The Nameless Castle

by Maurus Jokai

  There were two ladies in the coach. The elder of the two shielded her face from the dust with a heavy veil; the younger lady wore no veil over her pale face, but held in front of it a fan, from behind which she took an occasional look at the variegated plain, where the ripening grain, blended with the green of the meadows, formed a rich, carpet on either side of the road.

  The young officer riding beside the coach sought to entertain the elder lady with observations on the country through which they were passing, and from time to time exchanged tender glances with the younger. These ladies were the wife and daughter of General Guillaume. They were on their way to Raab, where they expected an addition to their party in the person of la Princesse Marie, whom they were going to accompany to Paris. The troop of cuirassiers was their escort.

  “There come some chasseurs on a foraging expedition,” observed the young officer, pointing toward a body of horsemen that was approaching across the green plain.

  And, judging from the appearance of the riders, he was right; for the Volons, in order to deceive the Frenchmen, were bringing with them a couple of loaded hay-wagons, which they were dragging through the middle of the highway.

  While yet a considerable distance away from the approaching chasseurs, the postilions began to blow their horns for a clear way.

  The hay-wagons were turned, in obedience to the signal, but, in turning, the second one ran into the one in advance with such force that the pole was broken clean off.

  In front of the barricade thus formed Vavel halted his men, and commanded them to throw off their French cloaks and helmets. In a second the order was obeyed; the crimson shakos with their grim death-heads were donned, and the troop dashed forward upon the escort accompanying the coach.

  The astonished cuirassiers, who were wholly unprepared for the assault, were soon overpowered by the Volons, who also outnumbered them.

  The youthful leader had at once placed himself in front of the coach, ready for combat with the leader of the attacking foe, and Vavel was obliged to exercise all his skill to disarm without injuring him.

  At the moment when the young French champion’s sword flew from his hand, the younger lady, forgetting all ceremony, cried in terror:

  “Oh mon Dieu, ne tuez pas Arthur!”

  Ludwig Vavel turned toward her, bowed courteously, and said in Talma’s most exquisite French:

  “Do not be alarmed, ladies. You are perfectly safe. We are Hungarian gentlemen!”

  “But what do you want of us?” demanded the elder lady, haughtily surveying the count. “What business have we with you? We do not belong to the combatants.”

  “I will tell this brave young chevalier what I want,” replied Vavel, turning toward the youthful leader. “First, let me restore your sword, monsieur. You handle it admirably, only you need to grasp it more firmly. Then, let me beg of you to mount your horse—a beautiful animal! And third, I beg you to ride as quickly as possible to Raab, and give General Guillaume this message: ‘I, Count Vavel de Versay, have this day taken captive the wife and daughter of General Guillaume. The general holds as prisoners my betrothed wife, Countess Themire Dealba, and my adopted daughter, Sophie Botta, or, if he prefers, la Princess Marie. I demand my loved ones in exchange for Madame and Mademoiselle Guillaume.’ I have no further demands, monsieur, and the sooner you return the better. I shall await you in yonder redoubt, where you see the church-steeple. Adieu.”

  The younger lady, with hands clasped pleadingly, mutely besought the youthful officer to assent. As if he would not do everything in his power to urge the general to consent to the exchange! The young Frenchman galloped down the road toward Raab. Count Vavel took his place beside the coach, and ordered the postilions to drive to Börcs. At first, the general’s wife heaped reproaches on her captor.

  “This is a violation of national courtesies,” she exclaimed irately. “It is brigandage, to waylay and take as prisoners two distinguished women.”

  “Madame’s husband has also detained as prisoners two distinguished women,” in a respectful tone responded Vavel.

  “But my daughter is so nervous.”

  “There is not a more timid creature in the world than my poor little Marie.”

  “At all events, monsieur, you are a Frenchman, and know what is due to ladies of our station.”

  “In that respect, madame, I shall follow General Guillaume’s example.”

  They were now among the gardens of Börcs, where the cherry-trees, heavily laden with fruit, rose above the tall hedges; and very soon they turned into a beautiful street shaded by walnut-trees, which led to the redoubt. The parsonage was the only house of importance in the village. The pastor was standing at his door when Vavel ordered the coach to stop. He assisted the ladies to alight, and begged the pastor to grant them the hospitality of his roof. The request was not refused, and the ladies were made as comfortable as possible.

