The Nameless Castle

by Maurus Jokai

  The baroness’s face grew suddenly pallid; but she quickly recovered herself as Count Vavel came hastily into the outer room.

  “Did you summon me, Marie?” he called, when he saw that the screen was down.

  “Yes, I summoned you,” replied Marie. “I want you to repeat the good-night wish you give me every night.”

  “But it is not night.”

  “No; but you will not see me again to-day, so you must wish me good night now.”

  Ludwig came near to the screen, and said in a low, earnest tone:

  “May God give you a good night, Marie! May angels watch over you! May Heaven receive your prayers, and may you dream of happiness and freedom. Good night!”

  Then he turned and walked out of the room.

  “That is his daily custom,” whispered Marie. Then she pressed her foot on the spring in the floor, and the screen was lifted.

  CHAPTER VI

  Lisette had finished her tasks in the kitchen when the two ladies came to pay her a visit. She was sitting in a low, stoutly made chair which had been fashioned expressly for her huge frame, and was shuffling a pack of cards when the ladies entered.

  She did not lay the cards to one side, nor did she rise from her chair when the baroness came toward her and said in a friendly tone:

  “Well, Lisette, I dare say you do not know that I am your neighbor from the manor?”

  “Oh, yes, I do. I used often to hear my poor old man talk about the beautiful lady over yonder, and of course you must be she.”

  “And do you know that I expect to be Count Vavel’s wife?”

  “I did not know it, your ladyship, but it is natural. A gallant gentleman and a beautiful lady—if they are thrown together then there follows either marriage or danger. A marriage is better than a danger.”

  “This time, Lisette, marriage and danger go hand in hand. The count is preparing for the war.”

  This announcement had no other effect on the impassive mountain of flesh than to make her shuffle her cards more rapidly.

  “Then it is come at last!” she muttered, cutting the cards, and glancing at the under one. It was only a knave, not the queen!

  “Yes,” continued the baroness; “the recruiting-flag already floats from the tower of the castle, and tomorrow volunteers will begin to enroll their names.”

  “God help them!” again muttered the woman.

  “I am going to take your young mistress home with me, Lisette,” again remarked the baroness. “It would not be well to leave her here, amid the turmoil of recruiting and the clashing of weapons, would it?”

  “I can’t say. My business is in the kitchen; I don’t know anything about matters out of it,” replied Lisette, still shuffling her cards.

  “But I intend to take you out of the kitchen, Lisette,” returned the baroness. “I don’t intend to let you work any more. You shall live with us over at the manor, in a room of your own, and, if you wish, have a little kitchen all to yourself, and a little maid to wait on you. You will come with us, will you not?”

  “I thank your ladyship; but I had rather stay where I am.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I should be a trouble to everybody over yonder. I am a person that suits only herself. I don’t know how to win the good will of other people. I don’t keep a cat or a dog, because I don’t want to love anything. Besides, I have many disagreeable habits. I use snuff, and I can’t agree with anybody. I am best left to myself, your ladyship.”

  “But what will become of you when both your master and mistress are gone from the castle?”

  “I shall do what I have always done, your ladyship. The Herr Count promised that I should never want for anything to cook so long as I lived.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Lisette. I did not ask how you intended to live. What I meant was, how are you going to get on when you do not see or hear any one—when you are all alone here?”

  “I am not afraid to be alone. I have no money, and I don’t think anybody would undertake to carry me off! I am never lonely. I can’t read,—for which I thank God!—so that never bothers me. I don’t like to knit; for ever since I saw those terrible women sitting around the guillotine and knitting, knitting, knitting all day long, I can’t bear to see the motion of five needles. So I just amuse myself with these cards; and I don’t need anything else.”

  “But surely your heart will grow sore when you do not see your little mistress daily?”

  “Daily—daily, your ladyship? This is the second time I have laid eyes on her face in six years! There was a time when I saw her daily, hourly—when she needed me all the time. Is not that so, my little mistress? Don’t you remember how I had a little son, and how he called me chère maman, and I called him mon petit garçon?”

