The nameless castle

While the ensnared conspirators against the state were receiving sentence in one district of Paris, in another district the inhabitants were entertaining themselves.

Paris does not mourn very long. Paris is like the earth: one half of it is always illumined by the sun. On this fateful evening the incroyables and the merveilleuses were amusing themselves within the walls of the Palace of Narcissus.

The members of Cythera's Brigade took great pains to make outsiders believe that they never troubled themselves about that half of the world which was in shadow—that half called politics.

On this particular evening the Countess Dealba was discussing the beauties of the latest opera with a few of her most intimate friends, when the Marquis de Fervlans approached, and, bending over her, whispered: "I must see you alone; find an opportunity to leave the room, and join me in the conservatory."

At that time it was the fashion to clothe children in garments similar to those worn by their elders. A company of little ones, therefore, looked like an assemblage of Lilliputian merveilleuses and incroyables. The little men and women also accompanied their mamas to receptions and the theatre, where they joined in the conversation, danced vis-à-vis with their elders, made witty remarks, criticized the toilets and the play, gave an opinion as to whether Hardy's confections or those of Riches were the better, and if it were safe to depend on the friendship of the Czar Alexander.

In this company of little ones the Countess Amélie was, beyond a doubt, the most conspicuous.

One could not have imagined anything more interesting or entertaining than the manner of this miniature dame when left by her mama to do the honors of the house. The dignity with which the child performed her duties was enchanting. She understood perfectly how to entertain her mother's guests, how to spice her conversation with piquant anecdotes, how to mimic the manner of affected personages. She was, in a word, a prodigy!

"We have been outwitted," he began at once. "They vanished twelve hours before we learned that they had flown."

The countess shrugged her shoulders and tossed her head.

"Why do you think it necessary to tell me this?" she inquired, with a touch of asperity. "Have you not got enough police to arrest the fugitives, who must pass through the entire country in their flight?"

"Yes, we have quite enough spies, and they are very skilful; but the fugitives are a trifle more skilful. They have disguised themselves so effectually that it is impossible to trace them. They seized a public coach by force, changed the number on it, and sent it back from the boundary by an accomplice, who left it in the Rue Muffetard. Even should we succeed in tracing their flight, by the time we discovered them they would have crossed the boundary of Switzerland, or would be sailing over the ocean. No; we must begin all over again. There is but one expedient: you must travel in search of the fugitives, and bring them back."

"I go in search of them and bring them back?" repeated the countess, in a startled tone.

"But good, heavens! how can I take Amélie on such a journey?"

"You are not to take her with you—of what are you thinking? That man has already seen the child, and would recognize her at once."

"You surely cannot mean that I am to desert my daughter?"

"Don't you think Amélie will be in safe hands if you leave her in my care?" asked De Fervlans, with a glance that would have made any one who had not heard his words believe he was making a declaration of love. "Besides, it will not be the first time you leave her to the care of another."

"That is true," sighed the countess; "I ought to be accustomed to parting with her. Have not I trusted her to the care of a police spy? and all for my own advantage! Oh, what a wretched profession I have chosen for myself and my child!"

"I might have sent the child to a foundling asylum, and sought employment for myself in the gobelin factory. It would have been better had I done so!"

"I doubt it, countess. The path of virtue is only for those women who—have large feet! You are too fairy-like, and would have found the way too rough. It is much better, believe me, to serve the state. What would you? Is there not a comforting word due to the conscience of the soldier who has killed a fellow-being in the interest of his country? Don't you suppose his heart aches when he looks upon the death-struggles of the man he has killed without having a personal grudge against him? We are all soldiers of the state. When we assault an enemy, we do not inquire if we hurt him; we kill him! and the safety of our fatherland hallows the deed."

"But that which we are doing is immoral," interposed the countess.

"And that which our enemy is doing is not immoral, I presume? Are not their beautiful women, their polished courtiers, acting as spies in our salons? We are only using their own weapons against them."

"That may be; but it was a repulsive thought that prompted the using of children as instruments in this deadly game."

