Manasseh: A Romance of Transylvania
by Mór Jókai · English · Gutenberg #20892 · 428,492 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Manasseh: A Romance of Transylvania
Author: Mór Jókai
Translator: Percy Favor Bicknell
Release date: March 24, 2007 [eBook #20892]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20892
Credits: Produced by Todd Fine, Janet Blenkinship and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MANASSEH: A ROMANCE OF TRANSYLVANIA ***
Produced by Todd Fine, Janet Blenkinship and the Online
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material from the Google Print project.)
Manasseh
A Romance of Transylvania
Retold from the Hungarian of
Dr. Maurus Jókai
Author of
"Black Diamonds," "Pretty Michal," "The
Baron's Sons," etc.
By
Percy Favor Bicknell
Translator of "The Baron's Sons"
Boston
L. C. Page & Company
1901
_Copyright, 1901_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
Colonial Press
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds &. Co.
Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE vii
I. FELLOW-TRAVELLERS 1
II. A LIFE'S HAPPINESS AT STAKE 13
III. AN INTRUDER EXPELLED 19
IV. A BIT OF STRATEGY 24
V. HOLY WEEK IN ROME 34
VI. THE CONSECRATED PALM-LEAF 52
VII. AN AUDIENCE WITH THE POPE 60
VIII. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR 65
IX. THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 79
X. THE FOURTEENTH PARAGRAPH 90
XI. THE DECISION 103
XII. A GHOSTLY VISITANT 109
XIII. A SUDDEN FLIGHT 127
XIV. WALLACHIAN HOSPITALITY 137
XV. BALYIKA CAVE 158
XVI. A DESPERATE HAZARD 179
XVII. IN PORLIK GROTTO 188
XVIII. TOROCZKO 198
XIX. A MIDNIGHT COUNCIL 213
XX. MIRTH AND MOURNING 231
XXI. THE SPY 245
XXII. THE HAND OF FATE 256
XXIII. OLD SCORES 266
XXIV. A CRUEL PARTING 292
XXV. SECRETS OF THE COMMISSARIAT 302
XXVI. SOLFERINO 307
XXVII. AN HOUR OF TRIAL 314
XXVIII. A DAY OF RECKONING 318
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
A few words of introduction to this striking story of life in
Szeklerland may not be out of place.
The events narrated are supposed to take place half a century ago, in
the stirring days of '48, when the spirit of resistance to arbitrary
rule swept over Europe, and nowhere called forth deeds of higher heroism
than in Hungary. To understand the hostility between the Magyars and
Szeklers on the one hand, and the Wallachians on the other,--a state of
feud on which the plot of the story largely hinges,--let it be
remembered that the non-Hungarian elements of the kingdom were
exceedingly jealous of their Hungarian neighbours, and apprehensive lest
the new liberal constitution of 1848 should chiefly benefit those whom
they thus chose to regard as enemies. Therefore, secretly encouraged by
the government at Vienna, they took up arms against the Hungarians. The
Croatians and Serbs, under the lead of Ban Jellachich and other imperial
officers, joined in the revolt. The most frightful atrocities were
committed by the insurgents. Hundreds of families were butchered in cold
blood, and whole villages sacked and burned. These acts of massacre and
rapine were especially numerous on the eastern borders of Transylvania,
among the so-called Szeklers, or "Frontiersmen," in whose country the
scene of the present narrative is chiefly laid.
The Szeklers, who also call themselves Attilans, claim descent from a
portion of that vast invading horde of Attila the Hun, which fell back
in defeat from the battle of Châlons, in the year 451, and has occupied
the eastern portion of Transylvania ever since. The Magyars are of the
same or a nearly kindred race, and speak the same language; but their
ancestry is traced back to a later band of invaders who forced their way
in from the East early in the tenth century. The Wallachians, or
"Strangers," form another considerable group in the population of
Hungary. "Rumans" they prefer to call themselves, and they claim descent
from the ancient Dacians, and from the conquering army led against the
latter by Trajan. Besides these, Germans, Croatians, Serbs, Ruthenians,
Slovaks, and other races, contribute in varying proportions to the
heterogeneous population of the country.
The Hungarian title of the book is "Egy az Isten,"--"One is the
Lord,"--the watchword of the Unitarians of Transylvania. The want of an
adequate English equivalent of this motto has led to the adoption of
another title. In this, as in all the author's romances, love, war, and
adventure furnish the plot and incident and vital interest of the
narrative.
As early as 1568, three years after the introduction of Unitarianism
into Poland, John Sigismund Szapolyai, the liberal and enlightened
voivode of Transylvania, issued a decree, granting his people religious
toleration in the broadest sense. The establishment of the Unitarian
Church in Hungary, on an equal footing with the Roman Catholic, the
Lutheran, and the Calvinist, dates from that time. Through many trials
and persecutions, through periods of alternate prosperity and adversity,
it has bravely maintained its existence up to the present day, and now
numbers nearly sixty-eight thousand members. Though a comparatively
small body, the Unitarians of Hungary "hold together well," as our
author says, and exert an influence in education and in all that makes
for the higher life, quite out of proportion to their numbers.
As in so many of Dr. Jókai's novels that have appeared in English, it
has been found necessary to abridge the present work in translation. Not
until we have endowed publishing houses which can afford to disregard
the question of sales, shall we see this author's books issued in all
their pitiless prolixity, in any country or language but his own. It is
to be noted, in conclusion, that the excessive wealth of incident with
which the following story abounds is characteristic of the author's
style. Broken threads and occasional inconsistencies are found in all
his works, and if they are met with here, it is not because of, but in
spite of, the abridgment which the book has undergone.
MANASSEH
CHAPTER I.
FELLOW-TRAVELLERS.
Our story opens in an Italian railway station, in the spring of 1848.
From a train that had just arrived, the passengers were hastening to
secure their places in another that stood waiting for them. A guard had
succeeded in crowding a party of two ladies and a gentleman into one of
these itinerant prison-cells, which already contained seven occupants,
before the newcomers perceived that they were being imposed upon. A
vigorous protest followed. The elder of the two ladies, seizing the
guard by the arm, addressed him in an angry tone, first in German, then
in French.
With the calm indifference of an automaton, the uniformed official
pointed to a placard against the wall. _Per dieci persone_ was the
inscription it bore. Ten persons, it seemed, were expected to find
places here.
"But we have first-class tickets," protested the lady, producing a bit
of yellow pasteboard in proof of her assertion.
The guard glanced at it with as little interest as he would have
bestowed on a scarab from the tomb of the Pharaohs. Shrugging his
shoulders, he merely indicated, with a wave of his hand, places where
the three passengers might, perhaps, find seats,--one in this corner, a
second yonder, and, if its owner would kindly transfer a greasy bundle
to his lap, a third over there.
This arrangement, however, was not at all to the liking of either the
ladies or their escort. The latter was altogether disinclined to accept
a seat between two fat cattle-dealers, being of no meagre dimensions
himself.
"We'll see about this!" he exclaimed, and left the compartment in quest
of the station-master.
That dignitary was promenading the platform in military uniform, his
hands behind his back. The complainant began to explain the situation to
him and to demand that consideration to which his first-class ticket
entitled him. But the _illustrissimo_ merely opened his eyes and
surveyed the gentleman in silence, much as a cuttlefish might have done
if similarly addressed.
"_Partenza-a-a!_" shouted the guards, in warning.
The indignant gentleman hurried back to his compartment, only to find
that, in his absence, three additional passengers had been squeezed into
the crowded quarters, so that he himself now raised the total to
thirteen,--a decidedly unlucky number. The ladies were in despair, and
their attendant had begun to express his mind vigorously in his native
Hungarian, when he felt himself touched on the elbow from behind, and
heard a voice accosting him, in the same tongue.
"My fellow-countryman, don't heat yourself. Not eloquence, but
backsheesh, is needed here. While you were wasting your breath I had a
guard open for me a reserved first-class compartment. It cost me but a
trifle, and if you and your ladies choose to share it with me, it is at
your service."
"Thank you," was the reply, "but we shall not have time to change; we
had only two minutes here in all."
"Never fear," rejoined the stranger, reassuringly. "The _due minute_ is
a mere form with which to frighten the inexperienced. The train won't
start for half an hour yet."
The two ladies were no less grateful to their deliverer than was
Andromeda of old to the gallant Perseus. They gladly accepted the
comfortable seats offered them, while their escort took a third, leaving
the fourth for their benefactor, who lingered outside to finish his
cigar. At the second ringing of the bell, he gave his half-smoked
Havana to a passing porter, mounted the running-board of the moving
train, and entered his compartment.
Seating himself, the young man removed his travelling-cap and revealed a
broad, arched forehead, surmounted by a luxuriant growth of hair. Thick
eyebrows, bright blue eyes, and a Greek nose were the striking
characteristics of his face, which seemed to combine the peculiarities
of so many types and races, that an observer would have been at a loss
to classify it.
The other gentleman of the party was of genuine Hungarian stock, stout
in figure and ruddy of countenance, with a pointed moustache, which he
constantly twirled. The younger of the two ladies was veiled, so that
only the graceful outlines of a face, evidently classic in its
modelling, were revealed to the eye. But the elder had thrown back her
veil, exposing to full view an honest, round face, blond hair, lively
eyes, and lips that manifestly found it irksome to maintain that silence
which good breeding imposes in the presence of a stranger.
The ladies' escort was a very uneasy travelling companion. First he
complained that he could not sit with his back toward the engine, as he
was sure to be car-sick. The young stranger accordingly changed places
with him. Then he found fault with his new seat, because it was exposed
to a draught which blew the cinders into his eyes. Thereupon the young
man promptly volunteered to close the window for him; but this only made
matters worse, for fresh air was indispensable. At this, the blond lady
gave up her place to the gentleman, and he, at last, appeared satisfied.
Not so, however, the lady herself; she was now seated opposite the
stranger, to whom she and her companions were so greatly indebted, and
the feeling of indebtedness is always somewhat irksome.
Women on a journey are inclined to regard a stranger's approach with
some suspicion, and to be ever on the alert against adventurers. A vague
mistrust of this sort concerning the young stranger may have been
aroused by the mere fact that, Hungarian though his language indicated
him to be, he and the ladies' escort indulged in no interchange of
courtesies so natural among fellow-countrymen meeting by chance in a
foreign land. Nevertheless the blond lady strove to assume an air that,
on her part, should signify an entire absence of interest in all things
relating to her _vis-à-vis_. Even when the sun shone in her face and
annoyed her, she seemed determined to adjust the window-shade without
any help from the stranger, until he courteously prevailed on her to
accept his aid.
"Oh, what helpless creatures we women are!" she exclaimed as she sank
back into her seat.
"You have yourselves to blame for it," was the other's rejoinder.
If he had simply offered some vapid compliment, protesting, for example,
that women were by no means helpless creatures, but, on the contrary,
the rulers of the stronger sex, and so of the world,--then she would
have merely smiled sarcastically and relapsed into silence; but there
was something like a challenge in his unexpected retort.
"_Par exemple?_" she rejoined, with an involuntary show of interest.
"For example," he continued, "a lady voluntarily surrenders the
comfortable seat assigned to her, and exchanges with a man who occupies
an uncomfortable one."
The lady coloured slightly. "A free initiative," said she, "is seldom
possible with a woman. She is ever subject to a stronger will."
"Yet she need not be," was the reply; "with the fascination which she
exerts over men she is in reality the stronger."
"Ah, yes; but suppose that fascination is employed over a man by women
that have no right thus to use their power?"
"Then the legitimate possessor of that right is still at fault. If
fascination is the bond by which the man can be held, why does she not
make use of it herself? A face of statuesque beauty that knows not how
to smile has often been the cause of untold unhappiness."
At these words the younger of the two ladies threw back her veil,
perhaps to gain a better view of the speaker, and thus revealed just
such a face as the young man had referred to,--a face with large blue
eyes and silent lips.
"Would you, then," the elder lady continued the discussion with some
warmth, "have a wife employ the wiles of a coquette toward her own
husband, in order to retain his love?"
"I see no reason why she should not if circumstances demand it."
"Very good. But you must admit that a wife is something more than a
sweetheart; maternal duties and cares also enter into her life, and
when, by reason of her exalted mission as a mother, anxieties and fears
will, in spite of her, depict themselves on her face, what then becomes
of your pretty theory?"
The attack was becoming too warm for the young stranger, and he hastened
to capitulate with a good grace. "In that case, madam," he admitted,
"the husband is bound to show his wife nothing but the purest devotion
and affection. The Roman lictors were, by the consul's orders, required
to lower their fasces before a Roman matron; she was undisputed mistress
in her sphere. The man who refuses to render the humblest of homage to
the mother of his children deserves to have a millstone hung about his
neck and to be cast into the sea."
The blond lady seemed softened by this unconditional surrender. "Are you
on your way to Rome, may I ask?" she presently inquired, her question
being apparently suggested by the other's reference to ancient Roman
customs.
"Yes, that is my destination," he replied.
"You go to witness the splendid ceremonies of Holy Week, I infer."
"No; they do not interest me."
"What!" exclaimed the lady; "the sublimest of our Church observances,
that which symbolises the very divinity of our Saviour, does not
interest you?"
"No; because I do not believe in his divinity," was the calm reply.
The lady raised her eyebrows in involuntary token of surprise at this
most unexpected answer. She suddenly felt a strong desire to fathom the
mysterious stranger. "I believe the Vatican is seeking an unusually
large loan just now," she remarked, half-interrogatively.
The stranger could not suppress a smile. He read the other's surmise
that he might be of Hebrew birth and faith. "It is not the papal loan,
madam," he returned, "that takes me to Rome; it is a divorce case."
"A divorce case?" The blond lady could not disguise her interest at
these words, while even the statuesque beauty at the other end of the
compartment turned her face fully upon the speaker, and her lips parted
slightly, like the petals of an opening rosebud.
"Yes," resumed the young man, "a separation from one who has denied and
rejected me for the sake of another; one whom I must for ever shun in
the future, and yet cannot cease to love; one whose loss can never be
made good to me. I am going to Rome because it is a dead city and
belongs equally to all and to none."
The train halted at a station, and the young man alighted. After a few
words to the guard he disappeared from sight.
"Do you know that gentleman?" asked the blond lady of her escort.
"Very well," was the reply.
"And yet you two hardly exchanged a word."
"Because we were neither of us so disposed."
"Are you enemies?"
"Not enemies, and yet in a certain sense opponents."
"Is he a Jew or an atheist?"
"Neither; he is a Unitarian."
"And what is a Unitarian, pray tell me?"
"The Unitarians form one of the recognised religious sects of Hungary,"
explained the man. "They are Christians who believe in the unity of
God."
"It is strange I never heard of them before," said the lady.
"They live chiefly in Transylvania," added the other; "but the great
body of them, taken the world over, are found in England and America,
where they possess considerable influence. Their numbers are not large,
but they hold together well; and, though they are not increasing
rapidly, they are not losing ground."
The younger lady lowered her veil again and crossed herself beneath its
folds; but her companion turned and looked out of the window with a
curious desire to scrutinise the wicked heretic more closely. Both the
ladies, as the reader will have conjectured, were strictly orthodox in
their faith.
The train soon started again, after the customary ringing and whistling
and the guards' repeated warning of "_partenza!_" But the young heretic
seemed to put as little faith in bells and whistles and verbal warnings
as in the dogma of the Trinity; for he failed to appear as the train
moved away from the station. The ladies who owed so much to his kindness
could not deny a certain feeling of relief at being freed from the
company of one who cherished such heterodox religious convictions.
"You say you are well acquainted with the young man?" the blond lady
resumed.
"Yes, I know him well enough," was the answer. "His name is Manasseh
Adorjan, he is of good old Szekler descent, and he has seven brothers
and a twin sister. They all live at home in their ancestral castle. Some
of the brothers have married, but all live together peacefully under one
roof and form one household. Manasseh seems to have been recognised by
the family as the gifted one,--his brothers are nothing more than honest
and intelligent Szeklers,--and for his education and advancement in the
world all worked in unison. When he was only twenty years old this young
genius became a candidate for the council. In Transylvania it is the
custom to make the higher government appointments from all four of the
recognised religious sects,--Roman Catholic, Calvinist, Lutheran, and
Unitarian. From that time dates our mutual hostility."
"Then you are enemies, after all."
"In politics, yes. However, I must not bore you ladies with political
questions. Suffice it to say, then, in regard to Manasseh Adorjan, that
a sudden change of government policy, and the defeat of his party, gave
the young man a fall from his proud eminence and led him to turn his
back, for a time at least, on his native land; for he scorned to seek
the preferment that was so easily within his reach by renouncing his
principles and joining the opposite party."
"Now I understand," interposed the blond lady, "what he meant by his
'divorce case,' and his parting with one who had denied and rejected
him, but whom he could never cease to love. Those were his words, and
they referred to his country."
"Yes, probably," assented the other; "for the young man is unmarried."
At the next station the subject of this conversation suddenly
reappeared.
"Ah, we thought you were lost," exclaimed the elder of the two ladies,
with a not unfriendly smile.
"Oh, no, not lost," returned Manasseh; "what belongs nowhere and to no
one cannot be lost. I merely took a seat on the imperial. Come, friend
Gabriel,"--turning to the ladies' escort,--"will you not join me there?
The view is really fine, and we can smoke also."
The one thus familiarly addressed, and whose name was Gabriel Zimandy,
accepted the invitation after a moment's demur. The ladies were left to
themselves.
CHAPTER II.
A LIFE'S HAPPINESS AT STAKE.
"A splendid country this!" exclaimed Gabriel Zimandy, when he had
lighted his meerschaum and found himself at leisure to survey the
landscape. "Too bad the Austrians have their grip on it!"
"Look here," interposed Manasseh, "suppose we steer clear of politics.
Do you agree?"
"Did I say anything about politics?" retorted Gabriel. "I merely alluded
to the beautiful view. Well, then, we'll talk about beautiful women if
you prefer. You little know what a tender spot you touched upon with the
ladies. I refer to the brunette--not to the blond, with whom you were
talking."
"Ah, is the other a brunette? I did not get a good look at her."
"But she got a good look at you, while you were discussing the duties of
women toward their husbands, the subject of divorce, and Heaven knows
what else besides."
"And did I awaken any unpleasant reminiscences?" asked the young man.
"Not in the bosom of your fair antagonist,--she is already a widow,--but
in that of her companion, who sat silent and listened to all you said.
She is on her way to Rome to petition the Pope to annul her marriage."
"Is that so!" exclaimed Manasseh, in surprise. "I should have said she
was just out of a convent where she had been placed to be educated."
"What eyes you have! Even without looking at her you have guessed her
age to a month, I'll warrant! She is my client, the unfortunate Princess
Cagliari, _née_ Countess Blanka Zboroy. You know the family: their
estates are entailed, so that all but the eldest son have to shift for
themselves as best they can. The younger sons go into the army or the
Church, and the daughters are wedded to rich husbands, or else they take
the veil. But it so happened that once upon a time a rich bishop
belonging to this family made a will directing that his property be
allowed to accumulate until it became large enough to provide a snug
fortune of a million florins for each of his relatives; and this end was
recently realised. But by the terms of the will, the heirs are allowed
only the usufruct of this legacy, and, furthermore, even that is to be
forfeited under certain circumstances, as for example, if allegiance be
refused to the reigning dynasty, or if the legatee renounce the Roman
Catholic faith, or, in the case of a woman, lead an unchaste life. Any
part of the estate thus forfeited goes to the remaining legatees in an
equal division, and so you can imagine what a sharp watch the several
beneficiaries under this will keep over one another. A million is no
bagatelle; the game is worth the candle. But to come back to our
starting-point, Countess Blanka was joined in marriage with Prince
Cagliari as soon as she left the convent. You must know the prince, at
least by reputation; he plays no small part in the political world."
"I have met him several times," replied Manasseh.
"At court balls in Vienna, doubtless," said the advocate; "for, old as
Cagliari is, he still turns night into day and burns the candle at both
ends. When he married Countess Blanka he was very intimate with the
Marchioness Caldariva, formerly known to lovers of the ballet as 'the
beautiful Cyrene.' She practised the terpsichorean art with such success
that one day she danced into favour with an Italian marquis who honoured
her with the gift of his name and rank, after which he shot himself. The
marchioness now owns a splendid palace in Vienna, a present from Prince
Cagliari, who, they say, forgot to deliver up the key to her when he
married Countess Blanka. It is even whispered that the marchioness
herself tied the bridegroom's cravat for him on his wedding-day. Well,
however that may be, the prince took the young lady to wife, much as a
rich man buys a horse of rare breed, or a costly statue, or any other
high-priced curiosity. But the poor bride could not endure her husband's
presence. She was only a child, and, up to the day of her marriage, had
no conception of the real meaning of matrimony. The prince has never
enjoyed a moment's happiness with his young wife. His very first attempt
to offer her a husband's caresses caused her to turn deadly pale and go
into convulsions; and this occurred as often as the two were left alone.
