St. Peter's Umbrella: A Novel

By degrees Gáspár Gregorics got all particulars out of the man; and now the ground seemed to be burning under his feet, so he went straight into the town to look for the man with the three hairs on his nose.

It was not difficult to find him, and at the first place he asked at, three voices answered at once:

"That must be András Prepelicza. His mustache made a mistake, and grew on the top of his nose instead of on his lip."

After that it was mere child's play, for every workman knew that Prepelicza was "building Pest," as they expressed it. He was working at a large house in the Kerepesi Street.

Gáspár immediately had the horses harnessed, and drove to Pest, not stopping till he reached the capital; and there he set to work to find Prepelicza among the Slovak workmen. The mason was just going up on a pulley to the third story when he found him, and Gáspár shuddered as he thought: "Supposing the cords were to give way now!"

"Hallo, Prepelicza!" he shouted. "Wait a bit, I was just looking for you. I want to have a talk with you."

"All right," called out the mason, examining the newcomer from above. "Come up if you want to talk."

"You come down to me, it is very important."

"Well, shout it out, I can hear it all right up here."

"I can't do that, I must speak to you in private at any cost."

"Good or bad?"

"Very good."

"Good for me?"

"Yes, good for you."

"Well, if it is good for me it can wait till the evening. I shall be down by then, but I want to finish this top window first."

"Don't argue, but come down at once. You won't be sorry for it."

"Why, I don't even know who you are."

"I'll send you word in a minute."

And with the next pulley he sent Prepelicza up a nice new crisp ten-florin note. The man who took it up got a florin for doing so.

At the sight of this novel visiting-card Prepelicza threw down his hammer and trowel, and with the next pulley returned to his mother earth, where miracles have been going on ever since the time of Moses.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"Follow me."

"To the end of the world, sir."

"We need not go as far as that," said Gregorics, smiling. And they only went as far as "The Cock," a small public-house, where they ordered some wine, after drinking which, the wily Gáspár began, smiling blandly:

"Can you speak, Prepelicza?"

The mason began to wonder what was going to happen, and looked long and attentively into the steely gray eyes of his new acquaintance, and then said guardedly:

"A jay can speak, sir."

"I am from Besztercebánya."

"Really? There are very decent people there. I seem to know your face too, sir."

"You probably mistake me for my half-brother," said Gáspár. "You know, the one who had the caldron put away so secretly."

"The caldron!" Prepelicza's mouth was wide open from astonishment. "Was that your brother? Now I understand where the likeness is, at least ... I mean ... (and he began to scratch his ear doubtfully). What caldron are you speaking of? I can't be expected to remember every pot and pan I have seen in my life."

Gáspár was prepared for such hitches as this, so was not surprised, and offered the mason a cigar, which he immediately wetted to make it burn slower, then lit it, and began to drum on the table like a man who has just found out that he has something to sell, and has the right purchaser before him. Now he must be as phlegmatic as possible, and the price of the article would rise in proportion.

His heart beat loud and fast, and the white cock framed on the wall above the green table seemed to awake to life before his eyes, and to crow out these words: "Good afternoon, András Prepelicza! Cock-a-doodledo. You have luck before you! Seize hold of it!"

"What do you say, Prepelicza, you don't remember the caldron? What do you take me for? Do I look like a fool? But I daresay in your place I should do the same. This wine is very good, isn't it? What do you say? It tastes of the cask? Why, my good fellow, it can't taste of mortar, can it? Here, waiter, fetch another bottle of wine, and then be off and leave us alone. Well, what were we speaking of? Ah, yes, you said a short time ago that the jay could speak, and that is quite true; you are a wise man, Prepelicza, and the right man for me, for we shall soon come to terms. Yes, the jay can speak, but only if they cut its tongue. That is what you meant, isn't it?"

"H'm!" was the answer, and the three hairs on the mason's nose began to move, as though a breath of air had passed through them.

"I know of course that they cut the jay's tongue with a knife, but as you are not a bird, Prepelicza ..."

"No, no," stammered the man hastily.

"Well, instead of a knife I take these two bank-notes to cut your tongue with."

And with that he took two hundred-florin bank-notes out of his pocket-book.

The eyes of the mason fixed themselves greedily upon the bank-notes, upon the two figures printed on them, one holding a sheaf of wheat, the other a book; his eyes nearly dropped out of his head he stared so hard, and then he said:

"The caldron was heavy, very heavy indeed."

That was all he could get out, while he continued gazing at the two cherubs on the paper notes. He had six of his own at home, but they were not as pretty as these.

"Well, my good man," said Gregorics surprised, "still silent?"

"It would be like a stone on my heart if I were to speak," sighed the mason—"a very big stone. I don't think I could bear it."

"Don't talk such nonsense! A stone, indeed! Why, you have had to do with nothing else all your life, you need not cry about having one on your heart! You can't expect me to give you two hundred florins, and then give you a hot roll to carry in your heart. Don't be a fool, man."

Prepelicza smiled at this, but he put his big red hands behind his back, a sign that he did not intend to touch the money.

"Perhaps you find it too little?"

Not a word did he answer, only pushed his hair up in front, till he looked like a sick cockatoo; then, after a few moments, raised his glass to his lips, and drained it to the dregs, and then put it back on the table so brusquely that it broke.

"It is disgraceful!" he burst out; "a poor man's honor is only worth two hundred florins, though God created us all equal, and He gave me my honor as well as to the bishop or to Baron Radvánszky. And yet you tax mine at two hundred florins. It's a shame!"

Upon that Gáspár decided to play his trump.

"Very well, Prepelicza, you needn't be so cross. If your honor is so dear, I'll look for cheaper."

And with that he put back the two bank-notes in his pocket.

"I'll look up your companion, the other mason."

Then he called the head waiter, in order to pay for the wine. Prepelicza smiled.

"Well, well, can't a poor man give his opinion? Of course you can look up the other man, and he won't be as honest as I, probably. But ... well, put another fifty to it, and I'll tell you all."

"Very well. It's a bargain!"

And the mason began to relate the events of that memorable night, and how they had carried the caldron through the courtyard and garden to a small house.

"To the 'Lebanon'!" exclaimed Gáspár excitedly. "To that boy's house!"

