"Your father is dead. Come at once."Your affectionateMother."
"Your father is dead. Come at once.
"Your affectionateMother."
Leonin's first impulse was one of resentment. "I'd like to get hold of that blockhead of a courier who brought you this letter. Couldn't he have waited till morning?"
But Ödön arose without a word and left the box. Leonin followed him.
"Poor fellow!" he exclaimed, seizing his friend's hand. "This letter came verymal à propos."
"Excuse me," returned the other; "I must go home."
"I'll go with you," was the hearty response. "Let those stay and see Mazeppa who care to. We promised that we would go with each other to hell, to heaven—and home. So I shall go with you."
"But I am going home to Hungary," said Ödön.
Leonin started. "Oh, to Hungary!"
"My mother calls me," explained the other, with the simple brevity of one overcome with grief.
"When do you start?"
"Immediately."
Leonin shook his head incredulously. "That is simply madness," he declared. "Do you wish to freeze to death? Here in the city it is twenty degrees below zero, and out in the open country it is at least twenty-five. Between Smolensk and Moscow the roads are impassable, so much snow has fallen. In Russia no one travels in winter except mail-carriers and tradesmen."
"Nevertheless I shall start at once," was the calm rejoinder.
"Surely your mother wouldn't have you attempt the impossible. Where you live they have no conception what it means to travel in midwinter from St. Petersburg to the Carpathians. Wait at least till the roads are open."
"No, Leonin," returned Ödön, sadly; "every hour that I waited would be a reproach to my conscience. You don't understand how I feel."
"Well, then," replied the other, "let us go to your rooms."
Reaching his quarters, Ödön first awakened his valet and bade him pack his master's trunk and pay whatever accounts were owing. Then, so great was the young man's haste, he proceeded to build a fire with his own hands rather than wait for his servant to do it. Meanwhile Leonin had thrown himself into an easy chair and was watching his friend's movements.
"Are you really in earnest about starting this very day?" he asked.
"You see I am," was the reply.
"And won't you delay your departure to please me, or even at the Czar's request?"
"I love you and respect the Czar, but my mother's wishes take precedence of all else."
"Very well; so that appeal will not serve. But I have a secret to tell you. My betrothed, Princess Alexandra, is desperately in love with you. She is the only daughter of a magnate who is ten times as rich as you. She is beautiful, and she is good, but she does not care for me, because she loves you. She has confessed as much to me. Were it any one else that stood in my way, I would challenge him; but I love you more than my own brother. Marry her and remain here with us."
Ödön shook his head sadly. "I am going home to my mother."
"Then, Heaven help me! I am going with you," declared the young Russian. "I shall not let you set out on such a journey alone."
The two embraced each other warmly, and Leonin hastened away to make preparations for the journey. He despatched couriers to order relays of horses, together with drivers, at all the stations; he loaded his travelling-sledge with all kinds of provisions,—smoked meat, smoked fish, biscuits, caviare, and brandy; a tea-kettle and a spirit-lamp were provided; two good polar-bear skins, foot-bags, and fur caps for himself and his friend were procured; and he also included in their equipment two good rifles, as well as a brace of pistols and a Greek dagger for each of them,—since all these things were likely to prove useful on the way. He even had the forethought to pack two pairs of skates, that they might, when they came to a stream, race with each other over the ice and thus warm their benumbed feet. The space under the front seat he filled with cigars enough to last them throughout their twenty days' journey. When at length, as twilight was falling, he drove up with a merry jingle of bells before Ödön's lodging, he felt himself thoroughly equipped for the journey. But first he had to dress his friendfrom top to toe, knowing well from experience how one should be attired for a winter journey in Russia.
The Russian sledge stood ready at the door, its runners well shod, its body covered with buffalo-hide, the front sheltered by a leather hood, and the rear protected by a curtain of yet thicker leather. Three horses were harnessed abreast, the middle one standing between the thills, which were hung with bells. The driver stood with his short-handled, long-lashed whip before the horses.
The young Russian stopped his friend a moment before they took their places in the sledge. "Here, take this amulet," said he; "my mother gave it to me on her death-bed, assuring me it would shield the wearer from every danger."
The trinket was a small round cameo cut out of mother-of-pearl and set in gold; it represented St. George and the dragon. Ödön felt unwilling to accept the gift.
"Thank you," said he, "but I have no faith in charms. I only trust to my stars, and they are—loving woman's eyes."
Leonin grasped his friend's hands. "Answer me one question: do you see two eyes or four among your stars?"
Ödön paused a moment, then pressed his comrade's hand and answered, "Four!"
"Good!" exclaimed Leonin, and he helped his companion into the sledge.
The driver pulled each of his horses by the forelock, kissed all three on the cheek, crossed himself, and then took his place on the front seat. In a moment more the sledge was flying through the snow-covered streets on its way southward.
"The King of Hungary" was, at the time of our narrative, one of the finest hotels in Vienna, and much frequented by aristocratic Hungarian travellers and by Hungarian army officers.
A young hussar officer was ascending the stairs to the second story. He was a handsome, well-built, broad-shouldered youth, and his uniform fitted his athletic figure well. His cheeks were ruddy, his face full, and on his upper lip he wore a mustache, the ends of which pointed upward with a sprightly air. His cap was tilted well forward over his eyes, and he carried his head as proudly as if he had been the only captain of horse in the whole wide world.
On reaching the landing his attention was arrested by a strange scene in the passageway leading to one of the guest-chambers. An old gentleman with a smooth face, and wearing a peasant's cloak, was vociferating wrathfully before three waiters and a chambermaid. Both the waiters and the chambermaid were exerting themselves with every demonstrationof respect to gratify his slightest wish, which only increased the old gentleman's anger, and caused him to renew his scolding, now in Hungarian, and now in Latin. Catching sight of the hussar, who had been brought to a standstill by the clamour, he called to him in Hungarian—feeling sure that no hussar could be of any other nationality—and begged his assistance.
"My dear Captain," he cried, "do have the goodness to come here, and explain matters to these hyperboreans, who seem to understand no language that I can speak."
The officer approached, and perceived that his interlocutor was, to all appearances, a minister of the gospel.
"Well, reverend father, what is the trouble?" he asked.