The prince complained of his hard lot, and sought medical advice. It was
reported that the young wife was subject to epileptic attacks. A man of
any delicacy would have accepted the situation and held his peace; but
the prince took counsel of his factotum, a certain Benjamin Vajdar----"
An involuntary movement, and a half-suppressed exclamation on Manasseh's
part, made the speaker turn to him inquiringly; then, as the other said
nothing, he resumed:
"This factotum is the evil genius of the family, and the two together
make a pair hard to match. The prince has obstinacy, sensuality,
arrogance, and vindictiveness; and his tool has brains, cunning, and
inventiveness, for the effective exercise of the other's evil
tendencies. Cagliari finally went back to the beautiful Cyrene for
consolation; but she was bent on proving her power over him, and at her
bidding he heaped all sorts of indignities upon his innocent and
helpless wife. At last, to crown all, he instituted divorce proceedings
against her. This was the price he paid to regain the fair Cyrene's
favour, but I am convinced that Benjamin Vajdar is at the bottom of it
all. The prince bases his suit for a separation on his wife's alleged
epileptic attacks and consequent unfitness for the wedded state. Of
course that is all nonsense. I am not an epileptic, nor wont to bite or
scratch people; but I can't approach this Cagliari without experiencing
a sort of foaming at the mouth and a twitching of the muscles, as if I
must pitch into the man, tooth and nail. My view of the case is that my
client finds her husband's attentions so abhorrent that she even swoons
when he offers to kiss her; and so I am going to apply for a total
dissolution of the marriage, for if the other side win their case the
papal edict will forbid a second marriage on the wife's part. And just
imagine a young girl like her, in the first bloom of youth, scarcely
twenty years old, compelled to renounce all hope of wedded happiness. We
are now on our way to Rome to see whether my fair client's personal
appeal may not avail somewhat with her judges. They cannot but take pity
on her if their hearts are human. Prince Cagliari has of late lost
favour at the Vatican, and all the conditions are in our favour; but
there is one man whom I fear,--that cool and crafty Vajdar. I fell in
with him in Venice, and asked him whither he was going. 'To Milan,' said
he, but I knew he lied. He, too, is bound for Rome, and he will be there
ahead of us, or at least overtake us. If we could only reach Rome first,
I am confident we should win the game. But I fear he may be on this very
train. Why, how warm you look! The perspiration stands in drops on your
forehead. Does my pipe annoy you? No? Well, as I was saying, I suspect
the fellow is on this train with us, and if he falls into my hands I'll
wring his miserable neck! He thinks he's going to ruin the young life of
my client and bury her alive, does he? We'll see about that."
"He shall not do it!" exclaimed the other, with emphasis.
"Good for you, my friend! And if you can propose some scheme for balking
him, I'll take my hat off to you. Tell me, now, how can the princess
make sure of outwitting her foes, and so escape the horrible fate of
being buried alive?"
"She can turn Protestant, and then the Church of Rome will have no claim
whatever on her."
"Very good, but how about the million florins left her as a good
Catholic by the bishop?"
Manasseh Adorjan crumbled his cigar in his fingers. "If the princess has
a woman's heart in her bosom," he declared, "she will throw her million
away in return for the love of a true man."
CHAPTER III.
AN INTRUDER EXPELLED.
Meanwhile the train had reached another station, a junction where a halt
was made for refreshments, pending the arrival of a connecting train.
The advocate was hungry, and accordingly made his way to the
dining-room, being first warned by his companion to use despatch, as
otherwise, on returning to the ladies, he might find his compartment
filled.
"And what will you do meantime?" asked Gabriel.
"I have my sketch-book with me," replied Manasseh, "and I am going to
draw the view from my perch up here."
"Ah, I did not know you were an artist."
"Yes, I am an artist, and nothing more."
Upon the arrival of the connecting train and the ensuing scramble for
seats, the ladies of our little party felt some anxiety lest their
privacy should be rudely broken in upon by unwelcome strangers. Princess
Cagliari bent forward and looked down the platform, but immediately drew
back again. Too late, however; she had been seen; and a moment
afterward a young man, of sleek and comely appearance, immaculately
dressed, and carrying in one hand a small cane whose peculiar head
betrayed the fact that it concealed a rapier, sprang lightly on the
foot-board and entered the compartment.
"Ah, what an unexpected pleasure, Princess!" he exclaimed by way of
greeting, lifting his hat and appropriating the corner seat opposite
her.
"Pardon me," said Blanka, "but that seat is engaged. The gentleman who
is with us--"
"Why, then, didn't he leave something--coat, or umbrella, or
hand-bag--in proof of his claim to the seat?" interrupted the intruder.
"The seat is now mine by railway usage, and I cannot deny myself the
pleasure of sitting opposite you, my dear princess."
Blanka controlled her indignation as best she could, but her companion
felt called upon to come to her aid with an energetic remonstrance.
"Mr. Vajdar," said she, severely, "you should know what is expected of a
gentleman in his conduct toward a lady. You are well aware that the
princess cannot endure your presence, nor are you ignorant of the
reason."
The handsome young man drew a gilt pasteboard box from his side pocket,
removed the cover, and offered the contents to the last speaker. "Madam
Dormandy, you are fond of sweets. Permit me to solicit your acceptance
of these caramels. They are freshly made, and are really excellent."
But Madam Dormandy turned her back disdainfully on the peace-offering
and looked anxiously out of the window. "Where can Mr. Zimandy be all
this time?" she murmured, impatiently.
"How long will you continue to dog my steps?" asked the princess,
addressing the intruder in a voice that trembled with passion.
"Only to the grave," was the smiling reply; "there we shall
separate--you to enter the gates of paradise, where I despair of gaining
admission."
"But what reason have you for wishing my ruin?"
"Because you yourself will have it so. Have I ever made any secret of my
designs or of my motives?"
"Are you determined to make me leave this compartment?"
"You would gain nothing by so doing," was Vajdar's cool retort. "I could
not possibly forego the pleasure of your company, in whatever way you
might choose to continue your journey."
"What is your purpose in all this?" demanded Blanka.
"To make you either as happy as a man can make a woman, or as wretched
as only the devil himself can render a human being."
"I defy you to do either."
"Futile defiance! The game is in my hands, and I can make you as one
buried alive."
"God will never allow such an iniquity!" cried the princess.
"Ah, my dear madam, you forget that we are on our way to Rome, where
there are churches by the score, but no God."
Blanka shuddered in spite of herself, and drew her shawl more closely
about her, while her foe crossed one leg over the other and smiled
self-complacently.
The warning cry "_partenza!_" sounded along the platform, and the
ladies' escort came running in alarm from the dining-room and sought his
compartment.
"Have I your seat, sir?" coolly inquired Benjamin Vajdar of the man who
had so lately promised to wring his neck.
"Oh, no, certainly not," mumbled the doughty advocate, in considerable
surprise and confusion, as he caught his breath and meekly looked around
for a vacant place.
A lightning-flash from the blond beauty's eyes and a mocking smile from
the dandy rewarded this courteous forbearance. But the mocking smile
changed the next instant to a sudden expression of disquiet, if not of
actual fear. Manasseh Adorjan stood in the doorway, and Blanka noted a
swift interchange of glances between the young men, like the flashing
of two drawn swords.
"That place is already engaged, sir," said Manasseh, quietly.
Benjamin Vajdar's face flushed quickly, and then as suddenly paled. In
his eyes one could have read rage, hate, and fear, and his right hand
clutched the head of his cane convulsively, as if about to draw the
weapon therein concealed. But Manasseh still stood regarding him
fixedly, and the intruder yielded without a word. Taking up his satchel,
he left the compartment. The whole scene had occupied but a moment. What
was it that gave one of these men such power over the other, like that
of a lion-tamer over his charge?
Manasseh himself took the vacated seat, without offering it to the
advocate, and sat looking out of the window as long as Vajdar was in
sight. At length the train started, and as it soon entered on a stretch
of monotonous, waste territory, Blanka yielded to the drowsy lullaby of
the smoothly rolling wheels, and fell asleep. Once or twice she half
opened her eyes and was vaguely conscious that the young stranger
opposite her was drawing something in the sketch-book that lay open on
his knee. She pushed her veil still farther back from face and brow,
hardly aware what she was doing, and again fell asleep.
CHAPTER IV.
A BIT OF STRATEGY.
A sharp whistle from the locomotive awakened the sleepers.
"Where are we now?" asked Blanka.
"Near Bologna," answered the artist, who alone had remained awake; "and
there I have to leave the train, which continues on, via Imola, to
Ancona."
"You leave the train? But I thought you, too, were going to Rome," said
the princess, in surprise.
"So I am," was the reply, "but by another route. My luggage will go
through to Ancona, and thence by diligence to Rome, while I push on over
the Apennines to Pistoja and Florence. It is a harder road, but its
splendid views amply repay one for an occasional climb on foot by the
_vetturino's_ side; and then, too, I shall reach Rome one day ahead of
you, who go by way of Ancona."
Blanka listened with interest. "Couldn't we take that route also?" she
asked. "What do you say to it, Maria? We could quietly leave the train
at Bologna and let our trunks go on to Rome without us."
"But are the mountain passes safe?" queried Madam Dormandy, turning to
Manasseh. "Is there no danger of highwaymen?"
"Bad men are to be feared everywhere," replied the young man; "but as
for highway robbers, they are much more to be apprehended by those
travelling with valises and trunks than by the tourist that simply
carries a satchel slung over his shoulder, as I intend to do. In my
student days I used to tramp over these mountains in every direction,
and the brigands never molested me. Whenever I fell in with a band I
used to group the men together and sketch them. Artists have nothing to
fear from gentlemen of the road."
"And besides, we are two able-bodied men, and I always carry a brace of
pistols--don't you?" spoke up the advocate, his professional zeal
kindling at the prospect of stealing a march on the enemy.
"I carry no weapons of any kind," calmly replied the artist.
"Oh, I fear no harm from bad men," exclaimed the princess; "there is but
one bad man whom we need to dread."
The others easily guessed to whom she referred; but Gabriel Zimandy was
bent on making her meaning still plainer.
"He'd better not follow us into the mountains!" he cried, "for if the
young rogue falls into my hands he'll wish he'd never been born. Lucky
for him he took our friend's gentle hint; had he kept his seat a moment
longer there would have been serious trouble."
"Ha, ha!" laughed Madam Dormandy; "how surprised he will be when he
fails to find us at Ancona and is obliged to journey on by diligence
with our baggage, but without us!"
"We shall be hurrying on ahead of him over these grand old mountains,"
added the princess, with enthusiasm, her cheeks glowing in pleased
anticipation. "And we have to thank you, Mr. Adorjan, for the
suggestion." With an impulsive movement she extended her hand to the
young artist, who scarcely ventured to touch her finger-tips in return.
"Very well, then," said he, "we will try the mountain road; and let us
take no luggage but what we can carry in our hands. When we come to a
beautiful waterfall we will sketch it, and when we chance upon a fine
view we will celebrate its beauties in song."
"Yes, and people will take us for strolling minstrels," interposed the
princess; "and we must drop our real names and titles. Mr. Zimandy shall
be the impresario, and Madam Dormandy the prima-donna; they can pass for
husband and wife. We two can be brother and sister. What is your
sister's name?"
"Anna."
"Lend me her name for a little while, will you? You don't object?"
Manasseh turned strangely sober. "It would be only for your sake that I
should object," he replied. "The bearer of that name is a very
unfortunate girl."
So they agreed to leave the train at Bologna and take the mountain pass.
It only remained to hoodwink Benjamin Vajdar, and Manasseh Adorjan
promised to effect this. He alighted before the train had fairly
stopped, having first directed the others to go into the waiting-room.
"That young man will not stir from his seat, nor will he even look out
of the window," added Manasseh, with as much confidence as if he had
acquired a talisman which enabled him to control the other's actions.
As the train rolled out of the station the artist rejoined his party,
with the welcome assurance that their enemy was now out of their way.
"Is there a mysterious relation of some sort between you two?" asked
Blanka.
"Yes--one of fear: I tremble every time I see the man."
"You tremble?"
"Yes; I am afraid I shall kill him some day."
With that, and as if regretting that he had said so much, he hurried
away to engage a carriage to take them to Vergato. During his absence
the advocate explained to his client that the Unitarians have an
especial horror of bloodshed. He declared that some of them shrank from
taking even an animal's life and abstained entirely from the use of
meat.
Blanka shook her head incredulously. She could not conceive of a
gentleman's being forbidden by his scruples to use arms when the
occasion demanded. How else, she asked, could he defend his honour, his
loved ones, the women entrusted to his charge?
When the four were seated in their carriage, the gentlemen facing the
ladies, Blanka led the conversation back to the point at which Manasseh
had dropped it.
"You said you feared you should kill that young man some day," she
began. "Does your religion forbid you to kill a man--under any
circumstances?"
"With a single exception," he replied; "but that exception is out of the
question in this instance."
Blanka wondered what the single exception could be, but refrained from
asking. "Are you well acquainted with Mr. Vajdar?" she inquired
presently.
"We have known each other from childhood," was the reply. "Whatever I
possessed was shared with him. His father was my father's steward; and
when the steward proved false to his trust and gambled away a large sum
of money committed to his care, and then shot himself, my father adopted
the little orphan, and always treated him exactly as he did his own
children. He grew up to be a bright and promising young man, and never
failed to win a stranger's favour and confidence. But woe to those that
thus confided in him! My poor sister, my dear, good little Anna, trusted
him, and all was ready for their wedding when he disappeared, deserting
her at the very altar."
Even the shades of approaching nightfall could not hide the expression
of pain on the speaker's face.
"When did this occur?" asked Blanka, gently.
"Last year--in February."
"The date of my marriage, and of my first seeing that man," was Blanka's
silent comment. She pondered the possible connection between the two
circumstances. Benjamin Vajdar had left his affianced bride soon after
seeing Princess Cagliari; he had then entered Cagliari's service as
private secretary, and, a little later, divorce proceedings had been
begun by the prince against his young wife.
"Was it Mr. Vajdar's troubled conscience that made him leave us the
moment you appeared?" she asked, after a pause.
"No," said Manasseh; "he has no conscience. When he has an object in
view, all means are legitimate with him. He knows neither consideration
for others nor shame for his own misdeeds."
"And yet he certainly played the coward before you."
"Because he knows that I possess certain information, certain
documentary evidence, by which, if I chose, I could hurl him down in
confusion and disgrace from any height, however lofty, which he might
succeed in attaining."
"And you refrain from using this evidence against him?"
"To use it would be revenge," replied the young man, calmly.
"Is revenge forbidden where you live?"
"Yes."
"Has your sister never found a balm for her wounded affections?"
"Never. My people are of the kind that loves but once."
"Pray tell me where it is that your people have their home," urged the
princess. "Is it on an island in the moon?"
"Indeed, princess, it is not unlike those glimpses of the moon that we
get through a large telescope when we examine, for instance, the rocky
island known to astronomers as 'Plutarch,' or that named 'Copernicus.'
Everything where I live would seem to you to savour of another planet.
On the maps the place is put down as 'Toroczko.' It is in a mountain
gorge, entered by a narrow path along the riverside and through a cleft
in the rocks. The northern side of this narrow ravine, being in some
measure exposed to the southern sun, is clothed with woods; the
southern is a great wall of bare rock rising in terraces, or giant
steps, that might well suggest the dreariness and desolation of a
landscape in the moon. This barren expanse of naked rock is called the
Szekler Stone, and was formerly surmounted by the castle of a Hungarian
vice-voivode. Its ruins are still to be seen there. The lower slopes of
this mountainside are cultivated now, and the ploughshare is gradually
forcing one terrace after another to yield sustenance to the farmer.
Thus it is that by these cultivated terraces the centuries of the town's
history can be numbered. For there is a village there, deep down in the
rocky ravine, as if on the floor of a volcano's crater, and in that
village live the happiest people in all the world. Do not think me
unduly prejudiced by the fact that I am one of them. No, I am not
prejudiced. Strangers also find no terms of praise too high for those
happy and industrious people. Noted English and German travellers have
visited my native valley and afterward written books about it, as other
travellers have about Japan or Circassia. Indeed, those two countries
have something in common with my own. My people have developed and
perfected industries peculiar to themselves, as have the Japanese, and
they also are proud of their handsome women, as are the
Circassians--except that the girls of Toroczko are not for sale, nor,
for that matter, are they to be had by foreigners, even for love. Their
charms bloom only for their own countrymen, and by them they are
jealously guarded. They never work in the fields, and so their fair
faces are never tanned or freckled. The young maidens keep their rooms,
and spin, weave, and embroider for their own adornment. When Sunday
comes and they all go to church, they fill six benches and form a
veritable 'book of beauties,' of various types, both blond and brunette,
which, however, one cannot so easily distinguish, owing to the richly
worked kerchiefs under which their hair is hidden. Their entire costume
is snow-white, even to the fine sheepskin bodice worn by each."
"Ah, your young women think of nothing but dress, I fear," remarked
Blanka.
"By no means," protested Manasseh; "on the contrary, their childhood and
youth are largely devoted to education. The people of our little valley
maintain a high school for boys and a seminary for girls, as well as a
charity school for the poor."
"Then your people must be rich."
"No, not rich. There are no lords or ladies among them, and they have
suffered more from the ravages of war than any other community in
Hungary."
"But how," asked Blanka, "can they afford to dress their young women in
silks and laces, and give both boys and girls an education? They must
have some fairy talisman for conjuring wealth out of the rocks on which
their houses stand."
"And so they have. Their talisman is industry, and out of their rocky
soil they conjure riches in the shape of iron,--the best that can be
found in all Transylvania. The same men that fill the church every
Sunday, in holiday attire, dig and delve under ground the remaining six
days of the week. Another secret of their modest wealth is their
abstinence from strong drink. There is not a single grog-shop in
Toroczko. But I fear I am wearying you."
Blanka begged him to continue, and took occasion to ask him why he did
not go back to the beautiful valley which he seemed to love so warmly.
"Because," was the answer, "my people are now enjoying a period of
happiness in which I have no part. If misfortune should ever overtake
them, I should go back and strive to lighten it, or at least I would
bear it with them."
CHAPTER V.
HOLY WEEK IN ROME.
It was evening when the travellers reached Rome. They had accomplished
the journey in the time promised by Manasseh, and now the query was
raised, could their enemy, by any possibility, have outstripped them?
Upon the coachman's inquiring to what hotel he should take his
passengers, Gabriel Zimandy drew out his memorandum-book and read the
name of a house recommended to him by his landlord at Vienna. European
innkeepers, be it observed, join together in a sort of fraternity for
mutual aid in a business way, passing their guests along from city to
city and from hand to hand, sometimes even providing them with letters
of introduction.
The cards of the hotel in question bore the important announcement,
"German is spoken here;" and this was an advantage not to be despised.
"You will come with us, won't you?" said the advocate, turning with a
courteous bow to Manasseh.
"Where German is spoken? No, I thank you. If I announce myself as a
Hungarian, they will kiss my hand and then charge the kiss on the bill;
if I say I am a German, I shall get a drubbing and be charged for that,
too. I prefer to hunt up a modest little inn where, when I register from
Transylvania, the good people will think it is somewhere in America,
perhaps in the neighbourhood of Pennsylvania. The Yankees, you know, are
highly respected in Italy."
"I regret exceedingly--" began the advocate. "Among so many strangers it
would have been very pleasant to have----"
"At least one enemy within call," interrupted the young man, with a
smile. "Well, you see, I am likely to be in Rome some time; so I shall
look up a quiet room for myself near the Colosseum, where the sun shines
and I can carry out certain plans of my own."
The carriage turned into a brilliantly lighted street and passed a
stately palace before which a richly sculptured fountain was sending its
streams of sparkling water into the air.
"The Palazzo Cagliari," remarked Manasseh, but without any significant
emphasis.
A natural impulse of curiosity moved Blanka to turn and look at the
ancestral mansion of her husband's family. A moment later Manasseh
signalled the driver to stop, and alighted from the carriage after
shaking hands with his fellow travellers. Gabriel Zimandy said they
should be sure to meet again soon; Madam Dormandy hoped they might all
go sightseeing together in a few days; but Blanka said nothing as she
bowed her farewell.
Reaching their hotel, our three travellers were greeted by the landlord
with unmistakable tokens of surprise.
"And have your excellencies met with no mishap on the way?" he took
early occasion to inquire.