The marquis, perceiving that his sophistry was not without its effect on the lovely woman, continued:

"And then, madame, if you are weary of the rôle you and your little daughter are playing with such success, the opportunity is now offered to you to quit your present mode of life. Your financial affairs are utterly ruined; you are only the nominal possessor of the estate you inherited from your ancestors. If you succeed in the task which you are about to undertake, the entire sum of money, the interest of which you receive annually, becomes your own. Five millions of francs deserve some sacrifice. With this sum you can become an independent woman, and your daughter will never be reproached with having been, in her childhood, a member of Cythera's Brigade."

Countess Themire deliberated a few moments; then she asked:

"May I not kiss my daughter farewell?"

"Leave your kiss with me, and I will deliver it faithfully!" smilingly responded the marquis.

"How can you jest at such a moment? Suppose my absence lasts a long time?"

"That is very probable."

"Am I not even to hear from my child—not even to let her know that I am living?"

"Certainly, countess; you may communicate with her through me. Moreover, it rests with yourself how soon you will return. Until that time it shall be my pleasure to take care of Amélie; you may rest in peace as to that!"

She rose, went into her boudoir, and wrote on a sheet of paper:

"MY DEAR CHILD: I am compelled to take a journey. I shall write to you when I am ready to return. Until then, I leave you to perform the duties of hostess, and intrust my money-chest to your care. I embrace you a thousand times.

"Your old friend and little mama,

"THEMIRE."

She folded and sealed the letter, and handed it to De Fervlans.

"I shall be sure to deliver it," he said. "And now, send Jocrisse for a fiacre; you must not use your own carriage for this. You can leave the palace unperceived by the garden gate. Speak German wherever you go, and remember that you do not understand a word of French. I think you would better begin your search in Switzerland. And now, adieu, madame, until we meet again—"

"If only I might take one last look at my little daughter!" pleadingly interrupted the countess.

"Themire! You are actually beginning to grow sentimental. That does not become a soldier!"

"Had I suspected this," returned Themire, "I would not have given Amélie's portrait to M. Cambray in that ridiculous farce. I wonder if I might not get it from him?"

"But this picture was painted while yet she was an innocent child."

"Upon my word, madame, you are as sentimental as a professor's daughter! I begin to fear you will not accomplish your mission—that you will end by falling in love with the man you are to capture for us, and betray us to him."

Themire did not say another word, but hurried into her dressing-room.

De Fervlans wrote an order for one hundred and fifty thousand francs for the Countess Themire Dealba for the first six months, added his wishes for a pleasant and successful journey, then returned to the salon, where he gave the missive which had been intrusted to his care to Jocrisse.

Jocrisse placed it on a silver tray, and presented it to the tiny lady of the house.

"Pray allow me, ladies and gentlemen," said the Lilliputian grande dame, as she broke the seal, "to read this letter—although I am only just learning the alphabet!"

There were a number of persons in the company who understood and enjoyed the concluding words.

The little countess lifted her gold-rimmed lorgnette to her eyes, and read her mother's letter.

She shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, and opened wide her blue eyes.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she proceeded to explain, "mama has been called suddenly away. She sends her greetings to you" (this was not in the letter, but the little diplomatist thought it best to atone for her mama's neglect) "until she returns, which will be very soon" (this also was a thought of her own). "I am to fulfil the duties of lady of the house."

"Mama leaves her money-chest in my care"—adding, with naïve sarcasm, "which means that she has left me to battle with her creditors."

THE HOME OF ANECDOTE

The entire population of Fertöszeg was assembled on the public highway to welcome the new proprietress of the estate. Elaborate preparations had been made for the reception. An arch of green boughs—at the top of which gleamed the word "Vivat" in yellow roses—spanned the road, on either side of which were ranged twelve little girls in white, with flower-baskets in their hands. They were under the superintendence of the village cantor, whose intention it was to conclude the ceremonies with a hymn of welcome by these innocent little creatures.

On a sort of platform, a bevy of rosy-cheeked maids were waiting to present to the new-comer a huge hamper heaped to the brim with ripe melons, grapes, and Ostyepka cheeses of marvelous shapes. Mortars crowned the summit of the neighboring hill. In the shadow of a spreading beech-tree were assembled the official personages: the vice-palatine, the county surveyor, the village pastor, the district physician, the justice of the peace, and the different attendants, county and state employees, belonging to these gentlemen. The vice-palatine's assistant ought also to have been in this company, but he was busy giving the last instructions to the village beauties whose part it was to present the hamper of fruit and cheeses.

