The Nameless Castle

CHAPTER I

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.

These gentlemen had wives and daughters; but they had stationed themselves along the trench at the side of the road. They did not seek the shadow of a tree, because they wished people to know that they had parasols; for to own a parasol in those days was no small matter.

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.

Three wooden benches, joined together in a half-circle, formed a comfortable resting-place for the committee of reception, the chief of whom, the vice-palatine, was seated on the middle bench, drawing through the stem of his huge carved meerschaum the smoke of the sweet Veker tobacco. His figure was the living illustration of the ever true axiom: “Extra Hungariam non est vita,”—an axiom which his fat red face by no means confuted,—while his heavy, stiffly waxed mustache seemed to add menacingly: “Leave the Hungarian in peace.”

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.”

“Katharina von Landsknechtsschild.”

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.”

The justice had an odd habit, while speaking, of rubbing together the palms of his hands, as if he were rolling little dumplings between them.

“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 didn’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.”

“Oh, it isn’t anything scandalous. All that the bridegroom heard was that the baroness was a Lutheran; and as the matrimonia mixta are forbidden in Vienna and in Bavaria, the bridegroom withdrew from the engagement. In her grief over the affair, the sposa repudiata said farewell to the world, and determined to wear the parta[2] for the remainder of her days. That is why she chose this remote region as a residence.”

Here the bell in the church tower began to ring. It was followed by a roar from the mortars on the hilltop.

The gypsy band began to play Biharis’s “Vierzigmann Marsch”; a cloud of dust rose from the highway; and soon afterward there appeared an outrider with three ostrich-plumes in his hat. He was followed by a four-horse coach, with coachman and footman on the box.

The committee of reception came forth from the shade of the beech and ranged themselves underneath the arch. The clergyman for the last time took his little black book from his pocket, and satisfied himself that his speech was still in it. The coach stopped, and it was discovered that no one occupied it; only the discarded shawl and traveling-wraps told that women had been riding in the conveyance.

The general consternation which ensued was ended by the agent from Vienna, who drove up in a second vehicle. He explained that the baroness and her companion had alighted at the park gate, whence they would proceed on foot up the shorter foot-path to the manor. And thus ended all the magnificent preparations for the reception!

A servant now came running from the village, his plumed czako in one hand, and announced that the baroness awaited the dignitaries at the manor.

This was, to say the least, exasperating! A whole week spent in preparing—for nothing!

You may be sure every one had something to say about it, audibly and to themselves, and some one was even heard to mutter:

“This is the second mad person come to live in Fertöszeg.”

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.

“Let there be no ceremony, gentlemen,” she exclaimed in her musical voice, hastening toward them. “I detest all formalities. I have had a surfeit of them in Vienna, and intend to breathe natural air here in the country, without ‘fuss or feathers,’ with no incense save that which rises from burning tobacco! This is why I avoided your parade out yonder on the highway. I want nothing but a cordial shake of your hands; and as regards the official formalities of this ‘installation’ business, you must settle that with my agent, who has authority to act for me. After that has been arranged, we will all act as if we were old acquaintances, and every one of you must consider himself at home here.”

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.”

“And this, your ladyship,” continued the master of ceremonies, “is Dr. Philip Tromfszky, resident physician of Fertöszeg, who is celebrated not only for his surgical and medical skill, but is acknowledged here, as well as in Raab, Komorn, Eisenburg, and Odenburg, as the greatest gossip and news dispenser in the kingdom.”

“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 isn’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 couldn’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.”

“Yes; but when I enter into a ‘brotherhood’ of that sort, I always kiss the person with whom I form a compact.”

“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? Wouldn’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 wouldn’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!”

CHAPTER II

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?”

Baroness Katinka understood perfectly how to conduct the conversation during the repast—an art which was not appreciated by her right-hand neighbor, Herr Mercatoris. The learned gentleman had bad teeth, in consequence of which eating was a sort of penitential performance that left him no time for discourse.

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?”

“It depends entirely on the sort of person my tenant proves to be.”

“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?”

“Why should we? The noble does as he pleases, and the peasant as he must.”

“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.”

“Yes, so one might. The coachman comes often to the village, and he can speak German, too. There is a fat cook, who never leaves the castle, because she can’t walk. Then, there are two more servants, Schmidt and his wife; but they live in a cottage near the castle. Every morning at five o’clock they go to the castle gate, where they receive from some one, through the wicket, orders for the day. At nine o’clock they return to the gate, where a basket has been placed for the things they have bought. But they never speak of the lady, because they have never seen her face, either.”

“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?”

“I have two versions, either of which your ladyship is at liberty to accept,” promptly responded the doctor. “According to the first ‘authentic’ declaration, the nameless count is the chief of a band of robbers, who ply their nefarious trade in a foreign land. The lady is his mistress. She fell once into the hands of justice, in Germany, and was branded as a criminal on her forehead. That accounts for the heavy veil she always wears—”

“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?”