"Certainly not. Why?"
"Your coming was announced in advance by our Vienna agent, and
accordingly we reserved rooms for you. But at the same time another
guest was also announced, a gentleman of high station from Hungary; and
this afternoon word came that this gentleman and all his party had been
captured by bandits in the ravine at the foot of Monte Rosso, and
carried off into the mountains, where they will have to stay until their
ransom is forthcoming. We feared your excellencies were of the party."
"No," said Gabriel; "we came by way of Orvieto."
"Lucky for you!" exclaimed the landlord.
"What is the name of the gentleman you refer to?" asked the princess, in
a tone that betrayed the keenness of her interest.
"It's a queer name," answered the landlord, "and I can't remember it.
But I'll find it for you in my letters of advice and send it up to your
room."
Blanka had hardly laid aside her wraps when a waiter knocked at her door
and presented a card on a silver salver. "Conte Benjamino de Vajdar" was
the name she read in the landlord's handwriting.
* * * * *
On the following morning, Blanka sent for the hotel-keeper and desired
him to procure for herself and her two companions admission tickets to
all the sacred ceremonies of the coming week. The worthy man fairly
gasped at the coolness of this request. Tickets to the Sistine Chapel,
to the Tenebræ, to the Benediction, and to the Glorification--and for
three persons? Why, money couldn't buy them at that late hour, he
declared. Admission tickets to paradise would be more easily obtainable.
At the very utmost, places might still be procured on some balcony
overlooking the Piazza di San Pietro, but only at extremely high prices.
Yet the view from such a position would be a fine one; and mine host,
without waiting to listen to any objections, hastened away to secure
tickets, if they were still to be had.
The princess made her lament to Gabriel Zimandy over her poor success in
obtaining what she so ardently desired, and that gentleman sought to
console her with the assurance that it was highly venturesome for
ladies to trust themselves in the crowd that always attended the church
ceremonies of Holy Week, and that she could read all about them much
more comfortably in the newspapers. Blanka, however, took so much to
heart the disappointment of her pious wishes, and came so near the point
of tear-letting, that the advocate felt obliged to sally forth in person
to see what he could do to console her. In less than an hour he was back
again, breathless and exultant. He ran up-stairs with the agility of a
much younger and less corpulent man, and hastened to the princess's
room, regardless of the fact that she was at the moment under her
hair-dresser's hands.
"Victory!" he cried, panting for breath. "The impossible is achieved,
and here are tickets for all three of us--to everything--to the Tenebræ,
the washing of feet, the Last Supper, the Resurrection, the relics, the
Benediction--"
"But how did you get them?" interrupted the ladies, overcome with
curiosity. Madam Dormandy had come hurrying out of her room at the first
sound of his voice, and she and the princess now proceeded to pelt their
victorious envoy with a volley of questions.
"Well, you see," replied the lawyer, gradually recovering his breath,
"it is a curious story. As I was tearing across the Corso, intent on my
errand, I felt some one catch me by the coat-tail and heard a voice
call to me in Hungarian, 'Haste makes waste!' I wheeled about, and there
stood our Arian friend."
"Manasseh Adorjan?"
"Yes. He asked me if we had our affairs all in order, and I told him, by
no means. I complained to him of our ill luck in securing tickets to the
sacred ceremonies, and that it seemed impossible to get even anywhere
near the Vatican. 'Well,' said he, with that confoundedly serious
expression of his that you don't know whether to take as a sign of jest
or earnest, 'let me see if I can't make it possible for you.' 'But,'
said I, 'you don't imagine that you, a fallen statesman and an Arian
heretic, can gain what is denied to Spanish princesses of the strictest
orthodoxy?' 'You shall soon see,' he answered, and proceeded to lead me
through one crooked street after another, until we found ourselves in
front of a palace, at whose door a military watch was posted. He handed
his card to the doorkeeper, and presently we were ushered into an
anteroom, where Adorjan left me while he himself went with a man who
seemed to be a private secretary, or something of the sort, into the
next room. It wasn't long before he came out again and put three cards
into my hand. 'There they are,' said he. 'Why, you are a regular
magician!' I couldn't but exclaim. 'Oh, no,' he replied, 'I am no
Cagliostro; the explanation is simple enough. This is the French
embassy, and Monsieur Rossi is an old friend of mine. I have visited his
family often. So when I asked him for tickets to all the ceremonies of
Holy Week for two Hungarian ladies and their escort, he gave them to me
at once. But now you must look sharp, for cards enough have been given
out to fill the Sistine Chapel six times over, and there will be a
scramble to get in.'"
The princess was as pleased as a child. Her dearest wish was gratified;
but, singularly enough, she owed this gratification to the very man whom
she felt the necessity of avoiding and forgetting. It was, however, to
the mysterious charm of the approaching ceremonies that she looked for
an effective means of diverting her thoughts from forbidden channels.
Yet the fact remained that he himself had opened the way for her to this
earnestly desired distraction, and to Blanka it seemed as if his
influence over her was only increased and strengthened by his absence.
"What return, pray, did you make for all this kindness?" she asked.
"A very ungracious one, I fear," replied Gabriel. "After receiving these
tickets, which are worth many times their weight in gold, I told our
benefactor that I feared they would profit us little, unless he procured
one for himself, also, and acted as our guide."
"You asked him to escort us?" exclaimed the princess, consternation in
her tone.
"I know it was a strange request," admitted the advocate, "to ask a
heretic to witness the Passion, and the Resurrection, and the
Glorification. It is like burning incense before his Satanic Majesty.
Naturally enough, he refused at first point-blank, alleging that he had
no right to thrust himself as attendant on two ladies without their
invitation. 'Well, then,' said I, 'don't go as the ladies' escort, but
just show me, your fellow countryman, the way about, else I shall
certainly get lost, and find myself in the Catacombs instead of the
Vatican.' Finally, I forced him to yield, and so he is to accompany us."
In the afternoon of the same day Manasseh Adorjan called on the
princess, and brought her a piece of good news of the utmost importance.
Her trunks, and those of her friends, had arrived safely and promptly,
and were at the custom-house. She had concluded that they had fallen
into the bandits' hands, but it seemed that it was not the diligence,
after all, that the robbers had waylaid; it was a post-carriage engaged
by one of the travellers in the hope of reaching Rome a few hours
earlier than the public conveyance. This one traveller only had been
carried off into the mountains by the bandits, who had despatched a
letter from their captive to Rome, addressed to Prince Cagliari, and
presumably relating to the ransom. But as the prince was at present in
Vienna, and postal communication between the two cities was at that time
slow and uncertain, the ransom stood a good chance of being considerably
delayed. This was a hint to the princess to make the most of the
interim, and plead her cause at the Vatican, before her enemy could put
in an appearance and damage her case. Manasseh, however, betrayed no
sign of possessing any knowledge of the pending divorce suit, but
continued to bear himself with the courteous reserve of a new
acquaintance. Two things he sought thenceforth to avoid,--paying court
to the beautiful young princess, and speaking lightly of things held
sacred by her.
Complying with the expressed wish of the two ladies, in the evening he
made with them the round of the principal churches, which now all wore
gala attire. He took his seat on the box by the coachman's side, and
pointed out, in passing, the buildings and scenes of special interest.
In one of the churches he showed the ladies facsimiles of the four nails
used in the Crucifixion; of the originals, one, he explained, was
preserved in St. Peter's, and another had been used to make the circle
of the Iron Crown. He even bought as a souvenir one of these facsimiles,
which a Cistercian monk was offering for sale. He obtained also
consecrated palm-branches with gilded leaves, and bribed the custodian
of the three sacred orange-trees planted by the Apostles to give his
party each a tiny leaflet. He schooled his face to betray no incredulity
when the keepers of the various holy relics recited their virtues, and
related the miracles wrought by them. And when Blanka knelt in prayer
before a statue of the Madonna, he withdrew respectfully to a distance.
It was an earnest petition she offered before the blessed Virgin, a
prayer for rescue from her enemies, and for strength to resist every
temptation. And she knew not that her rescuer and her tempter were one
and the same person, and that he stood there behind her at that very
moment.
Of a highly impressionable temperament, and fresh from her convent life,
the princess was so moved by the sacred emblems about her, and by their
holy associations, that she could not conceive of any one's viewing
these objects with less of awe and reverence than herself. And when her
conductor recounted the legend of the sacred lance in the chapel of St.
Veronica,--how the Roman lictor Longinus had pierced the Saviour's side
with this lance, and been himself struck blind the same instant, but had
immediately recovered his sight when he rubbed his eyes with the hand on
which four drops of the Redeemer's blood had fallen,--Blanka could not
but ask herself whether another such miracle might not be wrought, and
another blind man be restored to sight. She dreamed of this miracle that
night, and made a vow to the Virgin that in case of her deliverance from
her present difficulties, she would show her gratitude by presenting the
Madonna with a jewel more precious than any that adorned her crown: she
would offer this young man himself, who now refused to worship at her
shrine. The princess felt herself rich enough to buy this jewel for her
offering. Her heart held inexhaustible treasures, of which no man as yet
could claim any share. She ceased to fear him against whom she had
hitherto felt obliged to be on her guard; so much strength had she
gained from the sacred relics that she now thought herself strong enough
to make conquests of her own.
In the morning Manasseh came early to escort the ladies and Gabriel
Zimandy to the Sistine Chapel. Upon gaining the Piazza di San Pietro
they found a vast throng already assembled, through which the young man
was forced to pilot his charges. Blanka was compelled to cling fast to
his arm, while Madam Dormandy took the advocate's, and so they made the
best of their way forward. As if by instinct, Manasseh knew where a
courteous request would open a path before them, where to resort to more
energetic measures, and where a couple of _lire_ would prove most
effectual. At length he was successful in gaining the very best
position in the chapel, and here, unfolding a camp-stool which he had
brought with him under his overcoat, he offered Blanka a seat, whence
she could view the ceremonies in comfort, and without annoyance from the
pushing and crowding multitude.
Alas, poor Blanka! She only learned later from her father confessor what
a sin she had committed in thus yielding to the weakness of the flesh,
instead of standing through all the weary hours of that morning. A good
Christian should not think of bodily comfort while his Saviour hangs
bleeding on the cross. But she did not know this at the time, and
therefore her escort's kind attention was most grateful to her.
The Tenebræ is one of the most impressive of all the ceremonies of Holy
Week in Rome. The Sistine Chapel is draped entirely in black, and only
the soft rays of thirteen wax candles serve to lessen the darkness, out
of whose depths, as out of the blackness of the tomb, sounds the
antiphony of mourning and lamentation. The human forms moving to and fro
before the cross are hardly distinguishable, but have the appearance of
vague shadows. Then the candles are, one by one, extinguished, until
only a single taper is left burning on the altar--that is Jesus. And in
this darkness, symbolic of grief and mourning, an invisible choir sings
the _Miserere_, Allegri's world-renowned composition, whose mystic
notes bring so vividly before us that last scene on Golgotha,--the agony
of the dying Saviour, the taunts of the lictors, the wailing of the holy
women, the shrieks of the dead whose graves are opened, and who cry
aloud for mercy, and finally the rending of the Temple curtain, and the
chorus of angels in heaven. All this affects even the most hardened of
skeptics with a power that cannot be withstood. For the time being the
imagination is mistress of the reason.
As the crowd poured out of the chapel after the ceremony was over,
Blanka shot a glance of scrutiny from beneath her veil at the young man
by her side. His face wore its wonted look of seriousness, the utter
opposite of careless indifference, but at the same time wholly unlike
the devout rapture of a believer. In fact, his expression betrayed but
too clearly that his thoughts were little occupied with what he had just
witnessed.
"Have you heard the _Miserere_ many times before?" asked Blanka.
"Twice only,--once in the Sistine Chapel, and again in St. Stephen's at
Vienna."
"But I thought its production was forbidden elsewhere than in Rome,"
said the princess.
"Formerly that was the case," replied Manasseh, "the publication of
Allegri's work being strictly prohibited; but after Mozart had heard it
once and written it down from memory, its reproduction could not be
prevented. So I had a chance to hear it in Vienna, where, however, it
was but ill received, some of the audience even being moved to
laughter."
"For what reason, pray?"
"Oh, not from any frivolity or irreverence, but because the music, which
sounds so grandly impressive here in the Sistine Chapel, strikes one as
a mere confusion of discordant notes amid other surroundings."
On the following day came the washing of the Apostles' feet. Chosen
priests from thirteen nations of the earth gathered in the Pauline
Chapel to receive this humble service at the hands of the Pope himself.
The thirteenth of these chosen ones represented the angel that is said
to have appeared with the appointed twelve in St. Gregory's time. Then
followed the Last Supper, at which also the holy father ministered to
the Apostles in person.
The next day was Saturday, and Gabriel Zimandy declared himself
surfeited with holy ceremonies. Madam Dormandy agreed with him and began
to complain of a fearful headache. Then the two united in maintaining
that the princess looked utterly worn out and in need of rest. But
Manasseh, who, by appointment, just then came upon the scene to offer
his escort for the day, laughed them all three to shame.
"That is always the way," said he; "people tire themselves out so before
Saturday that on that day five-sixths of the crowd stay at home to save
up their strength for Easter, and thus miss one of the most impressive
spectacles of the week,--the adoration of the true cross."
Poor Gabriel was now given no rest: he was forced to accompany the
others once more to the Sistine Chapel, though he declared himself
already quite stiff and sore with so much standing.
The chapel was at its best; the black hangings had been removed, the
light from the windows was softened, candles burned on the altar, and,
as Manasseh had predicted, so many of the sightseers had stayed at home
that ample room was left for those who were present. The general
multitude could find little pleasure in the ceremony of the day,--the
worship of a piece of wood about three yards in length, and unadorned
with gold or silver. The Pope and the cardinals, gowned with no pretence
to magnificence or pomp, knelt before the relic as it lay on the altar.
It was but a fragment of the original cross, broken in the strife that
attended its rescue. This piece is said to have been saved and carried
off by an emperor, making his way barefoot from Jerusalem to Alexandria,
where another emperor concealed the precious relic in a statue, and
finally the Templars bore it in triumph through pagan hordes from
Constantinople to Rome. And now, when the head of the Church, the pastor
of a flock of two hundred million human beings, the keeper of the keys
of heaven, approaches this bit of wood, he strips himself of his
splendid robes, removes the crown from his head, the shoes from his
feet, and goes, simply clad and barefoot, with humble mien, to kneel and
kiss the sacred emblem. The cardinals follow his example, and meanwhile
the choir sings Palestrina's famous composition, the "Mass of Pope
Marcellinus," a wonderful piece that must have been first sung to the
composer by the angels themselves.
When the last notes of the music had died away, the bells of St. Peter's
began to ring, the hangings before the windows were drawn aside, and
Michael Angelo's marvellous frescoes were fully revealed to the admiring
gaze of all present. The swords and halberds of the guards were once
more raised erect, and the choir, the prelates, and the pilgrims joined
in a common "Hallelujah!"
"Hallelujah!" cried Gabriel Zimandy also, rejoicing that the ceremony
was finally ended. "Never before in all my life have I been so
completely tired out."
On his return to the hotel, he stoutly protested against attending any
more Church functions, and argued at length the inadvisability of the
ladies exposing themselves to the heat and fatigue of the Easter
service. Finally, and most important of all, he added that he had been
granted an audience with the Pope and must prepare his address, which
was to be in Latin.
"We are infinitely indebted to you, friend Manasseh," he concluded, "for
all your kindness; but you see for yourself how the case stands with
me."
"Yes, yes, I understand," replied the young man. "The audience is fixed
for day after to-morrow, and of course you wish to prepare for it. Let
me suggest, too, that you pay the French ambassador, to whose house I
took you the other day, the courtesy of a call; he knows a little Latin,
although, to be sure, it can't equal your own."
This suggestion, casual though it was meant to appear, made it evident
to the advocate that he owed the early granting of his request to the
powerful influence of the French minister. And Manasseh, on his part,
was not slow to perceive that the advocate's chief concern was lest his
fair client, at this critical time, should be seen in public in the
company of a strange young man. It might hurt her case irremediably.
With a full understanding of the situation, Manasseh took leave of the
princess, who indeed was looking very down-hearted at the prospect of
missing what she had so ardently desired. But she was schooled to the
denial of her own pleasure, and so quietly shook hands with her
caller--then went to the window to watch his retreating form.
CHAPTER VI.
THE CONSECRATED PALM-LEAF.
Early the next morning the cannon began to boom from the Castle of St.
Angelo. Gabriel Zimandy sprang out of bed and dressed himself quickly.
His first care was to tap at Madam Dormandy's door and inquire for her
health. The patient answered in a pitiful voice that the guns were
fairly splitting her poor head, and that she did not expect to live the
day through. This reply seemed to be quite to the advocate's liking: of
the lady's succumbing to her ailment he had not the slightest fear,
while he now felt assured that it would be impossible for his client to
go out that day. What conception had he, heartless man, of the longing
that filled the young woman's soul for the papal blessing, to which she
ascribed such miraculous power, but which to him was nothing more than a
Latin phrase?
Soon the bells began to ring from all the church-towers of the city, and
a stream of people in gala attire poured toward St. Peter's. Poor Blanka
sat at her window with eyes fixed on a certain corner, around which she
had the day before seen Manasseh Adorjan's form disappear. The clocks
struck twelve, thirteen, fourteen--by Italian reckoning of time; the
crowds began to thin, and at last every one seemed to have betaken
himself to St. Peter's. An open carriage halted in the now deserted
street in front of the hotel, and Blanka recognised in its occupant the
very person whose image had been so persistently before her mind's eye.
"Pardon me, princess, for intruding," began Manasseh in greeting, as he
entered the young lady's presence; "but yesterday I saw that you were
disappointed at not being able to attend the Easter service at St.
Peter's. I have found means to remove that disappointment, I hope."
The princess felt her pulse quicken with eager delight, while at the
same time she shrank back in nameless apprehension of what the young man
might be going to propose.
"I fear it is too late," she replied, quietly. "I am not even dressed
for the occasion."
"You have time enough," returned the other, reassuringly. "The French
minister's wife has kindly offered to take you with her. Seats for the
ladies of the embassy have been reserved and can be easily reached by a
special entrance. They are very near the _loggia_ where the papal
blessing will be pronounced. In an hour Madame Rossi will be here; that
will give you time to get ready."
"And are you going with us?"
"No, that will be impossible, as the reserved seats are for ladies only;
but I will escort Madame Rossi and her daughter to your door, and you
will, I am sure, find them very pleasant company. For myself, I shall
hunt up some sort of a perch where I can get a view of the day's
festivities."
So saying, the young man hurried away.
Against this plan Gabriel Zimandy could raise no objections. Indeed, he
saw the policy of making friends with the French embassy, and as long as
Manasseh was not to accompany the party his professional schemes were in
no wise endangered.
When Manasseh returned with the French ladies he sought the lawyer.
"Come, my friend," he urged, "if your legs have nothing to say against
it, if your religious belief permits, and if you have studied your Latin
speech enough for one day, I will find you a good shady spot where you
can witness what no mortal eye has seen in all these eighteen Christian
centuries, and is little likely to see again in eighteen centuries to
come."
"What may that be?"
"A Pope of the Romish Church, pronouncing his blessing from the _loggia_
of St. Peter's on the Roman army, preparatory to its marching forth to
fight for freedom. Durando's troops are now marshalled in St. Peter's
Square, awaiting the papal blessing on the swords drawn for liberty and
country. It has, I know, been your dream to witness a sight like that,
and now I come to invite you to its realisation."
"Well, well, that is something worth while," admitted the advocate. "The
whole Roman army, and Durando himself! Surely, I can't afford to miss
it." The invitation had driven quite out of his head all the objections
so strenuously urged the day before.
The ladies had no difficulty in reaching the places reserved for them;
for the gentlemen, however, it was not so easy to find even
standing-room. But at length Manasseh guided his companion to one end of
the scaffolding which supported the ladies' platform, and there found
for him a V-shaped seat in the angle of two beams, while he himself
stood on a projecting timber which afforded him room for one foot, and
clung to the woodwork of the platform with both hands. The discomfort of
his position was lightened for him by the fact that, only a few feet
above, he could see Blanka's face as she sat with eyes directed toward
the _loggia_ where the Pope was soon to appear.
It was a grand spectacle. The whole army--infantry, cavalry,
artillery--was drawn up in the immense _piazza_, each regiment carrying
two flags--the banner of the Church, on which were depicted the keys of
heaven, and the red, white, and green flag of Italian freedom. The
background to this scene was furnished by the cathedral itself, a vast
throng of spectators crowded the foreground, and the whole united to
produce an effect of pomp and grandeur that fairly beggars description.
