The Poor Plutocrats

At this Mr. Gerzson coughed.

"I have also provided you with a good wooden flask of Hegyalja,"[35] said Leonard, taking from the sideboard a handsome flask bound in foal-skin.

"Therein you acted wisely."

"All this side of the Theiss you will get no drinkable water, and Henrietta always gets ague at once if the water is bad. Although but a child, she will never take any wine unless you force her to do so. I earnestly beg of you to take great care of her. I don't like this journey a bit. A letter would have done the business just as well; but I make it a rule never to thwart her when she gets these ideas into her head. All I say is: take care of her."

"I'll watch over her as if she were my own child."

In a quarter of an hour Henrietta appeared in full travelling costume. The lacquey brought in breakfast. The gentlemen also sat down to it lest the lady should breakfast alone.

"We shall have splendid weather, Baroness," observed Mr. Gerzson, dipping his cake into his black coffee. "The sky is full of stars, we could not wish for better travelling weather."

"The sky is nice enough, but the ground is a little stumbly," put in Hátszegi. "Around Dombhegyhaza in particular the roads will spill you if you don't look out."

"I don't care a bit, for I mean to drive the horses myself."

"Oh, that I will not allow," said Henrietta. "It is no joke to hold the reins, for hours at a stretch, on bad roads."

"I do it because I like it, your ladyship. You know I love my pipe, and how can I smoke it in a covered carriage?"

Shortly afterwards Mr. Gerzson asked leave to go out and inspect the coach and the coachman, and after closely investigating everything and wrangling a little with the coachman, purely from traditional habit, just to show the fellow that he understood all about it, he ascended to the drawing-room again and announced that the horses had been put to.

Hátszegi helped his wife to adjust her mantle over her shoulders, and impressed a cold kiss upon her forehead. Henrietta once more thanked him warmly for being so good to her and allowed Mr. Gerzson to escort her down the steps. The old gentleman, however, would not allow himself to be persuaded to take his place in the carriage by her side. His hands itched to hold the reins and he would, he said, be sure to go to sleep and make himself a nuisance if he sat inside. So he had his way, and indeed in all the Hungarian plain a more adroit and careful driver could not have been found.

Gradually the night began to die away and the sky began to grow lighter behind the mountains of Bihar, which they had now left behind them. The smaller stars vanished in groups before the brightening twilight; only the larger constellations still sparkled through the dawn. Presently a hue of burning pink lit up the sky and long straight strips of cloud swam, like golden ribbons, before the rising sun whose increasing radiance already lit up the broad cupolas of the dark mountains. Before the travellers extended the endless plain of the Alföld,[36] like a bridge rising from her bed to greet her beloved Lord, the Sun.

On Mr. Gerzson, however, the romantic spectacle of sunrise on the puszta produced no romantic impression whatsoever. He neither observed the golden clouds in the sky, nor the dappled shadows flitting across the dewy fields, nor the lilac-coloured nebulous horizon. He saw none of these things, I say, but he saw something else which did not please him at all.

"I say, Joska, the right leader is limping."

"Yes, it certainly is," replied the coachman.

"Get down and see what's the matter."

The coachman got down, lifted the horse's leg, brushed away the dust from around the hoof and said with the air of a connoisseur: "This horse's hoof has been pricked."

"What the devil . . . !" rang out Mr. Gerzson, but there he stopped, for it is not becoming to curse and swear when a lady is in the carriage behind you, even if she does not hear.

Meanwhile the coachman mounted up beside him and they drove on again.

"Well we cannot drive that horse much further," grumbled Mr. Gerzson, "the other three must pull the carriage. At Csongrad we must get another to take its place and leave it behind there."

A long discussion thereupon ensued between him and the coachman as to the clumsiness of smiths in general, who when they pare away a horse's hoofs in order to shoe it, so often cut into the living flesh, which is very dangerous, and is technically known as "pricking."

They had scarce proceeded for more than another half hour when Mr. Gerzson again began to cast suspicious glances down from the box-seat.

"I say, Joska," he cried at last, "it seems to me the left leader, the whip horse, is also limping."