  “Do you care to see the sights of the village, madame?” asked Vavel of the mother, after they had partaken of the lunch prepared by the pastor’s housekeeper. The young lady, who was exhausted by the journey, had gone to her room. “There is a very old church here which is interesting.”

  “Are there any fine pictures in it?” inquired madame.

  “There is one,—a very touching scene,—’The Samaritan.’ ”

  “Ancient or modern?” queried the lady.

  “The subject is old—it dates back to the first years of Christianity, madame. The execution is modern.”

  “Is it the work of a celebrated artist?”

  “No; it is the work of our clerical host.”

  The lady shook her head; she was uncertain whether Count Vavel was making sport of her or of the pastor.

  But she understood him when she entered the church. The house consecrated to the service of God had become a hospital, and was crowded with wounded French soldiers. The women of the village, as volunteer nurses, were taking care of them, and performed the task as faithfully as if the invalids were their own sons and brothers. The pastor himself supplied the necessary medicines from his own cupboard; for no army surgeon came here at a time when twenty thousand wounded Frenchmen lay at Aspern, and twenty-two thousand at Wagram.

  “Is it not an affecting tableau, madame?” said Count Vavel. “It would be a suitable altar-piece for Notre Dame—and the name of its creator deserves perpetuation!”

  CHAPTER III

  Monsieur le Capitaine Descourcelles rode an excellent horse, was a capital rider, and was plainly very much in love. These three circumstances combined brought back the gallant soldier from Raab by five o’clock in the afternoon.

  The captain of the cuirassiers was not a little surprised to find the general’s wife playing cards with the hostile leader.

  “General Guillaume agrees to everything,” he announced immediately, on entering the room. “He will release the ladies he has been holding as prisoners.”

  Vavel hastened to shake hands with the bearer of these glad tidings, who was, however, more eager to kiss the hand of Vavel’s partner, and to inquire:

  “I hope I find the ladies perfectly comfortable?”

  “Very comfortable indeed,” replied madame. “Messieurs les Cannibales are very polite, and leur Catzique plays an excellent hand at piquet.”

  “And where is mademoiselle? I trust she is not suffering from the fatigue of the journey?”

  “Oh, no; she is very well. She is making her toilet, and will soon join us. I hope we shall leave here very soon.”

  Madame now rose, and left the two soldiers alone in the room.

  “Here,” observed the French captain, handing Vavel a paper, “is the sauf conduit.”

  The pass contained the information that “Vavel de Versay, expatriated French nobleman and magnate of Hungary, together with the Countess Themire Dealba (alias Baroness Katharina Landsknechtsschild) and Sophie Botta (pretended Princess Marie Charlotte Capet), with attendants, were to be allowed to travel unmolested by any French troops they
might chance to meet.”

  Ludwig Vavel looked at this document a long time.

  “Do you doubt the assurance of a French officer, monsieur?” asked the captain.

  “No; I was just unable to understand why a word had been used here. I dare say it is a mistake. But no matter. I am greatly obliged to you.”

  “Pray don’t speak of it,” responded the Frenchman, cordially shaking the hand Vavel extended toward him. “I must not forget to tell you that a four weeks’ armistice was agreed upon to-day.”

  The ladies now entered the room, prepared to continue their journey. The face of the younger one wore a more cheerful expression than on her arrival at the parsonage. Madame thanked Vavel for his courtesy, then, with her daughter, entered the carriage and drove away.

  Madame Guillaume was forgetful: she neglected to take leave of her host the pastor, and of her wounded countrymen in the church.

  Vavel communicated the news of the armistice to his adjutant, and commanded him to return at once with the Volons to Fertöszeg, there to quarter themselves in the Nameless Castle, and await further orders. Then he mounted his horse, and, accompanied by Master Matyas, galloped out of the village.