The clocks struck eighteen--midday. The great bell sounded in the
western turret of the cathedral, and the booming of cannon was once more
heard from the Castle of St. Angelo. The service within the cathedral
was at an end, the leather curtains that hung before the great bronze
doors parted, and out poured the procession of pilgrims, until the whole
wide expanse of the portico was filled. Mysterious music fell on the ear
from somewhere above: a military band stationed aloft in the cupola had
struck up a psalm of praise, and it seemed to the listeners to come from
heaven itself. Silver trumpets--so the faithful believe--are used in
rendering this piece.
All faces were now turned toward the _loggia_, a sort of projecting
balcony high up on the front of the cathedral. A sound like the murmur
of the sea rose from the multitude: each spectator was shifting his
position, and seeking a clearer view. Then the _loggia_ became suddenly
filled with moving forms,--cardinals in their splendid robes, knights in
mediæval armour, pages in costly livery. The crown-bearers advanced with
two triple tiaras, one the gift of Napoleon I., the other presented by
the queen of Spain, and both sparkling with diamonds. A third
crown,--the oldest of all, originally simple in form, then a double
diadem, and finally a threefold tiara,--encircled the head of the Pope
himself, who, seated on a golden throne, was borne forward to the stone
breastwork, on which two crowns had been placed by their bearers. The
pontiff rose from his seat and the sun shone full upon his venerable
form. He wore a white robe embroidered with gold, and his appearance was
radiant with light. The benignant smile that illumined his countenance
outshone all the diamonds in his triple crown.
How happy was Princess Blanka at that moment! and hers were the fairest
gems in all that costly array,--two tears that glistened in her large
dark eyes as she gazed intently on the scene before her.
The two youngest cardinals took their stand on either side of the Pope,
each holding a palm-leaf in his hand. Then, over the awed and silent
throng before him, in a voice still strong, sonorous, and vibrant with
feeling, the aged pontiff pronounced his blessing in words at once
simple, sincere, and gracious.
Blanka and Manasseh exchanged glances, and the young man felt a
tear-drop fall upon his cheek. From that moment an indissoluble bond
united the two.
When the benediction was over, a stentorian voice from the multitude
cried, "_Evviva Pio Nono!_" The shout was caught up by all the vast
throng, and sent heavenward in a united cry of ever-swelling volume. Not
merely Pius IX., but St. Peter himself seemed to stand before the
jubilant multitude, opening heaven's gates with one key, and the portals
of an earthly paradise of freedom with another. The two cardinals cast
their palm-leaves down to the people, and as they fell, fluttering
uncertainly, now this way, now that, all eyes followed them to see who
should be the happy ones to secure the precious emblems of benediction
and absolution. One leaf, after hovering in the air a moment, sank in
ever narrowing circles until it lodged on the flag of a volunteer
regiment, whereupon a mighty cheer burst from thousands of throats. The
other, borne hither and thither by shifting breezes, was finally wafted
toward the raised platform where sat the ladies of the French embassy. A
hundred hands reached eagerly for it as it sank lower and lower; but one
arm, extending higher than the others, secured the prize. It was
Manasseh who from his elevated position, intercepted the coveted token
as it fell, and he immediately turned and presented it to Princess
Cagliari, amid a storm of applause from the onlookers.
The princess was a beautiful woman, but at the moment of receiving this
symbol of forgiveness and blessing, her face gained such a look of
radiant happiness as can only be imagined on the countenance of an angel
in his flight to heaven; and to her that precious leaf meant heaven
indeed. But when she turned to thank the giver he had disappeared.
"That was really grand," admitted Gabriel Zimandy, as his friend piloted
him through the surging throng to the nearest cab. "To think of the
Pope's giving his blessing to an army mustered in the cause of liberty!
Such a sight was never seen before."
"No," returned Manasseh; "and you must make haste to push your client's
cause while he is in his present good humour, which may not last."
"But, surely, you don't mean that his Holiness is in any way trifling
with the people, do you?" asked the advocate.
"I am fully convinced," replied the other, "that Pio Nono is a gentle,
good-hearted, upright man, and a gracious pontiff; but I also believe
that, at the very first engagement, the Austrians will give the pious
Durando a most unmerciful whipping. What direction the wind will take in
Rome after that, no mortal can tell. You will do well, however, to make
the most of your time while that palm-leaf is still green."
CHAPTER VII.
AN AUDIENCE WITH THE POPE.
On the following day came the audience with his Holiness, Pius the
Ninth.
The Very Reverend Dean Szerenyi was first sent by the master of
ceremonies to instruct the lawyer and his client in the details of their
approaching interview. This envoy even took pains to indicate in what
sort of toilet ladies were expected to appear. The gown must come up
high about the neck and might be of any colour desired, or of black silk
if the wearer was in mourning. Jewelry was not forbidden. A lackey in
red livery would usher the strangers into the audience-chamber. Their
petition must be carried in the hand. In the throne-room--where ladies
were permitted to gaze to their hearts' content on the splendid display
of Japanese porcelain--the major-domo would marshal the company in a
double file, and there they would wait until his Holiness appeared.
"But look here," interposed Zimandy, with a troubled look, "does the
Pope know I am a Calvinist?"
"He never asks about the religious belief of those who seek an audience
with him. On all alike he bestows his blessing, assuming that all who
court his favour have an equal need of his benediction."
"Are there very many asking an audience at this time?"
"Only eight hundred."
"E-e-e! Eight hundred! How am I ever going to get a chance to deliver my
Latin speech that I have been working on all night?"
"You will not be called upon for it at all. It is not customary in a
general audience with the Pope to make set speeches. His Holiness
addresses whom he chooses, and they answer him. All petitions are taken
in charge by the secretary."
"Then it is lucky I put into mine everything that I intended to say.
Well, give my respects to his Holiness, and tell him I was the one who
made the motion in the Pest Radical Club to have his portrait hung on
the wall in a gilt frame; and if he is a smoker, I should be happy to
send him some superfine--"
But the dean had urgent matters to attend to, and begged to take his
leave without further delay.
Our travellers, with the eager promptness characteristic of Hungarians
on such occasions, were the first to be ushered into the antechamber at
the Vatican. Consequently they had an opportunity to hear the names of
all the other petitioners announced by the footman as they came in by
ones and twos and in little parties. They seemed to be all foreign
prelates, princes, ambassadors, and other high dignitaries; and, in
drawing them up in line, the major-domo gave them all precedence over
our party, much to the latter's humiliation and disgust. It is not
pleasant to stand waiting for a whole hour, only to find at its end that
one is no farther forward than at first.
But when the antechamber was nearly full, a uniformed official entered
by a side door and made his way to the very foot of the line where the
Hungarians were standing.
"Serenissima principessa de Cagliari! Nobilis domina vidua de Dormand!
Egregius dominus de Zimand!"
This ceremonious apostrophe was followed by a wave of the hand, which
indicated that the persons addressed were to follow the speaker, and
that they were granted the special favour of a private hearing before
his Holiness. Through the long hall, past lines of waiting men and
women, they made their way; and as they went, inquiring looks and
suppressed whispers followed them. The princess was recognised by many
as the fortunate recipient of the consecrated palm-leaf on the day
before, and they whispered one to another, "Ah, _la beata!_"
This sudden turn of affairs drove Gabriel Zimandy's Latin speech
completely out of his head, so that he could not have given even the
first word. As he hastened forward in all his court toggery, as he
called it, he could have sworn that there were at least fifty swords
dangling between his legs and doing their best to trip him up. After
passing through a seemingly endless succession of splendid halls and
stately corridors, the party was ushered into an apartment opening on
the magnificent gardens of the Vatican. Here it was that Pio Nono was
wont to receive the ladies whom he favoured with a private audience.
The princess and her companions stood before the august head of the
Church, the sovereign who acknowledges no earthly boundaries to his
dominions. Blanka felt a deep joy in her heart as she looked on that
benignant countenance, her eyes filled with tears, and she sank on her
knees. The Pope bent and graciously raised her to her feet. He laid his
hand on her head, and spoke to her words of comfort which she enshrined
in the inmost sanctuary of her heart.
When the audience was over and our friends had retired, Gabriel Zimandy
could not have given any coherent account of what had passed, nor,
indeed, was he in the least certain whether he had unburdened himself of
his Latin speech, or stuck fast at the _beatissime pater_. Madam
Dormandy, however, was sure to enlighten him as soon as they regained
their hotel. He knew at least that the written petition which he had
carried in his hand was no longer on his person; hence he must have
accomplished his main object.
Madam Dormandy alone seemed to have kept her wits about her through it
all. She was able to tell how the Pope, while Zimandy was stammering
some sort of gibberish,--Hebrew or Greek, for aught she knew,--had taken
his snuff-box from a pocket behind, and smilingly helped himself to a
pinch of snuff. Further, the snuff-box had looked like a common
tortoise-shell affair with an enamelled cover; and after he had taken
his pinch, he had put his hand into the pocket of his gold-embroidered
silk gown and drawn out a coarse cotton handkerchief such as the
Franciscans use.
But these little details had entirely escaped the princess and her
lawyer.
CHAPTER VIII.
AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
One day, when Blanka announced her intention of visiting the Colosseum
for the purpose of sketching it, Gabriel Zimandy declared that he could
not be one of the party, and the two ladies must get along without his
escort. He said he was going to the Lateran, in his client's interest,
and added that he had just received unwelcome news from Manasseh.
"Then you have told him what brought us to Rome," said the princess.
"Are you angry with me for doing so?" asked the advocate.
"No, no; you were quite right. What word does he send you?"
"I'll read you what he says--if I can; he writes an abominable hand.
'While you are seeing the sights of Rome with the ladies,' he begins,
'important events are taking place elsewhere. General Durando has had a
taste of the Austrians at Ferrara, and found them hard nuts to crack. In
his wrath he now proclaims a crusade against them, fastens red crosses
on his soldiers' breasts, and is pushing forward to cross the Po. But
this action of his is very displeasing to the Pope, who does not look
kindly on a crusade by a Roman army against a Christian nation.
Accordingly he has forbidden Durando to cross the Po. If now the general
disobeys, all those whose powerful favour your client at present enjoys
will lose their influence; and should he suffer defeat beyond the Po, as
he well may, your client's enemies could hardly fail to gain the upper
hand. You will do wisely, therefore, to press an issue before it is too
late.'"
"But is it possible that I should be made to suffer for a defeat on the
battle-field?" asked Blanka.
"H'm! _Quidquid delirant reges, plectuntur Achivi_," returned the
advocate, sententiously; and he hurried away without explaining that the
quotation meant,--Whenever kings fall to quarrelling, the common people
suffer for it. Such was the old Greek usage.
Blanka was thus left to find her way to the Colosseum with Madam
Dormandy, under the guidance of an abbot, whom they had secured as
cicerone; and, while the reverend father entertained the young widow
with a historical lecture, the princess seated herself at the foot of
the cross that stands in the middle of the arena, and sought to sketch
the view before her. But her success was poor; she was conscious of
failure with every fresh attempt. Three times she began, and as often
was forced to discard her work and start over again. The Colosseum will
not suffer its likeness to be taken by every one; it is a favour that
must be fought for.
High up on the dizzy height of the third gallery sat a wee speck of a
man with an easel before him. Even through an opera-glass the painter
looked like an ant on a house-top. He wore a broad-brimmed straw hat,
and behind him a large umbrella was opened against the fierce rays of
the Italian sun. Thus protected, he sat there busily at work. Blanka
envied him: he had mastered the mighty Colosseum and caught its
likeness. How had he set about it? Why, naturally enough, he had climbed
the giddy height and conquered the giant from above. She resolved to
come again, early the next morning, and follow his example. With that
she tore the spoiled leaves impatiently from her sketch-book, and threw
them down among the thistles that sprang up everywhere between the
stones of the ruin. It was getting late, and she was forced to return to
her hotel and dress for the theatre.
The way back led past the Cagliari palace, and Blanka noted with
surprise that its iron shutters were open and the first story
brilliantly lighted. The gate, too, was thrown back, giving a view of
the courtyard, which wore rather the aspect of a garden. Who could have
wrought this sudden transformation in the deserted old mansion?
A still greater surprise awaited the princess when she reached her
hotel. The proprietor himself came down the steps to open her carriage
door, assist her to alight, and escort her to her rooms.
"Thank you, sir, but pray don't trouble yourself," began Blanka. "I can
find my way very well alone."
The innkeeper persisted, however, although the double doors to which he
led her, and which he threw open before her, were not those of her own
apartment. The ladies found themselves in a sumptuously furnished
anteroom, from which, through a half-opened door, they looked into a
spacious drawing-room yet more luxuriously fitted up, with oil paintings
on its walls and potted plants in its four corners. Leading out of this
apartment, to right and left, were still other elaborately furnished
rooms, which a footman in gold-braided red livery obsequiously threw
open.
"While the princess was out," explained the hotel keeper, with a bow and
a smile, "I had this suite of rooms put in order for her reception, and
hope they will give entire satisfaction."
"No, no, my dear sir," protested Blanka, "they appear far too
magnificent for my needs, and I prefer to remain where I was. And how
about this footman?"
"A servant of the house, but now dressed in the princess's livery," was
the reply. "Henceforth he is to be at your sole disposal, and a liveried
coachman in a white wig, with a closed carriage, is also ordered to
serve you. All this is in compliance with directions from high quarters.
A gentleman was here in your absence and expressed great displeasure
that Princess Cagliari and her party were lodged in a suite of only four
rooms. Where is his card, Beppo? Go and fetch it."
Blanka had no need to look at the card: she knew well enough whose name
it bore. Controlling her agitation, she turned calmly to the hotel
proprietor. "I must beg you," said she, "not to receive orders from any
one but my attorney. Otherwise I shall feel obliged to leave your hotel
at once. Let my old rooms be opened for me again, and engage no special
servants on my account." So saying, she returned to her former quarters.
With no little impatience she awaited the advocate's return, and as soon
as he appeared questioned him eagerly for news.
"None at all," he answered, wearily. "I've been running around all day,
and have accomplished absolutely nothing; couldn't find the people I
wished to see, and those I did find pretended not to understand a word
I said. If I only knew where that fellow Manasseh had hidden himself!"
"I could tell you," thought Blanka, but did not offer to do so. "Well,"
said she, aloud, "if you have no news, I have. Look at this card."
The lawyer put on his eyeglasses and read the name,--"Benjamin Vajdar."
"Prince Cagliari is in Rome also," added Blanka.
The advocate looked at her. "So Vajdar has been here, has he? Did you
see him?"
"No; but he is sure to come again. I have given orders that he is to be
referred to you. I have nothing to say to him."
"Just let me get hold of him!" cried Gabriel, with menace in his looks,
and then added: "I only wish I knew where to find Manasseh."
"I know," said the princess to herself. She had learned his address by a
curious accident. When she and the young painter went to see the Sistine
Chapel together they were called upon, as are all visitors, to give
their names and addresses. Thus she could not avoid hearing the street
and number of Manasseh's temporary abode, and this street and number she
had afterward written down in her sketch-book--foreign names are so hard
to remember.
When her lawyer had withdrawn she sought her book and turned its leaves
in search of the address. But though she hunted through all the pages
again and again, she could not find the memorandum which she felt sure
she had made. Suddenly she remembered having torn out and thrown away
two or three leaves,--those containing her futile attempts to sketch the
Colosseum.
At this point a letter was delivered to the princess. It was from Prince
Cagliari, and asked Blanka to assign an hour at which to receive him.
She answered the note at once, naming ten o'clock of the following
morning.
Promptly on the hour appointed the prince's equipage appeared at the
hotel door, and he himself came up the stairs, leaning on his
gold-headed cane. He enjoyed the full use of only one foot, although his
gouty condition was not very apparent except when he climbed a flight of
stairs. Ordinarily he showed admirable skill in disguising his defect.
He was still a fine-looking man, and only the whiteness of his hair
betrayed his age. Clean-shaven and of florid complexion, he wore a
constant smile on his finely chiselled lips, and bore himself with a
graceful air of self-assertion that seldom failed of its effect on the
women whom he chose to honour with his attentions.
The head waiter hurried on before him to announce his coming. Blanka met
the prince in her antechamber. He took her offered hand and at the same
time barred the waiter's exit with his cane.
"Is the princess still lodged in these rooms?" he demanded.
The servant could not find a word to say in apology, but the princess
came to his aid.
"I wished to remain here," said she, calmly.
The domestic was then dismissed and the visitor ushered into the next
room.
"I greatly regret," he began, "that you chose to put aside my friendly
intercession on your behalf. These quarters do not befit your rank.
Furthermore, by retaining a Protestant lawyer you appear to challenge me
to the bitterest of conflicts."
"Do you so interpret my action?" asked Blanka, proud reproach in her
tone.
"No, Blanka, assuredly not. Your own noble heart moved you rather to use
mild measures--in spite of your attorney. You generously refrained from
pushing your advantage against me while I was detained elsewhere and
while my secretary was also unavoidably delayed. In return for this
generosity, Prince Cagliari comes to you now, not as your opponent in a
suit at law, not as a husband to claim his wife, but as a father seeking
his daughter. What say you? Will you accept me as a father?"
Blanka was almost inclined to believe in the speaker's sincerity; yet he
had caused her far too much pain in the past to admit of any sudden
reconciliation in this theatrical fashion. She remained unmoved.
"Bear in mind, my dear Blanka," proceeded the prince, "that the key to
the situation is now in my hands. Recent important events have made me a
_persona grata_ at the Vatican, and now the first of the conditions
which I feel justified in imposing on you is that you acquiesce in the
arrangements which, with all a father's forethought, I have made for
your comfort during your sojourn in Rome. If the case between us is to
reach a peaceful settlement, we must, above all things, avoid the
appearance of mutual hostility; and it is a hostile demonstration on the
part of Princess Cagliari to be seen driving about the city in a hired
cab, and occupying, with her party, a suite of only four rooms. My duty
demanded that I should at least offer you the use of the Cagliari
palace, which consists of two entirely distinct wings, with separate
entrances, stairs, and gardens; but I knew only too well that you would
have rejected the offer."
"Most certainly."
"Therefore nothing was left me but to order the apartments in this hotel
commonly occupied by visiting foreign princes to be placed at your
disposal. No burdensome obligation, however, will be incurred by you in
acceding to this arrangement, as I shall, in the event of our
separation, see that the expense is deducted from the allowance which I
shall be required to make you."
Blanka, who was naturally of a confiding disposition, not infrequently
reposed her confidence where it was undeserved,--a failing not to be
wondered at in one so young. Her husband was one of those in whom she
thus sometimes placed too large a measure of trust, although she had
early learned that no word from his mouth was to be accepted in its
obvious meaning. Yet this matter of her apartments in the hotel seemed
to her of such trifling moment that she let him have his way and
consented to make the change which he desired, albeit at the same time
strongly suspecting a hidden motive on his part.
"I am very glad, my dear Blanka," said Cagliari, when the princess had
indicated her willingness to comply with his request, "to find you
disposed to meet me half-way in this matter. We will, then, leave
further details to the hotel keeper. He will provide you with servants
in the livery of our house. How many do you wish--two?"
"One will suffice."
"And if he does not suit you, dismiss him and demand another. You shall
have no ground for suspecting me of placing a spy upon you in the guise
of a servant."
"Even if you should, it would trouble me little. A spy would find
nothing to report to you."
"My dear Blanka, no one sees his own face except in a mirror; others can
see it at all times."
"Have you anything to criticise in my conduct?"
"Nothing, I assure you. I know your firmness of principle. I look at you
now, not through the yellow glass used by a jealous husband in
scrutinising his wife, but through the rose-coloured glass that a fond
father holds before his eyes in regarding a beloved daughter. If you
travelled in a stranger's company on your journey to Rome, that may very
well have been a mere matter of chance. If you left the accustomed route
under his escort, you may have done so to avoid suspected dangers. If
you are seen again in Rome at this stranger's side, I see nothing in
that but his recognition of his duty toward you,--the courtesy of a
fellow countryman acquainted with Rome toward a lady visiting that city
for the first time. And if you walked together arm in arm, it was
undoubtedly because of the pressure of the crowd, which always justifies
a lady in seeking the protection of the first man available."
This speech filled Blanka with indignation and dismay. Weapons were
being forged against her, she perceived; but she could do nothing. Had
she offered a denial, her glowing cheeks would have testified against
her. She held her peace, accordingly, and preserved such outward
composure as she was able.
"_N'en parlons plus!_" concluded the prince, fully aware of his triumph.