Down leaped the coachman, examined the horse's foot and pronounced that the hoof of the left leader had also been pricked.

"Devil take . . . !" cried Mr. Gerzson, but once more he did not enlighten the devil as to the particular individual he was desirous of drawing his attention to.

"Well, I suppose we must go on as best we can with two horses now, for the first two are good for nothing." And in the spirit of a true driver he stuck his whip beneath him, as being a thing for which there was now no further use, and resumed his argument with the coachman about the inefficiency of smiths in general.

"As soon as we reach Oroshaza, we'll get two fresh horses; we ought to be getting there now."

Yet the steeple of Oroshaza was, as yet, scarcely visible and midday was already approaching. There was no intermediate station where they could change horses.

Half an hour later Mr. Gerzson dashed his clay pipe against the wheel of the coach and swore that he would be damned if ever such a silly-fool thing had ever befallen him before, for now the thill horse also began to limp.

Naturally, that also was found to have been pricked.

"May the devil take all those scamps of smiths who look after the poor beasts so badly! A pretty fix we are in now. We may thank our stars if we are able to crawl into Oroshaza before nightfall. A pretty amble we shall have now, I'll be bound."

And indeed ambling was about all they could do. As for the Oroshaza steeple, so far from drawing any nearer, it seemed to be travelling away from them, and with very much better horses than they had. It seemed to get further off every moment.

"Well, all we want now is for the saddle horse also to throw up the sponge and we shall be complete."

If that were Mr. Gerzson's one remaining wish, Fate very speedily granted it to him, for they had not gone another quarter of an hour when all four horses began to limp together, one with the right foot, another with the left, the third with the fore and the fourth with the hind leg, till it was positively frightful to look at them.

Mr. Gerzson leaped from the box, and in his rage and fury dashed his pipe-stem into a thousand pieces.

"What can the smith have been about!" whined the coachman shaking his head, "and yet his lordship had a look at them too!"

"Devil take your smith, and his lordship also for the matter of that. The whole lot of you deserves hanging." And it was a good thing for the coachman that he happened to be standing on the other side of the horses, as otherwise he would certainly have had a taste of Squire Gerzson's riding whip.

Henrietta, who had hitherto been sleeping quietly in the carriage, aroused by the loud voices, put her head out of the window and timidly inquired what was the matter. At the first sound of her voice, Squire Gerzson grew as mild as a lamb.

"Nothing much," said he. "I have only been trying to put together again my broken pipe-stem, the carriage-wheel has gone over my pipe, that is all."

"But where are we now?" asked Henrietta, peeping curiously out of the carriage. Then of course they had to tell her the truth.

"We are three leagues from the station in front of us, and about four from the one behind us, and there is no prospect of our getting on any further. All four horses are lame, they have been damaged during the shoeing."

"What steeple is that in front of us?"

"Oroshaza, I fancy, but with these four lame horses I don't believe we shall get there before midnight."

Henrietta perceived the confusion of the old gentleman, who for sheer rage and worry could not keep his hat on his burning head, so she tried to comfort him.

"Never mind, dear papa Gerzson, not far from here must lie Leonard's csárdá. You and I, papa Gerzson, might go on there with the horses while the coachman makes the best of his way on foot to Oroshaza, where he can get fresh horses and join us early in the morning at the csárdá."

Squire Gerzson jerked his head significantly.

"I don't want to alarm you, my dear Baroness," said he, "but that csárdá lies in the beat of the "poor vagabonds"—you may have heard of them."

"Oh, I have spent a night there already. I know the innkeeper's wife. She is a very good sort of woman, who told us tales all night long while she worked her distaff at my bedside. I should very much like to see her again. Besides, I know the "poor vagabonds" also. All of them kissed my hand in turn when I was there. If, however, anybody should be rude to me, have I not papa Gerzson?—when he is by I fear nobody."

"Noble heart!—very well, be it so! If your ladyship fears nothing, I think I may very well say the same."