And the mason went on to tell how Gregorics had stood by while they had walled in the caldron, and watched every movement, Gáspár throwing in a question now and then.

"Was it heavy?"

"Very heavy."

"Did no one see you as you passed through the courtyard?"

"No one; every one had gone to bed."

Gáspár was quite excited, and seemed to enjoy every word he heard; his eyes shone, his thoughts were occupied with the future, in which he imagined himself a rich man, the owner of untold wealth. He might even buy a baronetcy! Baron Gáspár Gregorics! How well it sounded! And Minka would be a little baroness. That fool of a Pál had not known how to make proper use of his wealth, so it must have increased immensely, he had been so economical!

"And what did my brother pay you for your work?"

"He gave us each fifty florins."

"That was quite right of him."

A weight had fallen from his heart at these words, for he had begun to fear Gregorics had given them some thousands to buy their silence, and that would have been a great pity, as it would have diminished the sum he hoped to possess before long. For he had decided to buy "Lebanon," with its caldron and its orchard. He would go to-morrow to that boy's guardian and make an offer for it. And he rejoiced inwardly at the trick he was playing his brother and sister.

He returned home as fast as horses could take him, and did not even stop at his own house, but went straight on to Sztolarik's and informed him he would like to buy "Lebanon."

This was the name they had given to the orchard and house old Gregorics had bought of the clergyman's widow. He had tried to grow cedars there at first, but the soil of Besztercebánya was not suitable for these trees, and the sarcastic inhabitants of the small town christened the orchard "Lebanon."

Mr. Sztolarik showed no surprise at the offer.

"So you want to buy 'Lebanon'?" he said. "It is a good orchard, and produces the finest fruit imaginable. This year a well-known hotel-keeper bought all the fruit, and paid an enormous price for it. But what made you think of buying 'Lebanon'?"

"I should like to build a house there, a larger house than the present one."

"H'm! There is always a good deal of bother attached to a purchase of that kind," said Sztolarik coldly; "the present owner is a minor, and the Court of Chancery must give permission for the sale to take place. I would rather leave things as they are. When the boy is of age he may do what he likes, but if I sell it now he may be sorry for it later on. No, no, Mr. Gregorics, I can't agree to it. After all the house and orchard are a pretium affectionis for the boy; he spent his childhood there."

"But if I offer a good sum for it," broke in Gáspár, nervously.

Sztolarik began to feel curious.

"What do you consider a good sum? What do you think of offering for it?"

"Why, I would give—" and here he was overcome by a fit of coughing, which made him turn as red as a peony—"I would give 15,000 florins."

Well, that was a brilliant offer, for Pál Gregorics had bought it of the clergyman's widow for 5000 florins. It was only a small bit of ground, and a good way from the market, which decreased its value exceedingly.

"Utcumque," said Sztolarik, "your offer is a good one. But, but ... well, I'll tell you what, Mr. Gregorics, I'll consider your offer a bit, and I must write to the boy about it too, and also speak to his mother."

"But I want to settle it as soon as possible."

"I'll write about it to-day."

Gáspár did not wish to say any more about the matter, for fear of awakening the lawyer's suspicions, but a day or two afterward he sent a tiny cask of Tokay wine to him (some Pál Gregorics had left in his cellar, and which they had divided among them), with the inquiry as to whether he had any answer from Budapest. Sztolarik sent back word he expected a letter every minute, and thanked him very much for the wine; he also remarked to the footman who had brought it that he hoped it would go smoothly, but whether he meant the wine, or something else, the footman did not quite understand.

Hardly had the man gone, when the expected letter arrived, containing the news that Gyuri agreed to the sale of the orchard, and Sztolarik was just going to send one of his clerks to Gáspár, when the door opened, and in walked Boldizsár Gregorics, puffing and blowing from the haste he had made.

"Pray take a seat, Mr. Gregorics. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"

"I've brought you a lot of money," gasped Boldizsár, still out of breath.

"We can always do with plenty of that," said the lawyer.

"I want to buy that poor orphan's little bit of property, 'Lebanon.'"

"'Lebanon'?" repeated Sztolarik, surprised. "What on earth is the matter with them all?" he muttered to himself; then continued out loud: "Perhaps you want it for your brother?"

"No, no, I want it for myself. It would suit me nicely; the view from there is so lovely, and the fruit-trees are so good."

"It is really strange, very strange!"

"Why is it strange?" said the other, surprised.

"Because I have already one purchaser in view."

"Well, we won't let him have it. I daresay I can offer you more than he."

"I doubt it," said the lawyer; "the first offer was 15,000 florins."

Boldizsár showed no surprise.

"Well, I offer 20,000."

Not till after he had said it did it occur to him that the orchard was not worth even 15,000 florins, and he turned impatiently and asked:

"Who is the fool who offers so much?"

"Your brother Gáspár."

At this name Boldizsár turned deathly pale, and dropped gasping on to a chair. His lips moved, but no sound came from them, and Sztolarik thought he would have a stroke, and rushed out for some water, calling for help as he went; but when he returned with the cook armed with a rolling-pin and a jug of water, the old gentleman had recovered, and began to excuse himself.

"I felt a bit giddy; I often have attacks like this. I'm getting old, you see. And now to return to our discussion. Yes, I'll give you 20,000 florins for 'Lebanon,' and pay the money down."

The lawyer thought a minute, then said:

"We can't manage things so quickly, for we must have the consent of the Court of Chancery. I'll see about it at once."

And he was as good as his word, for such an advantageous sale of the orchard he had never dared to hope for. But all the time he was wondering why the two Gregorics were so anxious to have it. There must be some reason for it. Supposing they had struck upon some treasure there, it was not impossible, for had not King Arpád and his successors lived about here? He decided to send István Drotler, the civil engineer, to have a look at the place, and see if it contained gold or coal. But before he had time to start for the engineer's, Gáspár Gregorics appeared on the scene, to ask if there were any letter from Pest. Sztolarik was in difficulties.

"The letter is here, yes, the letter is here; but something else has happened. Another purchaser has turned up, and he offers 20,000 florins for 'Lebanon.'"

This was evidently a great blow for Gáspár.

"Impossible," he stammered. "Is it Boldizsár?"

"Yes."