Preparations were making in the market-place for an ox-roast. The fat young ox had been spitted, and the pile of fagots underneath him was ready for the torch. Hard by, on a stout trestle, rested a barrel of wine. In front of the inn a gypsy band were tuning their instruments, while at the window of the church tower might have been seen two or three child faces; they were on the lookout for the new lady of the manor, in order that they might be ready to ring the bells the moment she came in sight. There was only that one tower in the village, and there was a cross on it; but it was not a Romish church, for all that. The inhabitants were adherents of Luther—Swabians, mixed with Magyars.

The municipal authorities, in their holiday attire of blue cloth, had grouped themselves about the town hall. The older men wore their long hair brushed back from the temples and held in place by a curved comb. The young men had thrust into the sides of their lambskin caps gay little nosegays of artificial flowers. They proposed to fire a grand salute from the pistols they had concealed in their pockets.

Meanwhile, the dignitaries underneath the umbrageous beech-tree were passing the time of waiting pleasantly enough. Maple wine mixed with mineral water was a very refreshing drink in the intense heat; besides, it served as a stimulant to the appetite—appetitorium, they called it.

He shared his seat with the clergyman, whose ecclesiastical office entitled him to that honor. The reverend gentleman, however, was an extremely humble person, whom erudition had bent and warped to such a degree that one shoulder was lower than the other, one eyelid was elevated above its fellow, and only one half of his mouth opened when he gave utterance to a remark. His part in the festive ceremony was the performance of the beneventatio; and although he had committed the speech to memory, he could not help but tremble at thought of having to repeat it before so grand a dame as the new mistress of the manor. He always trembled whenever he began his sermons; but once fairly started, then he became a veritable Demosthenes.

"I only hope, reverend sir," jestingly observed the vice-palatine, "that it will not happen to you as it did to the csokonai, not long ago. Some wags exchanged his sermon-book for one on cookery, and he did not notice it until he began to read in the pulpit: 'The vinegar was—' Then he saw that he was reading a recipe for pickled gherkins. He had the presence of mind, however, to continue, '—was offered to the Saviour, who said, "It is finished."' And on that text he extemporized a discourse that astounded the entire presbytery."

"I shall manage somehow to say my speech," returned the pastor, meekly, "if only I do not stumble over the name of the lady."

"It is a difficult name," assented the vice-palatine. "What is it? I have already forgotten it, reverend sir."

The vice-palatine's pointed mustaches essayed to give utterance to the name.

"Lantz-k-nek-hisz-sild—that's asking a great deal from a body at one time!" he concluded, in disgust at his ill success.

"And yet, it is a good old Hungarian family name. The last Diet recognized her ancestors as belonging to the nobility."

This remark was made by a third gentleman. He was sitting on the left of the vice-palatine, and was clad in snuff-colored clothes. His face was covered with small-pox marks; he had tangled yellow hair and inflamed eyelids.

"Are you acquainted with the family, doctor?" asked the vice-palatine.

"Of course I am," replied the doctor. "Baron Landsknechtsschild inherited this estate from his mother, who was a Markoczy. The baron sold the estate to his niece Katharina. You, Herr Surveyor, must have seen the baron, when the land was surveyed around the Nameless Castle for the mad count?"

The surveyor, who was seated beside the doctor, was a clever man in his profession, but little given to conversation. When he did open his lips, he rarely got beyond: "I—say—what was it, now, I was going to say?"

As no one seemed willing to-day to wait until he could remember what he wanted to remark, the doctor, who was never at a loss for words, continued:

"The Baroness Katharina paid one hundred thousand florins for the estate, with all its prerogatives—"

"That's quite a handsome sum," observed the vice-palatine. "And, what is handsomer, it is said the new proprietress intends to take up a permanent residence here. Is not that the report, Herr Justice? You ought to know."