Whereupon Squire Gerzson gave the coachman two florins to speed him on to Oroshaza, where he was to get fresh horses and come on the same night to the csárdá, so that they might be able to set off again before dawn on the morrow. He himself then quitted the highroad in the direction of the well-known csárdá which, with sound horses, he might have reached in about an hour, but which with lame ones he only got up to towards evening, having repeatedly to rest on the way. Squire Gerzson kept on asking Henrietta whether she was hungry or thirsty and offered her his flask again and again; but she always gently declined it, the old man feeling in honour bound to follow her example. He comforted her, however, with the assurance that the csárdá-woman was a dab hand at turning out all sorts of good old savoury Hungarian dishes.

At last, after a weary journey, when evening was already closing upon them, Henrietta perceived the csárdá gleaming white behind the acacia trees. When they stumbled into the courtyard they found nobody, and nobody came out of the door to meet them.

"All the better, nobody will see these game-legged nags," growled Squire Gerzson as he helped Henrietta out of the carriage.

"It is odd that the woman of the inn does not come out to meet me," said Henrietta. "She liked me so. How pleased she will be to see me."

Nevertheless no one came. Squire Gerzson grew impatient. He could not leave the coach and horses all by themselves.

"Hie! somebody! Who's at home? Landlady, wenches, or whoever you are, can't you creep out of your hole?"

In reply to his hallooing, a hoarse voice resounded from the taproom: "Who is it? Can't you come inside instead of standing and bawling there?"

"What, you scoundrel! Come out this instant, Sirrah, do you hear, or do you want me to come and fetch you?"

At this categorical command, the speaker inside made his appearance. Henrietta recognized him at once, though Squire Gerzson saw him now for the first time. It was old Ripa.

"I am a guest here myself," said he.

"Thou blockhead! by the soul of thy father I charge thee—where is the hostess?"

"She is outside in the cool air."

"What is she doing there?"

"She is guarding the moles"—which means in the flowery language of the puszta: "she is dead."

"Surely she is not dead?"

"Yes—she did away with herself."

"When?"

"The day before yesterday."

"What was the matter with her?"

"She drank too much water."

"Where?"

"In the hurdle well."

"Why?"

"Because her feet did not reach the bottom."

"She leaped in then?"

"It looks something like it."

"But why did she do so?"

"She was much upset about her lover."

"Did he leave her?"

"The rope-girl[37] took him."

Henrietta listened with a sort of stupefaction to the cynical answers of the old scoundrel, and her heart grew heavy within her. To think that that merry, rosy cheeked young woman should have killed herself out of grief for her lover.

"Then who is carrying on the house?" enquired Squire Gerzson.

"Nobody. All the servants bolted after the funeral, in order that they might not appear as witnesses."

"Then why do you remain here all alone?"

"Because if I went on my way, everyone would be sure to say that I had murdered the hostess, I mean to remain here till they come for me."

"Yes, you old swine, and drink up every drop of wine that remains in the meantime."

"Your pardon, sir, but it all turned to vinegar when the landlady killed herself. That is always the case."

"None of your nonsense, Sirrah, but listen to me. There's a shilling for you, forget for the time that you are a guest here. Take out the horses, put them into the stable, give them hay at once and water them in about an hour's time. Don't steal them for they are lame and you would be caught at once. We shall remain here till our coachman returns with four fresh horses. Should any troublesome person look in, you may tell him that the consort of Baron Hátszegi is here and that Gerzson of Satrakovics is mounting guard before her door."

Old Ripa kissed her ladyship's hand without so much as thanking Squire Gerzson for his tip, but he quietly unyoked the horses and brought into the house some of the things he found in the coach.

And Henrietta stood once more in the landlady's room and gazed pensively out of the window. Her meditations were presently disturbed by Squire Gerzson.

"My dear good lady," he began, "fate has certainly sworn to be our enemy in every possible way to-day. I would not have believed it myself if I had not actually experienced it. First of all, all our four horses fall lame on the road. Then, at the very place where we decide to take up our quarters, we find that the landlady has jumped down the well. Truly fate pursues us with a vengeance. But we'll defy it, won't we my lady? Fate is very much mistaken if it fancies it will get the better of us, eh? it does not know with whom it has to deal, I'll be bound. For our hearts are in the right place and we'll pretty soon show that we have not lost our heads. Our greatest misfortune is that the fine supper we promised ourselves has vanished to dust beneath our very noses. Never mind. We have brought with us in our knapsack, after the custom of our ancestors, some good ham, some hung beef and some white loaves, to say nothing of a flask of prime wine; we don't mean to starve ourselves do we, my lady?"

