clock sharp, for he was now the whole public and the public ought always to be punctual.

When he got to the room set apart for the performance he found that, despite the provisional abonnement suspendu arrangement, the place was not quite empty, for the gratis public, the lenders of the theatrical requisites and their families, the letters of lodgings to the actors and other peaceful creditors, occupied a couple of benches, so that Szilard had the opportunity of effacing himself and thus avoiding confusing the troupe by his solitary and imposing personality.

No sooner had the innkeeper's cuckoo clock struck seven than the ring of the prompter's bell resounded behind the curtain (it sounded suspiciously like a glass struck smartly with the back of a knife) and by means of a highly ingenious piece of machinery the drop-curtain, stuck over with the tricolored cardboard representing the national flag, was hoisted up to the ceiling-beam, and the open stage was revealed.

The background was formed by a collapsible screen which was painted to represent a room; in the foreground on one side was a paper window painted black and white, and on the other side the cellar door, metamorphosed into the portal of a Gothic palace. Through this entry the whole of the dramatis personae came and went, for it was the only one.

The piece acted was, naturally, not "Hernani or Castilian Honour," but Schiller's "Robbers." Szilard recognized it at the very first three words. He also noticed that the characters of Karl and Franz Moor were acted by one and the same person (the manager himself, as he was informed) with a simple change of voice and mask, and despite the different disguises employed, it constantly seemed to Szilard as if he had seen that caricature of a face somewhere else and the voice, parodied as it now was, nevertheless seemed familiar to him. No less familiar appeared the violent gestures of the young actor which frequently endangered the side scenes.

Now as early as Scene 2 the noble public began to be aware of the unheard of fraud practiced upon it; a murmuring, an agitation, a whispering and a wagging of heads, and finally an impatient thumping of sticks began to mingle with the bustle of the drama, till at last a worthy cobbler, who had lent the troupe three wooden benches and received in return a free pass every day, suddenly bawled out: "Halloh there, Mr. Manager! we have seen this piece once before. There's politics in it."

Franz Moor, disturbed in his artistic interpretation by this sudden onslaught, suddenly forgot himself, lost his cue and answering the interpellator in his natural, everyday voice (he knew he had only a free list public to deal with) exclaimed: "Whoever has seen this piece before and does not wish to see it again, will have his money returned to him on applying at the ticket office."

These words were no sooner uttered than Vamhidy leaped from his seat, rushed upon the stage, caught Franz Moor in his arms and kissed his painted face crying with a voice trembling with joy: "Coloman!"

Franz Moor hesitated for an instant, then tore off his Spanish beard, dropped his red wig, wiped the painted wrinkles from his forehead and Szilard saw before him a pale, melancholy, childish countenance.

Leander Baberossy was young Coloman, Henrietta's brother.

The representation naturally ceased at once. Szilard hustled the rediscovered "prodigal son" off the boards and never let him stop for an instant till he had got him safe and sound into his own private room. There he embraced him again, held him at arms' length and had a good look at him. The lad seemed to be twenty years old at the very least, yet really he was but fifteen. Play acting, want and premature shaving soon make a youth look old. Moreover, in his whole bearing, in all his movements, there was something precocious, a resolute, bold expression which made one forget that he was a mere child—a sort of cynicism not pleasant to behold.

Szilard soon had a good supper ready for him, which the youth fell to work upon without ceremony.

"My dear Leander," said Vamhidy when the meal was over, "no doubt it is a very fine thing when one can say that he is his own master, nor is it so difficult to attain to such a position after all. All that is wanted is a strength of character always true to itself. But you, my friend, have committed follies which might easily make of you something very different."

Coloman shrugged his shoulders.

"I have committed many follies no doubt, but I do not call to mind any which I should be afraid to confess."

Szilard began to fancy that his suspicions were groundless.

"People are talking of a certain bill which you have given in your sister's name?"

At these words Coloman cast down his eyes upon his plate and his whole face grew blood-red. In a scarcely audible voice he enquired: "And has Henrietta refused to honour that bill?"

Vamhidy sighed deeply. Then it was really true that this thoughtless child had committed the crime!

"My dear Coloman," said he, dropping the Leander now, "your sister is the martyr of her own devotion. She was most certainly ready to acknowledge the bill as her own; but you ought to have thought what sacrifices she will have to make now that her grandfather has cut her off with a shilling and her husband refuses to place such a considerable amount at her disposal."

"Good gracious!" cried the itinerant actor, thrusting his hands deep down into his empty pockets, "what then do these big wigs call considerable amounts. Very well, sir. I had no idea that the Baroness Hatszegi was so very poor. I will try to recover the bill, and it shall be the first thing I will pay off with my benefit money."