"Why, you see," explained the other, "my passport describes me rightly enough, in Latin, asverbi divini minister, that is, a preacher of God's word. Well, now, when it came my turn to show my papers to the custom-house officer, they all began to salute me, as if I had been a minister of state, calling me 'your Excellency,' and paying me every sort of compliment, right and left,—porters, cab-drivers, waiters, and all. I thought they would kiss the ground I stood on before I was at last shown up to this splendid apartment. Now this style is more than I canafford. I am only a poor pastor, and I have come to Vienna not for pleasure, but forced by necessity. Pray explain matters for me to these people. I can't speak German, it is never used at home among our people, and no one here seems to understand any other language."
The hussar officer smiled.
"Good father," he asked, "what languages do you speak?"
"Well," was the reply, "I can speak Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and, in case of need, some Arabic."
"They will hardly be of any service here," rejoined the other, laughing. Then, turning to the head waiter, he asked him a question in a low tone, to which the servant replied by winking mysteriously and pointing upward.
"Well, reverend father," said the hussar to the poor priest, "you go into your room now, and in a quarter of an hour, I will return and arrange everything for you. Just now I am in haste, as some one is waiting for me."
"But, I beg to assure you, my business is even more pressing than yours," was the other's reply, as he seized the young officer's sword-tassel to prevent his escape. "If I so much as set foot in this state apartment, it will cost me five florins at least."
"But, sir," explained the other, apologetically, "my affair is far more important. Five comrades of mineare expecting me in the room above, and one of them is to fight with me. I really cannot wait."
The priest was so startled by this announcement that he dropped the sword-tassel.
"What!" he exclaimed, "you are on your way to a duel? Pray tell me the reason of such a piece of folly."
But the young man only pressed his hand with a smile. "You wait here quietly till I come back," said he. "I shall not be gone long."
"Supposing you are slain?" the old gentleman called after him, in great anxiety.
"I'll look out for that," replied the hussar, as he sprang blithely up the stairs, clinking his spurs as he went.
The old priest was forced to take possession of the splendid apartment, while the whole retinue of servants still persisted in honouring him with the title, "your Excellency."
"This is fine, to be sure," said the good man to himself, as he surveyed his surroundings. "Silk bed-curtains, porcelain stove—why, I shall have to pay five florins a day, if not six. And then all the good-for-nothing servants! One brings my valise, another a pitcher of water, a third the bootjack, and each one counts on receiving a good big fee from 'his Excellency.' I shall be expected to pay for the extra polish on the floor, too."
Thus grumbling and scolding, and estimating howmuch all this splendour would probably cost him in the end, the priest suddenly heard a stamping of feet, and a clashing of swords in the room above. The duellists were surely at it over his very head. Now here, now there, he heard the heavy footsteps, accompanied by the ringing of steel against steel. For five or six minutes the sounds continued, the poor parson meanwhile in great perplexity as to what course he ought to pursue. He felt half inclined to open the window and call for help, but immediately bethought himself that he might be arrested by the police for disturbing the peace. Then it occurred to him to run up-stairs, throw himself between the combatants, and deliver them a sermon on the text (Matt. 26: 52): "Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword." But while he was still debating the matter the tumult over his head subsided, and in a few minutes he heard steps approaching his door, which opened and admitted, to his great relief, the young hussar officer, safe and sound.
The priest ran to him and felt of his arms and breast, to make sure that he had actually received no injury. "Aren't you hurt, then, in the least?" he inquired.
"Of course not, good father," replied the other.
"But did you slay your opponent?"
"Oh, I scratched him a little on the cheek."
"And is he not in great pain?" asked the kind-hearted pastor, with much concern.
"Not at all; he is as pleased over his wound as a boy with a new jacket."
But the minister of the gospel found the matter no subject for light treatment. "How, pray, can you gentlemen indulge in such unchristian practices?" he asked, earnestly. "What motive can you possibly have?"
"My dear sir," returned the other, "have you ever heard the story of the two officers who fought a duel because one of them maintained that he had picked sardines from a tree in Italy, and the other refused to believe him? So they fought it out, and it was only after the first had received a slash across the face that he remembered,—'Ah, yes, quite right; they were not sardines, after all, but capers.' So here you may imagine some such cause as that."
"And you fought for such a trifle!" exclaimed the pastor.
"Yes, something of the sort, if I remember rightly. You see, I have just joined the regiment after serving in the life-guard, and I have been promoted captain; so I must fight with a dozen comrades in succession, until they either cut me to pieces or learn to endure my presence among them. That is the custom. But let us discuss your affairsnow. You said you were here on urgent business; pray tell me its nature."
"Certainly," responded the other; "if you will have the kindness to hear me, I shall be most grateful. I am an entire stranger in the city and have no one to render me any assistance. I have been summoned hitherad audiendum verbum, having had some differences with the landlord of the village where I am settled as pastor. You must first understand that the squire was a great oligarch, while I am nothing but a poor country parson. There was discord between our families, arising from the squire's having a young cavalier as his eldest son and my having a pretty daughter. I refused to listen to certain proposals on the part of the squire, and the upshot was that the son was sent away to Russia. That, however, did not greatly concern me. But not long afterward the squire departed this life and was buried with all the pomp of the Church. I made the prayer at the grave, and it is true, I said some hard things; but what I said was for God's ear, not for man's. And now, because of that prayer of mine to Heaven, I am called to account by the mighty ones of this earth. Already I have appeared before the consistory and before the county court, accused of impiety and sedition. I am expelled from my pastorate, and yet they are not content; they summon me hither, I know not before whom, to answer the charge oflèse-majesté. But see here and judge for yourself; I have the text of the prayer in my pocket. Read it and see whether it contains a single word by which I have made myself guilty of any such offence."
The old man's lips trembled as he spoke, and his eyes filled with tears. The hussar took the writing from his hand and read it through, the other watching meanwhile every line of the young man's face, to see what impression the perusal would make on him.
"Well, sir, what do you say to it?" he asked when the young officer had finished reading. "Would you condemn me for anything in that prayer?"
The other folded the paper and returned it to the old man. "I should not condemn you," he replied gently. He appeared to be much moved.
"Now may God bless you for those words!" exclaimed the priest. "Would that you were my judge!"