  As she spoke, she laid the cards one by one on her snowy apron. She looked intently at them for several moments, then continued:

  “No; I don’t need to know anything, only that she is safe. She will always be carefully guarded from all harm, and my cards will always tell me all I need know about mon petit garçon. No, your ladyship; I shall not go with you; I cannot leave the place where my poor Henry died.”

  “Poor Lisette! what a tender heart is yours!”

  “Mine?” suddenly and with unusual energy interrupted Lisette. “Mine a tender heart? Ask this little lady here—who cannot tell a lie—if I am not the woman who has the hardest, the most unfeeling heart in all the world. Ask her that, your ladyship. Tell her, mon petit garçon,” she added, turning to Marie,—“tell the lady it is as I say.”

  “Lisette—dear Lisette,” remonstrated Marie.

  “Have you ever seen me weep?” demanded the woman.

  “No, Lisette; but—”

  “Did I ever sigh,” interrupted Lisette, “or moan, or grieve, that time when we spent many days and nights together in one room?”

  “No, no; never, Lisette.”

  The woman turned in her chair to a chest that stood by her side, opened it, and took out a package carefully wrapped first in paper, then in a linen cloth.

  When she had removed the wrappings, she held up in her hands a child’s chemise and petticoat.

  “What is needed to complete these, your ladyship?” she asked.

  “A dear little child, I should say,” answered Katharina, indulgently.

  “You are right—a dear little child.”

  “Where is the child, Lisette?”

  “That I don’t know—do you understand? I—don’t—know. And I don’t inquire, either. Now, will you still imagine that I have a tender heart? It is years since I looked on these little garments. What did I do with the child that wore them? Whose business is it what I did with her? She was my child, and I had a right to do as I pleased with her. I was paid enough for it—an enormous price! You don’t understand what I am talking about, your ladyship. Go; take mon petit garçon with you; and may God do so to you as you deal with him. Take care of him. My cards will tell me everything, and sometime, when I have turned into a hideous hobgoblin, those whom I shall haunt will remember me! And now, mon petit garçon”—turning again to Marie,—“let me kiss your hand for the last time.”

  Marie came close to the singular woman, bent over her, and pressed a kiss on the fat cheeks, then held her own for a return caress.

  This action of the young girl seemed to please the woman. She struggled to her feet, muttering: “She is still the same. May God guard her from all harm!” Then she waddled toward Katharina, took her slender hand in her own broad palm, and added: “Take good care of my treasure, your ladyship. Up to now, I have taken the broomstick every evening, before going to bed, and thrust it under all the furniture, to see if there might not be a thief hidden somewhere. You will have to do that now. A great treasure, great care! And, your ladyship, when you shall have in your house such a little chemise and petticoat, with the little child in them, trotting after you, chattering and laughing, clasping her arms round you and kissing you, and if some one should s
ay to you, as they said to me, ‘How great a treasure would induce you to exchange this little somebody in the red petticoat for it?’ and if you should say, ‘I will give up the child for so much,’ then, your ladyship, you too may say, as I say, that your heart is a heart of stone.”

  Katharina’s face had grown very white. She staggered toward Marie, caught her arm, and drew her toward the door, gasping:

  “Come—come—let us go. The steam—the heat of—the kitchen makes—me faint.”

  The fresh air of the court soon revived her.

  “Let us play a trick on Ludwig,” she suggested. “We will take his canoe, and cross the cove to the manor. We can send it back with a servant.”

  She ordered her coachman to take the carriage home; then she took Marie’s hand and led her down to the lake.

  They were soon in the boat. Marie, who had learned to row from Ludwig, sent the little craft gliding over the water, while Katharina held the rudder.

  Very soon they were in the park belonging to the manor; and how delighted Marie was to see everything!