The good old gentleman then took out of his knapsack all these good things and piled them up on the table, then he fetched the carriage lamp to light up the room a bit and politely invited Henrietta to partake of his simple banquet.

The young lady smilingly took her place on the bench.

"We really cannot drink the water here, your ladyship," said Gerzson, handing her his flask; "to all appearance nobody will ever drink the water out of the well of this shanty again. Such wells are generally walled up."

Merely to oblige the old man, Henrietta raised the flask to her lips and pretended to drink out of it so as not to spoil her companion's good humour, but really she drank not a drop. She never used to drink wine and wiped off the drops that remained on her lips with her pocket handkerchief. Nor did she eat anything except an apple which was just sufficient to keep the pangs of hunger off.

Mr. Gerzson, however, fell to like a man. He had generally a good appetite, and the lack of a dinner, the worry and trouble of the journey, and the labour of driving had made him hungrier than ever. He cut such whacking slices off the loaf and off the good red ham beside him that it was a joy to watch him; after he had raised the cluck-clucker[38] to his lips, his conversation became so entertaining that Henrietta listened to him with delight.

"But now I am not going to drink any more," said Mr. Gerzson at last, "for it is apt to make me sleepy and I don't want to sleep to-night. About midnight the coachman will arrive with the fresh relay of horses. Won't your ladyship rest a little in the adjoining room?"

Henrietta shook her head.

"Well, I suppose you are right. How indeed could you remain all alone in the room of a suicide? Let us stay together then and tell each other tales."

"Yes, that will be nice, and I'll begin by telling papa Gerzson something."

"I could go on listening to you till morning, it will be like the angels singing in my ears."

So Henrietta began to tell him all about the dead hostess and about her love, and also the story of the robber who was hanged for his companion.

Mr. Gerzson, with his head supported by his hand, listened religiously and struck himself violently on the mouth when he was seized by an involuntary fit of gaping.

"I cannot understand why I am so sleepy,—my eyes seem to be closing in spite of me."

"Why don't you have a pipe then? Come light up!"

"What, light up? Your ladyship will really allow me? You are sure you don't mind tobacco smoke? You are indeed a blessed creature. But are you sure it won't make your head ache?"

"On the contrary, I like tobacco smoke."

Squire Gerzson half drew out his cigar case, but he immediately shoved it back again.

"No, I won't smoke a cigar. One ought not to abuse one's good fortune. I shall get on well enough."

Then Henrietta began to tell him of Fatia Negra's Transylvanian exploits, of the Lucsia Cavern, of the capture of the coiners—and then she observed that Mr. Gerzson's eyelids were sinking lower and lower and he was nodding his head violently.

"Now you really must light up, papa Gerzson," she cried, "or you'll never be able to keep awake."

On being thus accosted, Mr. Gerzson bobbed up his head with a frightened air and rubbed his eyes, like one who has been suddenly aroused from slumber and knows not what is going on under his very nose.

"I am not asleep, 'pon my word I'm not. I was only nodding a little."

"Light a cigar."

"No I won't. I prefer to go out and have a turn in the open air and get the cobwebs out of my head. I'll have a look round outside a bit."

And with that he planted both his arms on the table, laid his head upon them and fell fast asleep.

Henrietta could not help smiling. Poor old gentleman, he had had a good deal of exertion and no doubt that wine was uncommonly strong. Let him rest a bit. He had had no sleep the night before. It would be quite sufficient if one of them kept awake.

Then she took up the lamp and went out into the hall observing to her great satisfaction that the door thereof was provided with a good lock. So she locked and fastened it. With timid curiosity she then explored every corner with the lamp and came upon nothing suspicious. Finally she returned to the guest room, locked the door of that also and placed the carriage lamp on the table, turning its shade towards the sleeping old man so that he might not be awakened by the glare of the lamp; and there she remained all alone, watching in the csárdá of the desolate puszta, patiently waiting for the night to pass over her homeless head.