Gáspár was furious; he began to swear like a trooper, and waved his stick about, thereby knocking down one of Mrs. Sztolarik's flower-pots, in which a rare specimen of hyacinth was just blossoming.

"The wretch!" he hissed. And then he sat staring fixedly in front of him for some time.

How did he get to know of it? was the question he was revolving in his mind. It was very simple. That sly Prepelicza had easily found out in Besztercebánya that Pál Gregorics had more than one brother living, and he decided that if one of them paid him 250 florins for the secret, the other would perhaps be inclined to pay something too. So he got into the train, travelled to Besztercebánya, and looked up Boldizsár. There was nothing surprising in that except, perhaps, the fact that Prepelicza was not such a fool as he looked.

"Oh, the wretch!" Gáspár kept on saying. "But he shall not have it, I will buy it. I'll give you 25,000 florins for it."

Sztolarik smiled and rubbed his hands.

"It will belong to the one who gives most for it. If it were mine, I would give it you for the 15,000 florins you offered at first, for I always keep my word. But as it belongs to a minor, and I have his interests at heart, I must do the best I can for him. Now don't you think I am right?"

Gáspár agreed with him, and tried to make him promise to give him the preference. But what was the good of it? Sztolarik met Boldizsár that evening at the club, and made no secret of the fact that Gáspár had been to see him that morning, and offered him 5000 florins more for the orchard. But Boldizsár was not surprised, and only answered:

"Well, I will give 30,000."

And this mad auction went on for days, until the attention of the whole town was drawn to it, and people began to think the Gregorics must have gone mad, or that there must be some important reason for their wishing to have possession of "Lebanon."

Gáspár came and offered 32,000 florins, and as soon as Boldizsár heard of it, he came and offered 3000 florins more; and so on, until people's hair began to stand on end.

"Let them go on as long as they like," thought the lawyer.

And they did go on, until they reached the sum of 50,000 florins, which was Boldizsár's last offer. And heaven only knows how long it would have gone on still.

The engineer had been to look at the place, and had declared there was nothing of any value to be found there, not even a bit of gold, unless it were the stoppings of some dead woman's teeth.

"But supposing there is coal there?"

"Not a sign of it."

"Then what on earth are the Gregorics thinking of?"

Whatever the reason was, it was certainly to Gyuri's advantage, and his guardian meant to make the most of the opportunity, so he let the two brothers go on bidding till the sum promised was 50,000 florins. He intended to wait till Gáspár capped it with 52,000, and then close the bargain.

But he had reckoned without his host, for one fine day it suddenly occurred to Gáspár it was strange Mrs. Panyóki showed no signs of taking part in the auction. She evidently knew nothing of the existence of the treasure; Prepelicza had not told her the secret, and had thus proved himself a clever man, for if he had told her too, his part in the play was over. Whereas now, when the two brothers had the caldron in their possession, they would be obliged to pay him hush-money to hold his tongue. As Gáspár turned all this over in his mind, he began to find it ridiculous for him and Boldizsár to keep on outbidding each other, thus attracting every one's attention to them, putting money into the boy's pocket, and awakening Mrs. Panyóki's suspicions. And whichever bought "Lebanon" at last would certainly not be left to enjoy it unmolested. So he decided it would be cheaper if they were to work together, buy the estate, share the contents of the caldron, and pay Prepelicza a certain sum yearly to hold his tongue.

So one day the brothers came to terms, and Sztolarik was very surprised when, the next day, the door opened, and in walked Boldizsár and announced that he had thought things over, and come to the conclusion that "Lebanon" was decidedly not worth 50,000 florins, and he had given up all idea of buying it.

"That does not matter," said Sztolarik, "your brother will give us 48,000 for it."

And he waited impatiently till he had a chance of speaking to Gáspár about it. But that good man calmly answered:

"It was very stupid of me to offer so much for it, and I am really grateful to you, Sztolarik, for not taking me at my word at once. Why, I can buy a good-sized estate for the money I offered for it."

The lawyer hardly knew what to do next. He was afraid he had made them go back on their bargain, by letting them carry it on so long, and felt sure he would be the laughing stock of the town, and that Gyuri would reproach him with not looking after his interests properly. So off he rushed to Boldizsár and offered him "Lebanon" for 45,000 florins; but Boldizsár only laughed, and said:

"Do you take me for a fool?"

Whereupon he went to Gáspár and said:

"Well, you may have 'Lebanon' for 40,000 florins."

Gáspár shook his head and answered:

"I'm not quite mad yet."

And now the auction began again, but this time it went backward, until at last, with the greatest difficulty, Sztolarik got 15,000 florins out of them. They bought it together, and both signed their names to the deeds.

On the day they received the key of the house from the guardian, they both went there, shut themselves in, and began to pull down the inner wall with the pickaxes they had brought with them under their cloaks. Of course they found the caldron, but what was in it has not become clear to this day, though that was the chief point to be settled in the Gregorics lawsuit, which took up the attention of the Besztercebánya law courts for ten years.

It began in this way. A few months after the purchase of "Lebanon," Prepelicza appeared on the scene, and demanded his share of the treasure discovered in the wall, otherwise he would make known the whole affair to Mrs. Panyóki. The brothers got mad with rage at the sight of him.

"You miserable thief!" they cried. "You were a party to the fraud practised upon us by that good-for-nothing brother of ours, who wanted to rob us in order to benefit that boy. You helped him to fill the caldron with rusty nails and bits of old iron. Now you are here, you may as well have your share."

With that they each seized hold of a stick, and began to beat Prepelicza till he was black and blue. Off he went to a doctor for a certificate as to his wounds, and then to the barber, who had to write a long letter to the king in his name, complaining of the behavior of the two brothers Gregorics toward one of his honest (?) subjects.

"If the king is not ashamed of them as subjects, I am not ashamed of owning how I have been beaten; they were two to one!"

Then he hired a cart (for it was impossible for him to walk in his present state), and drove to Varecska, where Mrs. Panyóki spent the summer, and told her the whole tale from beginning to end.