"Yes—yes," he replied, beginning his dumpling-rolling; "that is quite true. The baroness sent some beautiful furniture from Vienna; also a piano, and a tuner to tune it. All the rooms at the manor have been hung with new tapestry, and the conservatory has been completely renovated."

"I wonder how the baroness came to take such a fancy to this quiet neighborhood? It is very strange, too, that none of the neighboring nobles have been invited here to meet her. It is as if she intended to let them know in advance that she did n't want their acquaintance. At any other celebration of this sort half the county would have been invited, and here are only ourselves—and we are here because we are obliged, ex officio, to be present."

This speech was delivered over the mouthpiece of the vice-palatine's meerschaum.

"I fancy I can enlighten you," responded the doctor.

"I thought it likely that the 'county clock' could tell us something about it," laughingly interpolated the vice-palatine.

"You may laugh as much as you like, but I always tell what is true," retorted the "county clock." "They say that the baroness was betrothed to a gentleman from Bavaria, that the wedding-day was set, when the bridegroom heard that the lady he was about to marry was—"

"Hush!" hastily whispered the justice; "the servants might hear you."

And then they all betook themselves, a disappointed company, to their homes.

The baroness, who had preferred to walk the shorter path through the park to driving around the village in the dust for the sake of receiving a ceremonious welcome, was a lovely blonde, a true Viennese, good-humored, and frank as a child. She treated every one with cordial friendliness. One might easily have seen that everything rural was new to her. While walking through the park she took off her hat and decorated it with the wild flowers which grew along the path. In the farm-yard she caught two or three little chickens, calling them canaries—a mistake the mother hen sought in the most emphatic manner to correct. The surly old watch-dog's head was patted. She brushed with her dainty fingers the hair from the eyes of the gaping farmer children. She was here and there in a moment, driving to despair her companion, whose gouty limbs were unable to keep pace with the flying feet of her mistress.

At the manor the baroness was received by the steward, who had been sent on in advance with orders to prepare the "installation dinner." Then she proceeded at once to inspect every corner and crevice—the kitchen as well as the dining-room, astonishing the cooks with her knowledge of their art. She was summoned from the kitchen to receive the dignitaries.

To this gracious speech the vice-palatine gave utterance to something which sounded like:

"Kisz-ti-hand!"

"Ah!" returned the baroness, "you speak German?"

"Well, yes," replied the descendant of the Scythians; "only, I am likely to blunder when speaking it, as did the valiant Barkocz. When our glorious Queen Maria Theresa recovered from the chicken-pox, she was bemoaning the disfiguring scars left on her face, when the brave soldier, in order to comfort her, said: 'But your Majesty still has very beautiful leather.'"

"Ha, ha, ha!" merrily laughed the baroness. "You are the gentleman who has an anecdote to suit every occasion. I have already heard about you. Pray introduce the other gentlemen."

The vice-palatine proceeded to obey this request. "This is the Rev. Herr Tobias Mercatoris, our parish clergyman. He has a beautiful speech prepared to receive your ladyship; but he can't repeat it here, as it begins, 'Here in the grateful shadow of these green trees.'"

"Oh, well, your reverence, instead of the speech, I will listen to your sermons on Sundays. I intend to become a very zealous member of your congregation."

"A most excellent accomplishment!" laughingly exclaimed the baroness. "I am devoted to gossip; and I shall manage to have some ailment every few days in order to have the doctor come to see me!"

Then came the surveyor's turn.

"This, your ladyship, is Herr Martin Doboka, county surveyor and expert mathematician. He will measure for you land, water, or fog; and if your watch stops going, he will repair it for you!"

"And who may this be?" smilingly inquired the lady, indicating the vice-palatine's assistant, who had thrust his long neck inquisitively forward.

"Oh, he is n't anybody!" replied the vice-palatine. "He is never called by name. When you want him just say: 'Audiat!' He is one of those persons of whom Cziraky said: 'My lad, don't trouble yourself to inquire where you shall seat yourself at table; for wherever you sit will always be the lowest place!'"

This anecdote caused "Audiat" to draw back his head and seek to make himself invisible.

"And now, I must present myself: I am the vice-palatine of this county, and am called Bernat Görömbölyi von Dravakeresztur."

