IX
The Princess Sarolta was obscuring the moon with the smoke-clouds of her big black cigar. It was nine o’clock—dinner in the Királyi Palota was now served at half-past seven—and the court could smoke behind thepillars and the vines of the long stone terrace beneath the west windows of the private apartments of the King without consideration of possible field-glasses on the heights above. The Princess, who normally resembled a mummy, looked more like a witch in her encircling fumes, and her eyes glittered and blinked behind the red disk of her cigar. They were black eyes, and their fires in youth, and indeed long after Nature had given her more than one admonishing nip and claw, had recklessly leaped to so many other combustible hearts that even now the court gossips disentangled the pulsing tales of her past from others more commonplace. But with wrinkles and man’s manifest preference for her conversation had come not only reform but the evolution of a severe and uncompromising code of morals. She astonished Vienna for a number of years by the vehemence of her criticisms and her treatment of certain noble dames whose fires were still unquenched, or who found in intrigue that taste of liberty which knocks alluringly upon even the doors of Austria. With the mellowness of approaching age the enthusiasm of the Princess had tempered somewhat, and it was observed that she grinned behind her big cigar when an after-dinner scandal exhaled a faint perfume of novelty; but by this time her fame as a she-dragon was securely established. Her tactics, combined with a fortune inherited coincidently with her reform, from a relative who had married a wealthy and, as it proved, childless Jewess of Budapest, gave her a unique and impregnable position which made her the most natural guardian in Austria for a young princess who had left her father’s roof to hold court in his most conspicuous possession. The Emperor, who was a little afraid of Sarolta, but who asked her advice on all momentous domestic questions, bundled her off to Budapest with a deep sigh of relief. Her reputationas a dragoness relieved him of much of the anxiety with which he had entered upon this radical experiment, and he had not chanced to take note of her mellowing. But Ranata had, and, believing herself exempt from the weakness to which the Princess still showed her teeth, knew that she would have the real authority, while the Obersthofmeisterin sat scowling in the foreground, her wrinkles impassive above the chuckling within. As for Count von Königsegg, Sarolta had begun his education while unwrinkled, and not only had done him many good turns since, but had taught him to believe that there was one greater diplomatist in Austria than the Princess Sarolta Windischgrätz, and that was himself. Therefore when, after a hasty and pleading note from Ranata, and a long and humorous petition from Alexandra, she gave the minister to understand that it was his wish she assume charge of his interests in Hungary, it was but a matter of hours before her women were packing her boxes. She had come to Buda in full possession of his confidence.
The situation amused her intensely, but while she was too wise ever to betray a confidence or to share her amusement of a man with his enemy, yet she did not scruple to use any secret she might possess when engaged in the manipulation of human destinies. She cared as little for Königsegg as for the Emperor, sentimental memories being no longer insistent. But Nature had denied her children, and she had a considerable hoard of affection in her erratic but wholly human depths. Now that Rudolf was dead, she cared more for Ranata and Alexandra than for any one in the world, and was determined, to use the phrase of her American protégée, that they should have the “time of their lives.”
To-night she grinned amiably at them from the depthsof a rocking-chair, long since presented to her by Alexandra, which accompanied her wherever she went. The party was a small one: the Obersthofmeisterin and her charges, two young Hungarian ladies-in-waiting of her selection, the Countess Vilma Festetics and the Countess Piroska Zápolya, and two invited guests, Prince Béla Illehazy, a magnate, who, in simple evening dress, looked a middle-aged and somewhat humorous man of the world, and Count Zrinyi, whose national fire and still youthful ardors—he was thirty-five in years—had given him over to love of an American on the night of a great and memorable dinner. It had been decided that the Grand Chamberlain and other court officials were only to serve at great functions, and that those who were in waiting upon the Emperor during his annual sojourn were to give their services to the Archduchess when she demanded them.
Zrinyi was leaning against one of the pillars, his black eyes flaming down upon Alexandra, who smiled upon him indulgently; she thought him a nice boy who might be useful in the cotillion and in general advice of a lighter nature. They were all discussing the momentous question of the first entertainment to be given by the new court.
The dictum of the Princess Sarolta, that it must be a great ball, to which men and women should come in the ancient dress of Hungary, had been received with approval by all but Prince Illehazy, who scowled at his girth.