The result was the lawsuit Panyóki versus Gregorics, which furnished the neighborhood with gossip for ten years. A whole legion of witnesses had to be examined, and the deeds and papers increased to such an extent that at the end they weighed seventy-three pounds. Mrs. Panyóki could only prove the existence of the caldron, its having been walled in, and its appropriation later on by the two brothers, who, on their part, tried to prove that it contained nothing of value, only a number of rusty nails and odd bits of iron. As the dead man had no lawyer to defend him, he lost the lawsuit, for it was certain he had played the trick on his relations, and thus brought about the lawsuit, which only ended when it was all the same which side lost or won it, for the seventy-three pounds of paper and the six lawyers had eaten up the whole of the Gregorics and Panyóki fortunes. By degrees all the members of the family died in poverty, and were forgotten; only Pál Gregorics lived in the memories of the six lawyers, who remarked from time to time: "He was a clever man!"

But in spite of all researches, the dead man's fortune was still missing, not a trace of it was to be found, no one had inherited it except rumor, which did as it liked with it, decreased it, increased it, placed it here or there at pleasure.

Traces

PART III

CHAPTER I.
THE UMBRELLA AGAIN.

Yes, little Gyuri is now a well-known lawyer; people come to him from all sides for advice, and young girls smile at him from their windows as he passes. He is a very handsome young man, and clever. He has youth and health, and his whole life before him, what more can he want? But the narrow-minded inhabitants of the little town are at present only occupied with one question, viz., whom will he marry? Why, Katka Krikovszky would marry him any day, and she is the prettiest girl in the town. Then there is Mathilda Hupka, who would receive him with open arms if he came to her with a proposal, though she is very high and mighty. And even Mariska Biky would not refuse him, and she belongs to the nobility, and has 50,000 florins. Girls are very cheap nowadays! But Gyuri Wibra paid no attention to any of them; he was a serious and retiring young man, and his friends soon saw that he was infinitely above them in every way. As a rule young men first take their diploma, then start an office, look out for clients who do not come, and by their absence make the place seem so large and empty, that the young lawyer feels he must have company of some kind. So he brings home a wife to cheer his solitude.

But it never occurred to Gyuri to marry. And once when Mrs. Krikovszky broached the subject to him and asked when they would hear of his engagement, he answered absently:

"I am not in the habit of marrying."

It certainly is a bad "habit," but one that does not seem inclined to go out of fashion. For thousands of years people have been marrying, repenting of it, and considering it madness to have done so, but they never get over the madness, and marriage is as fashionable as ever. As long as pretty young girls are growing up, they are always growing up for some one.

Gyuri's business was a brilliant success from the beginning; fortune smiled on him from every side, but he received it with a tolerably sour face. He worked, but only from habit, just the same as he washed himself and brushed his hair every day. His mind was elsewhere; but where? His friends thought they knew, and often asked him:

"Why don't you marry, old fellow?"

"Because I am not rich enough."

"Why, that is the very reason you should marry. Your wife will bring the money with her."

(That is the usual opinion of young men.)

Gyuri shook his head, a handsome, manly head, with an oval face, and large black eyes.

"That is not true. It is the money brings the wife!"

What sort of a wife had he set his heart on? His friends decided he must be chasing very high game. Perhaps he wanted a baroness, or even a countess? He was like the Virginian creeper they said, which first climbs very high and then blossoms. But if he were to marry, he could be successful later on all the same. Look at the French beans; they climb and blossom at the same time.

But this was all empty talk. There was nothing whatever to prevent Gyuri getting on in his profession; nothing troubled him, neither a pretty girl's face, nor a wish for rank and riches, only the legend of the lost wealth disturbed him. For to others it was a legend, but to him it was truth, which danced before his eyes like a Jack-o'-lantern; he could neither grasp it nor leave it alone; yet there it was by day and by night, and he heard in his dreams a voice saying: "You are a millionaire!"

When he wrote out miserable little bills for ten or fifteen florins, these words seemed to dance before him on the paper:

"Lay down your pen, Gyuri Wibra, you have treasures enough already, heaven only knows how much. Your father saved it up for you, so you have a right to it. You are a rich man, Gyuri, and not a poor lawyer. Throw away those deeds and look for your treasure. Where are you to look for it? Why, that is just the question that drives one mad. Perhaps sometimes, when you are tired out, and throw yourself down on the ground to rest, it may be just beneath you, it is, perhaps, just beginning to get warm under your hand when you take it away to do something else, and it may be you will never find it at all. And what a life you could lead, what a lot you could do with the money. You could drive a four-in-hand, drink champagne, keep a lot of servants. A new world, a new life would be open to you. And to possess all this you only need a little luck; but as you have none at present, take up your pen again, my friend, and go on writing out deeds and bills, and squeezing a few florins out of the poor Slovaks."

It was a great pity he had heard anything about the missing treasure. He felt it himself, and often said he wished he knew nothing about it, and would be very glad if something were to happen which would go to prove that the treasure did not really exist; for instance, if some one would remark:

"Oh, yes, I met old Gregorics once in Monte Carlo; he was losing his money as fast as he could."

But no such thing happened; on the contrary, new witnesses were always turning up to assure him: "Old Gregorics must certainly have left an immense fortune, which he intended you to have. Don't you really know anything about it?"

No, he knew nothing at all about it, but his thoughts were always running on the subject, spoiling all his pleasure in life. The promising youth had really become only half a man, for he had two separate and distinct persons in him. Sometimes he entirely gave himself up to the idea that he was the child of a servant, and began to feel he had attained to a really good position by means of his own work, and was happy and contented in this thought. But only a word was needed to make the lawyer a totally different man. He was now the son of rich old Pál Gregorics, waiting to find and take possession of his property. And from time to time he suffered all the pangs of Tantalus, and left his office to look after itself for weeks at a time, while he went to Vienna to look up some of his father's old acquaintances.

The rich carriage-builder, who had bought Gregorics's house in Vienna, gave him valuable information.

"Your father," he said, "once told me when I paid him for the house, that he should put the money in some bank, and asked me which would be the best and safest way to set to work about it."

Gyuri wandered then from one bank to another, but without success. Thoroughly worn out he returned to Besztercebánya with the full intention of not thinking any more about the subject.

"I am not going on making a fool of myself," he said. "I won't let the Golden Calf go on lowing in my ears forever. I will not take another step in the affair, and shall imagine I dreamed it all."