  Twilight had deepened into night when the two men arrived at Raab. The clocks were striking eight, and the French trumpets were sounding the retreat at every gate. Vavel, therefore, would not be allowed to enter the city until the next morning; but Master Matyas, who did not stop to inquire which was the proper way when he wanted to go anywhere, knew of a little garden that belonged to a certain tanner, and very soon found an entrance along a rather circuitous route among the tan-vats.

  Vavel had already seen battered walls, and dwellings ruined by bombs and flames, yet the thought that he should find his loved ones amid these smoke-blackened ruins oppressed his heart.

  The two men attracted no attention. In the last days there had been many strangers in the city, deputations from the militia camps, to assist in establishing the line of demarcation. Master Matyas, without difficulty, led the way among the ruins to the neat little abode where the worthy vice-palatine had established his protégés. When they came within sight of the house Matyas observed:

  “The two Frenchmen with their bearskin caps are not on guard to-day. The vice-palatine’s servant seems to be doing sentry-duty.”

  Vavel applied his spurs and cantered briskly toward the house, but moderated his speed when he came nearer. He remembered how easily Marie was frightened by the clatter of horse-hoofs.

  At the corner of the street he alighted, and cautioning Matyas to exercise slowly the fatigued horses, proceeded on foot to the house.

  The servant on guard at the door saluted in military fashion with drawn sword. Ludwig hurried into the house. In the hall he encountered the little Laczko, who, at sight of the visitor, dropped the boot and brush he held in his hands, and disappeared through a door at the end of the hall. Vavel followed him, and found himself in the kitchen, where the widow of Satan Laczi also dropped to the floor the cooking-utensil she had in her hand.

  The count did not stop to question her, but went on into the adjoining room, whence proceeded the sound of voices, and here he found three acquaintances—the vice-palatine, Dr. Tromfszky, and the surveyor, Herr Doboka. The three started in alarm when they beheld Vavel. The doctor even made as if he would rush from the room—as when in the Nameless Castle the furious invalid had seized his groom by the throat.

  The expressions on the three startled countenances brought a sudden fear to Ludwig’s heart.

  “Is any one ill here?” he asked.

  The vice-palatine and the doctor looked at each other, but did not speak; the surveyor began to stammer:

  “I say—I say that—”

  “Is Marie ill?” interrupted Vavel, excitedly.

  Herr Bernat silently nodded assent, and pointed toward the door leading into the next room.

  Vavel did not stop to inquire further, but strode into the adjoining chamber.

  What a familiar little room it was, another fairy-like retreat like that of the Nameless Castle! Here were Marie’s toys, her furniture; the four cats were purring in the window-seat, and the two pugs lay dozing on the sofa.

  A canopy-bed stood in the alcove, and among the pillows lay Marie. Katharina was sitting by the bedside.

  “Oh, God!” cried Vavel, in a tone so full of anguish that every one who heard it, man, woman, and child, burst into tears. The invalid among the pillows alone laughed—laughed aloud for joy.

  And had she not cause to rejoice? Ludwig—her Ludwig—did not hasten first to embrace and kiss his betrothed wife. No, she, his little Marie, was the first!

  He flung himself on his knees by the bed and covered the pale face with kisses and tears.

  “Oh, my dearest! My adored saint! My idol!” he sobbed, while Marie’s face glowed with the purest earthly happiness.

  She pressed Ludwig’s head to her breast and whispered soothingly:

  “Don’t grieve, Ludwig; I am not going to die. I have not got that horrid influenza poor papa Cambray brought with him from Paris. I took a little cold the night we ran away from the bombs; but I shall soon be well again, now that you are come. I want to live, Ludwig, and you, who rescued me from death once before, will know how to do it again.”

  Katharina laid her hand tenderly on the maid’s head, and said gently:

  “Don’t talk any more now, dearest; you know you must not excite yourself.”

  Marie grasped the white hand and drew it down to Ludwig’s lips.

