Black Diamonds: A Novel

Another voice answered in the same tone—

Then a third took up the text in a parody of the Gloria—

"Gloria Baccho, et filiæ ejus Cerevisiæ et Spiritui vini, sicut erat in Baccho natus, et nunc, et semper, et per omnia pocula poculorum. Stramen."

The countess felt her whole body turning into ice; fear mingled with horror. She understood the impious parody.

Now the organ accompanied the antiphon.

"Date nobis de cerevisia vestra; quia sitiunt guttura nostra"—"Give us of your beer; our throats are dry."

Then followed the psalm—

"Brother to brother spoke these words: shall two goblets of beer quench man's thirst?"

"Two, three, five, six are not enough for man's satiety."

"Blessed be Bacchus, who gave us beer."

Then followed the Capitulum.

"Brethren, attend, and do as I command ye. Before ye leave the ale-house for your own homes empty all the pots, leave not a drop therein, but tilt them and drain every drop of wine. This do from goblet to goblet. Stramen."

The countess felt, as she listened to this profanity, what a damned soul must experience when for the first time it consorts with devils. But now a hellish chorus broke forth of men's and women's voices, yelling out a parody of a hymn—

This was followed by the ringing of the bell, and the priest's voice intoned the blessing.

"Bacchus be with you."

The chorus answered, "And with thy pint-pots."

Then came the Oratio—

"Let us eat. O all-powerful Bacchus, since thou hast created this society of ours for thine own honor, grant to us its continuance, and give to us a constant supply of brave topers, who never may cease drinking from goblet to goblet."

And the chorus answered, "Stramen."

The countess was not able any longer to hold herself up. She sank upon her knees, and looked up at the priest in mute horror. Hardly knowing what she did, she gazed in utter despair at the tall figure lit up as it was by the rays of the moon, which played round his head like a halo.

The abbé put the key into the lock of the chapel door. The countess caught his hand; her fright amounted to agony.

"Do not—do not open it!" she cried. "Inside is hell let loose."

With an elevation of his head, the abbé answered proudly—

"Nec portæ inferi—the gates of hell shall not prevail"; and then he turned the key, and the heavy iron door swung open, and disclosed the actors in the strange drama.

On the altar all the candles were lighted, and their light showed with distinctness every incident of the performance, every feature in the faces of the performers.

What a scene!

On one side of the vault ran a long table, round which was seated, eating and drinking, not the countess's ancestors and ancestresses, but all the servants of her household. The maids, who were so strictly guarded, were here in the company of the men who were so rigorously excluded. The countess could, therefore, see that these were flesh-and-blood ghosts which had so long haunted her ancient castle. Each of her handmaidens had a lover in either the steward, bailiff, gamekeeper, or clerk in the neighborhood. The nervous housemaid, who at night was afraid of her own shadow, was now drinking out of the glass of the innkeeper; the virtuous maid was embraced by the mayor's footman; the portress, an elderly virgin, held a jug in her hand, while she executed a clog-dance upon the table. All the rest clapped hands, shrieked, sang at the top of their voices, and beat the table as if it were a big drum. The shepherd, who represented the countess's grandfather, sat upon the monument of the chancellor, his legs round the cross, and played the bagpipes. It was this instrument which at the burlesque of vespers imitated the harmonium. Upon the gravestone of the first archbishop the beer-barrel was set up. The maids were all dressed in the countess's silk dresses, with the exception of the female coachman, who, as usual, wore man's clothes, but by way of symmetry her lover, the coachman of the neighboring brewery, was dressed in woman's clothes. The countess recognized on the head of this bearded fellow her nightcap, and round his body her cloak, trimmed with her best lace. Worst of all, at the top of the table sat Fraulein Emerenzia, on very intimate terms with her neighbor, a young lawyer. She wore the skirt of a favorite dress of Theudelinde's, a flame-colored brocade; the body could not fit her corpulent form, so she had her mistress's best lace shawl wrapped round her. Her face was red; she had a large tumbler of wine before her, and she smoked a pipe. The modest Emerenzia!

The men were all drunk and noisy, the women screamed in an unearthly manner; the bagpipes squealed; the table resounded with thumps and the clatter of the portress's clogs. From the altar came the voice of the mock priest, his arms outstretched in blessing. Through the din the words "Bacchus vobiscum" were heard, and the tinkle of the bell. This mock priest was no other than Michael the sacristan, who brought all the church ornaments confided to his care. He wore the pastor's vestments, and on his head an improvised skull-cap. The acolyte was the parish bell-ringer.

The countess was cut to the heart. The terrible ingratitude, especially of these girls, to whom she had been as a mother—more anxious indeed than their own mothers to keep them pure and innocent—wounded the poor lady who had taught them to sing hymns on Sunday, had fed them from her own table, and had never allowed them to read a novel or hear a bad word. And this was the outcome of her efforts. They insulted the graves of her ancestors, played upon her nervous fears, destroyed her rest, nearly drove her mad with their ghostly noises, wore her clothes at their orgies, and, worse insult of all, she, a high-born lady and a pure woman, had the degradation of wearing these same garments, defiled as they were with the smell of wine and stale tobacco.

Bitter as such ingratitude was, it counted as nothing in comparison with the profanation of using the holiest things of religion, the sacred ornaments of the Church, to carry out these impious rites. "Woe to them from whom scandal cometh," says the Scripture, and this woe means pain and suffering that no soothing balsam can alleviate.

A mortal terror still filled the countess's heart. She was in the presence of those who had no control over their already besotted senses. If these drunken savages, these unsexed women, found their revels were discovered, what was to hinder them tearing her to pieces? There was only one man between her and them. Theudelinde looked at her solitary protector. His eyes gleamed with such apostolic anger that her timid soul grew fearful of the consequences, both to him and to herself, of his just wrath. She seized both his hands, to hold him from venturing among such demons. The abbé easily freed himself from the clasp of her weak fingers. In one bound he sprang down the steps, fell upon the false priest as he was in the act of pronouncing his final stramen; with the butt-end of his rhinoceros whip he gave him two blows.