But it was easier said than done. You can throw ashes on a smouldering fire—it will put it out, but not prevent it smoking.

Sometimes one friend referred to it, sometimes another. His mother, who now walked on crutches, often spoke of the good old times, sitting in her arm-chair by the fire. And at length she owned that old Gregorics had wanted to telegraph for Gyuri on his deathbed.

"He seemed as though he could not die till he had seen you," she said. "But it was my fault you came too late."

"And why did he so much want to see me?"

"He said he wanted to give you something."

A light broke in upon Gyuri's brain. The Vienna carriage-builder had given him to understand that his father's fortune was represented by a receipt for money placed in a bank, and from the information his mother now gave him, he concluded that the old gentleman had intended giving him the receipt before his death. So he must always have kept it by him. But what had become of it? In which bank was the money deposited? Could he, knowing what he did, give up the idea of finding it?

No, no, it was impossible! It could not be lost! Why, a grain of wheat, if dropped in a ditch, would reappear in time, however unexpectedly. And in a case of this kind, a chance word, a sign, could clear up every doubt.

He had not long to wait. One day, the dying mayor of the town, Tamás Krikovszky, sent for him to make his will. Several people, holding high positions in the town, were assembled in the room. There lay the mayor, pale and weak, but he still seemed to retain some of the majesty of his office, in the manner in which he took leave of his inferiors in office, recommending the welfare of the town to them, and then taking from under his pillow the official seal, he put it into their hands, saying:

"For twenty years I have sealed the truth with it!"

Then he dictated his will to Gyuri, and while doing so, referred now and then to various incidents in his life.

"Dear me, what times those were," he said once, addressing himself to Gyuri. "Your father had a red umbrella, with a hollow handle, in which he used to carry valuable papers from one camp to another, in the days when he was a spy."

"What!" stammered Gyuri. "The red umbrella?" and his eyes shone.

Like a flash of lightning a thought had entered his head. The receipt was in that umbrella! His blood began to course madly in his veins, as the certitude of the truth of his suspicion grew upon him. Yes, there it was, he was sure of it; and all at once he remembered the incident in Szeged, how Gregorics had let his umbrella fall in the water, his anxiety, and offer of a large reward for its discovery. Then again, the old gentleman's words rang in his ear:

"The umbrella will once belong to you, and you will find it useful to protect you from the rain."

The bystanders could not imagine why Gyuri seemed so much put about at the mayor's death; in their opinion it was quite right of the old man to take his departure, he had dragged on with his gouty old leg quite long enough, and should now make room for younger men; he had not lived his life for nothing, for were they not going to have his portrait painted and hung in the Town Hall, a grand ending to his life? If he lived for ten years longer he could have no greater honor done him, and his portrait would be even uglier than now.

They were even more surprised at the strange question which Gyuri, in spite of the solemnity of the occasion, put to the dying man.

"And was the hole big, sir?"

"What hole?" asked the mayor, who had already forgotten the subject.

"The hole in the handle of the umbrella."

"I really don't know, I never asked Gregorics."

He closed his eyes, and in a weak voice added, with that phlegma which only a Hungarian displays on his deathbed:

"But if you wait a bit, I'll ask him."

And he probably kept his promise, for half an hour later a black flag was flying from the roof of the Town Hall, and the bell of the Roman Catholic church was tolling.

Gyuri Wibra had hurried home, nervous and excited, and was now marching up and down his office, his heart beating wildly with joy.

"I have the treasure at last!" he kept on repeating to himself, "at least, I should have it if I had the umbrella. But where is it?" He could neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep till he had settled it. He questioned his mother on the subject, and she did her best to answer him, but could only repeat:

"How am I to remember that, my dear boy, after so long a time? And what do you want that ragged umbrella for?"

Gyuri sighed.

"If I have to dig it out of the ground with my ten fingers, I will do it."

"Perhaps Matykó will remember something about it?"

Matykó was soon found; he sat smoking his pipe in the anteroom of the office, for he was now Gyuri's servant. But he also said he had forgotten far more important things than that in all these years; but this much he did remember, that the dead man had kept the umbrella near him till the hour of his death.

"Heaven only knows," he added, "why he took such care of the ragged old thing."

(Not only heaven knew the reason now, but Gyuri too!)

He got more information from the old woman who kept the grocer's shop in old Gregorics's house; she had been in the house when he died, and had helped to lay him out. She swore by heaven and earth that the umbrella had been tightly clutched in the dead man's hand, and they had had the greatest difficulty in freeing it from his grasp.

"Yes," said the old woman, "the umbrella was certainly in his hand, may I never move from this spot if it is not true."

"It is all the same," muttered Gyuri; "we want to know where it is now."

"I suppose it was sold with the rest of the things."

That seemed very likely, so Gyuri went and looked up the list of things that had been sold at the auction. All sorts of things were mentioned—tables, chairs, cupboards, coats, etc.—but there was no mention of an umbrella. He read it over ten times, but it was of no use, he could find no mention of it, unless the following could be considered as such.

"Various useless objects, bought for two florins by the white Jew."

Perhaps the umbrella was one of those useless objects, and had been bought by the "white Jew." Well, the first thing was to find the "white Jew." But who was he? For in those good old days there were not as many Jews in Hungary as there are now; there were perhaps one or two in the town, so it was easy to find them; for one was called "red," another "gray," another "white," a fourth "black," according to the color of their hair; and by means of these four colors the townsfolk were able to distinguish any Jew who lived in their town. But now there were some hundred Jewish families, and heaven had not increased the shades of their hair to such an extent that each family could be distinguished in the old way.

It was not difficult to find out about the old Jew, and Gyuri soon knew that he was called Jónás Müncz, and it was very likely he had bought the things, for all the coats and vests found their way into his tiny shop in Wheat Street, before starting on the second chapter of their existence.

Many people remember the little shop in which top-boots, cloaks, and dresses hung on nails, and the following announcement was written with chalk on the door:

"Only the lilies of the field can dress themselves cheaper than you can in this shop!"

(That was quite true, only with this difference, that the lilies of the field were more becomingly dressed than Müncz's customers.)

In spite of all this information Gyuri was by no means satisfied, so he walked across the road to his old guardian's to see if he could find out anything more on the subject from him, for he had been the first lawyer in the town for many years, and must know every one.