And, indeed, he was his judge at that moment; for he was no other than Richard Baradlay, the son of him over whose body the prayer had been offered. "But let me give your Reverence a piece of advice," added the young man. "First, stay here quietly in your room until you are summoned. Visit no one and make your complaint to no one. You cannot be found guilty of the offence charged against you. But if you should undertake to defend yourself,I could not answer for the consequences. Just stay here in your room, and if you are sent for, answer the summons. Go whither you are called, and hear in silence what is said to you. When that is over, bow yourself out and hasten back to your hotel without saying a word to any one on the way or answering a single question."
"But I shall be taken for a blockhead," objected the other.
"No, believe me, silence is a passport that will carry a man half-way around the world."
"Very well, I will do as you direct; only I hope the process will be brief. The Vienna air is costly to breathe."
"Don't worry in the least about that, reverend father. If some one has compelled you to make the journey against your will, you may be sure he will pay your score."
The old man wondered not a little at these words, and would gladly have inquired who the unknown "some one" was.
"But now my engagements call me away," concluded the young officer, and he took his leave before the other could question him further.
Soon after he had gone a waiter appeared with coffee, which, in spite of the old priest's protestations that he never took any breakfast and was in general a very light eater, the German domestic insisted onleaving upon the table. At length, as the coffee was there on his hands, the reverend gentleman proceeded to drink it in God's name; for it would have to be paid for in any case. The warm breakfast did him good. The servant now appeared, to carry away the breakfast service. The old gentleman had learned one German word on his journey, and he hastened to make use of it.
"Pay?" he said inquiringly, producing from the depths of his pocket a long knit purse, a birthday present from his daughter, in which his scanty savings were carefully hoarded. He wished to settle at once for his breakfast, both because it troubled him to be in debt for even an hour, and also that he might gain some idea from this first payment how much his total daily expenses would probably be.
Great was his surprise, however, when the waiter, smiling politely and waving aside the offered purse, assured him that the breakfast was already paid for.
"So that young man was right, after all," said the good priest to himself. "Why didn't I ask him his name? But who can it be that is paying my bills?"
The unknown benefactor was, of course, none other than Richard Baradlay, who, on leaving the hotel, had handed the head waiter two ducats and bidden him provide for all the old gentleman's wants, adding that he, Baradlay, would pay the bill. After that the young officer repaired to the military ridingschool and exercised for an hour in vaulting, fencing on horseback, breaking a lance or two, and mastering a vicious horse. Then he went to walk for an hour around the fortifications, looked at all the pretty faces he met, and at length, toward noon, returned to his quarters. He kept bachelor's hall on the fourth floor, occupying a sitting-room and a bedroom, while across the passageway was a little room for his servant, and a diminutive kitchen.
His domestic was an old hussar who answered to the name of Paul, and who was rather more inclined to command his master than to receive orders from him. He was sixty years old and more, and still a private and a bachelor. He was serving out his fourth enlistment and wore on his breast the cross given to the veterans of the Napoleonic wars.
"Well, Paul, what is there to eat to-day?" asked the captain, unbuckling his sword and hanging it up in his closet, which showed a collection of ancient swords and daggers.
The reader must here be informed that Paul was at once body-servant and cook to his young master.
"What is there to eat? A Greek rose-garland," answered the old servant, with humourous phlegm.
"Ah, that must be delicious," returned Richard; "but what is it made of?"
"Angels' slippers," was the reply.
"Excellent! And is it ready?"
Paul surveyed his master from top to toe. "Do we eat at home again to-day?" he asked.
"Yes, if we can get anything to eat."
"Very well; I will serve dinner at once," answered Paul, and he proceeded to spread the table—which was accomplished by turning its red cloth, ornamented with blue flowers, so that it became a blue cloth adorned with red flowers. Then he laid a plate of faience ware and a horn-handled knife and fork, together with an old-fashioned silver spoon, first wiping each article on a corner of the table-cloth. He completed these preparations by adding an old champagne-bottle filled, as the reader will have guessed, with cold water.
The cavalry captain pulled up a chair and seated himself comfortably, stretching his legs out under the table. Meanwhile Paul, his hands on his hips, thus addressed his master:
"So we are stranded again, are we,—not a kreutzer in our pockets?"
"Not a solitary one, as sure as you live," answered Richard, as he took up his knife and fork and began to beat a tattoo on his plate.
"But this morning I found two ducats in your vest pocket," remarked the old servant.
Captain Richard laughed and asked, in expressive pantomime: "Where are they now?"
"Good!" muttered the other, as he took up thedecanter that stood before his master's plate and went out. Having brought it back filled with wine, which he had procured in some way, he set it down again and resumed his discourse.
"No doubt they went to buy a bouquet for a pretty girl," said he. "Or have the boys drunk them up in champagne?" With that he took up a plate with a sadly nicked edge from the sideboard and added, with philosophic resignation, as he went out: "Well, I was just that way when I was young." Soon he returned, bearing his master's dinner.
The "Greek rose-garland" proved to be a dish of beans, while the "angels' slippers," cooked with them, were nothing but pigs' feet. The old hussar had prepared the meal for himself, but there was enough for two, and Richard attacked the camp fare with as keen a relish as if he had never known anything better in his life. While he ate, his old servant stood behind his chair, although his services were not needed, as there were no plates to change, the first course being also the last.
"Has any one called?" asked Richard as he ate.
"Any one called? Why, yes, we have had some callers."
"Who were they?"
"First the maid-servant of the actress—not the blonde one, but the other, the pug-nosed one. She brought a bouquet and a letter. I stuck the flowers into a pitcher in the kitchen, gave the maid a pinch on the cheek, and kindled the fire with the letter."
"The deuce take you!" exclaimed Richard; "what made you burn up the letter?"
"It asked for money from the captain," was the reply.
"But how did you know that, Paul? I thought you couldn't read."
"I smelt it."
Richard laughed aloud. "Well, who else has been here?" he asked.
"The young gentleman." This title was always used by Paul to designate one particular person.
"My brother? What did he wish?"
As if in answer to this inquiry, the young gentleman suddenly appeared in person.
The youngest Baradlay was a slender youth of frail physique. On his smooth, boyish face sat a somewhat affected expression of amiability, and if he carried his head rather high, it was not from pride, but on account of the eye-glasses which he wore on his nose. As he shook hands with his older brother, the latter was somehow reminded of the regulation that requires certain government officials, as a part of their duties, to show the utmost courtesy to every one—ex officio.