Szilard could not help being struck by the terrible comicality of the idea.

"But, my dear young friend," said he, "if you had two benefits every year and got a clear forty florins at every one of them, it would take you at least a hundred years from to-day to discharge the amount."

"What?" cried Coloman with wide open eyes, and in his amazement seizing the candlestick instead of his fork.

"Why, don't you know that the bill is for 40,000 florins?"

"What?" thundered the young vagabond. And kicking aside his chair, he snatched up a knife lying by the side of his plate and, bareheaded as he was, rushed towards the door. Szilard had need of all his dexterity to catch him before he reached it and prevent him from rushing into the street like a madman.

"Let me murder him, let me murder that villain," he cried.

Szilard was a strong man so he easily disarmed the youth.

Then Coloman began to weep and fling himself on the ground. Szilard seized him by the arm and hoisted him on to a chair again.

"Be a man!" he cried. "Of whom do you speak?—whom do you want to kill?"

"That villain Margari."

"Then it was he who persuaded you to take this step?"

"I will tell you all about it, sir, and you shall judge me. When I left my grandfather's house, that Satan sought me out, affected sympathy for me and asked me what I meant to do. I told him I intended to go on the stage and he said I did well not to remain there. I had only a florin which I borrowed from one of the lacqueys, and I told this devil that I should require 20 florins at the very least. He promised to get them for me from a usurer but told me I should have to give a bill for forty. Do you think I cared what I signed then? Not long afterwards he came back again and said the usurer would give nothing on the strength of my signature, because I was a minor, but that if my sister's name stood upon the bill he would advance upon that because she was a married woman. Margari persuaded me to sign the bill in her name. What was forty florins to Henrietta? he said, a mere trifle. If I were to ask her, she would give me twice as much. Surely she would not proclaim me, whom she loved so much, a forger for the sake of a paltry 40 florins? But 40,000 florins, 40,000!—that is a frightful, a horrible villainy. I only made it forty."

And with that he began to dash his head against the wall like a madman.

"My dear Coloman, do pull yourself together," said Szilard, "what you have just told me is of the very greatest importance. Be quiet and don't tear out your hair! Are you aware that your infinitely good sister has honoured the 40,000 florin bill also in order to save you?"

The poor youth was thunderstruck at these words.

"And now you can imagine the embarrassment of the baroness, who has been disinherited and is nevertheless responsible for this very considerable sum without being at all sure that her husband will pay it for her."

"I will hang myself."

"That would be the most gigantic piece of folly you could commit. You must make good your fault. And now for a time we cease to be friends and I am simply an examining magistrate, and you are an accused prisoner who is about to make a voluntary confession before me. Pray sit right opposite to me and answer all my questions clearly and accurately—in fact tell me exactly what happened."

And Vamhidy produced paper and writing requisites, lit a pair of candles which he placed by his side and began the examination of the youth sitting in front of him.

By midnight the confession was duly written down.

When, however, Vamhidy proposed that Coloman should now come back to Pest and be reconciled to his relations, the youth hesitated: "We will see," said he.

"At any rate remain here with me then," continued Szilard. "Sleep in my room and take till to-morrow to think it over. I won't lock the door but you must give me your word of honour that you will not go out of that door without my knowledge."

"I give you my word upon it."

Then Szilard made the youth lie down and only went to rest himself when he was sure that Coloman was asleep.

Nevertheless on awaking next morning and looking round the room he could see no trace of Coloman, but there was a letter from him on the table as follows: "Dear old friend, I thank you for your extreme kindness to me, but I don't want to see my relations any more, not because I fear to meet them, but because I have a holy horror of the very atmosphere they breathe. My confession will suffice to rectify my fault. I am going on the tramp again. The linen tent is my home. And then—there are obligations in respect to the discharge whereof I am not my sister's brother. I have taken nothing with me but four cigar ends from the table, a liberty I hope you will pardon me. As I have given you my word that I would not go out of the door without your knowledge, I have been obliged to make my exit through the window. Adieu! Till death thy faithful admirer. COLOMAN."

A couple of hours later Vamhidy learnt from the innkeeper that the manager, without any previous leave-taking, had decamped leaving behind him his decorations and theatrical wardrobe as some compensation for his trifling debts. All he had taken away with him was what he actually had on his person—and Miss Palmira.

And now Szilard understood the meaning of the passage "there are obligations in respect to the discharge whereof I am not my sister's brother."

This vagabond comedian had an equally vagabond childish ideal, and when he had to make his choice, he flung his arm around her and fled away with her—into the wide, wide world.