"No one shall boast of outdoing Prince Cagliari in magnanimity,--not
even his wife. Where you have knelt and sued for mercy, I too will
kneel; what you have written in your petition I will subscribe to, and
add still further: 'We are not husband and wife, we are father and
daughter.' And you shall learn that this is no empty phrase. I do not
seek to sever the bond between us; I exchange it for another."
All this was uttered in so friendly a tone, and with such seeming warmth
of feeling, that no one unacquainted with the speaker, and not knowing
him for the most consummate of hypocrites and the cleverest of actors,
could have listened to him without being moved almost to tears. But his
hearer in this instance knew him only too well. She knew that Jerome
Cagliari was most to be feared when he professed the noblest sentiments.
Rising from his chair, he added, as if it were a matter of the most
trifling importance:
"This afternoon I will send my secretary to you."
"Your secretary?" repeated Blanka, with a start. "Pray send me anybody
but him,--a notary, a strange lawyer, an attorney's clerk, a servant. I
will receive your instructions from any of these, but not from your
secretary."
"And why not from him?"
"Because I hate him."
"Then you hate the man who is your best friend in all the world,--yes,
even a better friend than I myself. If I were to ask heaven for a son I
could pray for no more excellent young man than he. He has my full
confidence and esteem."
"But if you knew why I hate him!" interjected Blanka, in a voice that
trembled.
"Before you bring your accusation against him," rejoined the other,
"remember you are speaking, not to your husband, but to your father, who
wishes not only to set you free, but also to make you happy.
Accordingly, I will send Mr. Benjamin Vajdar to call on you to-morrow
afternoon, to open the way for a harmonious settlement of the affair
between us. I beg you to receive him as my confidant and
plenipotentiary, and not to let your attorney know of his coming. For
myself, I shall, with your permission, allow myself the pleasure of
calling on you again."
With this the prince kissed Blanka's hand, and withdrew.
Scarcely had he gone, when Gabriel Zimandy presented himself to learn
the object of Cagliari's visit. But Blanka obeyed orders, and kept back
the chief motive of his coming, saying simply that he had asked
permission to order a larger and finer suite of rooms for her use, and
that in this matter she had thought best to humour him. The advocate
acquiesced, recognising the importance of securing the prince's
good-will under present conditions.
CHAPTER IX.
THE ANONYMOUS LETTER.
No sooner had her lawyer left her than a letter was delivered to Blanka
by one of the hotel servants. It was unsigned, and to the following
effect:
"PRINCESS CAGLIARI:--Be cautious. Prince Cagliari is
carrying out a fiendish scheme against you. Like yourself, he is
bent on securing a divorce, but only that he may marry you to his
protégé and favourite. He is even capable of selling his own wife.
Hitherto you have been Cagliari's wife, and the Marchioness
Caldariva his mistress; now he wishes to reverse these relations,
and make the marchioness his wife, and you his mistress. Be on your
guard. You are in the country of the Borgias."
The princess was not a little disturbed by this communication. Monstrous
as was the plot which it purported to disclose, she could not disbelieve
it when ascribed to the two men in question. Certain fearful
remembrances of the past confirmed her suspicions, and even inspired her
in her distress with thoughts of suicide.
But what if this letter were merely a trap? Who could have written it?
Who, in that city, where so few knew even of her existence, was
sufficiently familiar with her private affairs to be able to write it?
Whom could she now consult, with whom share her anxious forebodings?
Involuntarily she took up her sketch-book, and turned its leaves once
more. In vain; the address was gone--gone with the leaves she had torn
out and thrown away in the Colosseum.
Having no further engagements for that morning, she proposed to her
companion a second visit to the Colosseum, that she might once more
essay the sketch which had baffled her the day before. Both Madam
Dormandy and the advocate signified their readiness to accompany her,
the more so as a party of German visitors was planning an inspection of
the Colosseum's subterranean chambers and passages, and Zimandy proposed
to join them.
Blanka made it her first care, on arriving at the Colosseum, to search
for the lost sketch-book leaves; but though she remembered exactly where
she had dropped them, neither she nor her friend could discover the
least trace of them. Who could have appropriated them? The artist in the
gallery had been the only stranger present at the time of her previous
visit.
While the advocate and Madam Dormandy went with the German party to
inspect the lower regions, Blanka remained above, on the plea that such
subterranean excursions made her unwell. There were no robbers or wild
beasts to molest her in the arena during the others' absence, and,
besides, the entrances were all guarded.
She sat down at the foot of the cross, but not to draw, for her mind was
not now on her sketch. Plucking the dandelions that grew in profusion
about her, she fashioned them into a chain and hung it around her neck.
The thought came to her, as she was thus engaged, that of all the
Christian martyrs torn to pieces by wild beasts in that arena, not one
of them, when the tigers and hyenas leaped upon their prey, felt such a
terror as hers at sight of the monsters that seemed to be closing in
about her to rend her limb from limb.
How happy the artist must be up there in the lofty gallery! For there he
was, still at work on his picture. The artist is the only really happy
man. He need fear no exile; every land is his home. No foreign tongue
can confuse him; his thoughts find a medium of expression intelligible
to all. Wars have no terror for him; he paints them, but takes no part
in them. Storms and tempests, by land or sea, speak to him not of
danger, but are merely the symbols of nature's ever-varying moods.
Popular insurrections furnish his canvas with picturesque groupings of
animated humanity. Though all Rome surge with uproar about him, he sits
under his sun-umbrella and paints. The artist is a cold-blooded man. He
paints a madonna, but his piety is none the greater for it. He draws a
Venus, but his heart is still whole. He pictures God and Satan, but
prostrates himself before neither. How independent, too, he must feel as
he wanders through the world! He asks no help in the production of his
creations. The priest need not pray for rain or sunshine on his account.
He seeks no office or title from prince or potentate. He desires no
favour, no privilege, nor does he even require the advantage of a
recognised religious belief. With his genius he can conquer the world.
Art it is, moreover, that makes woman the equal of man. The woman artist
is something more than man's other half; she is complete in herself. She
does not ask the world for a living, she does not beg any man to give
her his name, she kneels before no marriage-altar for the priest's
blessing; she goes forth and wins for herself all that she desires.
An irresistible impulse drove Blanka to ascend to the painter's lofty
perch in order to see how he was succeeding in the task which she
herself knew not even how to begin.
An artist engrossed in his work heeds not what is going on around him.
The painter in this instance wore a simple canvas jacket, spotted with
oil and colours here and there, and a straw hat, broad of brim and
ventilated with abundant holes. The princess, looking over his
shoulder, was far less interested in the painter than in his work.
Indeed, the artist himself was so absorbed in his task that, to save
time, he held one of his brushes crosswise between his teeth while he
worked with the other. Yet the instinct of politeness impelled him, as
soon as he heard the rustle of a lady's skirt behind him, to remove his
broad-brimmed hat and place it on the floor at his side.
"Manasseh!"
Startled surprise and gladness spoke in that word, which slipped out ere
the speaker's discretion could prevent it. The young man turned quickly.
"Princess!" he exclaimed, "where did you drop from?"
"I was not looking for you," she stammered, thus betraying that she had
been seeking him and was rejoiced, heart and soul, at the chance that
had led her to him.
Manasseh smiled. "No, not for me, but for the painter wrestling with the
Colosseum from this lofty roost. I saw you yesterday attempting the same
task from below."
"And you recognised me--so far off?"
"I have very good eyes. I also saw that you were dissatisfied with your
attempts, for you tore out one leaf after another from your sketch-book
and threw them away."
"Did you find them again?" asked Blanka, breathlessly.
"I made it a point to do so, Princess," was the reply.
"Oh, then give them back to me, please!"
"Here they are."
No creditor ever did his distressed debtor a greater favour in
surrendering to him an overdue note than did Manasseh in restoring the
lost leaves to their owner. She replaced them carefully in her
sketch-book, assuring herself, as she did so, that the missing address
was on the blank side of one of them. What if it had caught the young
man's eye? How would he have explained its presence there?
She sat down to rest a moment on the stone railing of the gallery, her
back to the arena and her face toward Manasseh,--an arrangement that
very much interfered with the artist's view of what he was painting. The
sun shone directly in her eyes, and she had no sunshade, having left
hers in the carriage. The arena was so shaded that she had needed none
there. Manasseh adjusted his umbrella so as to shield the princess, and
the rosy hue which its red fabric cast on her face reminded him of the
_Horæ_ that precede the sun-god's chariot at dawn, their forms glowing
with purple and rose-coloured tints in the morning light.
"I am very glad I happened to meet you," said Blanka, speaking more
sedately this time. "The party I came with is down below listening to
an archæological lecture on the _cunei_, the _podium_, the _vomitorium_,
and heaven knows what all, in which I am not interested. So I have time
to discuss with you, if you will let me, a point which you raised the
other day and which I have been puzzling over ever since. You said that
where you used to live revenge is unknown; and that, though you were
suffering under a grievous injury and had the means to exact full
satisfaction, yet you would not take your revenge. I too am suffering in
the same manner, and that is why I am now in Rome. I have pondered your
words and have imitated your example. Possessing the means of revenge, I
refused to use them. I loosed my enemy's hands when they were bound. Did
I do well?"
"Yes."
"No, I did not. I should have taken my revenge. Revenge is man's right."
"Revenge is the brute's right," Manasseh corrected her. "It never
repairs an injury that has once been done. In this I and the handful of
my fellow-believers differ from mankind in general. In our eyes war is
revenge, the duel is revenge, capital punishment is revenge, revolution
is revenge. Those who profess themselves followers of Jesus too often
forget that when he was dying on the cross he said, 'Father, forgive
them, for they know not what they do.'"
"That was said by Jesus the man; but Jesus the God has ascended into
heaven, whence he will come to judge the quick and the dead. And that is
revenge."
"That conception of the Judgment is one that I cannot entertain,"
returned Manasseh. "Man has made a god of the noblest of men, and has
made him like those earlier divinities who slew Niobe's innocent
children with their arrows."
Blanka was sitting so far back on the stone railing that the artist felt
obliged to warn her of her danger.
"Oh, I am protected by guardian angels," she replied, lightly. She
wished to learn whether one of those angels was then before her. "I
received this morning an anonymous letter," she continued, "and as it
contains certain facts which only you could know, my first thought was
that you had written it."
"I assure you, I have never written you a letter," declared Manasseh.
"Please read it." She handed him the letter.
How quickly the young man's calm face flushed and glowed with passion as
he read! The martyrs of old could forgive their enemies for the tortures
inflicted on them; but could they also pardon the inhumanity shown to
their loved ones? Manasseh crumpled the paper in his hand with
vindictive energy, as if he had held in his grasp the authors of that
detestable plot. Yet what right had he now to take vengeance on a man
whom he had refrained from punishing on Anna's behalf? Anna was his own
sister, and as such a beloved being. Her life had been spoiled by this
man, yet her brother had been able to declare, "We do not seek
revenge"--although this revenge was easily in his power. And what was
Blanka to him? A dream. And did this dream weigh more with him than the
sorrow that had invaded his own family?
He returned the letter to its owner. "Just like them!" he muttered
between his teeth.
"Prince Cagliari is in Rome," remarked Blanka.
"I know it. I met him, and he spoke to me and thanked me for the
attentions I had shown his wife during Holy Week."
It was fortunate for the princess that she sat in the rosy light of the
red umbrella, so that her heightened colour passed unnoticed.
"He called on me this morning," said she, "and showed himself very
gracious. His position is now stronger than it was, affairs at the
Vatican being guided at present by those who look upon him with favour."
"Yes, I know that," said Manasseh.
"How do you know it, may I ask?"
"Oh, I have wide-reaching connections. My landlord is a cobbler.
'Messere Scalcagnato' lounges about the _piazza_ by the hour, is
therefore well instructed in political matters, and keeps me duly
informed of all that takes place at the Vatican."
The princess gave a merry laugh at the thought of Manasseh's taking
lessons in politics from the professor of shoemaking. A little feeling
of satisfaction contributed also to her display of good humour: she was
assured by Manasseh's words that his address was still the same that she
had noted in her sketch-book. But her laugh was immediately followed by
a sigh, and she folded her hands in her lap.
"I wage war with nobody, Heaven knows!" she exclaimed, sadly. "I have
merely sued for mercy, and it has been promised me."
"Princess," interposed the young man, gently, "I cannot intervene
between you and your enemies, but I can arm you with a weapon of defence
against their assaults. If you wish to repulse the man whom you fear and
who pursues you,--to give him such a rebuff that he will never again
dare to approach you,--then wait until he makes the proposal which you
dread, and give him this answer: 'Between you and me there is a
canonical interdict which renders our union impossible; it is contained
in the fourteenth paragraph of the Secret Instructions.' As soon as you
say that he will vanish so completely from your presence that you will
never set eyes on him again."
"Wonderful!" cried Blanka. "That will surely be a miracle."
"Such it may always remain to you," returned Manasseh, "and you may
never know how deep a wound you have inflicted. But you must thenceforth
look for no mercy. Sue urgently for a decision, and be prepared for a
harsh one."
"Thank you," said Blanka, simply. "_N'en parlons plus_"--repeating
Prince Cagliari's phrase.
With that she stepped lightly to the stone block which the artist had
been using for a chair, and, seating herself on it, began to copy in
outline his painting of the Colosseum, as if that had been the sole
purpose of her coming. Nor did she so much as ask permission thus to
violate the rules of professional courtesy. This sketching from a
finished picture she found vastly easier than drawing from the object
itself, a task which always proves elusive and baffling to the beginner.
Manasseh took his stand behind her as she worked, but his eyes were not
wholly occupied in following her pencil.
Meanwhile the archæological explorers had abundant time to inspect all
the subterranean passages and chambers of the Colosseum, and it was only
when they emerged into the arena and began to seek their lost companion,
with loud outcries, that she started up in some alarm and made haste to
retrace her steps.
Manasseh picked up the dandelion chain that had fallen from her neck and
put it in his bosom.
CHAPTER X.
THE FOURTEENTH PARAGRAPH.
Blanka was now like a boy who fears to stay at home alone, and to whom
his father has therefore given a loaded gun as a security. The lad has a
shuddering eagerness to encounter a burglar, that he may try his weapon
on him, never doubting but that he can kill a giant if need be. Let the
robbers come if they wish; he is armed and ready for them.
In this confidence Blanka's entire mood underwent a change: she became
light-hearted almost to the point of unrestrained gaiety. At the very
door of her hotel she began to exchange pleasantries with the landlord,
who came forward to greet her with the announcement that a gentleman, a
count, had called upon her in her absence.
"Count who?" asked the princess, whereupon she was presented with a card
bearing the name of Benjamin Vajdar. But she read it without losing a
particle of her serenity, and then ordered an elaborate lunch.
While her dishes were preparing, she sent for a hair-dresser and for a
maid to assist at her toilet. She wished to make herself
beautiful--even more beautiful than usual--and, indeed, she accomplished
her object. Her slender form, its height accentuated by a long bodice,
looked still taller from the imposing manner in which her hair was
dressed. Her features, until then somewhat drawn by the strain of
constant anxiety, gained now a vivacity that was matched by the added
colour that glowed in her cheeks. A single morning in the Italian sun
had, it would have seemed to an observer, worked wonders in her
appearance. But what she herself marvelled at most of all was the new
light that shone in her eyes. What could have caused this
transformation? The weapon which she held in her hands,--"the fourteenth
paragraph of the Secret Instructions." What cared she that to her these
words were utterly meaningless? It sufficed her to know that there was
such a paragraph; _he_ had told her so.
A waiter announced that her lunch was served. Ordinarily Blanka ate no
more than a sick child; now she was conscious of an appetite like that
of a convalescent making up for a long series of lost meals. The
dainties which she had ordered tasted uncommonly appetising. While she
was busy with her oysters, the head waiter informed her that the "count"
had come a second time and begged leave to wait upon her.
"Show him up," promptly replied the princess, without allowing her
lunch to be interrupted in the least.
The handsome young man already introduced to the reader was ushered in.
The situation in which he found the princess seemed scarcely to
harmonise with his plans. It rendered exceedingly difficult any approach
to the sentimental.
"Set a chair for the gentleman," Blanka commanded her attendant,
speaking, as if from forgetfulness, in Hungarian, and then correcting
herself with a great show of surprise at her own carelessness.
"_Grazie!_ And now, sir, pray be seated. You will pardon me if I go on
with my lunch. We can converse just the same. This man will not
understand a word we say. We may consider our interview entirely
private."
Vajdar misinterpreted the situation: he thought the princess feared him,
as of old, and that therefore she kept her servant in the room. This
belief only added fuel to his evil passions. He who sees himself feared
gains an increased sense of power.
"I come bearing the olive-branch, Princess," he began, in smooth
accents.
At this Blanka turned suddenly to her attendant. "That reminds me," she
exclaimed; "Beppo, the waiter forgot my olives."
Vajdar had taken a chair and drawn up to the table. "The prince wishes,"
he continued, "to keep his promise and to show you all the affectionate
concern of a father toward his daughter." He produced a roll of
manuscript from his pocket. "There are certain points in your marriage
contract which must be discussed. Prince Cagliari made over to you, at
the time of your union, one million silver florins. If you should gain
your suit you would retain this sum in full; otherwise you would lose it
all. He now offers you the following compromise. The principal is not to
be paid into your hands, but you are to receive the interest on it, at
six per cent., during your lifetime. And, more than that, one-half of
the Palazzo Cagliari is placed at your disposal as a dwelling."
The princess bowed, as if in assent, but expressed the hope that she
should not be obliged to stay long in Rome.
"I think you will find it advisable to remain some time, at any rate,"
said the young man.
"But I wish to return home, to Hungary, where, as you know, I have an
estate of my own."
"That will be impossible, because the Serbs have burnt your castle to
the ground."
"Burnt it to the ground? But my steward has not informed me of this."
"And for a very good reason: the insurgents chopped off his head on his
own threshold."
Even this intelligence could not destroy Blanka's appetite. She ate her
sardines with unusual relish, and Vajdar could see that she gave little
credence to his words.
"Stormy times are ahead of us," he went on, "and I assure you this is
the only safe retreat for you,--the holy city, the home of peace."
"As is proved by the iron shutters on the windows of the Cagliari
palace," remarked Blanka. "But tell me, if I should wish to choose my
own household and my own intimates, would that liberty be allowed me?"
"Undoubtedly. Nevertheless, it would be greatly to your advantage to
surround yourself with persons speaking the language of the country and
familiar with its ways."
"And if I should win my cause, and should take a fancy to marry again,
could I select a husband to suit myself?"
This was too much. It was like throwing raw meat to a caged tiger.
"Without doubt," murmured Benjamin Vajdar between his teeth, at the same
time casting furious glances at the servant behind his mistress's chair.
Suddenly the princess changed her tactics. She wished to show her enemy
that she dared leave her entrenchments and offer battle in the open
field.
"Caro Beppo," said she, turning to the servant, "clear the table,
please, and then stay outside until I call you. Meantime, admit no
one."
The two were left alone, and Vajdar was free to say what he wished.
Blanka made bold to rise and survey herself coquettishly in the mirror,
as if to make sure of her own beauty. She was the first to speak.
"All these favourable turns in my affairs are due to your kind
intervention, I infer," she began.
"Without wishing to be boastful, I must admit that they are. You know
the prince: he has more whims and freaks than Caligula. He has moments
when he is capable of throttling an angel from heaven, and gentle moods
in which he is ready to do his most deadly enemy a secret kindness.
These latter phases of his humour it was my task to lie in wait for and
turn to your account. Whether this was a difficult task or not, you who
know the prince can judge."
"You will find me not ungrateful," said the princess. "In case the
unpleasant affair which has called me to Rome is settled satisfactorily,
I shall make over to you, as the one chiefly instrumental in effecting
this settlement, the yearly allowance intended for me by the prince. For
myself I retain nothing further, and wish nothing further, than my
golden freedom."
Vajdar's face glowed with feeling. He was a good actor and could summon
the colour to his cheeks at will.
"But even if you should give me your all, and the whole world besides,"
he returned, "I should count it as dross in comparison with one kind
word from your lips. I know it is the height of boldness on my part to
strive for the object of my longing; but an ardent passion justifies
even the rashest presumption. You remember the fable of the giants'
piling Pelion upon Ossa in order to scale Olympus. I am capable of
following their example. You would cease to look down on me were I of
like rank with yourself; and this equality of station I shall yet
attain."
"I am sure I shall be the first to congratulate you."
"The prince has promised to be a father to you if, as the result of a
peaceful separation, he ceases to be your husband. A somewhat similar
promise he has made to me also."
"Does he intend to adopt you as his son?" asked Blanka.
"Such is his purpose," replied Vajdar.
"And what, pray, is his motive in this?"