What the countess now witnessed was truly no vision. She saw how one man, armed with no more formidable weapon than a horsewhip, ventured into the midst of the hellish assembly, with one hand seized the table and overturned it and all that was on it of dishes, glasses, and wine-cups, with the other cracked his whip in the faces of the guests, who sprang to their feet in all the terror of detection, like to the profaners of the Temple. They were driven towards the door of the vault, the abbé's whip descending on their shoulders with impartial justice. They went tumbling over one another, howling and screaming, pressing onwards and pursued by the flagellation of the abbé. The bagpipe player in his haste missed his footing, those behind stumbled over him, and so lay all in a heap together. Not one went without carrying a remembrance of the abbé's strong arm, for he spared no one. No effort was made at reprisals; the criminal who is caught seldom shows fight. These last were, moreover, taken by surprise, and the clergyman was possessed of extraordinary strength; one man who tried to drag the horsewhip from his hand was dealt such a blow in his face that he was glad to relinquish his hold and take to his heels without loss of time.

"Give it to them! give it to them!" cried the countess, who had no pity for her former servants, who had to pass her as they made their way pell-mell to the door. Emerenzia covered her head, not from shame, but fearing her face might get a blow. Almost the last was the sacristan, whose clerical dress hindered his speed, and whose back was so battered by the abbé that the vestment he wore hung in ribbons.

After the last guest had departed, the abbé closed the heavy door of the vault and returned to where the countess was standing. His face wore an almost glorified expression; it was the consciousness of having asserted his strength. As he approached the countess fell on her knees, and made as if she would kiss his feet, but the abbé raised her.

"Compose yourself, countess. Your present situation needs all your strength. Do you know that at this moment there are only two persons in this castle, for I have locked the door which leads to the court-yard. This folly is played out. You see now that no wicked spirit had any part in it. It was no ghost, only human beings who have had to do with this miserable business."

"What shall I do?" asked the countess, constraining herself to speak calmly.

"Take my lantern. I am going to lock the lattice door, so as to stop any entrance from this side. But you can return by the way we came, back to your own apartment, where I advise you to make yourself some tea; you are freezing with cold."

"Must I go back all that way alone?"

"Remember the words, 'If God is with me, who is against me,' and you can never be alone. To see ghosts is an illness; the method of curing it must be heroic."

And as he saw that the countess, in spite of her efforts, could not subdue her nervous tremor, he took her by the hand, and, returning with her to the library, led her to the glass case which enclosed the skeleton, and opened the door.

"Were you afraid of this? Why, it is nothing to fear. It is a standing proof of the wisdom of God. Every limb of this wonderful collection of bones tells us the Almighty created man to be ruler of the earth. Look at the skull; upon this arched forehead is written the birthright of humanity, in every corner and line of the face the superiority of the white race over all others. This skull teaches us how deep should be our gratitude to an all-seeing Providence who has created us the superior over all other beings on the earth. The sight of a skull should cause no shudder in the breast of man; it should give rise to feelings of thankfulness and reverence, for it is the symbol of the great love which our Heavenly Maker has for the creature He has made and chosen from all eternity."

As he spoke the priest laid Theudelinde's cold hand upon the skull of the skeleton. The countess trembled no more. New life and strength born of the words of this singular man seemed to infuse themselves into her veins. She looked another being.

"Now go to your room," said the abbé. "I shall soon follow, but I must first put out the torches on the altar. We must not have a conflagration on our hands."

"I am quite ready to go alone," returned the countess. "My foolish fears are cured, but I am now concerned for you. Perhaps those wretched servants of mine are still about, and if you venture into the vault in the dark they may fall upon you and take their revenge for being discovered."

"Oh, I am provided with what would soon scatter such cowards as they are," said the abbé, drawing a revolver from a secret pocket. "I had resolved to use stringent measures with them if necessary. Now, in God's name, retire to your room, countess."

Theudelinde, without another word, took the lantern and went through the long library. The priest watched her until she had crossed the passage, and had opened the door of her own apartment. He then hastened back to the vault. In the passage he saw a blue flame burning on a tin dish.

"Alcohol and ammonia mixed together," murmured the priest. "This is what frightened Herr Mahok." Close to it lay the winding-sheet and mask. The abbé pushed the vessel with the flame into the corner, for he knew that in an encounter with an adversary it would be little profit to have an illumination, and then he went down the dark passage carefully. No one was there; they had all run away, and were probably running still. The lattice door stood open; he drew it to, and barred it carefully; then he returned into the vault and locked it also, having first extinguished the lights, with the exception of one, which he took to light him back to the countess's room.

He found her sitting composedly before the tea equipage. She had obeyed him. As he entered the room she rose, and, folding her hands upon her breast, cried:

"Most holy saint and apostle!"

"You must not give me such exalted titles," said the abbé, smiling. "What I have done does not merit such high-sounding terms. I have accomplished no miracle, for I had to do with mortals only. One circumstance which appears to you in a miraculous light is easily explained. I allude to my entering a house wherein all the doors were locked. But first, will you pour out the tea?—and if you will give me a cup I shall be grateful, for the occurrences of the last hour have somewhat excited me. Then we will talk the whole affair over."

The countess gave her guest his tea, then sank back in her arm-chair, and wrapped herself in her cloak; she was still shivering.

"That the supposed ghostly appearances and noises were in no sense supernatural was borne in on me," continued the abbé, as he sipped his tea, "from the first moment Herr Mahok took me into his confidence. I was convinced that the nocturnal disturbance was the work of your own household, and it served their purpose to make it as ghost-like as possible. The situation had been created by your over-caution, countess. Your women servants were not allowed to hold communication with the opposite sex; they, therefore, found other means to meet, and to give a cover to these illicit meetings they set up an atmosphere of ghostly mystery, by which their goings-on were well concealed. The conspiracy was perfectly carried out. If they had conducted their sinful intercourse on any other lines you would have long since discovered them. When the pastor told me that he and his sacristan had escaped through the lattice door, I suspected that it was through this door the men found their way into the vault, and that the sacristan must be a participator in the plot, whatever it was. Moreover, I calculated that the women must, of necessity, find their way through the cellar passage, and that, therefore, they would naturally leave every door in the house open, so that their return might be conducted without any danger of awaking you by noise, such as unlocking doors. The countenance, the coloring, the eyes of your companion betray her; it is easy to see what she has been, and that, moreover, she drinks. I knew to-day at dinner that she was a hypocrite. She held forth against all alcoholic drinks; that settled her with me. I had no doubt that I should find all the doors open, and I did. In order to make no noise I came on foot to the garden door. Countless footsteps in the fresh snow showed me that the company had already assembled. From the open garden door the foot-prints led to the lattice door, and thence to the vault. This door was put to. I pushed it open and was in the passage. I went to the left, up the steps to the cellar passage; the door was open. I could not count upon finding every door open; it was exactly as I imagined. The only difficulty lay in passing through your wardrobe-room, which has no key, but a peculiarly constructed spring-lock. I felt certain that your maids would borrow some of their mistress's silk dresses, and therefore the spring-lock would be arranged so as not to betray by its loud snap the return of the stolen garments to their proper place. On looking closely I found this to be the case; the lock was kept in its place by the insertion of a penknife, which could be easily withdrawn. Therefore, countess, you have, night after night, slept in this castle with every door open—in real danger—at the mercy of robbers, or even murderers; all the time frightened to death with ghostly noises, which kept you a prisoner to your room, not venturing to call your treacherous servants. Countess, you have been terribly punished."