"Your servant, Jenő. What's up now?"
"I came to tell you," replied the other, "that I have received a letter from mother."
"I received one, too," said Richard.
"She informs me," continued Jenő, "that she is going to double my monthly allowance, and, in order to enable me to fit up my rooms as becomes one of my rank, she sends me a thousand florins."
"And she writes to me," said the older brother, "that if I continue to spend money as I have in the past, I shall soon run through my share of the property; and unless I am more economical she will send me no more funds."
"But my difficulty," rejoined the other, "is that if I begin now to spend a good deal of money, those over me will notice it. You can't imagine how one is made to suffer for it when once his superiors in the government service begin to suspect him of playing the independent gentleman. Really, I don't know what I shall do. Look here, Richard; do you know what I came for this morning? I came to share with you the money that mother sent me."
The other continued to chew his toothpick. "What interest?" he asked.
"Don't insult me with such a question!" protested Jenő.
"Then you offer to divide with me simply because you don't know how to spend the money yourself andwant my help in getting rid of it? Good! I am at your service."
"I thought you could make a better use of it than I," said the youth, handing over the half of his thousand florins, and pressing his brother's hand as he did so. "I have something else to give you also," he added, with assumed indifference,—"an invitation to the Plankenhorsts' reception to-morrow evening."
Richard rested his elbows on the table and regarded his brother with a satirical smile. "How long have you been acting as advertising agent of the Plankenhorst receptions?" he asked.
"They begged me most cordially to invite you in their name," returned the other, moving uneasily in his chair.
Richard laughed aloud. "So that is the usury I am to pay?" said he.
"What do you mean by that?" asked Jenő, with vexation, rising from his seat.
"I mean that you would like to pay your court to Miss Alfonsine if her mother, who considers you a very raw youth as yet, were not in the way. Madame Antoinette herself claims to be not devoid of personal charms, and, if herfriseuris to be believed, she is still a beautiful woman. When I was in the guard I used to dance with her often at the masked balls, and I recognised her under her domino more than once when she mistook me for an acquaintance andfell to chatting with me. You know all that very well, and you say to yourself: 'I'll take my brother along as elephant.' All right, brother; never fear, I am not going to hand back the five hundred florins. Your charges are high, but I'll be your elephant. Climb up on my back, and while you beguile the daughter I will keep the mother amused. But first I must impose one condition. If you really want my company at the reception, do me the favour to intercede with your chief on behalf of a poor priest who has been summoned to Vienna. Have him sent home in peace. I don't need to tell you he is our pastor at Nemesdomb, and he has been set upon because of the funeral prayer he saw fit to make."
"How did you learn all that?" asked Jenő, in surprise.
"Oh, I picked it up," replied the other; "and I tell you he is an honest man. Let him go."
Jenő assumed his official expression of countenance. "But really," said he, "I have reason to know that the chancellor is greatly incensed against him."
"Come, come!" cried the elder brother, impatiently; "don't try to impose on me with your great men. I have seen any number of them, in all sorts of undress, and I know that they are built just like other mortals,—eat and drink, yawn and snore exactly like the rest of mankind. Your great magistrate wrinkles his brow, talks in a harsh tone to the innocent victim before him, and when he has let him go, the mighty man laughs aloud at the terrible fright he gave the poor wretch. This priest is an honest fellow, but his tongue sometimes runs away with him. Yet he is a servant of God, and he must be allowed to depart in peace. May he long minister to his little flock!"
"Well, I will speak to his Excellency," returned Jenő.
"Thank you. Now sit down and drink with me, to seal our compact. Paul!"
The old hussar appeared.
"There is a ten-florin note. Go and get two bottles of champagne,—one for us and one for yourself."
Old Paul shook his head as he withdrew, and muttered, "I was just such another myself when I was a youngster."
The Plankenhorst family in Vienna was an entirely respectable one, although its name lacked the prefix which denotes nobility. Nevertheless the widow was honoured with the title of baroness, as she was of noble birth, and her daughter, too, was similarly addressed by her admirers. They lived in a house of their own in the inner city; and that signifies a great deal in Vienna. But the house was an old-fashioned one, built in the style of Maria Theresa, and the ground floor was given up to shops. They were admitted to court circles and were often seen there; yet it was the men rather than the women that sought their society. Barons and princes not seldom offered an arm to the amiable Madame Antoinette to escort her to the supper-room, or begged of the charming Miss Alfonsine the pleasure of a dance. But no baron or prince was ever known to seek an intimate acquaintance with either of them.
Their receptions were well attended, and it was there that many political and love intrigues werehatched. To be sure, the Sedlniczkys, the Insaghis, and the Apponys never graced these functions, but their secretaries were to be seen there. No one ever thought of seeking the Princes Windischgrätz and Colloredo in that house; yet military celebrities with decorated breasts and gold-laced collars were to be found there in plenty, as well as jovial officers and guardsmen of good family. The ladies, too, in attendance, both matrons and misses, belonged to families distinguished either for high official station or for birth.
The tone of these assemblies was thoroughly respectable, while they offered peculiar facilities for enjoying oneself without irksome restraint,—an advantage not found everywhere.
For all that, however, when at nine o'clock of the appointed evening Jenő betook himself in full evening dress to his brother's quarters, he found the young cavalry officer not yet attired for the reception, and, apparently, utterly indifferent to the great pleasure awaiting him. He was lying on his lounge, reading a novel.
"Well, aren't you going to the party?" asked the younger brother.
"What party?"
"At the Plankenhorsts'."
"There now, I had forgotten all about it," exclaimed Richard, springing up and summoning his servant.
"Do tell me, Richard, why you have such an aversion to these people? They are so friendly and cordial, and one is always sure to pass a pleasant evening at their house."
"What's wanted now?" inquired Paul, appearing at the door.
"Come in, Paul, and shave me," returned his master.
The old hussar was barber as well as cook.
"Why don't you answer my question?" persisted Jenő, while old Paul beat up the lather. "What have you against the Plankenhorsts?"
"The deuce take me if I can tell," answered Richard; "but they are such tuft-hunters!"
"Better not talk now, or I shall be cutting your face," interposed the old servant. "Let the young gentleman go on ahead, and you can follow him as soon as I have made you presentable. You won't need any rope ladder or skeleton key to get into the Plankenhorst house."