  A herd of deer crossed their path, summoned to the feeding-place by a blast from the game-keeper’s horn. The graceful animals were so tame that a hind stopped in front of the two ladies, and allowed them to rub her head and neck. Oh, how much there was to see and enjoy over here!

  Katharina could hardly keep pace with the eager young girl, who would have liked to examine the entire park at once.

  What a number of questions she asked! And how astonished she was when Katharina told her the large birds in the farm-yard were hens and turkeys. She had never dreamed that these creatures could be so pretty. She had never seen them before—not even a whole one served on the table, only the slices of white meat which Lisette had always cut off for her. But what delighted her more than anything else was that she might meet people, look fearlessly at them, and be stared at in return, and cordially return their friendly “God give you a good day!”

  What a pleasure it was to stop the women and children, with all sorts and shapes of burdens on their heads or in their arms, and ask what they were carrying in the heavy hampers; to call to the peasant girls who were singing merrily, and ask where they had learned the pretty songs.

  “Oh, how delightful it is here!” she exclaimed, flinging her arms around the baroness. “I should like to dig and work in the garden all day long with these merry girls. How happy I shall be here!”

  “tomorrow we will visit the fields,” said Katharina “Can you ride?”

  “Ride?” echoed Marie, in smiling surprise. “Yes—on a rocking-horse.”

  “Then you will very soon learn to sit on a living horse.”

  “Do you really believe I shall?” breathlessly exclaimed Marie.

  “Yes; I have a very gentle horse which you shall have for your own.”

  “One of those dear, tiny little horses from which one could not fall? I have seen them in picture-books.”

  “He is not so very small; but you will not be afraid of falling off when you have learned to ride. Then, when you can manage your horse, we will ride after the hounds—”

  “No, no,” hastily interposed the young girl; “I shall never do that. I could not bear to see an animal hurt or killed.”

  “You will have to accustom yourself to seeing such sights, my dear little daughter. Riding and hunting are necessary accomplishments; besides, they strengthen the nerves.”

  “Have not the peasant women got strong nerves, little mama?”

  “Yes; but they strengthen them by hard work, such as washing clothes.”

  “Then let us wash clothes, too.”

  Katharina smiled indulgently on the innocent maid, and the two now entered the manor, where Marie made the acquaintance of Fräulein Lotti, the baroness’s companion.

  Marie’s attention was attracted by the number of books she saw everywhere; and they were all new to her. Ludwig had never brought anything like them to the castle. There were poems, histories, romances, fables. Ah, how she would enjoy reading every one of them!

  “Oh, who is doing this?” she exclaimed, when her eyes fell on an easel on which was a half-finished painting—a study head.

  Her admiration for the baroness increased when that lady told her the picture was the work of her own hand.

  “How very clever you must be, little mama! I wonder if you could paint my portrait?”

  “I will try it tomorrow,” smilingly replied the baroness.

  “And what is this—this great monster with so many teeth?” she asked, running to the piano.

  Katharina told her the name of the “monster,” and, seating herself in front of the “teeth,” began to play.

  Marie was in an ecstasy of delight.

  “How happy you ought to be, little mama, to be able to make such beautiful music!” she cried, when Katharina turned again toward her.

  “You shall learn to play, too; Fräulein Lotti will teach you.”

  For this promise Marie ran to Fräulein Lotti and embraced her.

  While at dinner Marie suddenly remembered that she had not yet seen the little water-monster, and inquired about him.

  The baroness told her that the boy had gone back to his fish companions in the lake; then asked: “But where did you ever see the creature?”

  Marie hesitated a moment before replying; a natural modesty forbade her from confessing to Ludwig’s betrothed wife that he had taught her how to swim, and had always accompanied her on her swimming excursions in his canoe.

  “I saw him once with you in the park, when I was looking through the telescope,” she answered, with some confusion.

  “Ah! then you also have been spying upon me?” jestingly exclaimed the baroness.

  “How else could I have learned that you are so good and beautiful?” frankly returned the young girl.