"My dear sir!" ejaculated the baroness, laughing heartily, "I could n't commit all that to memory in three years!"

"That is exactly the way your ladyship's name affects me!"

"Then I will tell you what we will do. Instead of torturing each other with our unpronounceable names, let us at once adopt the familiar 'thou,' and call each other by our Christian names."

"Well, that can also be done in this instance!" promptly responded the baroness, proffering, without affectation of maidenly coyness, the ceremonial kiss, and cordially shaking hands with the vice-palatine. Then she said:

"We are now Bernat bácsi, and Katinka; and as that is happily arranged, I will ask the gentlemen to go into the agent's office and conclude our official business. Meanwhile, I shall make my toilet for dinner, where we will all meet again."

"What a perfectly charming woman!" exclaimed the justice, when their hostess had vanished from the room.

"I wonder what would happen," observed the doctor, with a malicious grin, "if the vice-palatine's wife should hear of that kiss? Would n't there be a row, though!"

The heroic descendant of the Scythians at these words became seriously alarmed.

"The Herr Doctor, I trust, will be honorable enough not to gossip about it," he said meekly.

"Oh, you may rest without fear, so far as I am concerned; but I would n't say as much for the surveyor, here. If ever he should succeed in getting beyond 'I say,' I won't answer for the safety of your secret, Herr Vice-palatine! When your wife hears, moreover, that it is 'Bernat' and 'Katinka' up here, it will require something besides an anecdote to parry what will follow!"

When the baroness appeared at the dinner-table, she was attired simply, yet with a certain elegance. She wore a plain black silk gown, with no other ornamentation save the string of genuine pearls about her throat. The sombre hue of her gown signified mourning; the gems represented tears; but her manner was by no means in keeping with either; she was cheerful, even gay. But laughter very often serves to mask a sorrowful heart.

"Thy place is here by my side," said the baroness, mindful of the "thee-and-thou" compact with Herr Bernat.

The vice-palatine, remembering his spouse, sought to modify the familiarity.

"I forgot to tell you, baroness," he observed, as he seated himself in the chair beside her own, "that with us in this region 'thou' is used only by children and the gypsies. To those with whom we are on terms of intimacy we say 'he' or 'she,' to which we add, if we wish, the words bácsi, or hugom, which are equivalent to 'cousin.'"

"And do you never say 'thou' to your wife?"

"To her also I say 'she' or 'you.'"

"What a singular country! Well, then, Bernat bácsi, if it pleases 'him,' will 'he' sit here by me?"

But the doctor and the vice-palatine showed themselves all the more willing to share the conversation with their hostess.

"The official business was satisfactorily arranged without me, was it not, Bernat bácsi?" after a brief pause, inquired the baroness.

"Not altogether. We are like the gypsy who said that he was going to marry a countess. He was willing, and all that was yet necessary was the consent of a countess. Our business requires the consent of a baroness—that is, of Katinka hugom."

"To what must I give my consent?"

"That the conditions relating to the Nameless Castle shall continue the same as heretofore."

"Nameless Castle?—Conditions?—What does that mean? I should like very much to know."

"Katinka hugom can see the Nameless Castle from the terrace out yonder. It is a hunting-seat that was built by a Markoczy on the shore of Lake Neusiedl, on the site of a primitive pile-dwelling. Three years ago, a gentleman from a foreign country came to Fertöszeg, and took such a fancy to the isolated house that he leased it from the baron, the former owner, on condition that no one but himself and servants should be permitted to enter the grounds belonging to the castle. The question now is, will Katinka hugom consent to the conditions, or will she revoke them?"

"And if I should choose to do the latter?" inquired the baroness.

"Then your ladyship would be obliged to give a handsome bonus to the lessee. Shall you revoke the conditions?"

"He is a very peculiar man, to say the least—one who avoids all contact with his fellow-men."

"What is his name?"

"I don't think any one around here knows it. That is why his residence has been called the Nameless Castle."

"But how is it possible that the name of a man who has lived here three years is not known?"

"Well, that is easily explained. He never goes anywhere, never receives visitors, and his servants never call him anything but 'the count.'"

"Surely he receives letters by post?"