“I thought I should burst the other night,” he admitted. “And I must say that my native costume always makes me feel more or less a fool. I suppose I have lived too much elsewhere.”
“You are no patriot,” said his old friend, whose eye, as it followed his, twinkled with some malice. “I insistthat you give up Vienna and Paris this winter and remain here as my private cabinet.”
“You may need help,” he murmured, and he looked at Ranata.
“And we? Are we to wear Hungarian costumes, too?” asked Alexandra.
“By all means,” answered Ranata for the Princess. “I have already designed mine; the skirts and apron will be of white lace, and the bodice of black velvet.”
“That will be your second stroke of diplomacy,” murmured Alexandra. “But it seems to me that I should be a screaming absurdity in an ancient Hungarian costume.”
“Not if—not if—” muttered Zrinyi.
“Why not make it a fancy-dress ball, everybody to be a personage of the court of Matthias Corvinus, during whose reign Hungary reached the height of its splendor and power and prosperity?” asked the Countess Piroska Zápolya. She looked full at the Archduchess with innocent blue eyes which were too widely opened for frankness. She was excessively pretty, and her mouth pouted like a spoiled child’s. She was a descendant of that Stephen Zápolya, vayvode of Transylvania, who, in 1526, after the terrible battle of Mohács, when Hungary was threatened with annihilation by the Turks, and her king lost his life, was elected to rule over the distracted country by the faction which believed in a native dynasty and peaceful relations with the enemy. Another powerful faction elected Ferdinand of Austria, and in spite of the occupations of the Turks, which gave the Hapsburg as little authority as his rival, his dynasty kept its grasp upon the shadow until it became substance; while the son of the trooper who had been raised to a position of such power and magnificence by Matthias that his ambition knew no bounds, was unable to extendhis rule beyond Transylvania, and his dynasty ended in his son. His descendants, powerful magnates as they were, had two enduring grievances: their inferior descent as compared with that of the magnates whose line ran back unbroken to Árpád and haunted the mists beyond, and the ancient victory of the Hapsburgs. The first grievance was little discussed, but no Zápolya permitted himself or others to forget that his right to the throne was as great as the Austrian’s. Impoverished, and knowing little of the world beyond Budapest, the present generation was even fiercer in pride than the majority of their order, and bitterer in their hatred of the Hapsburgs. They were wise enough, however, to know that Hungary had not the strength for a native dynasty, even could one be established without devastating civil wars, and the father and brother of the clever little maid of honor had been the first to fling open the gates and drive out the wild waters of unrest towards William of Germany. Count von Königsegg had advised the selection of Piroska, for he believed she would be hostile and a willing spy, and Sarolta had acquiesced because she believed that herself and Ranata would be more than a match for any disaffected young woman. Outwardly the Countess was irreproachable. Her manners were high-bred and charming; five centuries of intermarriage with the best blood of Roumania and Hungary had obliterated all characteristics of John Zápolya except his ambition. She was lively and cultivated, and there was nothing in her manner to betray her hostility. She was the only enemy in camp. The other maid of honor, Countess Vilma Festetics, although proud and reserved, had loved the dead Elizabeth and had transferred her large measure of passionate loyalty, since unclaimed, to the princess who, in her great beauty and greater isolation, seemed to her the most romanticfigure on earth. Without humor or more logic than the larger division of her sex, she was capable of martyrdom for her ideals, however narrow. But she was bright and shrewd, and never having trusted Piroska Zápolya, suspected that she might be too high in the favor of Ranata’s enemies. In appearance the young Countess was of a type more often seen in Hungary than described; she had neither the sparkling blond nor the voluptuous brunette beauty which, with their womanly figures and happy animation, have made the women of that romantic country so famous. She was small and slender, and her coloring was drab; under the hauteur of her delicately cut pale face were the tense lines of tragedy. Her breeding helped her to control a high and intolerant temper. Of the most ancient blood in Hungary, poor, high-spirited, and proud, she had seen nothing of the world, but her high accomplishments and qualities, and the affection which she had inspired in the Queen while a child, had induced Sarolta to select her for what the cynical elder believed to be a temporary post. She was also glad to give the girl a few months of light-hearted luxury, and would have included many like her had it been possible.
“She is the sort that in a less enlightened day would have used the poisoned bowl and then killed herself at the foot of the altar,” she had said to Ranata; “but she will be loyal to you, and when she has nothing on her mind she can be very lively and young.”