"Punished!" stammered the countess, her face growing even paler.

"Yes, punished; for you have richly deserved to suffer."

Theudelinde fixed a horrified look on the abbé.

"Countess, at your door," said the priest, sternly, "lies the heaviest portion of the sins into which your servants have fallen. You have, in fact, driven them into vice. Your eccentric rules, bizarre and ridiculous ideas, made your women servants liars and induced their irregularities. Nature punishes those who revolt against her, and the long years during which you have isolated yourself from the world and from society have been flat rebellion, which has brought its own punishment. You now stand before two judges, Heaven and the World; Heaven is ready to punish you, the world to laugh at you; and the wrath of Heaven and the ridicule of the world is equally hard to bear. How do you mean to protect yourself against both?"

The countess sank back annihilated. Only just recovered from the anxieties, horrors, and dangers of this dreadful night, she was not able to face the denunciations of the priest, which were, in fact, only the echo of her own conscience. The torture was greater than all she had undergone. There was silence in the room, during which the words rang in Theudelinde's ears like the tolling of a bell.

"How shall you face the anger of Heaven and the ridicule of the world?"

At last she thought of a way out of the difficulty, and, raising her head, she said, in a low voice:

"I will hide my miserable head in a convent. There the ridicule of the world will not reach me; there, kneeling before the altar, I will day and night pray to God to pardon my fault. You, oh most reverend father, will perhaps use your influence with the abbess of some convent—I should prefer the very strictest order—and get me admitted. There I shall find a living grave, and no one will ever hear my name. I shall leave this castle, and all my fortune, together with my savings of the last few years, to your order, with only one condition, that every night at twelve o'clock vespers shall be sung in the family vault, which has been desecrated by such abominations as have been practised there."

The countess's voice, which was low and broken in the beginning, gathered strength as she made this renunciation of her worldly goods.

The abbé rose up as she finished, and took her trembling hand in his, while, with a haughty elevation of his head, he answered:

"That everything may be quite clear, I beg you will understand, countess, that neither I nor my order need, nor would accept, the donation of your castle, your property, or your money. It is not our custom to take advantage of weak-minded persons in a moment of contrition, and to extort from them compensation for their sins in the shape of their worldly goods. We have no desire to acquire property in so sneaking and contemptible a manner, and therefore, countess, in the name of my order, I decline to spend the night singing vespers in your family vault, or the day in living on your fortune. This idea you may dismiss altogether from your mind."

These words filled the countess with admiration. She had already felt herself singularly attracted by this man. This proof of his disinterestedness and indifference to worldly considerations completed his dominion over her mind, and subjugated her to his authority. She listened submissively while he continued his admonitions.

"For the rest," he said, "I should recommend you to abandon all ideas of conventual life, which is quite unsuited to a person of your nervous, excitable nature. You would find neither peace nor happiness; on the contrary, you would be a prey to all manner of scruples and disquieting thoughts. There are those who find a refuge and salvation in a cloister; for you it would be a foretaste of damnation, and in all probability you would end like the hermit who fled from the world to pray to God, and instead of praying, cursed Him."

The eyes of the countess glared at this awful prospect, but she murmured to herself, "True, quite true!"

"The recollection of your faults has banished you from the Church and has robbed you of all power to pray," continued the priest, in a harsh voice.

"True, quite true!" sobbed the countess, and beat her breast. "I can never again enter a church, and I dare not pray." Then with a cry of despair she threw herself at the feet of the abbé, and with feverish strength clasped both his hands, while she screamed out, "Where shall I go, if not to the Church of God? Who shall help me, if I cannot pray to Him?"

The clergyman saw it was necessary to soothe her terrible excitement.

"Your proper refuge is in your own heart," he said, gently, "and your good deeds shall plead for you."

Theudelinde pressed the priest's hand to her burning forehead. Then she rose from her kneeling position and stretched out her arms.

"Command me. Advise me. What shall I do?"

"Return to society, and take the place your rank and wealth entitle you to hold."

The countess fell back a step, and stared at the abbé, her face all astonishment.

"Return to the world! I who left it five-and-twenty years ago! I should be the laughing-stock of every one were I to seek, at my age, pleasures which I long ago renounced."

"Countess, you have voluntarily thrown away that portion of your life to which the world offers its best gifts; but there still remains to you that other half, wherein you can acquire the esteem of the world—that is, if you avail yourself of the means necessary for success."

"My father, remember that in that circle which you wish me to enter I shall meet nothing but contempt and humiliations. The present generation don't know my name, my contemporaries despise me."

"But there is a magic circle in which every one is recognized and no one is despised. Would you wish to enter this circle?"

"Place me in this circle, father. Where is it to be found?"

"I will tell you, countess. Your nation is passing through a crisis; it may be called the battle for intellectual freedom. All are striving to place themselves on a footing with the intellectuality of other nations—philosophers, poets, industrials; men, women, boys, gray-beards, magnates, and peasants. If they all knew how to strive together they might attain their purpose, but all are divided; each works for himself and by himself. Individual effort is doomed to failure, but united, certain of success."

The countess listened in breathless astonishment. She did not understand where the abbé was leading her.