So patient was she that only once did she take her watch from her bosom to see what the time was.

It was now past midnight.

She began to calculate how long it would take the coachman to get to Oroshaza and how much time he would require to reach this place. If he had got horses at once he ought to be near now.

A short time afterwards she heard the tread of horses' feet in the courtyard. Those must be our horses, thought she, and hastening to the window looking out upon the courtyard, she pulled the blind a little to one side and looked out.

The night was so light outside that she could see the four horses quite plainly in the courtyard—but she observed that a man was sitting on each of them.

"This is very curious," thought she, "two men would have been quite sufficient to bring along the relay."

Three of the four men dismounted from their horses and a fifth came out of the stable and had a short consultation with them; then the three approached the csárdá door and tried to open it.

This struck Henrietta as suspicious and she thought it was now high time to awake Mr. Gerzson.

"Pardon, papa Gerzson, but four men have arrived here."

Still Mr. Gerzson did not awake.

Henrietta approached, bent over him and gently insisted:

"My dear papa Gerzson, just wake up for a moment, somebody wants to come in."

Even then Mr. Gerzson did not awake.

Henrietta listened. Outside, the hall door was beginning to groan and rock. They were forcing it.

Full of terror now, she seized Mr. Gerzson's arm.

"Sir, sir! robbers are upon us. Awake, awake. This is no time for slumber."

But Mr. Gerzson still slumbered on—he might have been dead. In vain she tore him away from the table, he fell back again all of a heap and went on slumbering.

The strangers were now in the hall, and a heavy hand was trying the latch of the guest chamber.

"My God, my God!" moaned Henrietta, wringing her hands and rushing up and down the room, terrorstricken, not knowing where to look now for refuge.

A violent thud resounded against the door. Someone had placed his shoulder against it. Henrietta clung to the table to save herself from falling.

At last the lock burst, the door flew open, and Fatia Negra with two masked companions stood before the lady. The same instant Henrietta recovered her presence of mind. At a pace's distance from danger she ceased to tremble and calmly addressed them: "What do you want?"

"Why are you not asleep now like your companion?" enquired Fatia Negra in a low voice.

One of his comrades approached the sleeper and held the barrel of his pistol to his temples. In Fatia Negra's hand there was only a dagger.

"Don't wake him," he whispered to Henrietta, "for if he should but raise his head his brains will be blown out."

"Do him no harm!" implored the lady. "I will give you everything you want. Here is my pocketbook, here are my jewels, and you shall have my watch too. See, I will draw off my rings, only don't touch me. But if possible let me keep this round ring for it is my wedding ring."

"All that is nothing," whispered Fatia Negra, "nor do we want these things. Your ladyship has received a bill for 40,000 florins from your husband; give up that and swear that you will not say anything about it to anyone for three days so that we may have time to turn it into cash."

At the mention of the bill Henrietta felt her head reel, the blood stood still in her veins, she could scarce keep her feet. Her voice trembled as she lied to the robber denying that she had any such thing.

"We will search you, my lady, if you do not give it up voluntarily."

Henrietta persisted in her falsehood: "I have nothing upon me. I posted it in order that it might get to its destination more safely."

"My lady, you are only wasting our time. Turn round, take that steel netting out of your puffed sleeves and hand it over to us."

At these words, all the blood flew to Henrietta's head. It was no longer fear but the fury of despair that possessed her. It suddenly occurred to her that here was the man whom nobody had ever recognized; the man who had made so many people unhappy; who had robbed her husband and would now stifle her last hope of saving her brother from disgrace. Who could this terrible man, this accursed wretch, be? And so, as Black Mask drew near to her, flashing his dagger before her eyes, she, the weakest, the most timid of women, made a sudden snatch at the mask and tore it off.

She saw his face and recognized him. . . .

For an instant her eyes gazed upon him and then she collapsed on the ground in a swoon.

It was pretty late next morning when Mr. Gerzson raised his muddled head from the table. The sun was shining brightly through the blinds.

He looked around him. He was quite alone.