Jenő adopted this suggestion, and half an hour later his brother joined him in the Plankenhorst parlours. Jenő hastened to present the newcomer to the hostess and her daughter, both of whom remembered that they had already had the pleasure of meeting him. The mother declared herself delighted to welcome him under her own roof, to which Richard replied with an appropriate compliment, and then made room for other arrivals.
"Shall I introduce you to some of the people here?" asked Jenő.
"No, don't trouble yourself; I know them better than you do. That marshal over there, with the military figure and a voice as loud as if he were commanding a brigade, is an officer in the commissary department. He spends his time in weighing out provender, and has never smelt gunpowder except on the emperor's birthday. The young prince yonder, with the condescending smile and his eye-glasses stuck high up on his nose, is secretary to the chief of police, and a very influential man. The duenna in the coffee-coloured dress and with paint on her cheeks, is the wife of Blumenbach, the banker, who lends money to the spendthrift young aristocrats, and, consequently, knows all that is going on in high society. And the young lady near us, talking and smiling so confidentially with a young man about your age, is the most accomplished detective that ever ferreted out a secret; but aside from that she is a very nice little innocent creature."
Jenő felt not entirely at his ease as he listened to his brother, whom he suspected of entertaining no very high opinion of the whole company.
"The little maid that I met on the stairs," resumed Richard, "pleases me more than all this company put together. I don't know whether she belongs in the house, but I came here to-night wholly on heraccount. I pinched her cheek as she was running away from me, and she gave me a slap on the hand that I can feel now."
The last words received but scant attention from Jenő, as a certain illustrious ornament of society had caught sight of the two brothers and was hastening toward them. He was a tall, angular man, with a sharp nose and a little pointed beard. Greeting Jenő on the way, he made straight for the elder brother, and placed his bony hand familiarly on the young man's shoulder.
"Your humble servant, my dear Richard!" he exclaimed in Hungarian.
The other returned the greeting with much coolness and indifference.
The angular gentleman pulled at his beard as if not wholly pleased with his reception, and Jenő bit his lip in vexation at his brother's conduct.
"Well, how are you?" asked the tall gentleman, with gracious condescension.
"Well enough," replied Richard nonchalantly; "and I see you are in good trim, too."
The other seemed not exactly to relish this answer. "I am going to leave for home to-morrow," said he; "what word shall I carry to your mother from you?"
"Ah, you live in our neighbourhood, do you?" blandly inquired the young hussar officer.
At this the polygonal gentleman nearly lost command of himself, while Jenő tried to look as if his attention were elsewhere engaged.
"What message, then, do you wish to send?" resumed Richard's interlocutor.
"I kiss her hand," answered the young man briefly.
"Ah, that commission I will execute with the greatest pleasure, in person," exclaimed the other, with effusive friendliness.
"Oh, you needn't feel obliged to convey my respects in such a literal sense as that," returned Richard. "I was speaking figuratively."
Jenő meanwhile had opened a conversation with the innocent-looking young lady near him; but he kept one eye on his brother, and as soon as he saw that the angular gentleman had departed, he took leave of the young lady and returned to Richard.
"Well, now, you've put your foot in it this time!" he exclaimed.
"How so?" asked the other, with much composure.
"Didn't you know that man? It was Rideghváry."
"Well, he might have been Meleghváry, for all I care."
"But he is an intimate friend of the family, and you have often seen him at our house."
"As if I could remember all the faces I saw in our house when I was a little boy, before I was sent away to the military academy. I didn't keep an album of them,—the Rideghvárys and all the other várys."
Jenő tried to draw his brother aside where they would not be overheard. "You must know," said he, "that Rideghváry is a very influential man."
"What is that to me?" asked the other, indifferently.
"He is the administrator of our county."
"Well, that is the county's affair, not mine."
"And, still more, he is likely to be our stepfather."
"That is our mother's affair." So saying, Richard turned his back on his brother, who wished to detain him, but the other shook him off. "Don't bother me with your Rideghváry. We didn't come here to see him. Go and court Alfonsine; there's no one with her now but the little secretary with the squeaky voice."
The hussar officer danced for awhile and otherwise sought to amuse himself. Cards were never played at the Plankenhorst parties. Young ladies were there in plenty, and Richard enjoyed the reputation of a veritable Don Juan; but the very ease of his conquests destroyed their value in his eyes. A little maid-servant, however, who slapped him and ran away because he pinched her cheek, was something new. No man had ever defeated him in a duel, nor woman triumphed over him in a love affair.
Entering the supper-room later with his brother, he saw the little maid-servant presiding over the lemonade, and he pointed her out to Jenő.
"You bungler!" exclaimed the latter, under his breath; "you only fall from one blunder into another. She isn't a servant, but Miss Edith Liedenwall, a relative of the family."
"What! She one of the family? And do they leave her alone on the stairs in the evening, and let her serve lemonade to the guests?"
Jenő shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you see, she is the daughter of some poor relations, and her aunt here has taken pity on her. Then, too, she is little more than a child,—only about fifteen years old,—and no one heeds her."
Richard looked at his brother coldly. "Was your Baroness Plankenhorst never of that age herself?" he asked.
"But what would you have them do with an adopted waif like that?" returned the other. "They can't rear her as if she were to be a great lady."
"Then they ought not to have adopted her," objected Richard. "No gentleman will pay court to her as long as she fills a menial's place, and no poor man will venture to do so on account of her high birth."
"Quite true, but what can we do about it?" said Jenő.
Richard left his brother and advanced to the sideboard, where the girl was serving lemonade. She presented an exceedingly attractive appearance, herabundant dark hair coiled high on her head, her black eyes full of life, and a ready smile on her coral lips. She seemed to enjoy the part allotted to her, and met the guests' friendly advances in an unconstrained but modest manner. Upon Richard's approach she did not turn away from him, as he might have expected from their earlier meeting, but met his look with a roguish smile in her bright eyes, and said to him, as he came nearer:
"Aha! now you are afraid of me, aren't you?" And she had hit the truth, for the young officer really felt abashed in her presence.
"Miss Edith," said he, "I beg you to pardon me; but why do they let you wander about alone in the evening, where you are sure to meet so many people?"