CHAPTER XVII

MR. MARGARI

Mr. Margari had got on in the world. He was now a real gentleman who had a four-roomed domicile, paid house-rent, and had even gone the length of marrying. And can you guess the lady of his choice?—why it was no other than Miss Clementina. That worthy virgin was of just the proper age for him, moreover a cosy little bit of cash might safely be assumed to go with her, which exercised a strong attraction upon Mr. Margari—and goes to prove that iron is not the only metal susceptible of the influence of the magnet. The worthy maiden had persuaded her respected swain to abduct her from Hidvar, an enterprise which he had nobly performed while the lady of the house was travelling with her husband to Arad. It is true there was no necessity whatever for an elopement, for the baroness was very far from being one of those dragons in feminine shape who love to tear asunder hearts that are burning for each other. If Mr. Margari had respectfully solicited the hand of her lady-companion, there is no reason to suppose he would have sued in vain; but Clementina was far too romantic for anything so humdrum as that. She insisted that he should abduct her, at night too and through a window, although she had the key of every door close at hand.

So Margari had managed to set up as a gentleman and become his own master. Clementina's money bought the furniture and they even sported a musical clock.

Mr. Margari had a smoking-room all to himself, in which he did nothing all day but smoke his pipe. No more work for him now, no more copying of MSS. There the happy husband, dressed in a flowered dressing-gown, stretched himself out at full length on the sofa and blew clouds of smoke all around him out of his long csibuk, stuffed full with the best Turkish tobacco.

Clementina was always scolding him for putting his legs upon the sofa. It was a nasty habit she said, and not only unbecoming but expensive, because it ruined the furniture. Clementina, in fact, was scolding him all day; and this was very natural, for any woman who has been condemned to obsequious servility for thirty whole years and has silently endured the caprices of her betters all that time, when she sets up as a lady on her own account will do her best to compensate herself for this interminable suppression of her natural instincts. But Mr. Margari used only to laugh when his wife began nagging at him. "Alios jam vidi ego ventos, aliasque procellas," he would say. He was only too glad to have a home of his own at all.

"Don't worry, woman!" he would say with reference to the furniture, "when that's worn out, I'll buy some more. John Lapussa, Esq., will give me whatever I want."

"He may be fool enough to do so now," replied Clementina, "but just you wait till he has won his action against Madame Langai and has no further need of you, he won't care two pence for you then. I know Mr. John Lapussa."

"So do I," retorted Margari. "He has paid me hitherto to say what he tells me, he shall pay me hereafter for holding my tongue. John Lapussa, Esq., will have to take care that Margari has plenty to eat and decent clothes to put on, for, if Margari grows hungry, Margari will bite."

Mr. Margari spoke with an air of such impertinent assurance and blew about such clouds of smoke that Clementina began to respect him, and sat down on the sofa by his side, no doubt to protect her property. "If you hold his honour so completely in the palm of your hand," said she, "why don't you provide better for yourself and me? It is all very well for his honour to fork out now when you press him, but money goes and more is wanted. One of these days something will happen to him and he will die,—and you can't follow him to the moon."

This was indeed a hard nut for Margari to crack. One cannot squeeze much out of dead men. Such an impression did the remark make upon him that he took his feet off the sofa and sat bolt upright.

"Then what do you think I ought to do?" he asked his wife.

"Well, it is of no use his doling you out mere driblets; for the great services you have rendered him he ought to give you something more in proportion to your merits—a little estate in the country, for instance. There we could settle down comfortably."

"True, and he has lots of such little properties which are of no use to him at all. What do you say, for instance, to an estate of one hundred acres or so; it would be a mere flea-bite to him. But flea-bite or no flea-bite that's all one to me. I wish him to give it me and give it he must. I mean to pick and choose."

"And suppose he says no?"

"He'll never say that, or if he does, I shall say something to somebody and then it will be he who will be sorry and not I. Oh, he'll take jolly good care not to make Margari angry. His honour has much more need of Margari's friendship than Margari has of his honour's."

And we shall very soon see under what auspices Margari hoped to get the little country estate from Mr. John Lapussa as a reward for his faithful services.

Meanwhile the action brought by Madame Langai against Mr. John Lapussa was still in its initial stage. Both parties were inexhaustible in producing documents and raising points of law, but it seemed highly probable that Mr. John would win. Mr. John appeared almost daily before the magistrate, whom he called his dear friend and whom he frequently invited to dine, an invitation which, naturally, was never accepted. One day Mr. Monori, for that was the worthy magistrate's name, asked Mr. John whether he knew anything of a certain Margari who was soliciting the post of a clerk in the district court and gave as his reference the Lapussa family in whose service he had been for some years. Mr. John, with his innate niggardliness, at once seized this opportunity for disembarrassing himself of an importunate beggar by saddling the county with him. He exalted "the worthy, excellent man" to the skies, and especially praised his rectitude, his sobriety, his diligence!

