by Maurus Jokai
“Suppose I could restore to thee thy former sweet slumber, Marie? Suppose I take up my old quarters on the lounge by the door?”
The young girl gazed into his eyes as if she would penetrate his very soul. Then she said sorrowfully: “No, dear Ludwig; that would not restore my slumber.”
“Then suppose I have thought of something that will? Come with me, and see.”
She laid her hand on his arm, and went with him to her room.
Ludwig conducted her into the alcove, and stepped outside.
“Draw the cord which hangs at the head of the bed,” he said, smiling at her wondering face.
Marie did as he bade her, and the metal screen unrolled, and was caught in the springs in the floor.
“Oh, how wonderful!” she exclaimed in amazement. “I am a prisoner in my own alcove.”
“Only so long as you care to remain in your prison,” returned Count Vavel. “No one can lift the screen from this side; but if you will press your foot on the little brass button in the floor at the foot of the column to your left, you will be at liberty again.”
The next instant Master Matyas’s handiwork was rolled up to the ceiling.
Marie was filled with delight and astonishment.
“There is another work of art connected with this wonderful mechanism,” said the count, after Marie had rolled and unrolled the screen several times. “The cord which releases the screen rings a bell in my room. When I hear the bell I shall know that you have retired; then I shall bring my books and papers into your room out yonder, and continue my work there. Only enough light will penetrate the screen to the alcove to prevent utter darkness. You will not need to be afraid hereafter, and perhaps the sweet, sound sleep will return to you.”
Marie did not offer to kiss her guardian for this birthday gift. She merely held out both hands, and gave his a clasp that was so close and warm that it said more than words or kisses. She waited impatiently for evening to test the working of her wonderful screen. She did not amuse herself with her cards, as usual, but went to bed at ten o’clock. At the same moment that the screen unrolled and was caught by the springs in the floor, Count Ludwig’s footsteps were heard in the corridor. In one hand he carried a two-branched candlestick, in the other his pistol-case and ink-horn. His pen was between his lips; his books and papers were held under his arm. He seated himself at a table, and resumed his studies.
Marie would have been untrue to her sex had she not watched him for several minutes through her metal screen—watched and admired the superb head, supported on one hand as he bent intently over his book, the broad brow, the classical nose, the chin and lips of an Achilles—all as motionless as if they had been molded in bronze. A true hero—a hero who battled with the most powerful demons of earth, the human passions, and conquered. From that day Marie found her old sweet sleep again.
The second day Marie’s curiosity prompted her to signal to Ludwig half an hour earlier. He heard, and came as readily at half-past nine o’clock. And then the little maid (like all indulged children) abused her privileges: she signaled at nine o’clock, and at last at eight o’clock—retiring with the birds in order to test if Ludwig would obey the signal.
He always came promptly when the falling screen summoned him.
And then Marie said to herself:
“He loves me. He loves me very much—as the fakir loves his Brahma, as the Carthusian loves his sainted Virgin. That is how he loves me!”
PART V
ANGE BARTHELMY
CHAPTER I
So far as Marie’s safety from robbers was concerned, Count Vavel might now rest content. Satan Laczi’s advice had been obeyed to the letter. But how about Baroness Landsknechtsschild? Danger still threatened her.
Count Vavel was seriously concerned about his fair neighbor, and wondered how he might communicate his extraordinary discovery to her. What could he do to warn her of the danger which still threatened her? Should he call in person at the manor, and tell her of his interview with Satan Laczi?
A propitious chance came to Count Vavel’s aid in his perplexity.
One afternoon the sound of a trumpet drew him to his window. On looking out, he beheld a division of cavalry riding along the highway toward the village. They were dragoons, as their glistening helmets indicated.
When the troop drew near to the village, the band struck up a lively mazurka, and to this spirited march the soldiers made their entry into Fertöszeg. Ludwig could see through his telescope how the men were quartered in the houses in the village; and in the evening, after the retreat had been sounded, he also saw that the windows of the hitherto unused wing of the manor were brilliantly illuminated. Evidently the officers in command of the troop had taken up their quarters there, which was proper. The armed guard on duty at the manor gates verified this supposition.
Count Vavel might now feel perfectly sure that no robbers would attempt to break into the manor; they were too cunning to come prowling about a place where cavalry officers were quartered.
And with the arrival of the troop another danger had been averted. Now Baroness Katharina would not break into the Nameless Castle and despoil Count Vavel of something which Satan Laczi could not, with all his cunning, have restored to him—his heart!
Count Ludwig did not trouble himself further about the manor. He was convinced that enough gallant cavalrymen were over yonder to entertain the fair mistress, so that she would no longer wait for any more tiresome philosophizing from him.
Every evening he could hear the band playing on the veranda of the manor, and very often, too, the merry dance-music, which floated from the open windows until a late hour of the night. They were enjoying themselves over yonder, and they were right in so doing.
How did all this concern him?
In one respect, however, the soldiers taking up their quarters in Fertöszeg concerned him: they exercised daily on the same road over which it was his custom to take his daily drive with Marie. In order to avoid meeting them, he was obliged to change the hour to noon, when the soldiers would be at dinner.