He looked for Henrietta, he called her by name. She was nowhere to be seen. Their luggage had also disappeared. He went into the courtyard and looked for the carriage. That also was nowhere to be seen. Only the four horses were in the stable, and they were neighing for water; nobody had watered them.

After that Mr. Gerzson's head grew more muddled than ever.

What had become of the lady? What had happened during the night? How was it that he remembered nothing about it, he who generally used to sleep so lightly that the humming of a midge was sufficient to awake him?

Gradually he bethought him that the evening before he had drunk some wine with an unusual flavour. Even now he was conscious of a peculiar taste in his mouth. Yet no wine in the world had ever been able to do him harm. He returned to the room to examine the contents of his flask. But even the flask was now nowhere to be seen. There was not a single forgotten object, not a single indication to give him a clue in this obscure confusion. What could have happened here?—he had not the faintest idea.

He went and stood in front of the csárdá. He gazed out upon the desolate puszta stretching around him in every direction. From every point of the compass wagon tracks, some old, some still fresh, zig-zagged to and from the csárdá and he could not make up his mind which of them to take in order to reach the world beyond.

CHAPTER XVI

Off went mine host returning in a few moments with a MS. play bill on which was written in large red letters: "Hernáni or Castilian Honour," followed by the names of the personages. Hernáni was naturally the manager himself, Leander Babérossy,[39] Elvira was to be played by Miss Palmira, the other gentlemen were simply indicated by N. N., X. X. or * *. "They are all women you know," explained the innkeeper, "who don't want to advertise their names. The charge for the front seats is 2½d, for the second-class places, a penny."

"The gentry can sit where they please, I presume?"

"I suggested to the manager that he should write that on the play bill, but he replied that that would be an impertinence. I also advised him to take the play bill to your honour himself and was almost kicked out of the room for my pains. Did I take him for a bill poster? he said."

"This manager of yours seems to have a pretty good opinion of himself."

"Oh, he is frightfully proud, your honour. He will play no other pieces but sword pieces because, says he, they are classical. The poor fellow is so very young you know. When he grows a little older and learns to starve a bit he will soon lower his crest."

"I like him none the less for holding up his head. I will come to the play."

"But you must be there at seven o'clock sharp. He always begins punctually; whether there is any audience or not."

"The lad has character, I see; pray give him this"—and he handed the innkeeper half a sovereign. He quickly returned with the reply that the manager could not for the moment give change.

"But I meant him to keep the whole of it as an admittance fee."

"Ah, yes."

A short time afterwards, the innkeeper reappeared with a whole bundle of admission tickets for Szilard, saying that the manager thanked him for his sympathy, but as he was not in the habit of accepting presents from anyone, he assumed that his honour meant to engage the whole house for himself that evening and he, the manager, would therefore give a representation for his honour's sole benefit.

Szilard laughed heartily at this comical conscientiousness, and after dressing, he went about his official business with as much dispatch as possible in order to arrive at the play at seven o'clock sharp, for he was now the whole public and the public ought always to be punctual.

When he got to the room set apart for the performance he found that, despite the provisional abonnement suspendu arrangement, the place was not quite empty, for the gratis public, the lenders of the theatrical requisites and their families, the letters of lodgings to the actors and other peaceful creditors, occupied a couple of benches, so that Szilard had the opportunity of effacing himself and thus avoiding confusing the troupe by his solitary and imposing personality.

No sooner had the innkeeper's cuckoo clock struck seven than the ring of the prompter's bell resounded behind the curtain (it sounded suspiciously like a glass struck smartly with the back of a knife) and by means of a highly ingenious piece of machinery the drop-curtain, stuck over with the tricolored cardboard representing the national flag, was hoisted up to the ceiling-beam, and the open stage was revealed.

The background was formed by a collapsible screen which was painted to represent a room; in the foreground on one side was a paper window painted black and white, and on the other side the cellar door, metamorphosed into the portal of a Gothic palace. Through this entry the whole of the dramatis personae came and went, for it was the only one.