  “Kiss it, Liadwig; kiss this dear, good hand. Oh, she has been a good little mother to me! She has wept so much because of me. If only you knew what she had planned to do when they were going to tear me away from her! But that danger is past, and now that you are come everything will be well. We have been reading about you, Ludwig. What a hero you are—our knight, St. George! I haven’t been really ill, you know, Ludwig; it was only anxiety about you. I shall soon be well again. Please tell the doctor I don’t need any more medicine. I want to get up—I feel strong already. I want to put on my gown; then I will take your arm and Katharina’s, and we three will promenade to the window. I want to see the evening star. Please send Frau Satan to me; she can lift me more easily than Katharina, for I am very heavy. Ludwig, take Katharina into the next room while I am dressing. I know you have much to say to each other.”

  Frau Satan now entered in answer to the summons. The doctor had ordered that the invalid’s wishes must be obeyed.

  Ludwig and Katharina went into the next room. They looked long into each other’s eyes, and in the gaze lay many of the thoughts which, if they cannot be told to the one person on earth, are never heard by any one else. Suddenly Katharina, without word of warning, dropped on her knees at her lover’s feet, seized his hand, and laid her face against it.

  “You are my guardian angel,” she whispered (the invalid in the next room must not be disturbed by the sound of voices); “you have rescued that saint from her enemies and saved me from perdition. Oh, Ludwig, if only you knew what I have suffered! Marie’s every sigh, the feverish words uttered in her delirium, have been so many accusations oppressing my heart. These have been terrible days! To be compelled hourly to dread either of two horrible blows, and to have to pray to God that, if both could not be averted, to let the milder one fall! Death would have been welcome, indeed, compared to the other one. To listen tremblingly, hour after hour, for the knock at the door which would announce the messenger sent to bear Marie to Paris, or death with his scythe to bear her to the grave! And then to have to look on her sufferings, and hear her pray for her betrayer! Oh, it was terrible, terrible! Ludwig, you are just—as God is just. I have suffered as any woman in the Bible suffered. You have taken my load of sorrow from me, have released my heart from the tortures of perdition. All the evil I have done, you have made good. Therefore, do you pronounce judgment on me. Condemn me or forgive me. I deserve both; I will accept either at your hands.”

&n
bsp; Without a word Ludwig Vavel raised the woman to her feet, clasped her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers in a long, long kiss. In it were forgiveness, love, union.

  From the adjoining room came the sounds of a piano. Some one was playing the hymn of the Hungarian militia.

  Ludwig and Katharina hurried into the room. Marie was seated at the piano, arrayed in her favorite blue gown. Her transparent hands hovered over the ivory keys, and lured from them the melancholy air, to which she sang, in a voice that seemed to come from the distant clouds:

  “Was kleinliche Bosheit ausgedacht,

  Hat unserer Liebe ein Ende gemacht.”

  At the last word her arms sank to her sides; the exertion had completely exhausted her. But she struggled bravely to overcome her weakness. She smiled brightly at Ludwig and Katharina, and said:

  “This melancholy song was not intended for you two. It was only to show Ludwig how I have improved. You two will love each other very dearly, won’t you? And you will go far, far away from here, and leave ‘Marie’ buried in her tomb. I don’t mean myself; I mean the troublesome girl who has made so much ill feeling in the world, because of whom so many people have suffered; the girl whose ashes rest there in the steel casket, and whose life was so sad that she had no desire to live longer. But ‘Sophie’ is going with you out into the world. She will see how happy you two can be. And now, help me to the window; I want to look at the evening star,”

  They rolled her arm-chair to the window, and Vavel opened the sash to admit the fresh air from the garden.

  Marie clasped Ludwig’s and Katharina’s hands in both her own, and whispered in a faint voice:

  “You will forget the past, will you not? or think of it only as a dream—a disagreeable dream. And don’t go back to the Nameless Castle. The veiled woman, the locked doors, the silent man, the telescope, the lonely promenades in the garden—all, all were dreams. Don’t think of them! Forget them all! The clanking swords, the thunder of cannons—all these were not. We only dreamed it. We never lived under the shadow of a throne. Who was Marie? A sovereign of cats, and crown princess in the realm of little dogs and birds—a nursery tale to tell naughty little children who will not go to sleep! But Sophie Botta will be here tomorrow, and the next day, and always; she will be with you, the silly, stupid little maid, who can do nothing but obey those whom she loves with all her heart.”