Several days after the arrival of the troop at Fertöszeg, the officer in command paid a visit at the Nameless Castle—a courtesy required from one who was familiar with the usages of good society. At the door, however, he was told by the groom that Count Vavel was not at home. He left his card, which Henry at once delivered to his master, who was in his study.
The card bore the name:
“Vicomte Leon Barthelmy, K. K., Colonel of Cavalry.”
Count Vavel tried to remember where he had heard the name before, but without success. He quieted his dread which this act of ceremony had aroused in him by the thought that it contained no further significance than the conventional courtesy which a stranger felt himself called upon to pay to a resident.
The call would, of course, have to be returned. From his observatory Count Vavel informed himself at what hour the colonel betook himself to the exercise-ground, and chose that time to make his visit. Naturally he found the colonel absent, and left a card for him. A few days afterward Colonel Barthelmy again alighted from his horse at the door of the Nameless Castle, and again met with a disappointment—the Herr Count was not at home to visitors; he was engaged, and had given orders not to be disturbed.
Again the troop’s commander left his card, determining to remain indoors at the manor until the return visit had been paid, which would have to be done within twenty-four hours if no rudeness were intended.
He was not a little astonished to find, on returning to the manor, that Count Vavel had left a card for him with the porter. Such promptness perplexed the colonel. How had the count managed to reach the manor before he did? The porter informed him that the gentleman from the Nameless Castle had rowed across the cove, which was a much shorter way than by the carriage-road around the shore.
The colonel now determined to prove that he was an obstinate and persistent admirer of the occupant of the Nameless Castle. He paid a third visit at eight
o’clock the next evening. This time Henry informed the visitor that the count had gone to bed.
“Is he ill?” inquired the colonel.
“No; this is his usual hour for retiring.”
“But how can a man who is not ill go to bed at eight o’clock?”
And again he handed Henry a card.
This visit Count Vavel returned the next morning at three o’clock. At this hour, as may be supposed, every soul in the manor was still sound asleep. Only the guards on watch at the gate demanded: “Halt! Who comes there?”
On learning that the intruder was a “friend,” they allowed him to waken the porter, who thrust his frowzy head from the half-open door to ask, in surprise, what was wanted.
“Is the Herr Colonel at home?” inquired Count Vavel.
“Yes, your lordship; but he is in bed.”
“Is he ill?”
“No, your lordship; but he is in bed, of course, at this hour.”
“Why, how can a man who is not ill stay in bed until three o’clock?”
The count turned over a corner of his card, and handed it to the porter.
This, at last, the colonel understood, and left no more cards at the Nameless Castle.
The officers quartered at the manor were agreeable companions. Vicomte Leon Barthelmy was a true courtier, a brave soldier, an entertaining comrade, and a generous master. Even his enemies would have admitted that his manners were irresistible in the salon, as well as on the battle-field. Every one knew that Colonel Barthelmy was a married man—that he had a wife with whom, however, he did not live, but from whom he had not been divorced.
Susceptible feminine hearts did not risk a flirtation with the fascinating soldier, being forewarned by the canonical laws of the church, which forbade more intimate relations. There was no need to fear for so prudent and discreet a woman as the Baroness Katharina Landsknechtsschild. Her principles were very sound, and firmly grounded. She permitted no familiarities beyond a certain limit, but made no coy pretence of avoiding innocent amusements. Her affable treatment of the officers was easily explained. She had not received the gentlemen residing in the neighborhood, because they would very soon have visited the manor with a special object—they would have come as suitors for her hand. She would have been compelled to reject such offers, and would have given rise to all sorts of gossip. Moreover, these country magnates were tiresome persons; for, when they were once gathered about a gaming-table, the four ladies in a pack of cards engrossed so much of their attention that they had no thought for any of the living women about them.
The sons of Mars, on the contrary, were devoted entirely to the service of the fair sex. Many of the officers’ wives accompanied the regiment, and these helped to make up the quadrille, the mazurka, the redowa,—at that time the latest dance,—and every day saw a merry gathering of revelers.
One day there would be a series of entertaining games; another day there would be a play on a hastily improvised stage, in which the baroness herself would take a part, and win well-deserved applause by her graceful and artistic acting.
There were several skilled amateur jugglers among the merry company, who would give performances à la Bosko and Philadelphia; and others would delight the audience with the wonderful scenes of a magic lantern.
Once the baroness arranged a chase, and herself joined in the hunt after the pheasants and deer on her estate, proving herself a skilled Amazon in the saddle and in the management of her rifle. Then, the officers improvised a horse-race; and once they even got up a circus, in which all look part.
Count Vavel, in his tower, was an interested spectator of many of these amusements. There had been a time when he, too, had taken part in and enjoyed just such sports. He was a lover of the chase and of horse-racing. No one knew better than he the keen delights of a clean vault over ditches and hedges. If only he might join the merry company down yonder, he could show them some riding!
And as for hunting? He could spend whole days on the mountains, clambering after the fleet-footed chamois, following the larger game through morass and forest. He had grown up amid exhilarating sports such as these.