The piece acted was, naturally, not "Hernáni or Castilian Honour," but Schiller's "Robbers." Szilard recognized it at the very first three words. He also noticed that the characters of Karl and Franz Moor were acted by one and the same person (the manager himself, as he was informed) with a simple change of voice and mask, and despite the different disguises employed, it constantly seemed to Szilard as if he had seen that caricature of a face somewhere else and the voice, parodied as it now was, nevertheless seemed familiar to him. No less familiar appeared the violent gestures of the young actor which frequently endangered the side scenes.

Now as early as Scene 2 the noble public began to be aware of the unheard of fraud practiced upon it; a murmuring, an agitation, a whispering and a wagging of heads, and finally an impatient thumping of sticks began to mingle with the bustle of the drama, till at last a worthy cobbler, who had lent the troupe three wooden benches and received in return a free pass every day, suddenly bawled out: "Halloh there, Mr. Manager! we have seen this piece once before. There's politics in it."

Franz Moor, disturbed in his artistic interpretation by this sudden onslaught, suddenly forgot himself, lost his cue and answering the interpellator in his natural, everyday voice (he knew he had only a free list public to deal with) exclaimed: "Whoever has seen this piece before and does not wish to see it again, will have his money returned to him on applying at the ticket office."

These words were no sooner uttered than Vamhidy leaped from his seat, rushed upon the stage, caught Franz Moor in his arms and kissed his painted face crying with a voice trembling with joy: "Coloman!"

Franz Moor hesitated for an instant, then tore off his Spanish beard, dropped his red wig, wiped the painted wrinkles from his forehead and Szilard saw before him a pale, melancholy, childish countenance.

Leander Babérossy was young Coloman, Henrietta's brother.

The representation naturally ceased at once. Szilard hustled the rediscovered "prodigal son" off the boards and never let him stop for an instant till he had got him safe and sound into his own private room. There he embraced him again, held him at arms' length and had a good look at him. The lad seemed to be twenty years old at the very least, yet really he was but fifteen. Play acting, want and premature shaving soon make a youth look old. Moreover, in his whole bearing, in all his movements, there was something precocious, a resolute, bold expression which made one forget that he was a mere child—a sort of cynicism not pleasant to behold.

Szilard soon had a good supper ready for him, which the youth fell to work upon without ceremony.

"My dear Leander," said Vamhidy when the meal was over, "no doubt it is a very fine thing when one can say that he is his own master, nor is it so difficult to attain to such a position after all. All that is wanted is a strength of character always true to itself. But you, my friend, have committed follies which might easily make of you something very different."

Coloman shrugged his shoulders.

"I have committed many follies no doubt, but I do not call to mind any which I should be afraid to confess."

Szilard began to fancy that his suspicions were groundless.

"People are talking of a certain bill which you have given in your sister's name?"

At these words Coloman cast down his eyes upon his plate and his whole face grew blood-red. In a scarcely audible voice he enquired: "And has Henrietta refused to honour that bill?"

Vamhidy sighed deeply. Then it was really true that this thoughtless child had committed the crime!

"My dear Coloman," said he, dropping the Leander now, "your sister is the martyr of her own devotion. She was most certainly ready to acknowledge the bill as her own; but you ought to have thought what sacrifices she will have to make now that her grandfather has cut her off with a shilling and her husband refuses to place such a considerable amount at her disposal."

"Good gracious!" cried the itinerant actor, thrusting his hands deep down into his empty pockets, "what then do these big wigs call considerable amounts. Very well, sir. I had no idea that the Baroness Hátszegi was so very poor. I will try to recover the bill, and it shall be the first thing I will pay off with my benefit money."

Szilard could not help being struck by the terrible comicality of the idea.

"But, my dear young friend," said he, "if you had two benefits every year and got a clear forty florins at every one of them, it would take you at least a hundred years from to-day to discharge the amount."

"What?" cried Coloman with wide open eyes, and in his amazement seizing the candlestick instead of his fork.

"Why, don't you know that the bill is for 40,000 florins?"

"What?" thundered the young vagabond. And kicking aside his chair, he snatched up a knife lying by the side of his plate and, bareheaded as he was, rushed towards the door. Szilard had need of all his dexterity to catch him before he reached it and prevent him from rushing into the street like a madman.