Benjamin Vajdar averted his face, as if contending with feelings of
shame. "Do not ask me," he begged, "to betray the weakness of my poor
mother. Hers was an unhappy lot, and I am the child of her misfortune.
He whose duty it is to make that misfortune good is--Prince Cagliari."
Blanka could hardly suppress an exclamation. "Oh, you scoundrel!" she
was on the point of crying, "how can you dishonour your mother in her
grave, and deny your own honest birth, merely to pass yourself off as a
prince's bastard son?" Instead of this she clapped her hands and
exclaimed: "How interesting! It is just like a play at the theatre. 'Is
not the little toe of your left foot broken?' 'Yes.' 'Then you are my
son.' Or thus: 'Haven't you a birthmark on the back of your neck?' 'I
have.' 'Let me see it. Aha! you are my long-lost boy.' Or, again: 'Who
gave you that half of a coin which you wear on a string around your
neck?' 'My mother, on her death-bed.' 'Come to my arms. You have found
your father.'"
Her listener was convinced that he had to do with a credulous child
whose ears were open to the flimsiest of fairy tales. He proceeded to
entertain her with further interesting details of his story, after which
the princess produced the anonymous letter she had that morning
received. First smoothing it out on her knee,--for it had been sadly
crumpled by a certain hand, and, indeed, even bore the impression of a
man's thumb in oil,--she presented it to her visitor.
"Please read that," said she, "and then explain it to me."
Vajdar had no sooner glanced at the letter than he perceived that the
enemy, by a feigned retreat, had been decoying him over a mine which
threatened presently to explode. Yet his assurance did not desert him.
"A stupid bit of play-acting!" he exclaimed, throwing the letter down on
the table.
"But whose interest could it have been to indulge in play-acting at my
expense?" asked Blanka.
"I can tell you, for I recognise the handwriting. The Marchioness
Caldariva wrote you that letter."
"The Marchioness Caldariva? Is she here?"
"To be sure. The prince never travels without her."
"But what motive had she thus to injure herself and, perhaps, prevent
her marriage with the prince?"
"Motive enough for a woman," replied Vajdar,--"jealousy."
"Jealousy!" repeated Blanka, in astonishment.
But one glance at the face confronting her was a sufficient explanation.
That handsome face, smiling with triumph and self-confidence, made her
tingle with wrath and scorn from head to foot. This man, it appeared,
was impudent enough to play the rôle of suitor to his patron's wife, and
also, at the same time, to pose as the object of a sentimental
attachment on the part of that patron's mistress. And he smiled
complacently the while.
"Sir," resumed the princess, whom that smile so irritated that she
resolved to use her deadly weapon without further delay, "I appreciate
your devotion to my cause, but I cannot deceive you. I must not
encourage hopes that would end only in disappointment. Let this matter
not be referred to again between us."
"But how if it were imposed by the prince as the indispensable condition
of a peaceful settlement of your relations with him?"
"I cannot believe that such is the case," replied Blanka, calmly. "But
however that may be, I cannot bind myself by any promise to you, knowing
as I do that the question of matrimony between us is one that the canons
of the Romish Church forbid us to consider."
"Ah, you have been studying ecclesiastical law, I see,--an error like
that of the sick man that reads medical works. You undoubtedly have in
mind the tenth paragraph, which forbids a son to marry his father's
divorced wife; but you should have read farther, where it is declared
that a marriage pronounced null and void by the clemency of the Pope is
as if it never had been, and thus offers no hindrance to a subsequent
union."
"No," rejoined the princess, "I did not refer to the tenth paragraph.
The paragraph which renders our union impossible is the fourteenth."
The shot was fired, the mark was hit. Like a tiger mortally wounded the
man sprang up and stood leaning on the back of his chair, glaring at
his assailant with a fury that made her draw back in alarm. With what
sort of ammunition had the gun been loaded, that it should inflict so
deadly a wound,--that it should cause such a sudden and complete
transformation of that complacently smiling face?
"Who told you that?" demanded Vajdar so furiously that Blanka recoiled
involuntarily. "Only one person could have been your informant, and I
know who that person is. I shall have my revenge on both of you for
this!"
With that he was gone, hurrying out of the room and out of the hotel as
if pursued by a legion of devils. Beppo came running to his mistress,
and seemed surprised not to find her lying in her blood on the floor
with half a dozen dagger-thrusts in her bosom.
"Well," he exclaimed, "whoever that man may be, I shouldn't like to meet
him on a dark night in a narrow street."
Blanka told her servant that if the gentleman who had just left ever
called again, she should not be at home to him. Then she sent her
obedient Beppo away, as she wished to be alone. First of all, she must
ponder the meaning of those mysterious words that had proved so potent
in routing her enemy. She could hardly wait for her lawyer to return, so
eager was she to question him in the matter.
"Well," began the advocate on entering, "what have you accomplished?"
"I have not made peace."
"Why not?"
"Because it would have cost more than war. All negotiations are broken
off. Read this letter."
"A devilish plot!" cried the lawyer wrathfully. "But they are fully
capable of carrying it out, all three of them. Did you show this to
Vajdar?"
"Yes."
"And was that why he ran out of the hotel in such an extraordinary
manner that the very waiters felt tempted to seize him at the door?"
"They had no such thought, I'll warrant," returned Blanka. "They are all
in his pay. To-morrow I leave this place. You must find me a private
dwelling."
"I have one for you already. The Rossis are moving out of the embassy,
and have engaged a private house. They invite you to share their new
quarters with them. There is ample room."
"Oh, how fortunate for me!"
"And yet the affair is not so altogether fortunate, after all. Rossi has
fallen from favour, and with his fall the whole liberal party loses its
influence at the Vatican."
But what did the princess care for the liberal party at that moment? She
was thinking of the lucky chance that had made it possible for her to
meet Manasseh again--at the house of their common friends.
"Now I must beg you," said she, changing the subject, "to press my suit
as diligently as possible. But first let me ask you a question. You are
thoroughly familiar with the marriage laws of the Romish Church, aren't
you?"
"I know them as I do the Lord's Prayer."
"Do you remember the fourteenth paragraph?"
"The fourteenth paragraph? Thank God we have nothing to do with that."
"Why 'thank God'?"
"Because the fourteenth paragraph has to do with state's prison
offences; it declares null and void any marriage, if either of the
contracting parties has committed such an offence."
The mystery was clear to Blanka now.
CHAPTER XI.
THE DECISION.
Gabriel Zimandy came to the princess one day with a very downcast mien.
"Our case makes no headway," he lamented, "and the reason is that your
advocate is a Protestant. Now there are two ways to remedy this: either
you must dismiss me and engage a Roman Catholic lawyer, or I must turn
Roman Catholic myself. The latter is the shorter and simpler expedient."
Blanka thought him in fun, and began to laugh. But Zimandy maintained
his solemnity of manner.
"You see, Princess," he went on, "I am ready to renounce the faith of my
fathers and incur the world's ridicule, all to serve you. I am going
this morning to the cardinal on whom the whole issue depends, to ask him
to be my sponsor at the baptism."
The princess pressed his hand warmly in sign of her appreciation of his
devotion.
In a few days the lawyer carried out his purpose and was received into
the Church of Rome. The newspapers gave the matter considerable
prominence, and it was generally expected that the godfather's present
to the new convert would be a favourable decision in the pending divorce
suit. And, in fact, a week later the decision was rendered. It was to
the following effect:
The husband and wife were declared divorced, but with the proviso that
the latter should never marry again, and the former not during his
divorced wife's lifetime. Thus the coffin-lid was closed on the young
wife, who was, as it were, buried alive; but in falling it had caught
and held fast the bridal veil of the Marchioness Caldariva, who could
not now hope to be led to the altar so long as the princess remained
alive. Had there been in this some malevolent design to wreak vengeance
on the two women at one stroke, the purpose could not have been better
accomplished.
The further provisions of the decree of the Roman Curia were of
secondary importance. Prince Cagliari was required to pay to Princess
Zboroy--for Blanka retained her rank and title--an annuity of twelve
thousand ducats, to give over for her use as a dwelling one wing of the
Cagliari palace, and to restore her dowry and jewels. These latter terms
were evidently to be credited to Gabriel Zimandy's generalship; for his
client might have found herself left with neither home nor annuity. So
the lawyer's conversion had met with its reward even in this world.
But Blanka's enjoyment of house and home and yearly income was made
dependent on a certain condition: she was never to leave Rome. The
nature of the decree rendered this provision necessary. As she was
forbidden to contract a second marriage, her judge found himself obliged
to keep her under his eye, to make sure that his mandate was obeyed; and
no more delicate and at the same time effective way to do this could
have been devised than to offer her a palace in Rome and bid her enjoy
its possession for the rest of her life. This was surely kinder than
shutting her up in a convent.
After the rendering of this decree Blanka lost no time in taking
possession of that half of the Cagliari palace assigned to her, and in
engaging a retinue of servants befitting her changed surroundings. Her
own property yielded her an income equal to that which she received from
the prince, and thus she was enabled to allow herself every comfort and
even luxury that she could desire. Of the two wings of the palace,
Blanka's faced the Tiber, while the other fronted upon the public
square. Each wing had a separate garden, divided from its neighbour by a
high wall of masonry, and the only connection between the two parts of
the house was a long corridor, all passage through which was closed.
What had once been a door, leading from the room which Blanka now chose
for her bedchamber into the corridor, was filled in with a fireplace,
whose back was formed by a damascened iron plate. This apartment the
princess selected for her asylum, her hermitage, where she could be
utterly shut out from the world.
The next day after the decision was rendered, Blanka was greeted by her
bosom friend, the fair widow Dormandy, with the announcement of her
engagement to Gabriel Zimandy. They intended to be married in Rome, she
said, and then return to Hungary, whither the bridegroom's business
called him. It was clear to Blanka now why her lawyer had been so ready
to renounce "the faith of his fathers." It was more for the sake of
winning the hand of Madam Dormandy, who was a devout Catholic, and of
marrying her then and there, in Rome, than on account of his client's
interests. Here let us take leave of the worthy man and let him depart
with God's blessing, his newly married wife by his side, and his
honorarium from Princess Blanka in his pocket.
Thus the divorced wife, who was yet hardly more than a girl, found
herself left alone in Rome. She shut herself off entirely from the
world, never venturing into society lest people should whisper to one
another as she passed,--"_la condannata!_" She received no one but her
father confessor, who came to her once a week. The sins which she had to
confess to him were,--the doubting of providence, rebellion against
human justice, forbidden dreams in waking hours, envy of others'
happiness, aversion to prayer, and hatred of life--all sins for which
she had to do penance.
Meanwhile quite a different sort of life was being led in the other wing
of the palace. She could not but hear, from time to time, sounds of
mirth and gaiety in the adjoining garden, or even through the solid
partition-wall of the house. Voices that she knew only too well, and
some that she hated, penetrated to her ears and drove her from one room
to another.
In due time, however, the malarial fever of the Italian summer came to
her as another distraction. It was an intermittent fever, and for six
weeks she was subject to its periodical attacks, which returned every
third day with the constancy of a devoted lover. When at length she
began to mend, her physician prescribed a change of air. Knowing that
his patient could not absent herself from Rome and its vicinity, he did
not send her to Switzerland, but to Tivoli and Monte Mario; and even
before venturing on these brief excursions she was obliged to ask
permission at the Vatican. The convalescent was allowed to spend her
days on Monte Mario, but required to return to Rome at nightfall. Good
morals and good laws demanded this.
Nevertheless, even this slight change--the drives to and from Monte
Mario, and the mountain air during the fine autumn days--did the
princess good, and eventually restored her health.
Meanwhile there was more than one momentous change in the political
world, but Blanka heeded them not. What signified to her the watchword
of the period,--"Liberty?" What liberty had she? Even were all the world
beside free, she was not free to love.
CHAPTER XII.
A GHOSTLY VISITANT.
It was the irony of fate that the mansion which had been assigned as a
permanent dwelling-place to the woman condemned to a life of asceticism,
had been originally fitted up as a fairy love-palace for a beautiful
creature, possessed of an unquenchable thirst for the fleeting joys of
this earthly existence. Over the richly carved mantelpiece in Blanka's
sleeping-room was what looked like a splendid bas-relief in marble. It
was in reality no bas-relief at all, but a wonderfully skilful bit of
painting, so cleverly imitating the sculptor's chisel that even a closer
inspection failed to detect the deception. It represented a recumbent
Sappho playing on a nine-stringed lyre. The opening in the
sounding-board of the instrument appeared to be a veritable hole over
which real strings were stretched.
This painting Blanka had before her eyes when she lay down to sleep at
night, and it was the first to greet her when she awoke in the morning.
Nor was it simply that she was forced to see it: Sappho seemed able to
make her presence known by other means than by addressing the sight
alone. Mysterious sounds came at times from the lyre,--sometimes simple
chords, and again snatches of love-songs which the princess could have
played over afterward from memory, so plainly did she seem to hear them.
Occasionally, too, the notes of a human voice were heard; and though the
words were muffled and indistinct, as if coming from a distance, the air
was easily followed. These weird melodies came to Blanka's ears nearly
every evening, but she did not venture to tell any one about them. She
tried to persuade herself it was all imagination on her part, and feared
to relate her experience, lest she should incur suspicion of insanity
and be consigned to a less desirable prison than the Cagliari palace.
One evening, as she was preparing to retire, and was standing for a
moment before her mirror, the Sappho seemed to give vent to a ripple of
laughter. The princess was so startled that she dropped the candle she
held in her hand. Once more she heard that mysterious laugh, and then
she beat a hasty retreat to her bed and buried herself in the pillows
and blankets. But, peeping out at length and throwing one more glance at
the picture, which was faintly illumined by her night-lamp, she heard
still another repetition of the mysterious laughter, coming apparently
from a great distance. Was this, too, an illusion, a dream, a trick of
her imagination? If the painted Sappho was alive, why did she give these
signs only at night, and not in the daytime as well?
November came, and with it rainy days, so that Blanka was constrained to
suspend her drives to Monte Mario and remain in the house. Every evening
she sat before her open fire with her eyes fixed on the glowing
phoenix with which the back of the fireplace was adorned. It was the
work of Finiguerra, the first of his craft to discard the chisel for the
hammer. The many-hued feathers of the flaming bird were of steel,
copper, brass, Corinthian bronze, silver, and gold. Especially
resplendent was the bird's head, with its gleaming red circle around the
brightly shining eye. This eye glowed and sparkled in the flickering
light of the crackling wood fire until it seemed fairly endowed with
life and vision.
One evening, as the princess was watching this glowing eye, it suddenly
vanished from the bird's head and left a dark hole in its place. Then,
as if not content with this marvellous demonstration, the phoenix next
took flight bodily and disappeared, apparently up the chimney, with a
rattling, rasping sound, as of the creaking of cogged wheels, leaving a
wide opening where it had been. The coals which still glowed on the
hearth presently died with a hissing noise, and only the soft light of
the shaded lamp diffused itself through the room. Out of the mysterious
depths of the fireplace stepped the white-clad form of a woman.
"I am the Marchioness Caldariva," announced the unbidden guest.
The suddenness and the mystery of it all, as well as the name that
greeted her ears, might well have startled the Princess Blanka. The
strange visitor was of tall and slender form, and suggested, in her
closely fitting gown of soft material, a statue of one of the pagan
goddesses. Her thick blond hair was carelessly gathered into a knot
behind; her complexion was pale, her blue eyes were bright and
vivacious, and her coral lips were parted in a coquettish smile. Every
movement was fraught with grace and charm, every pose commanded
admiration. She followed up her self-introduction with a laugh--a laugh
that sounded familiar to her listener. It was the Sappho's tones that
she heard. Blanka gazed in wonder at the mysterious apparition. She
thought she must be dreaming, and that this was but another creation of
her own fancy.
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the visitor, "an original way to pay a call, isn't
it?--without warning, right through the back wall of your fireplace, and
in _négligé_, too! But as you wouldn't visit me, I had to come to you,
and this is the readiest communication between our apartments. You
didn't know anything about it, did you? The back of your fireplace is a
secret door. If you press on the green tile here at the left, the
phoenix flies up the chimney, and then if you bear down hard on this
one at the right, it returns to its place again. Do you see?"
As she spoke the white lady stepped on the tile last designated, and
straightway the phoenix descended and filled the opening through which
she had just made her entrance.
"On the other side," she continued, "is a piece of mechanism which will
only work when a secret lock has been opened, and to effect this the
bird's eye must first be pushed aside to make room for the key. Your
ignorance of all this became apparent to me when I found both of the two
keys in my room. One of them belongs to you, and I have brought it to
give you. Without it you might be broken in upon most unpleasantly by
some unwelcome intruder. But with the key in your possession, you can
insert it in the lock whenever you wish to guard against any such
intrusion."
With that the speaker handed over the key, and then went on:
"Now you will be able to visit me, just as I do you. One thing more,
however, is necessary. You generally have a fire in your fireplace, and
not every woman is a Saint Euphrosyne, able to walk barefoot over
glowing coals. Here is a little bottle of liquid with which you can
quench the flames at pleasure. It is a chemical mixture expressly
prepared for this purpose. And in this other bottle is another liquid
for rekindling the fire,--no secret of chemistry, this time, but only
naphtha. Let us try it at once, for your room is cold and I have nothing
on but this dressing-gown."
The flames were soon crackling merrily again in the fireplace. Blanka,
much bewildered and still doubting the evidence of her senses, sank down
on a sofa, while her unbidden guest seated herself opposite. The
princess raised her eyes involuntarily to the Sappho over the
mantelpiece. Again the familiar laugh fell on her ears.
"You look up at the Sappho," said the marchioness. "You have heard her
play and sing and laugh more than once, haven't you? Well, you shall
learn the secret of it all. A jealous husband once had the passage
constructed which connects our two apartments. You know the story of
Dionysius's Ear. Here you see it in real life. A hollow tube runs from
the opening in the lyre directly to my room, and through this the
jealous husband was able to hear every sound in his wife's chamber.
Through it, too, you have heard me sing and play and laugh, and I have
heard tones of sadness from your room, and exclamations in an unknown
tongue, with no cheering word to comfort you and drive away your
sorrow. Three days ago, about midnight, you began to sing, and that time
I could follow the words,--'_De profundis ad te clamavi, Domine.'_ Don't
look so surprised. You are not dreaming all this, and I am really the
Marchioness Caldariva, better known as 'the beautiful Cyrene.' I have
intruded on you this evening, but to-morrow you will admit me of your
own free will, and the day after you shall be my guest. We will signal
to each other through the tube when we are alone and disengaged, and we
shall soon be great friends."
Blanka started slightly at the bare thought of friendship with this
woman.
"I am in love with you already," continued the Marchioness Caldariva.
"For the past week we have been meeting every day. We kneel side by side
in the same church, for I go to church regularly; but you have not
noticed me, because you never raise your eyes from your prayer-book to
look at your neighbours' bonnets and gowns. As for me, now, I watch you
all the time I am praying. Daily prayers are a necessity with me. In the
morning I pray for the sins I have committed the day before, and in the
evening for those to be committed on the morrow. Another bond of
sympathy between us is the similar lot to which we are both
condemned,--a life unblessed by domestic happiness,--and we cherish
therefore a common hatred of the world. You, however, show yours by
leading a solitary life of mourning, I mine by amusing myself the best
way I can. If I were strong enough to follow your example, I should do
so, but I can't live without distraction. You are strong; I am weak. I
admire in you your power to humble your enemies before you. You were
told, weren't you, that I wrote that anonymous letter?"
Blanka looked at the speaker with wide eyes of inquiry and wonder. She
began at length to place confidence in her words.
"And you were told the truth, too," continued the other. "Oh, those two
men are intriguers of the deepest dye. I was accused of upsetting their
plan. I was told how mercilessly you had repulsed one of them. Really,
that was a master stroke on your part. The fourteenth paragraph! He
himself confessed the secret to me,--how he forged a note, some years
ago, in the name of a good friend of his, who now holds the
incriminating document in his possession. With it he can at any time
crush his false friend and deliver him over to a long imprisonment. The
trembling culprit wished to free himself at any cost from this sword of
Damocles suspended over his head, and he proposed to me two ways to
effect the desired end. One was for me to seduce the young artist and
then, as the price of my smiles, cajole him into surrendering the fatal
note."
The beautiful Cyrene threw at her listener a look full of the proud
consciousness of her own dangerous charms. Blanka drew back in nameless
fear under her gaze.
"The other way," proceeded the marchioness, "was to have him
assassinated if he refused to give up the forged paper."
Blanka pressed her hands to her bosom to keep from crying out.
"Between these two plans I was asked to choose, and I rejected them
both,--the first because I knew the young man adored you, the second
because I knew you reciprocated his feeling."