"But is he trustworthy?" inquired the magistrate. "You see there are various little cash payments he will have to see to, is he clean handed?"

"As good as gold, I assure you. I could trust him with thousands. Why some of my own bills are in his keeping—" and with that he proceeded to say as many pretty things of Margari as if he were a horse dealer trying to palm off a blind nag on some ignorant bumpkin at a fair.

In his delight at having so successfully rid himself of such an incubus, he made his valet-de-chambre slip over to Margari to tell the worthy man to wait upon him on the morrow at 11 o'clock precisely, as he had a very pleasant piece of news to impart to him; for he meant to make Margari believe that it was through his, Mr. John Lapussa's special influence, that he had obtained the coveted appointment and so get him to renounce all further claims upon his old patron.

On the very same day Mr. John was surprised to receive a visit from the magistrate, Mr. Monori, and this certainly was a wonder, for the magistrate never made any but official visits.

"To what do I owe this extraordinary pleasure?" asked Mr. John, familiarly inviting the magistrate to sit down on a couch.

"I have come in the matter of this Margari," said Monori, holding himself very stiffly and fixing his eyes sharply on Mr. John. "Since our conversation of this morning, the circumstance has come to my knowledge that one of my colleagues in the county of Arad has succeeded in finding the long-lost Coloman Lapussa."

At these words Mr. John began to smooth out the ends of his mustache and chew them attentively.

"The young man confesses to having forged the bill, but asserts that it was Margari who led him to do so, and that the bill signed by him was originally for forty florins only, so that undoubtedly somebody else must have turned it into 40,000."

Mr. John coughed very much at these words,—no doubt the bit of mustache which he had bit off stuck in his throat.

"This is a very ticklish circumstance, I must confess," continued Monori, "for although the young man's offence has thereby been considerably lightened, yet the burden of the charge has now been shifted to other shoulders hitherto quite free from suspicion. No doubt, he being a minor, under strict control, did what he did as a mere schoolboy frolic, but this Margari and an unknown somebody else will find it not quite such a laughing matter."

Mr. John's mustache was by this time not enough for him, he began nibbling his nails as well.

"But what are you driving at?" he said. "How does all this concern me?"

"It concerns you, sir, in this way: you told me that Margari was your confidential agent, and therefore he must have destroyed the bill at your bidding."

"I only said that to help him to get a small official post. I am responsible for nobody. What have I to do with the characters of my servants, my lacqueys."

"But you assured me that your bills often passed through his hands."

Mr. John fancied that the best way out of this unpleasant cul-de-sac was by adopting a little energetic bluffing.

"What do you mean by cross-examining me in my own house?" he cried, with affected hauteur, springing from the sofa.

The magistrate rose at the same time.

"Pardon me, but I am here not as a visitor, but in my official capacity—as your judge."

And with that he coolly unbuttoned his attila[40] and drew forth from the inside pocket a large sealed letter.

[Footnote 40: A fur pelisse, worn on state occasions.]

"You must swear to every one of the interrogatories administered to you by me."

"I? I'll swear to nothing," cried Mr. John. "I am a Quaker and therefore cannot take an oath."

"This document, sir, is a royal mandate and whoever refuses to obey it is liable to penalties."

"What penalties?"

"A fine of eighty florins."

"Eighty florins? There you are then, take them!" cried Mr. John flinging down the amount eagerly and thinking to himself that this mandate was indeed a juridical masterpiece, not being binding on a rich man—for what after all is eighty florins?

"Very good," said Mr. Monori, giving him a receipt for the amount, "I'll come again to-morrow."

"What for?"

"I shall again call upon you to answer my interrogatories upon oath."

"And if I won't swear?"

"Why then you'll have to pay the court fine toties-quoties. A juratus tabulae regiae notarius will call regularly every day and exact the fine from you until such time as you make up your mind to take the oaths. Good-day."

After the magistrate had withdrawn Mr. John's fury reached its climax. First of all he poured forth his wrath upon the poor inkstand, with the ink from which Monori had written out the receipt. This he dashed to the ground. The lacquey who rushed in at the commotion to inquire if his honour had rung, he seized by the nape of the neck and flung out of the room. Then he rushed after the man and pommelled him for daring to go out before he had been told to go. Finally he dashed out and, for the lowest silver coin he could make up his mind to part with, hired a hackney coach to take him to his villa near the park, for thither he had resolved to fly.