The young man told Sztolarik the whole story, openly and frankly, adding that the receipt for the money, which was probably deposited in some foreign bank, was all but found, for it was most certainly in the handle of the red umbrella, and that had in all probability been bought by an old Jew of the name of Jónás Müncz. All of this Gyuri poured out quickly and breathlessly into the ears of his old guardian.

"That much I know. Now, what am I to do next?"

"It is a great deal, much more than I ever hoped for. You must continue the search."

"But where am I to search? We don't yet know where Müncz is, and even if we had him, who knows on which dust-heap the umbrella has rotted since then?"

"All the same, you must not lose the thread."

"Did you know the 'white Jew'?"

"Oh, yes; he was a very honest Jew, that is why he never got very rich. He often came to me; I can see him now, with his head bald at the back, and a fringe of white hair round it. 'Pon my word! (and here the lawyer skipped like a young lamb) the last time I saw him he had Pál Gregorics's umbrella in his hand; I can swear to it, and I remember I joked him about it. 'It seems to me, Jónás,' I said, 'that you wander about the next world, too, to buy "ole clo'," and bought that umbrella there of Pál Gregorics.' At which he smiled, and said he had not gone as far as that yet, for he only kept to the two counties of Zólyom and Hont, and had divided the neighboring counties among his sons; Móricz had Trencsin and Nyitra, Számi had Szepes and Liptó, and the youngest, Kóbi, had only last week been given Bars, but they none of them intended to go into the next world until they were obliged to."

Gyuri's eyes shone with delight.

"Bravo, Sztolarik!" he exclaimed, "only the gods had such memories as you have."

"You are a lucky fellow, Gyuri. I have an impression we are on the right track at last, and that you will find the money."

"I begin to think so too," answered Gyuri, who was in turns optimist or pessimist, as the occasion presented itself.

"But what can have become of old Müncz?"

"We Christians have a legend about the Jews which says, that on the Long Day every year a Jew disappears from the earth and is never seen again. Old Jónás disappeared thus fourteen years ago (you may be sure none of the Rothschilds will disappear in that way). His wife and children waited for him in vain, Jónás never returned. So his sons set out to look for him, and it turned out the old fellow had got soft-headed, and had taken to wandering about in the Slovak villages, where the sons now and then heard of him from people who had seen him; and then one day, they found his dead body in the Garam."

The young lawyer's face was clouded again.

"Why, in that case the umbrella will be in the Garam too, probably."

"Perhaps not," was the answer. "He may have left it at home, and if so, it will still be among the old rags and bones of the Müncz's, for I am sure no one would ever buy it. Try your luck, my boy! If I were you I would get into a carriage, and drive and drive until ..."

"But where am I to drive to?"

"Yes, of course, of course."

Then, after a minute's thought:

"Müncz's sons have gone out into the world, and the boxes of matches with which they started have probably become houses since then. But I'll tell you what; go to Bábaszék, their mother lives there."

"Whereabouts is Bábaszék?"

"Quite near to Zólyom, among the mountains. There is a saying that all the sheep there were frozen to death once, in the dog-days."

"And are you sure Mrs. Müncz lives there?"

"Quite sure. A few years ago they came and fetched her away to be the 'Jewess of Bábaszék.'"

CHAPTER II.
OUR ROSÁLIA.

This is how it came to pass (and it is difficult for an inhabitant of Budapest to understand it). Bábaszék was one of those small towns which in reality was only a larger village, though it rejoiced in what it called its "mayor," and on one day in the year a few miserable horses, cows, and pigs were driven in from the neighboring farms and villages, and the baker from Zólyom put up a tent, in which he sold gingerbread in the shape of hearts, of soldiers, of cradles, all of which was soon bought up by the young men and fathers of families and taken home to sweethearts or children, as the case might be. In one word, there was a fair at Bábaszék. And for centuries every inhabitant has divided the year and its events into two parts, one before the fair, and one after it. For instance, the death of Francis Deák took place just two days after the fair at Bábaszék. And the reason of all this was, that the old kings of Hungary who lived during the hunting season in the castles of Zólyom and Végles, instead of making grants to the inhabitants, raised the villages to the position of towns.

Well, of course, it was a privilege, for in a town everything seems grander than in a village, and is worth a good deal more, even man himself. The little straw-thatched house in which questions of moment are discussed is called the Town Hall, and the "hajdu" (town-servant) must know how to beat a drum (for the town has a drum of its own), the richer ones even have a small fire-engine. After all, position is position, and one must do all one can to keep it up. Zólyom and Tót-Pelsöc were rivals.

"That's not a town," said the latter of the former; "why, they have not even a chemist there!" (Well, after all, not every village or town can be as big as Besztercebánya or London!)

Pelsöc could not even leave poor little Bábaszék alone.

"That is no town," they said. "There is not even a single Jew there. If no Jew settle in a town, it cannot be considered as such; it has, in fact, no future."

But it is not my intention now to write about the quarrels of two small towns, I only want to tell you how Mrs. Müncz came to live in Bábaszék.

Well, they sent word to her in Besztercebánya, to come and take possession of the little shop just opposite the market-place near the smithy, the best position in the town. On either side of the door was written in colored letters: "Soap, whips, starch, scrubbing-brushes, nails, salt, grease, saffron, cinnamon, linseed oil;" in fact, the names of all those articles which did not grow in the neighborhood, or were not manufactured there. So that is how Mrs. Müncz came to live in Bábaszék, where she was received with great honors, and made as comfortable as possible. It is a wonder they did not bring her into the town in triumph on their shoulders, which would have been no joke, for she weighed at least two hundredweight.

Some of the townsfolk were very discontented that the mayor had only brought a Jewess into the town, and not a Jew, for it would sound grander if they could say: "Our Jew says this, or our Móricz or Tobias did that," than if they had said: "Our Rosália says this, that, or the other;" it sounds so very mild. They would have liked a Jew with a long beard, and hooked nose, and red hair if possible; that was the correct thing!

But Mr. Konopka, the cleverest senator in the town, who had made the contract with Mrs. Müncz, and who had even gone himself to fetch her and her luggage from Besztercebánya with two large carts, the horses of which had flowers and rosettes on, coldly repudiated these aspersions on their Jewess, with an argument which struck as heavily as the stones in David's sling.