  “Ah, I have an idea,” suddenly observed the baroness. “That spy-glass is here now. The surveyor to whom Ludwig gave it sent it to me when he had done with it. Come, we will pay Herr Ludwig back in his own coin! We will spy out what the gentlemen are doing over at the castle.”

  Marie was charmed with this suggestion, and willingly accompanied her “little mama” to the veranda, where the familiar telescope greeted her sight.

  Two of the windows in that side of the Nameless Castle which faced the manor were lighted.

  “That is the dining-room; they are at dinner,” explained Marie, adjusting the glass—a task of which the baroness was ignorant. When she had arranged the proper focus, she made room for Katharina, who had a better right than she had to watch Ludwig.

  “What do you see?” she asked, when Katharina began to smile.

  “I see Ludwig and the vice-palatine; they are leaning out of the window, and smoking—”

  “Smoking?” interposed Marie. “Ludwig never smokes.”

  “See for yourself!”

  Katharina stepped back, and Marie placed her eye to the glass. Yes; there, plainly enough, she beheld the remarkable sight: Ludwig, with evident enjoyment, drawing great clouds of smoke from a long-stemmed pipe. The two men were talking animatedly; but even while they were speaking, the pipes were not removed from their lips—Ludwig, indeed, at times vanished entirely behind the dense cloud of smoke.

  “For six whole years he never once let me see him smoking a pipe!” murmured Marie to herself. “How much he enjoys it! Do you”—turning abruptly toward the baroness, who was smilingly watching her young guest—“do you object to tobacco smoke?”

  She seemed relieved when the baroness assured her that tobacco smoke was not in the least objectionable.

  Some time later, when reminded that it was time for little girls to be in bed, Marie protested stoutly that she was not sleepy.

  “Pray, little mama,” she begged, “let us look a little longer through the telescope; it is so interesting.”

  But even while she was giving voice to her petition the windows in the dining-room over at the castle became darkened. The gentlemen evide
ntly had retired to their rooms for the night.

  “Oh, ah-h,” yawned Marie, “I am sleepy, after all! Come, little mama, we will go to bed.”

  Katharina herself conducted the young girl to her room. Marie exclaimed with surprise and delight when, on entering the room adjoining the baroness’s own sleeping-chamber, she beheld her own furniture—the canopy-bed, the book-shelves, toys, card-table, everything. Even Hitz, Mitz, Pani, and Miura sat in a row on the sofa, and Phryxus and Helle came waddling toward her, and sat up on their hind legs.

  The things had been brought over from the castle while the baroness and Marie were in the park.

  “You will feel more at home with your belongings about you,” said Katharina, as she returned the grateful girl’s good-night kiss.

  PART VII

  THE HUNGARIAN MILITIA

  CHAPTER I

  When Count Vavel and the vice-palatine disappeared from the window of the dining-room, they did not retire to their pillows. They went to Ludwig’s study, where they refilled their pipes for another smoke.

  “But tell me, Herr Vice-palatine,” said the count, continuing the conversation which had begun at the dining-table, “why is it that six months have been allowed to pass since the Diet passed the militia law without anything having been accomplished?”

  “Well, you must know that there are three essential parts among the works of a clock,” returned Herr Bernat, complacently puffing away at his pipe. “There is the spring, the pendulum, and the escapement. The wheels are the subordinates. The spring is the law passed by the Diet. The pendulum is the palatine office, which has to set the law in motion; the escapement is the imperial counselor of war. The wheels are the people. We will keep to the technical terms, if you please. When the spring was wound up, the pendulum began to set the wheels going. They turned, and the loyal nobles of the country began to enroll their names—”

  “How many do you suppose enrolled their names?” interrupted the count.

  “Thirty thousand cavalry and forty thousand infantry—which are not all the able-bodied men, as only one member from each family is required to join the army. After the names had been entered came the question of uniforms, arms, officering, drilling, provisions. You must admit that a clock cannot strike until the hands have made their regular passage through all the minutes and seconds that make up the hour!”