On arriving there he recovered himself somewhat.

So Coloman had been discovered and had confessed about his own doings and Margari's. Well he must simply disavow Margari, that's all. But suppose Margari were to make a clean breast of it? Well he could repudiate the whole thing of course. But then that wretched royal mandate? He must either swear or pay the court fine every day. It would be best perhaps to fly, to leave the capital of the magistrate behind him and set out on his travels. Perhaps then they would forget all about it. But then there was the law-suit! And suppose it should be decided in the meantime and decided against him! It was an absurd dilemma! To remain here was dangerous and to go away was also dangerous. What a good job it would be if that cursed forged-bill business could disappear from the face of the earth. The bill ought to be withdrawn. But that was impossible because it was already in the magistrate's hands, and therefore could not be ignored. And then the oath required of him. Either he must confess that he was personally interested in the matter and then he would not be required to swear but would at the same time make himself an object of suspicion, or else he must go on paying this infernal toll money in order to be able to cross the non-juratory bridge, so to speak. It was an absolutely desperating syllogism, and after tossing about sleeplessly all night in the midst of this vicious circle, Mr. John resolved in the morning to set off at once for the vineyards of Promontor,[41] tell his servants that he meant to remain there and enjoy himself, and immediately afterwards get into a post-chaise and drive to his Sarfeneki property. Nobody should know his real address but his lawyer, and there he would await developments, only emerging in case of the most urgent necessity.

[Footnote 41: A village a few miles out of Pest.]

So he hastily swallowed his chocolate, wrapped himself in his mantle and fancied that now he might safely fly; but he reckoned without his host, for, on the very doorstep, he came face to face with Margari!

"What do you want here, eh?" he inquired fiercely of the humble man he feared so much.

"You were so good as to make an appointment with me, your honour," said Margari cringingly.

"Yes, yes, I know, I know" (he was afraid to warn him of his danger, with all the servants listening to them), "but I cannot spare the time now, come some other day. I cannot give you anything here."

"But your honour was good enough to say that you had some glad tidings to communicate."

"Another time, another time! I am very busy just now."

Mr. John would have shaken off Margari altogether, but Margari was not so easily got rid of. He had already ascertained from the coachman that Mr. John was off to Promontor and did not mean to return again in a hurry, so he resolved to take his measures accordingly. He rushed forward to open the carriage door, helped Mr. John to get into the coach, wished him a most pleasant journey, no end of enjoyment and other meaningless things, all of which made much the same agreeable impression upon Mr. John as if an ant had crept into his boot and he could not kill it because he was in company. Only when the carriage door was shut to and he saw Margari's face no more did he begin to breathe freely again.

Margari however attributed this reception, or rather, non-reception, to the capricious humours to which his honour was constantly liable without rhyme or reason (it is a peculiarity of self-made plutocrats as everybody knows); but he was not a bit offended,—he knew his place. His honour doesn't want to see Margari just now, very well, he shall not see him so he jumped up behind the carriage alongside the lacquey. But how surprised his honour will be when he gets to Promontor to see Margari open the carriage door for him? How he will bid him go to the devil and immediately after burst out laughing and give him a present! And what will the present be? Has it anything to do with the good news with which he meant to surprise him? And all the while, Mr. John, inside the carriage was hugging himself with the idea that he had rid himself of Margari for a time and devoutly wishing that the cholera, or some other equally rapid and effectual disease, might remove the old rascal off the face of the earth altogether.

When the carriage stopped at the picturesque vineyards of Promontor, Mr. John almost had a stroke when, on looking through the glass window, the first feature of the panorama that presented itself was the figure of Margari, hastening to open the door with obsequious familiarity.

"You here, Sirrah," he roared (he would have choked with rage on the spot if he had not said Sirrah). "How on earth did you get here?"

Margari instantly imagined that his honour's flashing eyes, convulsive mouth and distorted face were the outward signs of a jocose frame of mind, for there was always a sort of travesty of humour in Mr. John's features whenever he was angry. So, to his own confusion, it occurred to him to make a joke for the first time in his life.

"Crying your honour's pardon, I flew," said he.

And in fact the very next instant he was sent flying so impetuously that he did not stop till he plumped right into the trellis-work surrounding a bed of vines. Never in all his life before had Mr. John dispensed such a buffet. Margari fairly disappeared among the leaves of the friendly vine arbours.