"Let me murder him, let me murder that villain," he cried.

Szilard was a strong man so he easily disarmed the youth.

Then Coloman began to weep and fling himself on the ground. Szilard seized him by the arm and hoisted him on to a chair again.

"Be a man!" he cried. "Of whom do you speak?—whom do you want to kill?"

"That villain Margari."

"Then it was he who persuaded you to take this step?"

"I will tell you all about it, sir, and you shall judge me. When I left my grandfather's house, that Satan sought me out, affected sympathy for me and asked me what I meant to do. I told him I intended to go on the stage and he said I did well not to remain there. I had only a florin which I borrowed from one of the lacqueys, and I told this devil that I should require 20 florins at the very least. He promised to get them for me from a usurer but told me I should have to give a bill for forty. Do you think I cared what I signed then? Not long afterwards he came back again and said the usurer would give nothing on the strength of my signature, because I was a minor, but that if my sister's name stood upon the bill he would advance upon that because she was a married woman. Margari persuaded me to sign the bill in her name. What was forty florins to Henrietta? he said, a mere trifle. If I were to ask her, she would give me twice as much. Surely she would not proclaim me, whom she loved so much, a forger for the sake of a paltry 40 florins? But 40,000 florins, 40,000!—that is a frightful, a horrible villainy. I only made it forty."

And with that he began to dash his head against the wall like a madman.

"My dear Coloman, do pull yourself together," said Szilard, "what you have just told me is of the very greatest importance. Be quiet and don't tear out your hair! Are you aware that your infinitely good sister has honoured the 40,000 florin bill also in order to save you?"

The poor youth was thunderstruck at these words.

"And now you can imagine the embarrassment of the baroness, who has been disinherited and is nevertheless responsible for this very considerable sum without being at all sure that her husband will pay it for her."

"I will hang myself."

"That would be the most gigantic piece of folly you could commit. You must make good your fault. And now for a time we cease to be friends and I am simply an examining magistrate, and you are an accused prisoner who is about to make a voluntary confession before me. Pray sit right opposite to me and answer all my questions clearly and accurately—in fact tell me exactly what happened."

And Vamhidy produced paper and writing requisites, lit a pair of candles which he placed by his side and began the examination of the youth sitting in front of him.

By midnight the confession was duly written down.

When, however, Vamhidy proposed that Coloman should now come back to Pest and be reconciled to his relations, the youth hesitated: "We will see," said he.

"At any rate remain here with me then," continued Szilard. "Sleep in my room and take till to-morrow to think it over. I won't lock the door but you must give me your word of honour that you will not go out of that door without my knowledge."

"I give you my word upon it."

Then Szilard made the youth lie down and only went to rest himself when he was sure that Coloman was asleep.

Nevertheless on awaking next morning and looking round the room he could see no trace of Coloman, but there was a letter from him on the table as follows: "Dear old friend, I thank you for your extreme kindness to me, but I don't want to see my relations any more, not because I fear to meet them, but because I have a holy horror of the very atmosphere they breathe. My confession will suffice to rectify my fault. I am going on the tramp again. The linen tent is my home. And then—there are obligations in respect to the discharge whereof I am not my sister's brother. I have taken nothing with me but four cigar ends from the table, a liberty I hope you will pardon me. As I have given you my word that I would not go out of the door without your knowledge, I have been obliged to make my exit through the window. Adieu! Till death thy faithful admirer.  COLOMAN."

A couple of hours later Vamhidy learnt from the innkeeper that the manager, without any previous leave-taking, had decamped leaving behind him his decorations and theatrical wardrobe as some compensation for his trifling debts. All he had taken away with him was what he actually had on his person—and Miss Palmira.

And now Szilard understood the meaning of the passage "there are obligations in respect to the discharge whereof I am not my sister's brother."

This vagabond comedian had an equally vagabond childish ideal, and when he had to make his choice, he flung his arm around her and fled away with her—into the wide, wide world.

CHAPTER XVII

And with that he coolly unbuttoned his attila[40] and drew forth from the inside pocket a large sealed letter.