"What is wanting in this tremendous struggle is a centre. The country has no centre. Debreczyn is thoroughly Hungarian, but its religious exclusiveness has narrowed its sphere of influence. Szegedin is well suited, but it is far too democratic. Klausenburg is indeed a Hungarian town. The aristocracy are to be found there, and a certain amount of culture, but it lies beyond the Kiralyhago, and the days of the Bethlens and the Bocskais are over. Pesth would be the proper centre; it has every qualification. I have been through the five quarters of the globe, and nowhere have I found such a place. In Pesth no man troubles himself about his neighbor, and each man believes that the world is made for him alone. The first look of the city takes one by surprise; the fine embankment along the broad Danube River, the beautiful squares and streets, with the six-story tin houses, each in a different style of architecture. Side by side are palaces built in the Roman, Moorish, Spanish, or Renaissance style, with, perhaps, the occasional introduction of a quaint Dutch mansion or Gothic structure. Opposite to the great edifice of the chain bridge rises a large stone bandbox with four towers; this is called the Basilica, but it looks more like a giant scaffold than anything else. On all sides rage monster factory chimneys, which vomit forth volumes of poisonous smoke upon the town. Factories, docks, academical palaces, redoubts, tin card-houses, art conservatories, are crowded one over the other. The academy interferes with the business of the docks, and the noise of the shipping-trade disturbs the academicians. The smoke of the steam-engines suffocates every one; while the town-hall, with all its ornamented peaks and minarets, says to the stranger, 'Come nearer, friend; this is Constantinople.'"

The countess could not help smiling over this graphic description.

"The inner town," continued the abbé, "is a labyrinth of narrow, irregular streets, which were built when the site of the present town-hall was only a marsh for the pigs to wallow in. In spite of the narrow proportions, these streets contain some of the finest shops in Europe. The contrasts are something wonderful; the finest equipages jammed against the overladen wagons conveying merchandise; the most elegantly dressed women jostling against beggars in rags. The prettiest women are to be seen in this quarter, and this in face of a wind that drives all the dust into the eyes. In the suburbs houses are rising on all sides with marvellous rapidity, little and big, in every style and variety, giving more dust for the wind to play tricks with. The whole place is a stony wilderness, with here and there a small green oasis not bigger than a private garden. Round about the city lies a Sahara, the earth of which is constantly dug up, so that the sirocco is never in want of dust. This is the exterior appearance of Pesth, which in itself presents the different features of a manufacturing town, an emporium for trade, and a city of arts and science, as well as those of the capital of an empire and of an American colony, where men of all classes assemble to make their pile of gold, but when this is secured hurry away to spend their winnings in other places.

"So far as social conditions are concerned, and these, after all, concern us most," said the abbé, with a quick look at his listener, "they are as complicated as the commercial interests of Pesth. Each class is surrounded, so to speak, with a Chinese wall. Trade and the stock-exchange are altogether in the hands of Jews and Germans. This would not be so much an evil were it not that a great amount of fraudulent speculation goes on, and at every turn of the money market in Vienna the funds go down. The Hungarian element is made up of tobacco-merchants and hand-workers; there are, besides these, about twenty thousand Slavonians from the hills, who are day-laborers. Pesth is, or should be, the headquarters of national education. It is, however, not the fashion to support it. It should be also the centre of science and literature; it is not, however, considered good 'ton' to cultivate anything but foreign literature. Pesth can boast of very distinguished savants, and of a very haughty aristocracy; but no one is allowed to enter this magic circle but those who belong to the upper ten. The whole society is on a wrong footing; each one fights his own battle, bears his own burden; the finest ideas are lost because no one understands the other. A common standpoint is wanting. All healthy life is dying out, full freedom of thought and action being strangled by the iron laws of the short-sighted government, which forbids discussion of any kind.

"The Reichstag and the Comitatshaus are both closed. The only free ground left is that of general society; but here class prejudices step in. A certain portion of our aristocracy are too indifferent to trouble themselves to do anything for the general good; the rest are too fond of their own ease and amusement; they acknowledge no other aim in life but their own pleasure. There are some, however, who do know what their duty is, and who would willingly make sacrifices to fulfil it, but during the last ten years they have suffered such a loss of income that they are no longer in a position to bear the expense which would be entailed by opening their houses. There are others, those most fitted by intellect as well as by position to be leaders. Alas! they will never return to Pesth; it is to them full of tragic memories, which haunt the houses where they once lived, and which have banished forever the laugh and jest from those walls. Therefore it is that we have arrived at this position, that there is not a single centre where the clever, the good, the nobleman, and the gentleman can meet on equal terms; and without this no real good can be done."

"Then let me create this centre!" cried the countess, rising to her feet and addressing the abbé with an inspired look. Her whole being seemed changed by this new thought, which had been skilfully suggested by the words of the clergyman, who seemed well pleased at the effect he had produced.

"Then you understood," he said; "and for you the advantages will be incalculable. Here is the shelter you require. If you come to Pesth, if you live there as befits your rank and your fortune, you can assemble round you the very cream of society. To your salon will come every one, distinguished not alone by birth, but by talent—politicians, artists, poets, magnates, priests, prelates, and laymen, the aristocracy of the land and the aristocracy of intellect shall be alike represented. Your mission will be to further by this means the apostolate of truth, of culture; and, by so doing, to assist the progress and development of your own nation, and for the rest your own position will be most honorable. As hostess and mistress of such you will be respected and admired."

The countess seized the clergyman's hand in both hers, and covered it with kisses, while in her excitement she sobbed:

"I thank you, I thank you, I thank you!"

"Do you not see, countess, that there is a vocation for you besides that of conventual life?"

"You are a prophet."

"In the meantime, may I ask you a practical question? For the task which you have undertaken with such praiseworthy zeal there are certain material qualifications absolutely necessary, the first being a sufficient income. May I ask you to give me your confidence on this delicate subject?"

"I am rich," answered Theudelinde. "I have my capital at good interest. Likewise, out of my savings I have bought a fine mansion situated in the best part of Pesth; it is at present let."

"You will now take it into your own hands," said the abbé, "and have it properly appointed, suitable to your rank. So far as your securities go, it may be better to invest your capital differently. We shall see. How much does your yearly income from the Bondavara estate amount to?"

"About twenty thousand florins."

"How large is the estate?"

"From about nine to ten thousand acres."