“We have many costumes of the time in our chests, Highness,” the Zápolya was saying. “I am sure that Miss Abbott would look charming in one of rose-colored velvet—to which she would be more than welcome; and if you conclude to ask the Deputies, some tailor here could use the others as models. We have also two or three of the purple velvet costumes with the long goldchains, and the head braidwork of gold and pearls, worn by two of the three hundred youths sent by Matthias in the embassy to Charles VIII., King of France. If you were escorted into the throne room by a great number of pages in this costume, Highness, the effect would be one of perfect loveliness.”
The Archduchess understood her perfectly, but she felt her own strength, and was amused at the flash in the American’s eyes.
Moreover, her mind grasped the peculiar advantages which a fancy-dress ball would afford herself. She said sweetly:
“The national costume during the reign of Matthias differed little from that of any other reign, I suppose?”
“It merely reached its height of extravagance. The national characteristics have always remained the same.”
“Then, if you will allow me, I will look at your costumes, and, no doubt, find one that I shall be delighted to copy.”
In spite of her hostility the little Countess was flattered. She assured her princess, with something like spontaneous enthusiasm, that she should order the costumes brought to the palace on the morrow.
“I have a painting of Matthias in his robes of state,” said Prince Illehazy. “I wonder will any one have the courage to impersonate him? He was a mighty figure, that son of John Hunyadi, and I have not the slightest doubt that the blood of kings was in his veins. There is no man in Hungary, alas! fit to wear his mantle, not even at a fancy-dress ball.”
“He was a plebeian,” said the Countess Piroska, lifting her little nose. “And even could it be proved that John Hunyadi was the son of King Sigismund, all his fame, even the medicinal water named after him, could not obliterate the bar sinister.”
“The little cat!” said Prince Illehazy under his breath. He replied, “When a man makes a success of his life the bar sinister lends him the added distinction of picturesqueness, and not only did the Knight of the Black Raven have the blood of real kings in his veins, but Sigismund united on his head the crowns of Imperial Germany, Hungary, and Bohemia. Sigismund had his faults, but he was the head of the Holy Roman Empire, and neither he, nor his great son, and greater grandson, need descendants to keep the family name alive.”
“I suppose the ball must open with the Chardash,” said Ranata hastily, and forbearing to glance at the crushed Zápolya. “And I do not know how to dance it!”
Zrinyi found his opportunity. “May I be permitted a suggestion, Highness?” he asked. “The Chardash has been ruined by society—is a miserable degenerate thing. They sway and glide and languish. Have you ever seen the peasants dance it? They have preserved it in all its original simplicity, energy, and variety. If you could see them—and then dance it here in the palace as it should be danced—it is never vulgar, never boisterous, merely virile, full of the abandon of a happy and healthy people—”
“But how can I see it? I learn any dance quickly, but I must see it.”
“To-morrow is afesta,” said Zrinyi eagerly. “The peasants will be dancing all day. If you would go far enough you would see them in their native costumes—impossible near Budapest; but if you would deign to go five hours on the train—to a village on one of my estates—”
“Deign!” whispered Alexandra.
The Archduchess turned to her Obersthofmeisterinwith a very pretty show of deference. “I should like it,” she said. “And I believe it is the right thing to do. I could go very simply dressed; they have not yet seen me; I should be under no restraint—what do you think,ma princesse?”
“I shall have to go too,” grumbled Sarolta. “And there must be no publicity about it. We must not get the reputation here in Budapest for eccentricities; neither must we ever explain ourselves—how early can we leave here in the morning?”
“At five?” said Zrinyi.
“And we can return late—the palace can be lighted up at seven as usual. I like the idea of seeing the Chardash properly danced once more—so be it, then. Mind you are at the station before us, Géra, and that you exert all your talents in carrying out the programme. We shall dine with you, of course.”
“Hurrah!” said Alexandra.
“Élyen!” murmured Zrinyi.
Ranata for a moment said nothing. Then with a sudden impulse for which she could give no reason then or later, she turned to Alexandra and said, “Where is your brother? Have you heard from him?”
“Not a word since I asked him to come here. He had probably started on his wanderings before my letter reached Berlin. He may be on the Russian steppes or over in Pest. The one is as likely as the other.”