The princess rose hastily and walked across the room, seeking to hide
her tell-tale blushes.
"Come," said the marchioness, lightly, "sit down again and let us laugh
over the whole affair together. You see, I would have nothing to do with
either tragedy. I prefer comedy. Both of our arch-schemers have now
taken flight from Rome; they were seized with terror at a street riot
the other day, and they won't come back again, you may be sure, unless
it be in the rear of a besieging army. So now we have the Cagliari
palace quite to ourselves, and can sit and chat together all we please.
But I must say good night; I've gossiped enough for one while, and I'm
sleepy, too."
Once more the fire was extinguished and the phoenix made to yield a
passage, after which Blanka found herself alone again. She shuddered at
the thought of having lived for months with an open door leading to her
bedroom. She debated with herself whether to stick her key in that door
and leave it there permanently, while she herself sought another
sleeping-room, or to yield to the charm of her unbidden guest and
acquiesce in her plan of exchanging confidential visits. The strangeness
and mystery of it all, and still more the hope that her neighbour might
let fall an occasional word concerning Manasseh, at length prevailed
over her fears and scruples, and determined her to receive the other's
advances.
On the following evening she gave her servants permission to go to the
theatre,--the play representing the defeat of the Austrian army by the
Italians,--while she herself, after having her samovar and other
tea-things brought to her room, took up her mandolin and struck a few
chords on its strings. The reclining Sappho answered her, and a few
minutes later there came a knock on the back of the fireplace.
"Come in!"
The phoenix rose, and the fair Cyrene appeared, this time in full
toilet, as for a fashionable call, her hair dressed in the English mode,
a lace shawl falling over her pink silk gown, from beneath which one got
an occasional glimpse of the richly embroidered underskirt and a pair
of little feet encased in high-heeled shoes.
"You were going out?" asked the princess.
"I was coming to see you."
"Did you know I was waiting for you?"
"I told you yesterday I should come, and I knew you were expecting me
from your sending your servants away to the theatre."
"And you knew that too?"
"Yes, because they took mine along with them. So here we are all alone
by ourselves."
The consciousness of being the only living creatures in a whole house
has a delicious charm, fraught with mystery and awe, for two young
women. Blanka took her guest's hat and shawl, and then proceeded to
start a fire on the hearth. The fair Cyrene meanwhile caught up her
mandolin and began to sing one of Alfred de Musset's songs, full of the
warmth and glow of the sunny South. Presently the hostess invited her
guest to take tea with her, and asked her at the same time her baptismal
name.
The marchioness laughed. "Haven't you heard it often enough? They call
me 'Cyrene.'"
"But that isn't your real name," objected Blanka. "You were not
christened 'Cyrene.'"
"I use it for my name, however, and no one but my father confessor calls
me by my real name, so that now I never hear it without thinking that I
must fall on my knees and repeat a dozen paternosters in penance.
Besides, my name doesn't suit me at all. It is Rozina, and I am as pale
as moonshine. You might far better be called Rozina, for you have such
beautiful rosy cheeks, and I should have been named Blanka. I'll tell
you, suppose we exchange names: you call me Blanka, and I'll call you
Rozina."
The suggestion seemed so funny to Blanka that she burst out laughing,
and a woman who laughs is already more than half won over.
"Now, then," continued the other, "we can chat away to our heart's
content. There's no one to listen to us or play the spy--a good thing
for you to know, Rozina, because all your servants are hired spies. Your
doorkeeper and his wife keep a regular journal of who comes in and who
goes out, what visiting-cards are left, whom you receive, where you
drive,--which they learn from your coachman,--whom you visit, and even
with whom you exchange a passing word. Your maid reads all your letters
and searches all your pockets. Even your gardener keeps an account of
all the flowers you order; for flowers, you know, have a language of
their own. Be sure you don't buy a parrot, else it will turn spy on you,
too."
"Who can it be that is so suspicious of me?" asked the princess, in
surprise.
"Have you forgotten the strict terms of your uncle's legacy, and are you
unaware how slight an indiscretion on your part might furnish your
relatives with a pretext for contesting your right to a share of the
property? Do you forget, too, how trifling an error might result in the
cutting off of your allowance from Prince Cagliari?"
"Well, let them watch me, if they wish," returned Blanka, composedly. "I
have no secrets to hide from anybody."
"A rash assertion for a woman to make," commented the other, as she
poured herself a glass of water. "How warm this water is!" she
exclaimed, after taking a sip.
Blanka sprang up and offered to bring some ice from the dining-room.
"Aren't you afraid to go for it alone?"
"Certainly not; the lamps are all lighted."
While the hostess was out of the room, her guest turned over Blanka's
portfolio of drawings, and among them found her outline sketch of the
Colosseum.
"You sketch beautifully," commented the marchioness, upon the other's
return.
"It is my only diversion," replied the princess.
"This view of the Colosseum reminds me of one I saw at the Rossis'."
"The artist may have chosen the same point of view," returned Blanka
with admirable composure.
"I called on him at his studio lately," proceeded the marchioness. "I
had heard one of his pictures very highly praised. It represents a young
woman sitting on the gallery railing in the Colosseum, with the sunlight
streaming on her through a red umbrella. The warm glow of the sunbeams
is in striking contrast with the deep melancholy on the girl's face. I
offered the artist two hundred scudi for the piece, but he said it was
not for sale at any price."
Blanka felt as powerless in the hands of this woman as a rabbit in the
clutches of a lion. The beautiful Cyrene closed the portfolio and
exclaimed:
"Rozina, these men are terrible creatures! They make us women their
slaves. But the woman's first and dominant thought must ever be to find
some escape from her bondage."
With that she jumped up and ran out of the room, as if taken suddenly
ill. Her hostess followed to see what was the matter, and found her
sitting in a corner of the adjoining apartment.
"You are weeping?"
"Not at all; never merrier in my life!"
Nevertheless, two tears were shining in the fair Cyrene's eyes.
Next she ran to the piano and began to rattle off "La Gitana," which
Cerito had just made so popular throughout Europe.
"Have you the score?" asked the marchioness, turning to Blanka.
"No, but I can play it from memory."
"Then play it to me, please."
Blanka complied, and the other began to dance "La Gitana" to her
playing. The spirit and feeling, the coquettish grace and seductive
charm, which the dancer put into the movements of her lithe form,
challenge description. If only a man could have seen her then! From
sheer amazement Blanka found herself unable to control her fingers,
which struck more than one false note.
"Faster! Put more fire into it!" cried the dancer. But Blanka could not
go on.
"Ah, you don't remember it, after all."
"I can't play when I look at you," was the reply; and the Marchioness
Caldariva believed her. "You could drive a man fairly insane."
"As long as the men will torment us, we must be able to pay them back."
She took Blanka's arm and returned with her to the other room. "Woe to
him who invades my kingdom!" she continued. "He is bound to lose his
reason. Do you wish to wager that I can't drive all Rome crazy over me?
If I took a notion to dance the 'Gitana' on the opera-house stage for
the benefit of the wounded soldiers, all Rome would go wild with
enthusiasm, and the people would half smother me with flowers."
"I will make no such wager with you," returned Blanka, "because I know I
should lose."
The beautiful Cyrene changed the subject and invited the princess to
attend one of her masked balls,--"a masquerade party," she explained,
"of only forty guests at the most, and those the chief personages of
Roman society. I ferret out all their secrets and can see through their
masks; but I use no witchery about it. My guests are admitted by ticket
only, and my major-domo, who receives these cards, writes on the back of
each a short description of the bearer's costume. So I have only to go
to him and consult his notes to learn my guest's identity."
"But cannot your guests also procure information from the same
source--for a consideration?"
"Undoubtedly. My domestics are none of them incorruptible."
Blanka laughed, and Rozina hastened to take advantage of her good
humour.
"And now just imagine among these forty masks one guest who comes
neither through the door, nor through the major-domo's anteroom, so that
no card, no personal description, no cab-number, no information of any
kind, is to be had concerning her from my servants. She is acquainted
with all the secrets of those around her, but no one can guess her
secret, or fathom her mystery. Meanwhile a young painter has taken his
seat in one corner behind a screen of foliage, and sketches the lively
scene before him. He is the only one who, with beating heart, guesses
the name of the mysterious unknown. What do you say,--will this
bewitching guest from fairyland deign to figure as the chief personage
on my young artist's canvas?"
"Before deciding, may I see a list of those whom you have invited?"
"Certainly--a very proper request." The marchioness handed over her fan,
the ribs of which were of ivory, and served the owner as tablets. They
were covered with a miscellaneous list of well-known names from all
classes, and the last among them was Manasseh Adorjan's. "You can order
a costume of black lace, spangled with silver stars," the fair Cyrene
went on; "then, with a black velvet mask, you will be ready to appear as
the Queen of Night."
Blanka offered no objection to this plan.
"I will admit you upon signal, through our secret passageway, into my
boudoir, and from there you will pass, when the way is clear, into the
ladies' dressing-room, and thence into the ballroom. With this fan of
mine in your hand, you will, after some instructions from me, be able to
puzzle and mystify all whom you address, while no one will be in a
position even to hazard a surmise as to your identity. When you tire of
the sport, come to me, pretend to tease me, and then turn and run away.
I will give chase, and under cover of this diversion you will slip out
of the room, and return to your own apartments by the same way you came,
while I continue the hunt and summon all present to aid me in finding my
mysterious guest."
Such was the speaker's influence over Blanka, that the latter could not
give her a refusal. Accordingly, when the two parted, it was with the
understanding that they were soon to see each other again at the
marchioness's masquerade.
CHAPTER XIII.
A SUDDEN FLIGHT.
Blanka sat in her room, with closed doors, preparing her costume for the
masked ball. Affairs in the world outside had moved rapidly during the
past few days. In the feverish excitement of that revolutionary period,
mob violence was threatening to gain the upper hand. Shouts of
boisterous merriment reached the princess from the street. From the
adjoining wing of the palace, too, other sounds, almost equally
boisterous, fell on her ear at intervals. The fair Cyrene was
entertaining a company of congenial spirits.
Gradually the noise in the street grew louder, until it seemed as if a
cage of wild animals had been let loose before the Cagliari palace.
Suddenly, as Blanka stood before her fire, all her senses alert, she saw
the glowing phoenix rise from its position, and her fair neighbour
stood in the opening.
"Put out your fire, and let me in," bade the marchioness. "I have
emptied my extinguisher. Don't you hear the mob storming my palace
gates? The soldiery who were summoned to restore order have made common
cause with the rioters, and we are in frightful peril. Quick! Out with
your fire, and let me and my guests through. We can make our escape by
your rear door, and so gain the riverside in safety."
Blanka could not refuse this appeal. She opened the way for the
marchioness and her motley company to pass out; then she herself, first
closing the secret passage between the two wings of the palace, followed
the other fugitives and, gaining the street by a wide détour, engaged a
cab to take her to the Vatican.
"His Holiness receives no one this afternoon," was the announcement made
to her at the door.
Almost in despair, and bewildered by the sudden turn of events which had
thus cast her homeless on the streets, the princess returned to her
carriage.
"Do you know where Signor Scalcagnato lives?" she asked the driver.
"Scalcagnato the shoemaker, the champion of the people? To be sure I do:
in the Piazza di Colosseo. But if the lady wishes to buy shoes of him
she should not address him as _Signor_ Scalcagnato."
"Why not?"
"Because he will ask half as much more for them than if he were called
plain _Citizen_ Scalcagnato."
After this gratuitous bit of information the coachman whipped up his
horse and rattled away toward the Colosseum with his passenger.
Arriving at the shoemaker's shop, Blanka was received by a little man of
lively bearing and a quick, intelligent expression.
"Pst! No words needed," was his greeting. "I know all about it. I am
Citizen Scalcagnato, _il calzolajo_. Take my arm, citizeness. Cittadino
Adorjano lives on the top floor, and the stairs are a trifle steep. He
is out at present, but his studio is open to you."
The young lady was reassured. The honest cobbler evidently did not
suspect her of coming to meet his tenant by appointment, but took her
for an artist friend on a professional visit, or perhaps a customer come
to buy a picture. The shoemaker took the artist's place, in the latter's
absence, and sold his paintings for him. Perhaps, too, the artist sold
his landlord's shoes when that worthy was abroad.
Thus it was that Blanka took the offered arm without a misgiving, and
suffered the cobbler to lead her up the steep stairway to the little
attic chamber that served her friend for both sleeping-room and studio.
It was as neat as wax, and as light and airy as any painter could
desire. A large bow-window admitted the free light of heaven and at the
same time afforded a fine view of the Palatine Hill. Leaning for a
moment against the window-sill, in mute admiration of the prospect
before her, the princess thought how happy a woman might be with this
view to greet her eyes every day, while a husband who worshipped her and
was worshipped by her worked at her side--or, rather, not _worked_, but
_created_. It was a picture far more alluring than any that the Cagliari
palace had to offer.
"Pst!" the cobbler interrupted her musing; "come and let me show you the
portrait."
So saying, he conducted her to an easel on which rested a veiled
picture, which he uncovered with an air of pride and satisfaction.
The feeling of rapture that took possession of Blanka at sight of her
own portrait was owing, not to the fact that it was her
likeness,--radiant though that likeness was with youth and beauty and
all the charm of an ideal creation,--but to the thought that _he_ had
painted it.
"The price is thirty-three million, three hundred and thirty-three
thousand, three hundred and thirty-three _scudi_, and not a _soldo_
less!" announced the shoemaker, with a broad smile. Then he laid his
fingers on his lips. "Pst! Not a word! I know all. It will be all
right."
Blanka saw now that he had recognised her the moment she entered his
shop.
"The citizen painter is not at home," continued the other, "but he will
turn up at the proper time where he is wanted. Sun, moon, and stars may
fall from heaven, but he will not fail you. No more words! What I have
said, I have said. You can now return home, signorina, and need give
yourself no further uneasiness. Whatever occurs in the streets, you need
not worry. And finally"--they had by this time reached the ground floor
again--"it will be well for you to take a pair of shoes with you, to
make the coachman think you came on purpose for them. Here's a good
stout pair, serviceable for walking or for mountain-climbing. You can
rely on them. So take them along; you may need them sometime."
"But how do you know they will fit me?" asked Blanka.
"Citizeness, don't you remember the stone footprint of our Lord in the
church of _Domine quo vadis_? And may not the footprint of an angel have
been left in the sand of the Colosseum for a devout artist to copy in
his sketch-book? Such a sketch is enough for the Cittadino Scalcagnato
to make a pair of shoes from, so that they cannot fail to fit."
The princess turned rosy red. "I have no money with me to pay for them,"
she objected. "A footman usually accompanies me and pays for all my
purchases; but to-day I left him at home, and I neglected to take my
purse with me."
"No matter; I understand. I'll charge the amount. Here, take this purse
and pay your cab-fare out of it when you reach the square. Don't go home
in a carriage, but on foot. You needn't fear to do so, with a pair of
shoes in your hand. If your gold-laced lackey were with you, you might
meet with insult and abuse; but walking alone with the shoes in your
hand, you will not be molested, and you will find all quiet at home by
this time. Now enough said. I know all. You can pay me back later."
With that the little shoemaker escorted his guest to her carriage and
took leave of her with a polite request--intended for the cabman's
ear--for her further patronage.
Following the mysterious little man's directions, Blanka reached home
unharmed, and found everything there as she had left it. Whatever
violence the rioters may have allowed themselves in storming the
marchioness's quarters, her own wing of the palace, for some reason that
she could only vaguely conjecture, had been spared. After assuring
herself of this, the princess tried on her new shoes, and found that
Citizen Scalcagnato was no less skilful as a shoemaker than eminent as a
politician and a party-leader.
The house was now still and deserted, although the sounds of riotous
excess were faintly audible in the distance. The servants had evidently
fled at the same time that Blanka and the marchioness left the palace.
Looking out of her rear window, the princess noticed that her garden
gate was open; it must have been left swinging by her domestics in their
flight. She was hastening down-stairs to close it, when a man's form
appeared before her in the gathering gloom, and she cried out in sudden
terror.
"Do not be alarmed, Princess." The words came in a firm, manly voice
that thrilled the hearer; she recognised the tones. Manasseh Adorjan
stood before her. "I could not gain admittance by the front door," he
explained, "so I went around to the garden gate."
"And how is it," asked Blanka, "that you have come to me at the very
moment that I was seeking you?"
"I wished, first, to bid you farewell. I am going home, to Transylvania,
for my people are in trouble and I must go and help them. As long as
they are happy I avoid them, but when misfortune comes I cannot stay
away. War threatens to invade our peaceful valley, and I hasten
thither."
"Has the hour come, then, when you feel it right to kill your
fellow-men?"
"No, Princess; my part is to restore peace, not to foment strife."
Blanka's hands were clasped in her lap. She raised them to her bosom and
begged her fellow-countryman to take her with him.
The colour mounted to his face, his breast heaved, he passed his hand
across his brow, whereon the perspiration had started, and stammered, in
agitated accents:
"No, no, Princess, I cannot take you with me."
"Why not?" asked Blanka, tremulously.
"Because I am a man and but human. I could shield you against all the
world, but not against myself. I love you! And if you came with me, how
could you expect me to help you keep your vows? I am neither saint nor
angel, but a mortal, and a sinful one."
The poor girl sank speechless into a chair and hid her face in her
hands.
"Hear me further, Princess," continued the other, with forced calmness.
"I have told you but one reason why I sought you here to-day. The other
was to show you a means of escape from this place, where you cannot
remain in safety another day. You must leave Rome this very night, and
that will be no easy thing to accomplish now that all the gates are
guarded. But I have a plan. Above all things, you must find a lady to
take you under her protection, and that, I think, can be effected.
Citizen Scalcagnato issues all the passports for those that leave the
city by the Colosseum gate. From him I have learned that the Countess
X---- is to leave for the south to-night. I have obtained a pass for
you, and you have only to make yourself ready and go with me to
the Colosseum gate, where we will wait for her carriage. She is
a good friend of yours and cannot refuse to take you as her
travelling-companion. Do you approve my plan?"
"Yes, and I thank you."
"Then a few hours hence will see you on your journey southward. I shall
set out for the north, and soon the length of Italy will separate us. Is
it not best so?"
Blanka gave him her hand in mute assent.
* * * * *
An hour later Manasseh and Blanka stood in the shelter of the gateway by
which the countess was expected to leave Rome. They had not long to
wait: the sound of an approaching carriage was soon heard, and when it
halted under the gas-lamp Blanka recognised her friend's equipage. The
gate-keeper advanced to examine the traveller's passport, and as the
carriage door was thrown open Blanka hastened forward and made herself
known.
"What do you wish?" demanded the liveried footman.
The princess turned and looked at him. Surely she had seen that face and
form before in a different setting, but she could not recall when or
where. So much was evident, however, that the speaker was more wont to
give than to receive orders. Blanka turned again to the open carriage
door and plucked at the cloak of the person sitting within.
"You are fleeing from Rome, too, Countess," said she. "I beg you to take
me with you."
But the carriage door was closed in her face.
"Countess, hear me!" she cried, in distress. "Have pity on me! Don't
leave me to perish in the streets!"
Her petition was unheeded. The footman drew her away and, as he turned
to remount the vehicle, whispered three words in her ear:
"_È il papa!_"
It was the Pope, and he was fleeing! The spiritual ruler of the world,
the king of kings, Heaven's viceroy upon earth, was flying for his life.
The judge fled and left the prisoner to her fate. Blanka felt herself
absolved from all her vows. She plucked from her bosom the consecrated
palm-leaf, tore it to pieces, and threw the fragments scornfully after
the retreating carriage. Then she turned once more to Manasseh.
"Now take me with you whithersoever you will!" she cried, and she sank
on his bosom and suffered him to clasp her in a warm embrace.
CHAPTER XIV.
WALLACHIAN HOSPITALITY.
Manasseh had not much choice of routes in making his way, with his
companion, to Transylvania. After leaving Italy, he bent his course
first to Deés, as the road thither seemed to offer no obstacles to
peaceful travellers. Troops were, indeed, encountered here and there on
the way; but they suffered Manasseh and Blanka to pass unmolested.
Manasseh had fortunately provided a generous hamper of supplies, so that
his companion was not once made aware that they were passing through a
district lately overrun by a defeated army, which had so exhausted the
resources of all the wayside inns that hardly a bite or a sup was to be
had for love or money.