"Then the return is far too small. The agent is to blame for this; this income would be too little to support the position you now intend to hold. Twenty thousand florins would not be nearly enough to keep up an establishment on a proper footing in Pesth."

The countess was surprised. She said, humbly, "I imagined it was a great deal of money."

"So it is for living in the country; but Pesth is as dear, if not dearer, than Paris. To keep a proper establishment going, and take the position of a leader of society, such as it is your ambition to be, you must at least command a yearly income of forty thousand florins."

"But I cannot do that. What shall I do?" Theudelinde said, in great distress.

The abbé's lips parted in a smile. "Oh, we will manage it for you! For the rest it will not be difficult. The rental of the estate must be overhauled; you must get a better agent, a more enterprising steward. I myself do not understand finance, but I have friends in the inner circle of the stock-exchange, and one or other of these will undertake to advise you as to your affairs when you are settled in Pesth. In any case, I am quite certain that your land is let too low, it should bring in double the interest you get from it. I know so much of political economy."

The countess was delighted at these words. What a friend to have! Her income to be doubled! Truly this abbé was sent to her from heaven.

"Do as you think best," she said. "I give you full power to act for me."

"Then, if you will allow me, I shall have your property revalued, and fresh leases made. This will double your income, and it will only cost you a trifle—a factor's fee, in fact."

Theudelinde was like a child in her joy—like a child in her submission to her spiritual adviser, to whom she looked up as a father, a counsellor, a true friend.

All this he might be; but it was also true that from the date of this conversation the owner of Bondavara lost her hold on her own property forever.

CHAPTER IX
"AN OBSTINATE FELLOW"

"Why cannot we drive? My horses are in the stable."

"But I can neither harness them nor drive them."

"Oh, I should never think of such a thing!"

Nevertheless, the countess had now to consider whether she should remain alone in the castle or take the alternative of accompanying the priest in a heavy fall of snow.

"Somebody is knocking at the door," said the abbé.

"It must be my steward," returned Theudelinde. "He has heard what has happened, and has come to our assistance."

"But there is no one to open the door. Your portress was one of the ghosts."

"She was the old witch who danced on the table."

"Have you by chance a second key?"

"It hangs there on that large bunch to the right."

"Then I will take it with me, in case there is none in the lock."

"But the dogs, father, they will tear you in pieces. They are fierce to strangers."

"I will call them by their names, if you will tell me what they are."

"I don't know their names," returned the countess, who never troubled herself about such a common thing as a watch-dog's name.

"Then I must shoot them."

"But, father, as gently as you can." By this Theudelinde did not mean to appeal to his compassion for the dogs, but to remind him to spare her sensitive nerves.

The abbé took his revolver and went on his mission; he carried no lantern with him, for daylight had come.

Both the watch-dogs lay one on each side of the doorway. They were chained loosely, so that they could keep well clear of one another, but it was impossible to pass between them to the door, if you escaped being bitten by one, the other was sure to tear you. The abbé, therefore, to get to the door, had to shoot one and wound the other. He then drew the bolt, and saw a man standing before him, a revolver in his hand.

"Who are you? What do you want?" asked the priest.

"Who are you, and what brings you here?" returned the stranger.

"I am the Abbé Samuel, the countess's confessor."

"And I am Ivan Behrend, the countess's next neighbor."

The abbé lowered his pistol, and changed his tone to one of courtesy.

"You must confess that it is rather an unusual hour for you to come," he said, smiling.

"Honi soit qui mal y pense," said Ivan, putting his weapon into his pocket. "I came at this unusual hour in consequence of a letter which I received this very night, in which I was informed that the castle was in a state of confusion, and the countess was in great need of help."

"The cause of the confusion—"

"Oh, I know, that was also in the letter. Therefore, I have come to do what I can, although I am aware the countess admits no man into her house, especially at this hour."

"She will receive you most certainly. Allow me first to close the door. There is absolutely no one in the house. Take care of the dog on the left-hand side; he is still alive."

"You have shot the other?"

"Yes; you heard the shot and drew your revolver?"

"Naturally. I did not know who might have fired the pistol."

Both men ascended to the apartments of the countess. The abbé entered first to prepare her.

"We have got unexpected help," he said; "a neighbor of yours, Ivan Behrend."

"A doubtful person," returned Theudelinde, scornfully. "He is an atheist."

"It does not matter in the present crisis whether he be a Thug, a Mormon, or a Manichæan, we have great need of his help. Some one told him of the plight you are in, and he wishes to see you."

"I will not see him, or speak to him. I beg you will confer with him instead of me."

"Countess, if this man is what you say, a heretic, he may say that he will not confer with one of my cloth."

"Very well. I suppose I must see him, but you will be present?"

"If it should be necessary."

The countess rolled her shawl round her, and went into the reception-room, into which the morning light was breaking. Abbé Samuel thought it necessary, however, to light the candelabras on the chimney.

Theudelinde, with a freezing air, asked Ivan to take a chair, and placed herself at a considerable distance from her visitor. She signed to him to begin the conversation.

"Countess, this night while I was busy reading, some one tapped at my window, and when I opened it thrust this note into my hand. It is written by your steward."

"By my steward!" exclaimed the countess, in a tone of surprise.

"It is written in his style, and quite unfit for you to read. I will tell you what interests you. The steward says that your entire household, without any exception of sex, have made good their escape, and that he is following their example."

"My steward also! And for what reason?"

"He gives the reason in his letter. I suspect, however, it is only a pretext on his part to conceal a very criminal design. I am of opinion that he has robbed you."

"Robbed me!" repeated the countess.

"Do not alarm yourself; there are different sorts of robbery, such as being an unfaithful steward, injuring your land, making profit to himself to your disadvantage. This man, I imagine, played this game, and has now tried to give a humorous turn to his flight, so that the laugh may be turned against you. This is my idea."

The countess was obliged to acknowledge that her neighbor was both a clever and a kind-hearted man.

"In this letter," continued Ivan, "your steward states that after what has happened he could never dare to look you in the face again, as he could not convince you that the late scandals in the castle had gone on without his knowledge. I did not believe these words. I felt certain that you had dismissed your household on finding out how grossly they had deceived you; therefore, my first care on getting this letter was to send a messenger on horseback to the nearest telegraph-station with a message to your banker in Pesth, to tell him that the agent of the Bondavara estate had absconded, and on no account to honor his checks. I thought it was probable he had liberty to draw in your name."