"Don't be so foolish," he said. "If a woman was once king in Hungary, why should not a Jewess fill the place of Jew in Bábaszék?"

(This was a reference to the words of the nation addressed to Maria Theresa: "We will fight for our 'king' and our country.")

Of course they soon saw the truth of this, and ceased grumbling; and they were in time quite reconciled to their Jewess, for every year, on the Feast of Tents, all Mrs. Müncz's sons, seven in number, came to see their mother, and walked about the market-place in their best clothes, laced boots, and top-hats. The townsfolk were glad enough then, their hearts swelled with pride as they gazed at the seven Jews, and they would exclaim:

"Well, if this is not a town, what is?"

"You won't see as many Jews as that in Pelsöc in ten years," answered another proudly.

Old Mrs. Müncz feasted her eyes on her sons when she sat, as she usually did, in the doorway of her shop, her knitting in her hands, her spectacles on her nose (those spectacles lent her an additional charm in the eyes of her admirers). She was a pleasant-looking old woman in her snow-white frilled cap, and seemed to suit her surroundings, the whitewashed walls of the neighboring houses, the important-looking Town Hall, and no one could pass her without raising their hat, just as they did before the statue of St. John Nepomuk. (Those were the only two things worth seeing in Bábaszék.)

Every one felt that the little old woman would have her share in the success of the town.

"Good-morning, young woman. How are you?"

"Very well, thank you, my child."

"How is business, young woman?"

"Thank you, my child, I get on very well."

They were all glad, oh, so glad, that the "young woman" was so healthy and strong, and that she got richer day by day; they boasted of it where-ever they went.

"Our Rosália is getting on well. It is easy to get on in Bábaszék, we are good-natured people."

They really made things very comfortable for Rosália. She was over seventy, but they still called her "mlada pani" (young woman). As the king reserves to himself the right of conferring various titles, so the people have adopted the plan of conferring the "title of youth," and make use of it when and where they like.

Well, as I said before, they took great care of Rosália, and when, a few years after her arrival there, she decided to build a stone house, every one who owned a cart placed it at her disposal, for the carting of stones, sand, wood, etc.; the bricklayers gave a day's work without wages; only one or two of the lazier ones did not join the rest on that day, but were sent to Coventry for it.

"Good-for-nothing fellows," said every one, "they have no respect for any one, neither for God, the priest, nor a Jew!"

Their respect went so far as to make them (at the mayor's instigation) set apart two pieces of ground, one for a (future) synagogue, and one for a Jewish burial-ground (for the one Jewess they had in the town). But what did that matter? They had the future before them, and who could tell what it held for them? And it was so nice to be able to say to strangers: "Just a stone's throw from the Jewish burial-ground," or "near to the foundation of the Synagogue," etc. And the inhabitants of the villages round about would say when the good folks turned their backs: "Poor things! Their brains have been turned with the joy of having a Jew in their town!"

CHAPTER III.
THE TRACES LEAD TO GLOGOVA.

Fancy any one coming all the way from Besztercebánya to Bábaszék to buy an umbrella! How proud he was it had happened under his mayorship! He nudged Galba:

"Do you hear?" he said.

"This is only a small village shop, sir," answered Rosália. "We don't keep umbrellas."

"Pity enough!" muttered Mravucsán, biting savagely at his mustache.

"But I heard," went on the stranger, "that you had second-hand umbrellas to sell."

Second-hand umbrellas! Well, what next!

Mravucsán, who was asthmatic, began to breathe heavily, and was just going to say something disparaging to the stranger, when some runaway horses attracted his attention, as they rushed across the market-place, dragging a handsome phaeton with them.

"That will never be fit for use again," said the smith, as he stood looking on, his hands folded under his leather apron.

The phaeton had probably been dashed against a wall, for the left side was smashed to bits, the shaft was broken, one of the wheels had been left somewhere on the road, and the reins were dragging on the ground between the two horses.

"They are beautiful animals," said Galba.

"They belong to the priest of Glogova," answered Mravucsán. "I'm afraid some one may have been thrown out of the carriage; let us go and see."

During this time the number of customers in Mrs. Müncz's shop had increased, and as they had to be attended to, she first turned to the stranger before serving them, and said:

"There are a lot of old umbrellas somewhere on the loft, but they would not do for a fine gentleman like you."

"I should like to look at them all the same."

Mrs. Müncz had her hand on the door to let her customers in, and only answered without turning round:

"I can assure you you would not take them in your hand."

But the young man was not to be put off so easily; he followed her into the shop, and waited till the customers were all served, then remarked again that he would like to see the umbrellas.

"But, my good sir, don't bother me about the umbrellas. I tell you they would be of no use to you. They are some that were left from the time of my poor husband; he knew how to mend umbrellas, and most of these are broken and torn, and they certainly will not have improved, lying on the dusty loft so long. Besides, I cannot show you them, for my son is at the fair, the servant has a bad foot and cannot move, and when there is a fair my shop is always full, so I cannot leave it to go with you."

The young lawyer took a five-florin note out of his pocket.

"I don't want you to do it for nothing, Mrs. Müncz, but I must see the umbrellas at any price. So let me go up alone to the loft, and please take this in return for your kindness."

Mrs. Müncz did not take the money, and her small black eyes examined the young man suspiciously.

"Now I shall certainly not show you the umbrellas."

"And why not?"

"My poor dead husband used to say: 'Rosália, never do anything you don't understand the reason of,' and my husband was a very clever man."

"Of course, of course, you are quite right, and can't understand why I offer five florins for an old ragged umbrella."

"Just so; for five florins you might see something better."

"Well, it is very simple after all. My father had a very old umbrella, to which he was much attached, and I heard that it had come by chance into your husband's hands, and I should very much like to have it as a souvenir."

"And who was your father, sir? Perhaps I may have heard of him."

The lawyer blushed a little.

"Pál Gregorics," he said.

"Ah, Gregorics! Wait a bit! Yes, I remember, the funny little man in whose will ..."

"Yes, yes. He left 2000 florins to nine ladies in Besztercebánya."

—"I remember, but I don't think he was ..."