"Yes, frequently, and from all parts of the known world. Very often he receives letters which contain money, and for which he is obliged to give a receipt; but no one has yet been able to decipher the illegible characters on the letters addressed to him, or those of his own hand."

"I should think the authorities had a right to demand the information?"

"Which authorities?"

"Why—'he,' Bernat bácsi."

"I? Why, what business is it of mine?"

"The authorities ought to inquire who strangers are, and where they come from. And such an authority is 'he'—Bernat bácsi!"

"Hum; does 'she' take me to be a detective?"

"But you surely have a right to demand to see his passport?"

"Passport? I would rather allow myself to be thrown from the window of the county-house than demand a passport from any one who comes to Hungary, or set my foot in the house of a gentleman without his permission!"

"Then you don't care what people do here?"

"Suppose the man in the Nameless Castle were plotting some dreadful treason?"

"That would be the affair of the king's attorney, not mine. Moreover, nothing whatever can be said against the tenant of the Nameless Castle. He is a quiet and inoffensive gentleman."

"Is he alone? Has he no family?"

"That the Herr Justice is better able to tell your ladyship than am I."

"Ah! Then, Herr Hofrichter," inquired the lady of the manor, turning toward the justice, "what do you know about this mysterious personage? Has he a wife?"

"It seems as if he had a wife, your ladyship; but I really cannot say for certain if he has one."

"Well, I confess my curiosity is aroused! How is it possible not to know whether the man is married or not? Are the people invisible?"

"Invisible? By no means, your ladyship. The nameless count and a lady drive out every morning at ten o'clock. They drive as far as the neighboring village, where they turn and come back to the castle. But the lady wears such a heavy veil that one can't tell if she be old or young."

"If they drive out they certainly have a coachman; and one might easily learn from a servant what are the relations between his master and mistress."

"What sort of a man is the groom?"

"The people about here call him the man with the iron mouth. It is believed the fat cook is his wife, because he never even looks at the girls in the village. He will not answer any questions; only once he condescended to say that his mistress was a penniless orphan, who had nothing, yet who got everything she wanted."

"Does no one visit them?"

"If any one goes to the castle, the count alone receives the visitor; the lady never appears; and no one has yet had courage enough to ask for her. But that they are Christians, one may know from their kitchen: there is always a lamb for dinner on Easter; and the usual heiligen Stritzel on All Saints'. But they never go to church, nor is the pastor ever received at the castle."

"What reason can they have for so much mystery, I wonder?" musingly observed the baroness.

"That I cannot say. I can furnish only the data; for the deductions I must refer your ladyship to the Herr Doctor."

"Ah, true!" ejaculated her ladyship, joining in the general laughter. "The doctor, to be sure! If you are the county clock, Herr Doctor, surely you ought to know something about our mysterious neighbors?"

"Oh, that is quite too horribly romantic, Herr Doctor!" interrupted the baroness. "We cannot accept that version. Let us hear the other one."

"The second is more likely to be the true one. Four years ago the newspapers were full of a remarkable abduction case. A stranger—no one knew who he was—abducted the wife of a French officer from Dieppe. Since then the betrayed husband has been searching all over the world for his runaway wife and her lover; and the pair at the castle are supposed to be they."

"That certainly is the more plausible solution of the mystery. But there is one flaw. If the lovers fled here to Fertöszeg to escape pursuit, the lady has chosen the very worst means to remain undiscovered. Who would recognize them here if they went about in the ordinary manner? The story of the veil will spread farther and farther, and will ultimately betray them to the pursuing husband."

By this time the reverend Herr Mercatoris had got the better of his bad teeth, and was now ready to join the conversation.

"Gentlemen and ladies," he began, "allow me to say a word about this matter, the details of which no one knows better than myself, as I have for months been in communication with the nameless gentleman at the castle."

"What sort of communication?"

"What sort of flowers?" hastily interposed the baroness.

"I don't know the names of them, your ladyship."

"And what do you write about?" she asked again.

The baroness, who had listened with interest to the reverend gentleman's words, now made inquiry:

"How does this nameless gentleman learn of his poor neighbors' needs, when neither he nor his servants associate with any one outside the castle?"