It was now Mr. John's turn to be frightened at what he had done. He was frightened because every box on the ears he gave used regularly to cost him 200 florins, a very costly passion to indulge in. And besides he was particularly anxious just then to keep Margari in a good humour. A man may loathe a viper but he had better not tread on its tail if he cannot tread on its head. Horrified at his own outburst of rage, the moment he saw Margari disappear in the vine-arbours, he rushed after him, freed him with his own hands, picked him up, set him on his legs again and began to comfort him.

"Come, come, my dear friend! compose yourself. I did not mean to hurt you. You are not angry, are you. I hope you are not hurt? Where did you hit yourself?"

Margari, however, began whimpering like a schoolboy, the more the other tried to quiet him, the more loudly he bellowed.

"Come, come! don't make such a noise! Come under the verandah and wipe the blood from your face!"

"But I am not a dog!" roared Margari. "I won't go under the verandah, I'll go into the street. I'll howl at the top of my voice. The whole town shall see me bleed."

"Margari, don't be a fool! I didn't mean to hurt you. I was too violent, I admit it. Look here! I'll give you money. How much do you want? Will 200 florins be enough?"

At the words "200 florins," Margari stopped roaring a bit, but he wanted to see the colour of the money, for he thought to himself that if he quieted down first he would get nothing at all. So he kept on whining and limped first on one leg and then on the other and plastered his whole face over with blood from the one little scratch he had got.

Mr. John hastened to wipe Margari's face with his own pocket handkerchief.

"Come, come my dear Margari. I have told you I did not mean to do it. Here are the two hundred florins I promised you. But now leave me alone. Go abroad with the money and enjoy yourself and I will give you some more later on."

"I most humbly thank you," lisped the buffeted wretch with a conciliatory voice and he kissed Mr. John's two hundred florined hand repeatedly, while the other did all in his power to hustle him out of the door; and so engrossed was he in the effort that he never observed that some one had been observing the scene the whole time. He therefore regularly collapsed when a voice which he instantly recognized, addressed him: "Good morning, sir!"

The Lernean Hydra was not more petrified at the sight of the head of Medusa than was Mr. John by the sight of the person who had just addressed him. It was the magistrate, Mr. Monori.

At first he feared he had come after him for his diurnal eighty florins, but something very much worse than that was in store for him.

"Pardon me," said the magistrate drawing nearer, "but by order of the High Court, I am here to arrest Margari, and ascertaining that you had taken him away with you, I was obliged to follow to prevent him from escaping altogether."

Two stout pandurs[42] behind the magistrate gave additional emphasis to his words.

[Footnote 42: Hungarian police officers.]

"Arrest me?" cried Margari, "why me? I am as honest as the day. I am neither a murderer nor yet a robber. Mr. John Lapussa can answer for me. I am his confidential agent!"—and he clung convulsively to the coat tail of his principal.

Mr. John plainly perceived that never in his life before had he been in such an awkward situation. They could accuse him now of having instigated Margari to make a bolt of it. Had not the magistrate seen him give the wretched man money to run away with? His first care was to disengage Margari's hands from his coat tail and next to hold him at arm's length so that he should not clutch his collar. Then with pompous impertinence he pretended not to know him.

"What does the man want? Who is he? How did he come hither?" he exclaimed. "I know nothing about him. I boxed his ears for molesting me, and then I gave him 200 florins which is the usual legal fine for an assault of that kind, to prevent him bringing an action against me. We have nothing else in common. Take him away by all means. Put him in irons. Give him whatever punishment he has deserved. Yes," he continued, seizing the astounded Margari by the cravat, "you are a refined scoundrel. You persuaded my dear nephew Coloman to take that false step and then you yourself changed the forty florins into forty thousand. You wanted to ruin the young man's future and bring a slur upon the family. I know everything. His honour the magistrate told me all about it yesterday, and that is why I hand you over to the law for punishment." And with that he shook him so violently that he fell on his back again, this time into a bed of tomatoes, whereby his white linen pantaloons very speedily became stained with the national colours.[43]

[Footnote 43: Red, white and green.]

The dialogue that thereupon ensued no shorthand reporter could have reproduced, for the pair of them began forthwith to rave and storm at one another with all their might, stamping, swearing, shaking their fists, and loading each other with abuse. When they had got as far as calling each other robber and scoundrel, the magistrate thought it high time to interfere, and at his command Margari was torn forcibly out of the tomato bed, led to a hackney coach and thrust inside; yet even then he put his head out of the window and shouted that he did not mean to sit in prison alone but would very soon have Mr. John Lapussa there also, as his companion. All the efforts of the two pandurs were powerless to silence him.