"Yes ... no ... of course not ... I mean ..." and here he stopped in confusion. "I am Gyuri Wibra, lawyer."

Now it was Mrs. Müncz's turn to be confused.

"Of course, sir, I understand. How stupid of me! I have heard of you, sir, and I knew your poor father; dear me, how very like him you are, and yet so handsome. I knew him very well," she added, smiling, "though he did not leave me 2000 florins. I was an old woman when he was still young. Well, sir, please go up and look at the umbrellas. I will show you the way, and tell you just where to look for them. Follow me, please, and I hope you will find the old gentleman's umbrella."

"I would give you fifty florins for it, Mrs. Müncz."

At the words "fifty florins" the old woman's eyes shone like two glowworms.

"Oh! what a good son!" she sighed, turning her eyes up to heaven. "There is nothing more pleasing to God than a good son, who honors the memory of his father."

She got quite active and lively at the thought of the fifty florins, and shutting the door of the shop, she tripped across the yard with Gyuri to the ladder of the loft, and even wanted to go up with him herself.

"No, no, stay down below, Mrs. Müncz. What would the world say, if we two were to go up to the loft together?" said Gyuri jokingly.

Old Rosália chuckled.

"Oh, dear heart alive!" she said, "there's no danger with me. Why, your father didn't even remember me in his will, though once upon a time ... (and here she complacently smoothed her gray hair). Well, my dear, please go up."

Gyuri Wibra searched about among the rubbish on the loft for quite half an hour, during which time the old woman came twice to the foot of the ladder to see if he were coming down. She was anxious about the fifty florins.

"Well?" she asked, as he appeared at last empty-handed.

"I have looked through everything," he said, in a discouraged tone, "but the umbrella I want is not among the others."

The old Jewess looked disappointed.

"What can that tiresome Jónás have done with it?" she exclaimed. "Fifty florins! Dreadful! But he never had a reason for anything he did."

"In all probability your husband used that umbrella himself. Mr. Sztolarik of Besztercebánya says he distinctly remembers seeing him with it once."

"What was it like?"

"The stuff was red, with patches of all sorts on it, and it had a pale green border. The stick was of black wood, with a bone handle."

"May I never go to heaven!" exclaimed Rosália, "if that was not the very umbrella he took with him last time he left home! Yes, I know he took that one!"

"It was a great pity he took just that one."

Rosália felt bound to defend her husband.

"How was he to know that?" she said. "He never had a reason for anything he did."

"Well, there's no help for it now," sighed Gyuri, as he stood on the last rung of the ladder, wondering what he was to do next, and feeling like Marius among the ruins of Carthage, only there were not even ruins to his Carthage; all hopes had returned to the clouds from which they had been taken.

Slowly he walked through the shop to his dog-cart, which was waiting outside, and the old woman waddled after him, like a fat goose. But once out in the street, she suddenly seemed to wake up, and seized hold of the lawyer's coat.

"Wait a bit. I had nearly forgotten it, but my son Móricz, who is a butcher in Ipolyság, was here at the time; he had come to buy oxen, I remember. My son Móricz knows everything, and may I never go to heaven (Rosália evidently had a strong objection to leaving this world) if he can't throw some light on the subject. Go to the fair, my dear boy, to the place where the sheep stand, and speak to the handsomest man you see there, that will be my son Móricz; he's handsome, very handsome, is Móricz. Speak to him, and promise him the fifty florins. I am sure he once told me something about that umbrella. For when my poor dear Jónás died, Móricz went to look for him, and when he found traces of him, he went from village to village making inquiries, till everything was clear. (Here Rosália gazed tearfully heavenward.) Oh, Jónás, Jónás, why did you treat us so? If your senses had left you, why must you follow them? You had enough sons who would have taken care of you!"

She would have gone on like this all day, if Gyuri had not stepped into his dog-cart and driven off to the scene of the fair as she had advised him.

After putting a few questions to the bystanders, he found Móricz Müncz, a short, stout man, his pock-marked face looking like a turkey's egg. He was as ugly as a Faun. His butcher's knife and steel hung from a belt round his waist, and on his arm was tattooed the head of an ox.

He was just bargaining for a cow, and its owner, a tanner, was swearing by heaven and earth that such a cow had never been seen in Bábaszék before.

"It will eat straw," he assured him, "and yet give fourteen pints of milk a day!"

"Rubbish!" answered Móricz. "I'm not a calf, and don't intend to look upon this cow as my mother. I'm a butcher, and want to kill it and weigh it."

"That's true," said the honest tanner; and of his own free will he lowered the price by five florins.

Móricz did not seem to think that enough, and began poking at the ribs of the cow.

"What bones!" he exclaimed, and then pulled open its mouth to look at its teeth. "Why, it has not got a tooth in its head!"

"What do you want it to have teeth for?" asked the honest tanner. "I don't suppose you want to weigh its teeth too?"

"But it kicks!"

"Well, it won't kick once it is killed; and I don't suppose you want to weigh it before it is killed?"

The honest tanner laughed at his own wit, which had put him into such a good humor, that he again took five florins off the price. But Móricz was not yet satisfied, for he still gazed at the cow, as though trying to find more faults in her. And just at that moment Gyuri Wibra called out:

"Mr. Müncz, I should like to have a word with you."

The tanner, fearing to lose his purchaser, took five florins more off the price, and Móricz, being a sensible man, at once struck the bargain; he always bought of an evening from such as had not been able to sell their cattle during the day, and gave it for a low price to save their having to drive it home again.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"I should like to buy something of you, which belongs neither to you nor to me."

"There are plenty of things in the world answering to that description," said Móricz, "and I can assure you, I will let you have it as cheap as possible."

"Let us move on a bit."

Gyuri led him out of the crowd to the village pump, near which grew an elder-tree. This tree, round which they had put some palings, was also a part of the future greatness of Bábaszék, for the green, evil-smelling insects which housed in its branches, and which are used in various medicines (Spanish flies), induced them to believe that they might, once upon a time, have a chemist in Bábaszék. The young girls of the town used to collect the insects, and sell them to the chemist at Zólyom for a few kreutzers; but that was forbidden now, for the people had decided: "Near that tree there will once be a chemist's shop, so we will not have the insects taken away."