And the dance-music! How alluring were the strains! and how often through the day he found himself humming the melodies which had floated to him from the open windows of the manor! Once he, too, had taken pleasure in jesting with fair women until their white shoulders would shake with merry laughter. And all this he must look upon and hear at a distance, since he had made himself his own jailer!
During these weeks Marie was very restless. The sound of the trumpets startled her; the unusual noises terrified her. She whose nightly slumbers had been guarded from the barking of dogs and the crowing of fowls now was obliged to listen half the night to clarionet, horn, and piccolo, and to wonder what these people could be doing that they kept their music going until such late hours.
One circumstance, however, reconciled Marie to the excitement of these days: Ludwig spent more time with her; and though his face was as stern as ever, she could not detect in it the melancholy which cannot be concealed from the eyes of the woman who can look into the depths, of the soul.
CHAPTER II
At last, one day late in the autumn, Count Vavel received from his correspondent, Herr Mercatoris, the information that the dragoon regiment was going to change its quarters, and that the departure from Fertöszeg would be celebrated by various amusements, among them a regatta with colored lanterns on the lake and magnificent fireworks on the shore.
“We shall manage somehow to live through it,” was the count’s mental comment on the news. He knew Marie’s horror of fire—how she suffered with terror when she saw a conflagration, no matter how distant. She was even afraid of the rockets and paper dragons which were used at the celebration at the conclusion of the grape harvest every year. On the evening of the merrymaking Marie was afraid to go to bed. She begged Ludwig to close the blinds and to read to her in a loud voice, so that she might not see the light of the fireworks or hear the tumult on the lake shore. That which amused the revellers at the manor was a terror for this timid child.
And that they were amusing themselves over at the manor was beyond a doubt. The program for the evening’s entertainment was a varied one. Colonel Barthelmy was in the gayest of humors. The surprise of the evening was to conclude the entertainment, and was called on the program “The Militiaman.” Every one in the audience expected that Colonel Barthelmy, who had arranged this part of the entertainment, would produce something extremely amusing. The reality surpassed all expectations.
The figure conducted on to the stage by the colonel was no other than the little water-monster, Baroness Katharina’s protégé. He was clad in the uniform of a soldier, with a wooden sword and gun, a hat decorated with crane-feathers, a canteen at his side, and a knapsack on his back. An enormous false mustache extended from ear to ear, and a short-stemmed pipe was thrust between his lips.
“This, gentlemen and ladies, is a militiaman.” The colonel was interrupted by a burst of merriment from his audience. Even the baroness laughed immoderately, but suppressed it hastily when she remembered the telescope on the tower of the Nameless Castle.
“Poor little fellow!” she murmured, with difficulty keeping her face straight.
“Attention!” called the colonel, snapping the whip he held in his hand. “What does the militiaman do when he is in a good humor?”
A bagpipe behind the curtain now began to play a familiar air, whereupon the little monster first touched his finger to his hat, then slapped his thighs with both hands, and lifted first one foot, then the other.
The baroness hid with her fan that side of her face which was toward the neighboring castle, and joined in the uproarious laughter.
“You see, gracious baroness,” continued the colonel, “that I have accomplished what I determined I would do—made quite a man of the little fellow.”
He snapped his whip again, and called sharply:
“Now let the militiama
n show us what he does when he is in an ill humor.”
The bagpipe struck up a different air. The dwarf muttered something unintelligible into his mustache, and grimaced hideously. Then he took from his tobacco-pouch flint, tinder, and steel, and struck fire in the proper manner; he thrust the burning tinder into his pipe, and pressed it down with his finger.
Tremendous applause rewarded this exhibition.
“Do you see, gracious baroness, what a complete man he is become? He can even strike fire and light a pipe!”
By this time the gnome began to understand that his antics amused the audience, and he, too, enjoyed them. For the first time an emotion was expressed on his stolid countenance; but it was not an agreeable transformation. The corners of his mouth widened until they reached his ears, which stood still farther out from his head; he closed one eye, and opened the other to its farthest extent; and pressing the stem of his pipe more firmly between his teeth, he blew the smoke and fire from the bowl like a miniature volcano. The thicker the smoke and sparks came from the pipe, the more furious became the strange creature’s glee, while the entire company shouted and clasped their hands. Even the colonel himself was amazed at the performance of his dull pupil.
“Why have we not a Hogarth among us to perpetuate this caricature?” he exclaimed delightedly.
“Horrible! I cannot bear to look at him,” said the baroness, holding her fan in front of her face. “Pray take him away, Herr Colonel—take him away.”
“Presently. Ho, there, my little man! What does the militiaman do when he sees the enemy?”
The whip snapped, and the bagpipe set up a discordant shriek, upon which the actor sprang with one bound from the stage, and vanished behind the curtain, wooden sword and gun clattering after him, while the audience showered applause on the successful instructor.
“Herr Colonel,” observed the baroness, when quiet had been restored, “I am very much afraid that your instructions will cause me some trouble in the future.”