"This was really very practical and thoughtful on your part," said the abbé. "The countess must feel most grateful to you."

Theudelinde bowed her head graciously.

"One reason that brought me here," continued Ivan, "was to know if you approved of what I had done, and also to offer you my assistance in case you wish to leave the castle. I will help you to get away, and I will send my people to look after your property till you can make further arrangements."

"This is really most neighborly and friendly, and the countess owes you a debt of gratitude," repeated the priest, again assuming all responsibility.

"I am merely doing my duty," returned Ivan. "And I would add that if you should be in any difficulty as to the necessary funds, which is very likely, as the steward and bailiff have both made off, don't let this for a moment distress you; I can lend you ten thousand florins."

The Abbé Samuel whispered to the countess to accept this offer in the spirit in which it was meant, and on no account to say anything of interest.

Theudelinde accordingly held out her hand with gracious dignity to her chivalrous neighbor, who drew from his pocket the money in bank-notes. The countess wished to give him an acknowledgment, which he declined, saying the money was lent for such a short time that it was not necessary.

"And about leaving the castle," he said. "How soon do you start?"

"The sooner the better!" cried the countess.

"Then, if you will allow me to suggest a plan for accomplishing the first stage of the journey, which is the difficult part of the business, in the first place it will be necessary to pack up what you need. Will you be good enough, countess, to select the trunks you mean to bring? When this is done I will harness the horses; then we must lock and seal the rooms, and my servants will watch them until you send your proper people. This done, we can set out; and as we shall have to pass the steward's house, we can call there, and look for any books he may have for keeping the accounts of the estate. They would be useful."

"I shall not go there; I don't want any accounts."

"Very good. Then we shall go straight to the inn in my village."

"What to do?"

"Because the post is there. We must get post-horses."

"And why post-horses? Cannot I drive my own horses?"

"No."

"And why not?"

"Because they are screws. They would not reach the next station."

"My horses! Why do you say they are screws?" asked the countess, angrily.

"Because they are in bad condition."

"Bear!" thought Theudelinde. "He answers me so roughly."

"I shall not enter the inn," she said, determinedly. "I go nowhere where men drink. Cannot I wait at your house until the horses are changed?"

"Certainly. I am charmed to receive you, countess; only you will find nothing suitable for you. I live alone en garçon."

"Oh, that does not matter," returned the countess, with an air of indifference.

"Will you have the goodness, then," said Ivan, "to begin your preparations and select the clothes you mean to pack up?"

Theudelinde gave a strange smile. "My packing will not take long; my luggage will not be heavy. Will you make a good fire while I go to my wardrobe? It is very cold in this room."

In the sitting-room there was a large marble fireplace, and in the ashes of the grate some sparks still lingered. Ivan put some wood on the smouldering fire, and soon a genial blaze glowed in the chimney. It welcomed the countess, who presently returned, carrying in her arms a heap of dresses and clothes of all description.

Ivan looked at her in dismay. "You are going to pack all those?"

"Yes, and as many more, which still remain in my wardrobe."

"But, countess, where?"

"Here," returned Theudelinde, as she flung the bundle on the fire.

It filled up the whole fireplace, and the fire, catching the light materials, there was presently a crackling sound, while the old chimney roared again with joy over such a splendid contribution.

The two men looked on in silence at this auto-da-fé.

Ten times did Theudelinde go backward and forward to her room, each time returning with fresh armfuls of finery, and when these were exhausted, her linen, boots, shoes, etc., followed; while at each sacrifice the flames in the chimney leaped and danced, and the wind blew the flames up the chimney, where they roared like so many demons.

"Well, this sort of packing makes short work," thought Ivan, but said nothing.

The clergyman stood with his hands behind his back. The countess's eyes danced, her cheeks were flushed, her activity was unceasing. When all was consumed she turned to Ivan with a triumphant air.

"It is finished," she said.

"And may I ask in what toilette your ladyship intends to travel?"

"In the clothes I wear, and my fur cloak."

"Then I shall go and get the carriage."

When he was gone the countess, assisted by the abbé, put on her fur pelisse lined with sable. She took with her nothing that she had ever used; in her opinion everything was defiled.

After a few minutes Ivan returned, and announced that the carriage was at the entrance. The doors were then locked, and a seal affixed to each.

When they entered the hall the sight of the dog which the abbé had spared presented a difficulty. If they left him he would die of hunger. The countess thought it would be better to shoot him also. Ivan, however, was more merciful.

"I will chain him to the carriage, and he will follow us."

Theudelinde was certain the hound would bite him; but the dog's instinct assured him that it was a friend who now approached. He allowed Ivan to put on his chain, and licked his hand to show his gratitude. All was now done, Ivan locked the gates, gave the key to the abbé, who with the countess was already seated in the carriage, jumped on the coach-box, and drove away from Bondavara Castle. They went slowly, for the two miserable nags, which were dignified with the name of carriage horses, could hardly drag them along. They were spent with age and starvation, and were only fit for the knacker's yard.

As the vehicle turned in the direction of the coal-mine Ivan remarked a cloud of smoke in the distance, and soon after they met a group of laborers carrying requisites for putting out a fire, hurrying in the direction of the smoke. On being questioned they said the granary of the noble countess was burning, but that they hoped to extinguish the fire.

"I think it will be easily done," Ivan said. "The steward set it on fire to conceal the defalcation in the crop."

The countess was indignant, but Ivan remarked dryly that property had its duties, and that those who never looked after their own interests were fair game for the thief.

A rough, ill-mannered man!

It was full daylight before the noble coach, drawn by the pair of noble nags, made its way through the heavy snow into the Bergwerk Colony. The wretched beasts were steaming as they drew up at Ivan's door. Ivan's first care was to call the postmaster to take them to his stable, and to order a good pair of fresh horses to replace them. Then he led his tired guests into his workroom. All the other rooms were cold and cheerless, so he took them where there was warmth and light.

In the room everything was in the utmost disorder; it was hard to find a place where the countess could sit down. She looked about her with astonishment at the strange objects which encumbered the tables and chairs; every available spot was taken up by some extraordinary, diabolical-looking invention. She cast a look of terror at the chemical laboratory, upon whose furnace the coals still glimmered, testifying to the experiment upon which Ivan had been at work when interrupted by the steward's tap at the window.