The weather was unusually fine, as the sunny autumn had that year
extended into the winter. The Transylvanian was perfectly familiar with
the region, and entertained his fellow-traveller with legends and
stories of the places through which they passed. In the splendid
chestnut forests that crowned the heights of Nagy-Banya he told her the
adventures of the bandit chief, Dionysius Tolvaj, who kept the whole
countryside in terror, until at last the men of Nagy-Banya hunted him
down and slew him. In his mountain cave are still to be seen his stone
table, his fireplace, and the spring from which he drank. Manasseh also
related the adventures of bear-hunters in these woods, and told about
the search for gold that had long been carried on in the mountains, and
often with success, so that many of them were now honeycombed with
shafts and tunnels.
Up from yonder valley rose the spirit of the mountains, a white and
vapoury form, with which the sturdy mountaineers fought for the
possession of the hidden treasure. In reality, however, it was no genie,
but simply the fumes of sulphur and arsenic from the smelting works of
the miners, who never drew breath without inhaling poison. And yet they
lived and throve and were a healthy and happy people, the men strong,
the women fair, and one and all fondly attached to their mountain home.
One evening Manasseh pointed to a town in the distance, and told his
companion that it was Kolozsvar. As they drew nearer they saw that it
was garrisoned with a division of the national guard. Manasseh was now
among people who knew him well, and he did not expect to be asked to
show his passport. But he was mistaken. Suddenly a hand was laid on his
arm and a firm voice saluted his ears.
"So you thought you'd slip by me without once showing your papers, did
you? A pretty way to act, I must say!"
Manasseh turned to the speaker, who proved to be a short,
broad-shouldered, thick-set man, in a coarse coat such as the Szeklers
wear, high boots, and a large hat. His arms were disproportionately long
for his short body, his beard was either very closely cut or sadly in
need of the razor, and his legs were planted widely apart as he
confronted the travellers in a challenging attitude. Perhaps he wished
to invite Manasseh to a wrestling bout.
Blanka looked on in surprise as she saw the two men fling their arms
around each other. But it was not the embrace of wrestlers. They
exchanged a hearty kiss, and then Manasseh cried, joyfully:
"Aaron, my dear brother!"
"Yes, it is Aaron, my good Manasseh," returned the stocky little man,
with a laugh; and, throwing aside the jacket that hung from his neck, he
extended his right hand to his brother. Then he turned to Blanka. "And
this pretty lady is our future sister-in-law, isn't she? God bless you!
Pray bend down a bit and let me give your rosy cheek a little smack of a
kiss."
Blanka complied, and brother Aaron gave her blushing cheek much more
than "a little smack."
"There," declared the honest fellow, with great apparent satisfaction,
"I'm delighted that you didn't scream and make a fuss over my bristly
beard. You see, I haven't had a chance to shave for four days. Three
days and nights I've been here on the watch for my brother and his
bride."
"And what about our two brothers, Simon and David?" asked Manasseh,
anxiously. "Are they alive and well?"
"Certainly, they are alive," was the answer. "Have you forgotten our
creed? Our life is from everlasting to everlasting. But they are really
alive and in the flesh, and, what is more"--turning to Blanka--"they are
sure to come to meet us and will expect to receive each a nosegay from
their brother's sweetheart."
Blanka smiled and promised not to disappoint them, for there were still
plenty of autumn flowers in the woods and fields.
"Yes," said Aaron, "you'll find posies enough on the road. We are going
by a way that is covered with them. If you don't believe it, look at
this bouquet in my hat; it is still quite fresh, and I picked it in the
Torda Gap. Have you ever heard of the Torda Gap? There is nothing like
it in all the world; you'll remember it as long as you live. It is a
splendid garden of wild flowers, and there you will see the cave of the
famous Balyika,--he was Francis Rakoczy's general. Thence it is only a
step to the Szekler Stone, and we are at home. Do you like to walk in
the woods?"
"Nothing better!"
Here Manasseh pulled his brother's sleeve. "Do you really mean to take
us by the way of Torda Gap?" he whispered.
"Yes," returned the other, likewise in an undertone; "there is no other
way."
A blare of trumpets interrupted this conversation, and presently a squad
of hussars came riding down the street, every man of them a raw recruit.
"Look, see how proud he is on his high horse!" interjected Aaron. "He
never even looks at a poor foot-passenger like me. Halloa there,
brother! What kind of a cavalryman do you call yourself, with no eyes
for a pretty girl? Oh, you toad!"
With this salutation Aaron called to his side the young lieutenant who
rode at the head of the hussars. He bore a striking resemblance to
Manasseh,--the same face, the same form, the same eyes. Indeed, the two
had often been mistaken for each other. There was only a year's
difference in their ages. The young hussar gave his hand to Manasseh,
and while they exchanged cordial greetings they looked each other
steadfastly in the eye.
"Whither away, brother?" asked the elder.
"I am going to avenge my two brothers," was the reply.
"And I am going to rescue them," declared Manasseh.
"I am going forth to fight for my country," was the other's rejoinder.
Then the rider bent low over his horse's neck, and the two brothers
kissed each other.
"But aren't you going to ask your new sister for a kiss, you young
scapegrace?" cried Aaron.
The youthful soldier blushed like a bashful girl. "When I come
back--when I have earned a kiss--then I will ask for it. And you will
give me one, won't you, dear sister-in-law, even if they bring me back
dead?"
Blanka gave him her hand, while a nameless dread showed itself in her
face.
"Never fear!" cried the young man. As he gave Blanka a radiant look he
saw tears glistening in her eyes. "I shall not die. _Egy az Isten!_"[1]
[Footnote 1: See preface.]
"_Egy az Isten!_" repeated the elder brother.
Then the young hussar put spurs to his horse and galloped to the head of
his little company.
"Come, let us be going," said Aaron, and he led the way toward the
farther end of the town, where the family owned a villa which they used
whenever occasion called them from Toroczko to Kolozsvar. Adjoining the
house lay a garden which was now rented to a market-woman, who made
haste to prepare supper for the travellers. Blanka went into the
kitchen and helped her, but not before the woman had been instructed in
what was going on and warned not to breathe a word to the young mistress
of the dangers that encompassed them all in those troublous times. It
was Manasseh's desire to lead his bride home without giving her cause
for one moment of disquiet on the way.
"Can you sleep in a carriage?" the market-woman asked her, without
pausing in her baking and boiling. "Now as for me, many's the time I've
slept every night for two weeks in my cart when I was taking apples to
market. One gets used to that sort of thing. The gentlemen propose to
set out for Torda this very night, because to-morrow is the great
market-day in Kolozsvar, and there'll be troops of peddlers and dealers
of all sorts coming into town, and farmers driving their cattle and
sheep and swine, so that you couldn't possibly make head against them if
you should wait till morning."
Blanka readily gave her consent to any plan that seemed best to her
conductors.
Aaron meanwhile had brought out three good horses from the stable and
harnessed them to a travelling carriage. "Water behind us, fire before
us," he remarked to Manasseh as he buckled the last strap.
Wallachian troops were holding the mountain passes about Torda, and had
even threatened Toroczko; but thus far the inhabitants had not allowed
themselves to be frightened. Now, however, there was a report that
General Kalliani was approaching from Hermannstadt with a brigade of
imperial soldiery. Consequently it was to be feared that a general
flight from Torda to Kolozsvar would soon follow; and, when once the
stream of fugitives began, it would be impossible to make one's way in
an opposite direction. Therefore our travellers had not a moment to
lose.
Blanka was by this time well used to travelling by night, and she
entered cheerfully and without question into the proposed plan. A
longing to reach "home," and perhaps a vague suspicion of the perils
that threatened her party, made her the more willing to push forward.
When danger braces to action, a high-bred woman's power of endurance is
almost without limit.
Aaron drove, Manasseh sat beside him, and thus the entire rear seat was
left to Blanka, who was so swathed and muffled in wraps and furs that
she was well-nigh hidden from view. Despite all the plausible
explanations, she came very near guessing the well-meant deceit that was
practised upon her.
"Why, your horses are saddled!" she exclaimed to Aaron.
"Yes, to be sure," calmly replied the mountaineer. "That's the custom
in Transylvania; we put saddles on our carriage-horses just as in Styria
they buckle a block of wood over the horse's neck."
Blanka appeared satisfied with this explanation of Transylvanian usage.
Aaron gave his good Szekler steeds a free rein. They were raised in the
mountains and could, if need were, trot for twenty-four hours on a
stretch without food or water; then, if they were unharnessed and
allowed to graze a little, they were able to resume the journey with
unslackened pace. The driver had no occasion to use reins or whip: they
knew their duty,--to pull lustily when the road led up-hill, to hold
back in going down-hill, to trot on a level, to overtake and pass any
carriage in front of them, to quicken their pace when they heard one
behind, and to halt before every inn.
Aaron, turning half around on his seat, beguiled the time by telling
stories to his fair passenger, to whom his fund of amusing anecdotes
seemed inexhaustible. When at length, as they were ascending a long
hill, he noticed that she ceased to laugh at his tales, but sat inert
and with head sunk on her bosom, he put his hand into his waistcoat
pocket and, drawing out an enamelled gold watch, pressed the stem and
held it to his ear.
"Half-past twelve," he murmured.
The man himself was a gold watch encased in a rough exterior, a noble
heart in a rude setting. His horny hands were hardened by toil, but he
had a clever head on his shoulders; he was well endowed with mother-wit,
quick at repartee, merciless in his satire toward the haughty and
overbearing, cool and good-humoured in the presence of danger,--in
short, a genuine Szekler, heart and soul.
When, then, his repeater had told him the hour, Aaron turned and
addressed his brother. "The young lady is asleep," said he, "and now you
and I can have a little talk together. You asked me how our two brothers
came to be captured. Let me begin at the beginning, and you shall hear
all about it. You know when freedom is first born she is a puny infant
and has to be suckled. That she cries for blood instead of milk is
something we can't help. So all the young men of Toroczko enlisted in
the militia,--every mother's son of them,--and they are now serving in
the eleventh, the thirty-second, and the seventy-third battalions. You
ask me, perhaps, why we mountain folk must needs take the field when
already we are fighting for our country all our life long in the bowels
of the earth. You say it is enough for us to dig the iron in our
mountains without wielding it on the battle-field; else what do the
privileges mean that were granted us by Andreas II. and Bela IV., by
which we are exempted from military service? It's no use your talking,
Manasseh; you've been away from home. But had you been here and seen
and heard your brother David when he stood up in the middle of the
marketplace, made a speech to the young men around him, and then buckled
on his sword and mounted his horse, you would certainly have mounted and
followed him. How can you quench the flames when every house is ablaze?
All the young men were on fire and it was out of the question to dampen
their ardour. Besides, this is no ordinary war; freedom itself is at
stake, and that is a matter that concerns Toroczko. All the Wallachians
around us, stirred up by imperial officers sent from Vienna, took up
arms against us, and nothing was left us but to defend ourselves. The
people took such a fancy to our brothers that there was no other way but
to make them officers. You cry out against the good folk for letting
their commanders be taken prisoners. But don't make such a noise about
it." (Manasseh had thus far not once opened his mouth.) "You shall soon
see that your brothers were no fools, and did not rush into danger
recklessly. You know that soon after the Wallachian mass-meeting at
Balazsfalva came the Szekler muster at Agyagfalva, and presently we
found ourselves like an island in the midst of the sea. A Wallachian
army ten thousand strong, under Moga's command, beset us on all sides,
while we had but three hundred armed men all told,--just the number that
Leonidas had at Thermopylæ. Our eldest brother, Berthold, who, since he
turned vegetarian, can't bear to see a chicken killed for dinner, and is
dead set against all bloodshed, advised us to make peaceful terms with
the enemy. So we drew lots to see who should go out and parley with
them, and it fell to our brother Simon. He took a white flag and went
into the enemy's camp; but they held him prisoner and refused to let him
go. Then David started up and went after him, with an offer of ransom
for his release. But they seized him, too, and so now they have them
both. Meanwhile the Wallachs are threatening, if we don't surrender to
them and admit them into Toroczko, to hang our two brothers before our
eyes. We on our part, however, turn a deaf ear to the rascally knaves,
and would perish to the last man before we would think of yielding. It's
no use your screaming in my ears, you won't make me change my mind. I'm
ready to treat with people that are reasonable, but when they bite me I
bite back. I agree with you it's a hateful thing to have two of our
brothers hanged; noblemen are not to be insulted with the halter; their
honour should be spared and their heads taken off decently. But what can
we do? Can we hesitate a moment between two noblemen's deaths and the
destruction of all the peasantry? One man is as good as another now. So
you may make as much rumpus as you please, it won't do any good. I am
taking you to Toroczko, and as our two brothers are as good as lost to
us, you must take the command of the Toroczko forces. You have seen the
barricade fighting in Vienna and Rome, and you understand such things.
So, then, not another word! I won't hear it."
Manasseh had not uttered a syllable, but had permitted his brother to
argue out the matter with himself.
"I don't gainsay you, brother Aaron," he calmly rejoined, "not in the
least. Take me to Toroczko, the sooner the better; but we shall not get
there by this road. Do you see that great cloud of dust yonder moving
toward us?"
"Aha! What sharp eyes you have to see it, by moonlight too! I hadn't
noticed it before. All Torda and Nagy-Enyed are coming to meet us. They
must have set out about the same time we did, to make the most of the
night. We can't get through this way, that's sure. But don't you worry.
It's a sorry kind of a fox that has only one hole to hide in. Do you see
that gorge there on our right? It leads to Olah-Fenes. The people there
are Wallachs, it is true, but they side with us; to prove it, they have
cut their hair short. Next we shall come to Szent-Laszlo, where Magyars
live. So far we can drive, though it's a frightful road and one of us
must walk beside the carriage and keep it from tipping over. We must
wake up the young lady, too, and tell her to hold on tight, or she'll
be thrown out. But never fear. The horses can be depended on, and the
carriage is Toroczko work and good for the jaunt."
There was a halt, and Blanka awoke of her own accord. Manasseh turned to
her, chatted with her a moment on the brightness of the stars and the
clearness of the sky, then kissed her hand and bade her draw it back
again under her furs, else it would get frost-bitten. Thereupon Aaron
reined his horses toward the mountain gorge he had pointed out, and they
began their dangerous journey over a rough wood-road that led through
the ravine. At one point it ran along the brink of a precipice, and as
they paused to breathe their horses the rumble of wagons on the highway
from Torda fell on their ears, sounding like distant thunder in the
still night. Then, to the north and south, red lights began to glimmer
on the mountain peaks.
"How beautiful!" exclaimed Blanka, as she gazed at them. Little did she
suspect that they were beacon-fires calling to deeds of blood and
rapine.
A turn in the road at length conducted the travellers through a gap in
the mountain range, and they had a view of the moonlit landscape before
them. A noisy brook went tumbling and foaming down the ravine, and over
it led a wooden bridge, at the farther end of which could be seen a rude
one-story house surrounded by a palisade. Five smaller houses of
similar architecture were grouped about it. The barking of dogs greeted
the travellers while they were still some distance off, and the crowing
of cocks soon followed.
"Do you hear Ciprianu's roosters?" Aaron asked his brother.
"So you are acquainted with Ciprianu and his poultry?" returned
Manasseh.
"Yes, I know them well. Ciprianu is a Wallach, but a nobleman of Hungary
for all that, and his poultry unique of its sort. The cocks are white,
but in head and neck they bear a strong resemblance to turkeys, and they
gobble like turkeys, too. They are a special breed and Ciprianu wouldn't
part with one of them for a fortune. He guards them jealously from
thieves, and that explains why he has so many dogs. As soon as he hears
our carriage-wheels he'll come out on his veranda and fire off his
gun--not at us, but into the air, to let us know he's awake and ready to
meet friend or foe."
The barking increased, the dogs sticking their noses out from between
the stakes of the palisade and joining in a full chorus. Presently a
shot was heard from the front porch of the house.
"Oh, they are firing at us!" cried Blanka, startled.
"Don't be afraid, sister-in-law," Aaron reassured her; "that shot wasn't
aimed at us." Then he shouted, in stentorian tones: "Don't shoot,
Ciprianu, don't shoot! There's a lady with us, and she can't bear the
noise."
At this there was heard a great commotion among the dogs, as of some one
quieting the unruly beasts with a whip. Then the gate opened and a
six-foot giant in a sheepskin coat, wool outward, and bearing a club,
appeared. He exchanged greetings in Rumanian with Aaron, and the
conversation that followed was likewise in that language, so that Blanka
could not understand a word of it. The Wallach pointed to the
signal-fires on the mountains, and his face assumed an expression of
alarm. Finally he took one of the horses by the bridle, and conducted
the carriage through the gate and into his stronghold.
"Why are we stopped here?" asked Blanka.
Aaron gave her a reassuring reply. "Ciprianu says it is not best for us
to go any farther to-night, as the rains have washed out the road in
some places, and we might get into trouble in the dark. So we must
accept his invitation and spend the rest of the night under his roof."
Aaron had explained the situation only in part. The Wallachian's
argument for detaining them had much less to do with water than with the
fires on the mountain tops.
The dogs were kicked aside to make room for the strangers, and sundry
villagers appeared out of the gloom to reconnoitre the new arrivals.
The country peasantry never give themselves a regular night's sleep, but
lie down half-dressed in order to get up occasionally and look around in
house and stable, to make sure all is as it should be.
Ciprianu had a handsome daughter, as tall as himself and with regular
features of the old Roman cast. At her father's call she came out,
lifted Blanka like a child from the carriage, and carried her into the
house. It was a pleasant little abode, built of smoothly planed oak
beams and planks. The kitchen, which served also as entrance hall, was
as neat as wax and cheerfully adorned with brightly polished tinware.
The fire on the hearth was still smouldering, and it needed only a
handful of shavings to make it blaze up and crackle merrily. The wall
which separated the great fireplace from the next room was of glazed
tiles, and thus the adjoining apartment was heated by the same fire that
warmed the kitchen. Both the master of the house and his daughter were
most cordial toward their guests. The father spread the table, while the
girl put on the kettle and brought out the best that the house had to
offer of food and drink, pressing the refreshments upon Blanka in words
that sounded to her not unlike Italian, but were nevertheless quite
unintelligible.
"They can both speak Hungarian," whispered Aaron, when father and
daughter were out of the room for a moment, "but these are times when
they choose to forget all tongues except their own."
Blanka soon learned that her hostess's name was Zenobia. When they sat
down to the table, Zenobia made as if to kiss her fair guest's hand;
Blanka, however, would not allow it, but embraced the young woman and
kissed her on the cheek.
This act was noted by the father with no little pride and satisfaction.
Blanka could not understand his words; she could only guess his meaning
by the gestures and the play of countenance with which a Wallachian
knows so well how to convey his thoughts. Thus, when Ciprianu put his
hand first to his head, then tapped Aaron on the shoulder, kissed his
own fingers and then stretched them heavenward, made a motion with his
head and raised his eyebrows, bowed low, stood erect again, thumped his
bosom, and finally extended his great, muscular hands toward Blanka as
if to caress her, she could not but infer that the Wallachian-Hungarian
nobleman was proud of the courtesy shown to his daughter.
After this bit of eloquent pantomime, Ciprianu turned and hastened out
of the room and into the courtyard, whence he soon reappeared amid a
great cackling of poultry. He brought with him, tied together by the
feet, a cock and a hen of that splendid breed that so strangely
resembles, in head and neck, the proudest of Calcutta turkeys. This
pair of fowls he presented to Blanka. She smiled her pleasure, and
gladly accepted the gift, mindful of the new duties soon to be imposed
upon her as a young housewife, and thinking that this present would be a
welcome addition to her establishment. The generous host did not wait
for his guest's thanks, but disappeared again from the room.
"Sister-in-law," said Aaron, "you little suspect the value of the
present you have received. Even to his bishop Ciprianu has never given a
cock and a hen of this breed at one time. So now we can sleep soundly in
this house, for we have a sure proof that you have won its master's
heart. With Ciprianu's cock and hen we can make our way unchallenged
through the whole Wallachian army. They are as good as a passport for
us."
Blanka laughed, unaware of the full significance of his words. She was
like a saint walking over red-hot coals without once singeing the hem of
her robe.
Ciprianu's house was, as is usual among the Wallachian nobility, well
fitted for the reception of guests. Everything savoured of the
householder's nationality, but comfort and abundance were everywhere
manifest. Canopied beds were provided for all, only the master of the
house, according to established custom, lay down before the kitchen
door, wrapped in his sheepskin, and with his double-barrelled musket by
his side. In an adjoining room stood two beds for Blanka and Zenobia.
Aaron and Manasseh were likewise given a chamber in common.
Curiously enough, one is often most wakeful when most in need of sleep.
All her surroundings were so strange to Blanka that she found herself
wide awake and listening to the barking of the dogs, the occasional
crowing of the cocks, the snoring of the master of the house, and his
frequent mutterings as he dreamed of fighting with thieves and
housebreakers. Then her companion
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