"Oh, they all know me," she answered, "and I had an errand to do. You took me for a maid-servant, didn't you?"
"That is, indeed, my only excuse," he replied.
"Well, don't you think maid-servants have any rights that others are bound to respect?" asked the girl.
The question was a hard one for Richard to answer; he could find nothing to say.
"Now tell me what to give you," said Edith, "and then go back to the dancing-hall, where they are waiting for you."
The young man refused all the offered refreshments, but asked the girl to reach him the tip of her little finger in sign of forgiveness for his offence.
"No, no!" she cried, "I won't shake hands with you. Your hand has been wicked."
"If you call my hand wicked," he returned, "I will go to-morrow and fight a duel and have it cut off. Do you really want my poor hand to be chopped off for offending you? If you do, just as surely as I stand here you shall see me day after to-morrow with only one hand."
"Oh, don't talk like that!" exclaimed Edith. "I won't be angry any longer." So saying, she gave him her hand—not merely her little finger, but the whole of her soft, warm little hand—and let him press it in his own. No one was near them at the moment.
"And now, not to offend you even with a look," said he, "I promise on my honour not to raise my eyes higher than your hand."
He kept his word, dropping his eyes as he released her hand and took his leave with a low bow.
As the two young men returned home together after midnight, Jenő noticed that his elder brother no longer teased him.
One evening, after the habitual frequenters of the Plankenhorst house had taken their departure, as Alfonsine was undressing with the help of her maid, she turned to the latter and asked:
"What is thebackfischdoing nowadays, Betty?"
Backfisch, be it observed, means literallya fish for frying, but, as commonly used in German, it denotes a girl who is no longer a child, but not yet a young lady; one who is still innocent and harmless, and who feels strange emotions stirring in her breast, but fails to understand them; who takes jest for earnest and earnest for jest, and who believes the first pretty speech poured into her ear to be so much refined gold. That is thebackfisch.
"Thebackfischis learning to swim," replied Mademoiselle Bettine.
"Still holding on to the guard-ropes? Not yet able to strike out alone?"
"She will be able before long," was Betty's reply, as she took down her mistress's hair and coiled it upanew for the night. "A day or two ago, as I was doing her hair, she asked me: 'Whose hair is the longer, mine or Alfonsine's?'"
"Ha, ha! Thebackfisch!"
"And I told her that her hair was the more beautiful."
At this both laughed.
"She knows already, without any one's telling her, that she is a pretty girl," said Alfonsine. "Does she ever talk about any of the gentlemen that visit us?"
"Oh, yes, we gossip about all the men that come to the house, and she tells me her opinion of each; but there is one she never names at all, and if I happen to mention him she blushes up to her eyes."
"And do you think he is after her?" asked Alfonsine.
"He is very cautious," answered the maid, "and whenever he meets her alone he can hardly find two words to say to her. But I know what that means."
"Poor littlebackfisch!" murmured the other. "We'll give her a pleasant surprise, Betty. To-morrow she shall have a new gown. The dressmaker spoiled one of mine, and it will do nicely for her."
Mademoiselle Bettine laughed. "The pink tarlatan?" she inquired. "That is a ball-dress."
"Never mind. She shall have it and be happy. You make her believe that we have been rather slighting her hitherto because she was only a child,but that now she is to be regarded as a young lady. We will have her taught dancing, playing, and singing."
"Really?"
"Oh, well, let her think so, and that she is to be introduced to society and treated like one of the family."
"If I tell her that now, I sha'n't get a wink of sleep all night long; she will chatter about it till morning. She is fairly crazy to take singing lessons."
"Poor littlebackfisch! We'll gratify her for once."
Oh, the heartless Jezebel!
A few days later Richard received an invitation to take tea and play whist at the Plankenhorsts'—quiteen famille. Alfonsine was to sing also.
The young hussar officer refused no invitation from the Plankenhorst ladies, nor was he ever tardy on such occasions, but was wont to set his watch ahead so as to have an excuse to offer if he was the first guest to arrive. Thus it occurred in this instance that he saw no signs of a previous arrival when he handed his cloak and sword to the footman in the anteroom.
"Am I the first one here?" he asked.
The footman smiled and replied in the affirmative as he opened the drawing-room door for the guest.
Entering, he came upon Betty, who seemed busy with something about the room.
"Am I too early, Miss Betty?" he asked.
The maid courtesied and smiled. "The baroness has not come in yet, but she will soon be at home. The young lady is in the music-room."
At this moment, indeed, he heard some one singing in the next room, but the voice sounded fuller and richer than Alfonsine's. He concluded, however, that it was with her as with so many others, who sing their best when alone.
He passed into the music-room, but halted suddenly in surprise. At the piano sat, not Alfonsine, but another young lady whom at first he failed to recognise. It was Edith, in a new gown and with her hair arranged as he had never seen it before. She wore a low-necked pink dress which exposed to view her beautiful neck and shoulders, and she was singing a ballad, in an untrained voice, but with expression and feeling, picking out the air on the piano with one hand like a person unskilled in playing. She was quite alone in the room.
Richard feasted his eyes on the little white hand dancing over the keyboard, until Edith, glancing up from her music, caught sight of him. Her first impulse was to cover her bare neck with both hands, so new and strange did her costume still seem to her. But recognising that this was exactly the wrong thing to do, she let her hands fall and advanced to meet the young officer. Her face flushed a rosy redand her heart beat violently as, in a voice that nearly failed her, she announced that the baroness was not at home.
Richard pitied her embarrassment. "And Miss Alfonsine?" he asked.
"They both went out together," she replied. "They were called to court and will not return until late."
"Has my brother been here?"
"Yes, but he went away again some time ago."
"And did not the baroness say that she expected company?"
"She said she had ordered the footman to go around to the houses of the invited guests and tell them that the whist party was postponed until to-morrow."
"Strange that he didn't say anything about it to me when he let me in. Pardon me, Miss Edith, for disturbing you. Please present my compliments to the baroness."