"Cagliostro's workshop," she whispered to the abbé. "There are mysterious things done here."

What annoyed the countess far more than the evidences of mystery and magic which surrounded her was the idea that she was the guest and the debtor of this rough, common fellow. She, rich, well-born, a faithful child of the Church, owed her rescue from a most unpleasant position to this obscure, godless tradesman. If she could only pay him the heaviest interest for his loan, and had not to say "thank you!" And yet she had to swallow the indignity.

Ivan, after an absence of a few minutes, returned, followed by a maid carrying a tray with the steaming breakfast. She laid the cloth, and set out the cups and coffee-cans. The countess would gladly have made some excuse to avoid tasting the food presented by her unholy host, but the abbé, who was a man of the world, drew his chair to the table, and invited Theudelinde to follow his example, "For," he said, "we shall not get anything to eat till the evening, as there are no inns on our road; and you want refreshment before your long journey."

When the countess saw that no demons seized upon the clergyman, and that the coffee of the Warlock seemed innocent of all evil, she, too, came to the table and sipped a few spoonfuls, but she found it was execrable stuff; the milk was not so bad, and she contented herself with that and bread.

Ivan began to talk about the weather—a very general subject of conversation; but herein there was this difference. Instead of an ignoramus, it was a meteorologist who handled the theme. Ivan assured the countess that both the barometer and his English glass pointed to fine weather, the sun was as warm as in May, their journey would be excellent. As he spoke, Ivan drew back the thick green window curtains, and let in the bright sunlight to enliven the half-darkened room. The first effect of this sudden eruption of light was to show the countess her own face reflected in a large concave mirror which hung on the wall opposite to her.

It is an undoubted fact that we all like to see our reflection in a glass; our eyes wander to it naturally, and the most earnest orator, in the midst of his finest peroration, will gesticulate to his own image with more satisfaction than to a crowded audience; but it is a totally different thing if it should be a magnifying-glass. What a horrible distortion of ourselves—head as large as a cask, features of a giant, expression that of a satyr; a sight too dreadful to contemplate.

"What an awful glass you have there," said the countess, peevishly, as she turned her back to the mirror.

"It is undoubtedly not a toilette mirror; it is a glass which we use in chemical experiments to test the highest degrees of heat."

Here the abbé, who wished to air his scientific knowledge, put in—

"As, for example, for burning a diamond."

"Just so," returned Ivan. "That is one of the uses of a concave mirror; it is necessary for burning a diamond, which requires the flame of a gas retort."

The countess was grateful for the abbé's remark, for it gave her a happy inspiration.

"Do you mean to tell me," she said, addressing Ivan, "that a diamond is combustible?"

"Undoubtedly, for the diamond is, in fact, nothing but coal in the form of a crystal. With the necessary degrees of heat you can extract from the patrician diamond ninety florins carat weight, the same amount of invisible gas or oxide of coal as from the plebeian lump of coal."

"That is proved by the focus of the magnifier," remarked the abbé.

"I don't believe it," said the countess, throwing back her head.

"I am sorry," returned Ivan, "that I cannot give you a proof that the diamond is combustible. We do not use such costly things for mere experiment, but have splints for the purpose, which are cheap in comparison. I have, however, none of these by me."

"I should like to be convinced, for I do not believe it," repeated the countess. "Will you make the experiment with this?" As she spoke she unfastened a brooch from her dress, and handed it to her host. The centre stone was a fine two-carat brilliant. Theudelinde expected that Ivan would return it to her, saying, "Oh, it would be a pity to use this beautiful stone;" and then she would reply, "Then pray keep it as a slight remembrance;" and in this manner this perverse individual would have been paid and forgotten. But, to her amazement, the countess found she had deceived herself.

With the indifference of a philosopher and the courtesy of a gentleman Ivan took the brooch from its owner.

"I conclude you do not wish to have the ornament melted," he said, quietly. "I will take the diamond out of its setting, and if it should not burn you can have it reset."

Without another word he extracted the stone with a little pincers, and placed it at the bottom of a flat clay saucepan; then he opened the window, which lay in the full blaze of the sun. He placed the saucepan upon a stand in the middle of the room and just in front of the countess; then he took the magnifying-glass and went outside, for in the room the sun's rays had not power to concentrate themselves upon the mirror.

The countess was now certain that the trick would not succeed, and that she would have an opportunity of offering the diamond to Ivan on the pretext of repeating the experiment when the sun's rays would be more powerful.

Ivan, when he had found the proper spot outside the window, directed the rays from the apex of the burning-glass straight upon the saucepan, where the diamond was waiting the moment of its annihilation. The stone emitted a thousand sparks. As the sun's rays touched it, it threw out as many colors as are in the rainbow; it seemed as if it were to be the victor in this fight. All of a sudden the fiery rays condensed themselves in a narrower circle upon the doomed diamond, the small room was filled with a blinding light that turned everything into silver; not a shadow remained. Out of the saucepan shot a ball of fire like a flash of lightning; the next minute the burning-glass ceased to work.

Ivan still stood outside the window. He spoke to the countess, who was transfixed with astonishment.

"What is in the saucepan?" he asked.

"Nothing."

Ivan returned to the room, hung the mirror in its place, and returned to the countess her brooch without its centre stone.

The abbé could not help remarking, dryly, "That little drama is fit to be played before a queen."

But now the postilion blew his horn, the countess put on her fur pelisse, and was escorted to the carriage by Ivan. She was obliged to give him her hand, and to say the words, "God be with you."

When the carriage had gone a little way she said to the abbé, "That man is a sorcerer."

But the clergyman shook his head. "He is far worse; he is an inquirer into the secrets of nature."

"H'm! he is an obstinate, disagreeable man."