As for Mr. John, the magistrate simply said to him: "Sir, it is not good for a man to make use of nasty tools, for by so doing he only dirties his own hands."

Then he got into a second hackney coach and drove away after the first one.

Even Mr. John could see that it was now quite impossible for him under the circumstances to think of quitting Pest.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE UNDISCOVERABLE LADY

Squire Gerzson Satrakovics thought it best after that night at the csarda to go back to Arad. This wondrous event, the clue to which he could not hit upon anyhow, must needs interest Hatszegi most of all. It would be a terrible thing to appear before him with the tidings that the lady who was intrusted to his care, had been lost on the way; yet, nevertheless, this was the first thing he must say, and after that they would consult together as to what was to be done to find her and where they were to look for her.

Never had Mr. Gerzson approached a bear's den with such beating of heart as he now approached Hatszegi's chambers. His breath almost failed him as he seized the handle of the street door and wished it might prove locked in order that it might take a longer time to open it.

And locked indeed the door proved to be, he had to ring. Thus he had, at any rate, a respite, for he must await the result of the ringing. And a long time he had to wait too, so long indeed that it was necessary to ring again. Even then there was no response. Then he rang a third time, and after that he went on ring-ring-ringing for a good half hour. At last the bellrope remained in his hand and he put it into his pocket that it might testify to the fact that he had been there. Then, for the first time, he noticed that the shutters were all up—the surest sign that nobody was at home.

Gerzson explained the matter to his own satisfaction by supposing that the whole household was at the races. It was the last day of the races and he reached the course just as the betting was at its height and everybody's attention was concentrated on the event of the moment. At such time the crowd has no eyes for men, everyone is occupied with the horses. Mr. Gerzson therefore had plenty of time to scrutinize all who were present, but look as he would he could not see Leonard anywhere.

At last he could stand the suspense no longer, and during the interval between two races, he descended from the grand-stand, in a corner of which he had ensconced himself in order to get a better view of the field, and mingled in the ring with his brother sportsmen awaiting resignedly for the expression of amazed and horrified inquiry which he expected to see in all faces the moment they perceived him.

But how taken aback was he when the first man who cast eyes on him gave vent to a loud: Ha! ha! ha! whereupon everybody else began laughing also and pointing their fingers at him and exclaiming: "Why here's Gerzson! Gerzson has come back again!"

"Have you all gone mad?" cried Gerzson, confused by this inexplicable hubbub.

He really fancied that he had fallen among a lot of lunatics, till at last Count Kengyelesy forced his way through the crowd towards him, put both his hands on his hips and began to quiz him: "Well, you are a pretty fellow!—you are a pretty squire of dames, I must say!"

"But what's the matter? What has happened? Why do you laugh?"

"Listen to him!" cried the count, turning to the bystanders. "He actually has the impertinence to ask us why we laugh! Come, sir! where did you leave the Baroness Hatszegi?"

"I don't see what there is to laugh at at such a question?" replied Gerzson, in whose mind all sorts of dark forebodings began to arise.

"What have you done with the baroness? What have you done with our friend Leonard's wife, I say?" persisted the count.

"That is a perfect riddle to me," growled Gerzson in a low voice.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the count, "it is a riddle to him what has become of his travelling companion."

"But can any of you tell me what has happened to her? Is she alive?"

The count clapped his hands together and flung his round hat upon the ground.

"Now, that is what I call a leetle too strong! He asks: is she alive? Why, comrade, where have you been in hiding all this time?"

"A truce to jesting," cried Gerzson fiercely. "Tell me all you know about it, for it is no joking matter for me, I can assure you."

On perceiving that Gerzson was seriously angry, Kengyelesy drew nearer to him and enlightened him without any more beating about the bush: "Well then, my dear friend, let me tell you that you have behaved very badly. First of all you made all four of Hatszegi's horses lame; in the second place you compelled his poor wife to spend a night in a csarda of the puszta, and in the third place you got so drunk that you began to quarrel with her and at last did not know whether you were boy or girl. The poor little woman has grown almost grey with terror, and after you had fallen to the ground in liquor she sent the coachman to town for fresh horses and, leaving you under the table, tried to make her way back to Arad."

"That is not true," interrupted Gerzson, his whole face purple with rage.

"What is not true?"

"Where is the baroness?"

"Stop, stop, my friend! Don't run away! You'll never catch her up, for, early this morning, she drove back to Hidvar in a postchaise with her husband."

"That can not be true. Did you see her?"

"I saw her through my own field glass. But we all saw her—did we not, gentlemen?"

Many of those present admitted that they had indeed seen the baroness.