So saying, he bowed with much formality and withdrew, purposing to call the footman to account for his negligence. But he failed to find him in the anteroom, and the front door, by which he had entered, proved to be locked and the key removed. He was forced to go back through the drawing-room and seek an exit by the servants' door; but this also was locked. One other door was known to him, leading into the kitchen, and he tried it. It would not open, however. In the dining-room was a bell-cord communicating with the servants' quarters; he pulled it sharply three times in succession, but no one answered his summons. Returning once more to the anteroom, he found it still empty. Evidently he and Edith were the only ones in the house. His heart beat tumultuously. He felt himself the victim of a curious plot whose outcome he could not foresee. Once more he returned to the music-room. At the sound of his step Edith came toward him. Her face was no longer flushed; she was very pale. But she met the young man's eyes calmly, with no sign of trembling or embarrassment.
"Pardon me, Miss Edith," he began, "I have tried all the doors and found them locked, nor is there any one in the house to let me out."
A life-size portrait of Alfonsine hung on the wall. To Richard, at that moment, the fair face seemed to smile down upon the scene with a malicious triumph.
Edith, however, lost none of her composure. "The servants must have gone down into the courtyard," said she; "but I know where there is another key to the front door, and I will let you out."
Against the wall hung a wicker-work device for holding keys, and in order to reach it Edith was forced to pass by Richard. When she was very near him he suddenly stepped in front of her.
"One word, Edith," said he. "Do you know what is in my mind at this moment?"
In his fancy the fair lady on the wall seemed to be carrying on a diabolical dialogue with his loudly beating heart. The world was on fire around him. Yet the young girl whom he was confronting stood there calmly and answered him with great presence of mind:
"Yes; you are thinking: 'I once promised this girl never to offend her even with a look, and not to raise my eyes, when I stand before her, higher than her hands.'" Therewith she folded her hands and dropped them in front of her.
"That is it," nodded Richard, feeling as if a hundred-pound weight had been removed from his breast. "And one thing more I must ask of you, Miss Edith," he added. "I have an urgent message to write to the baroness. Can you furnish me with writing-materials?"
Edith opened her aunt's desk and, with a motion of her hand, invited him to be seated.
Richard sat down and wrote. His letter was brief and soon written. He enclosed it in an envelope and sealed it, Edith meanwhile standing quietly on the other side of the desk with her hands still folded and resting upon her lap. Then he rose and advanced with the sealed note to where she stood. Nobility spoke in his face and pride in his bearing. The girl's very soul was in her eyes as she met his gaze.
"Can you also tell me, Miss Edith," he asked, "what I have written in this letter which I hold sealed before you?"
The young girl slowly raised her hands and pressed them to her forehead, unmindful that in so doing she invited him to raise his eyes and look into hers, where he could not but read the mingled expression of pain and delight, of despair and rapture.
"In this letter," he continued, "I have written the following: 'My dear Baroness: I beg herewith to prefer my petition for Miss Edith Liedenwall's hand in marriage. I shall be of age in a year's time, and will then come and claim her. Until then pray let her be regarded as my affianced bride.'" Therewith he handed the letter to Edith, who pressed its seal to her lips in a long kiss, after which she returned it to him. His lips also touched the seal, while it was still warm with the kiss of his beloved. That was their betrothal kiss.
"Will you deliver this letter to the baroness?" asked Richard.
Edith inclined her head without speaking, and stuck the note into her bodice.
"And now we shall not have another such interview for a year. Good-bye." He withdrew and let himself out by aid of the key which Edith had given him.
When he had gone Edith sank down and pressed a kiss on the spot still marked by her lover's footprints in the soft carpet.
It was late when the baroness and her daughter returned, and Edith had already gone to her room,—that is, the room which she shared with the maid.
"Send thebackfischto us," commanded Alfonsine, addressing Betty.
"Not gone to bed yet, Edith?" asked the baroness, as her niece entered the room.
"No, aunt."
Antoinette looked into the girl's eyes with searching scrutiny, but failed to find there what she sought. She saw, on the contrary, a proud self-consciousness that was new to the girl.
"Have any callers come while we were out?" inquired the baroness.
"Yes; Captain Baradlay."
The two ladies' eyes directed a cross-fire upon Edith, but with no effect. She no longer blushed at the mention of that name. It was now enshrined in her heart and would not again drive the tell-tale blood to her cheeks.
"Did the captain wait for us?" asked Antoinette.
"Only long enough to write this letter," was the girl's calm reply, as she delivered Richard's note to her aunt.
Now it was the latter's turn to feel the hot blood mounting to her face as she read the missive.
"Do you know what is in this letter?" she asked, giving the girl a penetrating look.
"Yes," answered Edith, with modest dignity.
"You may return to your room and go to bed," said the baroness.
Edith withdrew. Antoinette tossed the letter wrathfully to her daughter.
"There!" she exclaimed, "that's what comes of your fine scheme."
Alfonsine turned pale and trembled with passion as she read the letter. Her voice failed her. Her mother's face was distorted with anger.
"You evidently thought," said the baroness, biting her words off one by one, "that every man was an Otto Palvicz! Your stupid game is lost, and now we will try my plan."
As Richard made his way homeward, he seemed to himself to be riding on a winged steed. He was entirely satisfied with the issue of that day's adventure. Reviewing in imagination the temptation to which he had been exposed, he exulted in the victory he had won over himself. Consequently, when he reëntered his bachelor quarters, he could not but feel an unwelcome sensation as his eye fell on certain objects that he would gladly have banished from sight. They were sundry souvenirs of certain love affairs, and no longer possessed the value in his eyes that they had once had.
Summoning Paul, he bade him make a fire.
"But the wood is so confoundedly wet that it won't burn," returned the old hussar.
At this Richard rummaged in the drawer of his writing-desk and produced a bundle of letters, whose delicate tint and perfume betrayed their probable nature. "There," said he, "take these; they will start the fire."
This order gave old Paul much pleasure, and soon the billets-doux were blazing merrily on the hearth.
"Paul," began Richard after a pause, "to-morrow we break up and go away for the annual manœuvres."
The old soldier showed his satisfaction at this announcement.
"But we can't take all this trumpery with us," added the young officer. "You'll have to sell the furniture, but the souvenirs, pictures, and embroideries may be thrown into the fire."
Paul bowed dutifully.
Opposite the young man's bed hung a large oil painting in a great gilt frame; it was the portrait of a famous beauty who had caused herself to be painted as Danaë, and had presented the picture to Richard. The latter now bade his servant get rid of it with the rest of the rubbish. After thoroughly ransacking his drawers for old love-letters, faded flowers, bits of ribbon, and other miscellaneous articles, he left the entire collection for old Paul to destroy, while he himself went out with a lightened conscience to his supper.