CHAPTER X
THE HIGHER MATHEMATICS

The young head of the house did not set much store by the counting-house business. He had higher aims. He lived on the first floor in luxurious bachelor chambers; his sitting-room was a museum, and his writing-table was crowded with bronzes and antiques; his inkstand was a masterpiece of Benvenuto Cellini's—or, perhaps, a good imitation in galvanized plaster; his pen was gold, with a diamond top; he used gold sand for blotting-paper; the sand-sifter was made of porphyry, the pen-holder was a branch of real coral, the paper-weight a mosaic from Pompeii, the candle-shades of real crystal, the cover of the blotting-book Japanese. Every article had a value of its own, from the Turkish paper knife to the paper itself, which was of all sorts and descriptions, from the thickest vellum to the most delicate straw note, perfumed with mignonette and musk. In spite of these elaborate arrangements, no one had ever been known to write at this so-called writing-table. The science cultivated by Felix Kaulmann did not require the use of pen and ink; it was purely mental work. Felix worked night and day; during his sleep, even, he worked, but no trace of his labor was to be found on paper. When he amused himself—dancing, riding, making love—he seemed altogether occupied with the subject on hand; he worked, nevertheless, all the time. He had a certain goal at which he was aiming; for this he lived, for this he strove, and this alone aroused his interest and his enthusiasm; he never forgot for one moment the aim of his life. He had something more to do than to make a pen travel over paper; he had to move men.

One day, not long after the events in the Castle of Bondavara, the Abbé Samuel was seated in Felix Kaulmann's room. Both were engaged in serious conversation. Before them an elegant equipage of fragrant Mocha, whose fumes mingled with that of the Latakia, which our friend the abbé smoked from a genuine Turkish pipe. Felix only smoked cigars.

"Well, here is your agreement with the countess. As you wished for thirty-two years, it is regularly drawn up. And now I should like to know of what use it can possibly be to either you or your company. It is not enough for the countess to sign it; it wants the signature of the prince to make the contract advantageous to you, for the countess has only a life-interest in the Bondavara property. As soon as she dies it goes to the prince, or to his grandson, and then your agreement is null."

"I know that," returned Felix, knocking the ash from his cigar; "and for this reason we must take care and keep the old girl alive. Let her have a good time, and she will live to a great age. It is very hard to kill an old maid, especially if she has lots of money. Besides, I am not so careless as you suppose. I have looked into the matter; I have seen the will of the old prince, and I know all its provisions. There is a clause that makes me pretty safe. When Countess Theudelinde goes off the reel, her brother, the present man, or his heirs, are obliged to compensate all those, either tenants, householders, or creditors, who may have erected any buildings on the estate. You see, the old prince considered that it would be more than probable that his crazy daughter might, in a fit of holy enthusiasm, build either a church or a convent, and he thought he would give the heirs the advantage of her generosity. It never entered into his head that any one would erect a factory, a refinery, or open a mine. Now you see how useful this clause is to me, the heirs will not be in a position to refund us the two millions of money we are putting on the property."

"Unless they find another company to advance them the money."

"That would not be so easy. First of all, it would have to go into the very intricate affairs of the Bondavara family; then it would require immense capital, great energy, and a certain amount of risk. For the rest, I can see as far as my neighbors. I don't sit with my hands in my lap, I can tell you, and I have not put all my money on one card."

"Right! By-the-way, what has become of the little wild kitten you brought away from the Bondavara mine?"

"I have placed her for the present in Madame Risan's school; she is being educated, for she has extraordinary capabilities, although in a general way she is a stupid creature. She has a splendid voice, but she cannot sing, as singing is nowadays; she has a wonderfully expressive face, but does not know how to make use of it; she is full of feeling, and speaks no language but her mother-tongue."

"Do you mean to educate her for the stage?"

"Certainly."

"And then?"

"I intend to marry her."

The abbé raised his eyebrows in some astonishment.

"I should hardly have thought," he said, coldly, "that a pupil of Madame Risan's would be likely to make a satisfactory wife, although she might be an excellent actress."

Felix looked haughtily at his visitor, then shrugged his shoulders, as who would say the abbé's opinion on this point was indifferent to him. For a few minutes the men smoked in silence; then, with a sudden clearing of his face, Kaulmann said, in his blandest manner:

"I want to ask you a question. You know the ins and outs of the marriage laws. Is there any means by which a marriage can be set aside without having recourse to the divorce court? That is always attended with great expense and a good deal of scandal; and if the other side should be obstinate and malicious, it can drag for an interminable time."

"I know of only one other method. We will suppose that you are already married according to the rules of the Church in this country. You wish, for some reason, for a dissolution of this marriage. Well, you have only to go to Paris, and take up your residence in the banking-house your firm has there. Your father was a French subject, so are you. According to the French law, no marriage is valid that is not solemnized before the civil authorities; therefore, the remedy would be in your hands. A short time ago the process was tried by the French court. A certain count had married in Spain; the eldest son of this marriage sought to recover his birthright, which had been forfeited in consequence of his father's having neglected to be remarried before the registrar in France. The court, however, pronounced the Spanish marriage invalid, and yours would be a similar case."

Felix got up from his seat. "I thank you," he said, "more than I can say. If the recollection of our youthful friendship didn't remind me that our compact was always to love one another, I should certainly feel that I owed you a heavy debt."

"For what?" returned the abbé, lifting his eyes in some surprise. "It is well for you to remind me of our young days. Was I not then the debtor of your father? What did he not do for me? He found me a miserable, overworked, ill-paid student; he made me your tutor, and so opened for me the road to better things. Oh, I never forget! But let us not talk any more of the past."

"No, for the future is before us, and we shall work together. Now, I must ask you, as the countess's representative, to sign the necessary papers. There is the contract, and here is the check for the first half-year's rent, and here is another check for the sum of forty thousand gulden on my cashier."

"To whom payable?"

Felix answered by pressing the check into the abbé's hand, while he whispered in his ear:

"To the friendly representative."

The other shook his head, with a wounded look on his face. "You mean to offer me a present?" he said, haughtily.

"You do not understand," returned Felix. "This money does not come from me; it forms part of the expenses of the company, and in all such undertakings figures under the head of 'necessary expenses.'"

As he spoke, Felix lit another cigar, and looked slyly at his companion, as who should say, "You see what a capital fellow I am!" Round the abbé Samuel's mouth a contemptuous smile flickered as he tore the check for forty thousand gulden into four pieces; then he laid his hand upon the banker's shoulder.

"My dear boy," he said, "I had the whole Bondavara property in the hollow of my hand; it was mine to do as I chose with it. I did with it as I do with these pieces of paper." He threw the torn check into the grate. "Know me, once for all. I am no begging monk. I am a candidate for high honors; nothing will content me but to be ruler of a kingdom."