"But my dear fellow," said the perturbed Gerzson, "this is no joke. On the contrary, my adventure with the baroness is somewhat tragical, and I'll trouble you to expend no more of your feeble witticisms on me."

Kengyelesy shrugged his shoulders. "I did not know you would take it so seriously, but so it is."

"From whom did you hear all this, from the baroness?"

"No—from Hatszegi."

An idea suddenly flashed through Gerzson's brain.

"Did you speak to the baroness herself?"

"No. I only saw her through the carriage window when they drove away."

"Was she veiled?"

"No, my friend. It was her very self I assure you."

"Thank you. And now, if you like, you can go on amusing yourself at my expense. Adieu!"

Only when he had got home and flung himself on the sofa in a state of stupor, did he begin to reflect a little calmly on what he had heard. There was so much about the affair that was startling and incomprehensible, true and untrue, probable, incredible, shameful and exasperating, that he could make neither head nor tail of it.

That the baroness had returned must be true, for they all maintained that she had come back while he was lying drunk. It is true that he had got drunk, but he had no recollection of having been quarrelsome and misbehaving himself. Strain his memory as he might, all he could call to mind was Henrietta, with her angelically gentle face, sitting before him at the table and telling him the legends of the Transylvanian Alps—all the rest was a blank.

Up he jumped at last and began pacing up and down the room. At last, after much reflection, his mind was made up, he had formed a plan.

"I'll be off. I'll be off immediately. I'll go straight to her. I am determined to learn from her own lips exactly what happened to me and how I came to make such a fool of myself. I will speak to her myself."

And immediately he ordered his coachman to put the horses to; but he told not a living soul whither he was going, even to the coachman he only mentioned the first stage.

At a little booth at the end of the town he bought four and twenty double rolls and a new wooden field flask. When they came to the River Maros, he descended to the water's edge, rinsed out his flask at least twice and then filled it with water, finally thrusting both the rolls and the flask into his travelling knapsack. After that he drew on his mantle, clambered up into the back part of the coach, stuck his pipe in his mouth and his pistol in his fist and never closed an eye till morning.

And it must be admitted that Mr. Gerzson's mode of travelling on this occasion was decidedly eccentric. On reaching a village he would tell his coachman where to go next but he never told him more than one stage in advance. Every morning he would consume one of his rolls and wash it down with the lukewarm brackish water of the Maros—and bitter enough he found the taste of it too. He never quitted the carriage for more than two or three minutes at a time, and he presented his pistols point blank at everyone who approached him with inquisitive questions.

Only twice during the night did he allow the horses an hour or two of rest—and then away over stock and stone again.

The coachman, who was unaccustomed to such queer ways, presently shook his head every time he received orders to go on further, but by dawn of day he had had about enough of the job.

"Your honour," said he, "are we going to stop at all? It would do the horses no harm if they had a little rest."

"What's that to you, you rascal, eh?" roared Mr. Gerzson, "I suppose you're sleepy, you lazy good-for-nothing? Off the box then, you hound, you! I'll drive the horses myself, you gallows-bird!"

The old fellow, who had been in the service of the family for twenty years and had never had so many insulting epithets thrown at his head before explained that he did not speak for himself but for the horses.

"If they perished on the spot, Sirrah, what business is it of yours? When one pursues the enemy in time of war, does one think of food or fodder?"—whence the coachman concluded that there was some one whom the squire meant to cut to pieces.

It was only when they came to the road leading to Hidvar that the coachman began to suspect that they were about to go in that direction. It was now the evening of the second day and both man and beast were tired to death. It was indispensable that they should stay the night here, for if they passed Hidvar they would have to go on the whole night before they reached the next stage—or come to grief on the road, which was much more probable.

"You will stop in front of the castle!" commanded Mr. Gerzson when they were crossing the castle bridge.

The coachman looked back and shook his head. He did not like it at all.

"Shan't we turn into the castle yard?" enquired he.

"No!" bellowed Squire Gerzson, so venomously that the "why not?" he was about to say, stuck in the poor coachman's throat like a fish-bone.

"Now listen to me," said Gerzson, when they had fairly got across to the other side: "Keep your eyes open and try and take in what I am going to say to you. I don't know how long I may remain inside there—possibly some time. At any rate you must not loiter about here with the horses but go on to the priest and beg him, civilly, mind, to kindly accommodate my nags in his stable and give them two bushels of maize. As soon as I return I'll settle with him, but don't say anything about payment, or else you will offend him. Kiss his hand, for he is a priest and you are only a lazy vagabond. If you hear no news of me by to-morrow morning, put the horses into the carriage again and return to Arad where Count Kengyelesy will tell you what to do next."