The next morning, when Paul brought his master's boots, Richard made some remark on the thoroughness with which his faithful servant had executed his orders. "But surely," he added, "you can't have burnt up the frame of the large painting. What has become of it?"
"Do you suppose I burnt up the picture, either?" asked Paul in his turn. "I am not so crazy as to throw a fine work of art like that into the fire."
"What then have you done with it?" demanded the other, kicking off his bedclothes. "You haven't pawned it, I hope?"
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "Captain Baradlay said I was to get rid of it," he replied.
"Yes, and that meant that it was to be burnt up," declared Richard.
"Well," returned the servant, "I understood you to mean that it was to be carried to old Solomon and sold for what it would bring."
"And is that what you did with it?"
"There's where it is now."
Richard was very near being downright angry with his old servant. "Go at once and bring the painting back!" he commanded, as sternly as he could.
But old Paul was not one to be easily disconcerted. Laying his master's stockings within their owner's reach, he replied, with unruffled composure: "Solomon will not give it back to me."
"Not if I demand it?"
"He sends his compliments to Captain Baradlay, and begs him to have the goodness to go and speak with him in person about the picture," returned the old hussar, handing Richard his trousers.
The young officer fairly lost his temper. "Paul, you are a donkey!" he exclaimed.
Quickly, and with no little vexation, the hussar officer completed his toilet and hastened to old Solomon's shop in Porcelain Street, before the Jew should hang the picture where it could be seen and, perhaps, recognised.
Solomon's establishment was a little basement shop, lying lower than the sidewalk and lighted only from the door, which was consequently always kept open. On both sides of the entrance old furniture was placed on exhibition, while within was gathered such a heterogeneous collection of all sorts of second-hand wares as fairly baffles description. But the most ancient and curious object in the whole shop was its owner, who sat in a big leather armchair, wrapped in a long caftan, fur shoes on his feet and a fur cap tilted over his eyes. There he was wont to sit all day long, rising only to wait on a customer. The leather covering of his chair-cushion was worn through with long service and had been replaced by a sheet of blotting-paper.
Solomon was in the habit of opening his shop early and taking his seat in the doorway; for no one could tell when good luck might bring him a customer. It was hardly eight o'clock when Richard strode down the narrow street and paused at the old Jew's door.
"Is this Solomon's shop?" he asked.
The old man in the caftan drew his feet from under his chair, rose from his seat, and, pushing back his fur cap so that his caller might have a good view of his smiling face, made answer:
"Your humble servant, sir. This is the place, and I shall be most happy to serve Captain Baradlay."
"Oh, do you know me?" asked the young officer, in surprise.
"Why should I not know Captain Baradlay?" returned the old man, with an ingratiating smile. "I know him very well, and he is a man I am proud to know."
Richard could not imagine how this acquaintance had risen. It was hardly probable that he had ever met Solomon at a military review or a court ball, and he was sure he had never borrowed any money of the old Jew.
"Then you doubtless know also," said he, "that I have come to see you concerning a picture that my servant left here yesterday by mistake. I did not intend to offer it for sale."
"Yes, yes," rejoined the Jew, "I know that very well, and for that reason I made bold to request the favour of a visit from you to my poor establishment, in order that we might talk about the picture."
"There is nothing more to be said about it," interposed Richard, with vexation. "I will not sell it; I am going to destroy it."
"But, my dear sir," protested the other, smiling blandly, "why lose our temper over the matter? That is bad for the health. I certainly have no intention of retaining the picture by force. I merely desired the honour of a call from you, and you are perfectly free to do as you choose in the matter. We like to cultivate new acquaintances. Who knows but they may be useful some day? Do me the honour, Captain, to enter my house. The painting is up-stairs. Pray walk up."
Richard complied and ascended to the next floor, while the Jew locked his shop-door before following him. Reaching the head of the stairs, the young man was astonished at what met his eyes. He almost thought himself in a royal museum. Three communicating apartments were filled with the costliest articles of luxury,—carved furniture, Japanese and Etruscan vases, rare old china, jewelry of the finest workmanship, ancient armour and weapons, and many masterpieces of painting and sculpture.
"Well, how do you like the looks of things up here?" asked Solomon, when he had rejoined his guest. "It is worth while coming up to look around a little, isn't it?"
Richard could not sate himself with examining all that met his view. Meanwhile the Jew continued his confidential chat.
"The gentlemen and ladies," said he, "even thosein the very highest circles, honour me with their patronage and confidence, knowing that I can be as mum as an oyster. I know who sent in each one of these articles,—one from Count So-and-so, another from Prince Blank, a third from Baron X——, and so on; but no secret of that kind ever passes my lips. Solomon knows the history of all these things, and why they were sold, but he never breathes a word to any mortal soul."
"Very commendable on his part, I am sure," assented Richard; "but where is my picture?"
"Why in such a hurry?" asked the other. "Am I likely to run off with it? Have the kindness to look around a bit, and meantime perhaps we can drive a little bargain."
"No, not so far as the painting is concerned," declared the hussar officer. "It is a portrait; and, even though I may be at odds with the original, yet I cannot insult her by selling her likeness."
The old shopkeeper drew his guest with him into the adjoining room, whose walls were covered with portraits of all sorts and sizes, in oil, water-colours, and pastel, mostly representing young men and women, while a pile of unframed pictures stood in one corner.
"How did you ever get hold of so many portraits?" asked the astonished visitor.
"Oh, that is simple enough," replied the Jew; "you see, young people have a way of falling in loveand then falling out again. They hang a portrait over their bed, and presently their taste changes and another takes its place. Then when a young gentleman wishes to marry, he finds it inadvisable, to keep a lot of strange portraits in his house."
"And so he sells them?" asked Richard.
Solomon made a significant gesture with his open hands. "Judge for yourself," said he.
"Well," rejoined the other, "I am not much surprised at people's selling some of these faces; but how in the world do you find purchasers for them. Who would ever want one of this collection?"
Solomon smiled knowingly, and tilted forward and backward on his toes and heels.
"I know the original of your picture," said he. "She visits me occasionally. What if she should see her likeness among the others? That kind of costume-portrait always fetches a magnificent price."