"In a very simple manner, your ladyship. He has a very powerful telescope in the tower of the castle, with which he can view every portion of the surrounding region. He thus learns when there is illness or death, whether a house needs repair; and wherever anything is needed, the means to help are sent to me. On Christmas he has all the children from the village up at the castle, where he has a splendid Christmas tree with lighted tapers, and a gift for every child,—clothes, books, and sweets,—which he distributes with his own hand. I can tell you an incident which is characteristic of the man. One day the county arrested a poor woman, the wife of a notorious thief. The Herr Vice-palatine will remember the case—Rakoncza Jutka, the wife of the robber Satan Laczi?"

"Yes, I remember. She is still in prison," assented the gentleman referred to.

By this time the tears were running down the baroness's cheeks.

"Poor little lad!" she murmured brokenly. "Your story has affected me deeply, Herr Pastor."

Then she summoned her steward, and bade him fill a large hamper with sweets and pasties, and send it to Frau Schmidt for the poor little boy. "And tell Frau Schmidt," she added, "to send the child to the manor. We will see to it that he has some suitable clothes. I am delighted, reverend sir, to learn that my tenant is a true nobleman."

"His deeds certainly proclaim him as such, your ladyship."

"How do you explain the mystery of the veiled lady?"

"I cannot explain it, your ladyship; she is never mentioned in our correspondence."

"She may be a prisoner, detained at the castle by force."

"That cannot be; for she has a hundred opportunities to escape, or to ask for help."

Here the surveyor managed to express his belief that the reason the lady wore a veil was because of the repulsiveness of her face.

At this, a voice that had not yet been heard said, at the lower end of the table:

"But the lady is one the most beautiful creatures I ever saw—and quite young."

Every eye was turned toward the speaker.

"What? Audiat? How dares he say such a thing?" demanded the vice-palatine.

"Because I have seen her."

"You have seen her? When did you see her? Where did you see her—her whom no one yet has seen?"

"Ah!" ejaculated the baroness. "Tell us what is she like. Come nearer to me."

The clerk, however, was too bashful to leave his place, whereupon the baroness rose and took a seat by his side.

"She has long, curling black hair," he went on. "Her face is fair as a lily and red as a rose, her brow pure and high, with no sign of the branding-iron. Her mouth is small and delicate. Indeed, her entire appearance that day was like that of an angel looking down from heaven."

"Is she a maid or a married woman?" inquired one of the company.

A maid, in those days, was very easily distinguished from her married sister. The latter was never seen without a cap.

"A young girl not more than fifteen, I should say," was the reply. "A cap would not suit her face."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Bernat bácsi. "And this enchanting fairy opened the window to show her lovely face to Audiat!"

"No; she did not open the window on my account," retorted the young man, "but for the beasts that were luckier than I—for four cats that were playing in the gutter of the roof; a white one, a black one, a yellow one, and a gray one; and all of them scampered toward her when they heard her call."

"The cats are her only companions—that much we know from the servants," affirmed the justice.

"Audiat," he said, in a reproving tone, "you ought to learn that a young person should speak only when spoken to; indeed,—as the learned Professor Hatvani says,—even then it is not necessary to answer all questions."

But the company around the dinner-table did not share these views. The clerk was assailed on all sides—very much as would have been an aëronaut who had just alighted from a montgolfier—to relate all that he had seen in those regions not yet penetrated by man. What sort of gown did the mysterious lady wear? Was he certain that she had no cap on? Was she really no older than fifteen years?

The vice-palatine at last put an end to his clerk's triumph.

"Tut, tut! what can you expect to learn from a mere lad like him?—when he saw her only for an instant! Just wait; I will find out all about this nameless gentleman and lady."

"Pray how do you propose to accomplish that?" queried the baroness, who had returned to her former seat.

"I shall go to the Nameless Castle."

"Suppose you are not permitted to enter?"

"What? I, the vice-palatine, not permitted to enter? Wait; I will explain my plan to you over the coffee."

Then the two ladies withdrew to make their toilets for the evening; and the gentlemen betook themselves to the smoking-room, to indulge in a little game of chance, without which no "installation" ceremony would have been complete.