“Through the medium of a correspondence, which has been conducted in quite a peculiar manner. The count—we will call him so, although we are not justified in so doing, for the gentleman did not announce himself as such—the count sends me every morning his copy of the Augsburg ‘Allgemeine Zeitung.’ Moreover, I frequently receive letters from him through Frau Schmidt; but I always have to return them as soon as I have read them. They are not written in a man’s hand; the writing is unmistakably feminine. The seal is never stamped; only once I noticed on it a crest with three flowers—”

“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 correspondence began by the count asking a trifling favor of me. He complained that the dogs in the village barked so loud; then, that the children robbed the birds’ nests; then, that the night-watchman called the hour unnecessarily loud. These complaints, however, were not made in his own name, but by another person whom he did not name. He wrote merely: ‘Complainant is afraid when the dogs bark.’ ‘Complainant loves birds.’ ‘Complainant is made nervous by the night-watchman.’ Then he sent some money for the owners of the barking dogs, asking that the curs be shut indoors nights; and some for the children, so they would cease to rob the birds’ nests; and some for the watchman, whom he requested to shout his loudest at the other end of the village. When I had attended to his requests, he began to send me his newspaper, which is a great favor, for I can ill afford to subscribe for one myself. Later, he loaned me some books; he has the classics of all nations—the works of Wieland, Kleist, Börne, Lessing, Locke, Schleiermacher. Then we began to write about the books, and became entangled in a most exciting argument. Frau Schmidt, who was the bearer of this exchange of opinions, very often passed to and fro between the castle and the parsonage a dozen times a day; and all the time we never said anything to each other, when we happened to meet in the road, but ‘good day.’ From the letters, however, I became convinced that the mysterious gentleman is neither a criminal, nor a fugitive from justice, nor yet an adventurous hero who abducts women! Nor is he an unfortunate misanthrope. He is, on the contrary, a philanthropist in the widest sense—one who takes an interest in everything that goes on about him, and is eager to help his suffering fellows. In a word, he is a philosopher who is happy when he is surrounded by peace and quiet.”

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.

“Yes. Well, she has a little son. When the mother was taken to prison, the little lad was turned away from every door, was beaten and abused by the other children, until at last he fled to the marshes, where he ate the young shoots of the reeds, and slept in the mire. The nameless count discovered with his telescope the little outcast, and wrote to me to have him taken to Frau Schmidt, where he would be well taken care of until his mother came back.”

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?”

“When I was returning from college last year, per pedes apostolorum, for my money had given out, and my knapsack was empty. I was picking hazelnuts from the bushes in the park of the Nameless Castle, when I heard a window open. I looked up, and saw in the open sash a face the like of which I have never seen, even in a picture.”

“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.

The laurels which his clerk had won made the vice-palatine jealous.

“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.”

When the time came to serve the black coffee, the amiable hostess suggested that it would be pleasant to enjoy it in the open air; whereupon the company repaired to the veranda where, on several small tables, the fragrant mocha was steaming in the cups. Here the baroness and the vice-palatine seated themselves where they could look directly at the Nameless Castle; and Herr Bernat Görömbölyi proceeded to explain how he intended to take the castle without force—which was forbidden a Hungarian official.

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.

CHAPTER III

The following morning, after a very satisfactory breakfast, the gentlemen took leave of their amiable hostess, Bernat bácsi lingering behind the rest to whisper significantly:

“I will not say farewell, Katinka hugom, for I am coming back to tell you all about it.” Then he took his place in the extra post-chaise, and bade the postilion drive directly to the neighboring castle. The Nameless Castle was built on a narrow tongue of land that extended into Lake Neusiedl. The road to the castle gate ran along a sort of causeway, which was protected from the water by a strong bulwark composed of fascines, and a row of willows with knotty crowns. A drawbridge at the farther end made it necessary for the person who wished to enter the gate to ask permission.

On ringing the bell, there appeared at the gate the servant who has already been described,—the groom, coachman, and man of all work in one person. He had on a handsome livery, white gloves, white stockings, and shoes without heels.

“Is the count at home?” inquired the vice-palatine.

“He is.”

“Announce us. I am the vice-palatine of the county, and wish to pay an official visit.”

“The Herr Count is already informed of the gentlemen’s arrival, and bids them welcome.”

This certainly was getting on smoothly enough! And the most convincing proof of a hearty welcome was that the stately groom himself hastened to remove the luggage from the chaise and carry it into the vestibule—a sign that the guests were expected to make a visit of some duration.

Now, however, something curious happened.

Before the groom opened the hall door, he produced three pairs of socks, woven of strands of cloth,—mamuss they are called in this region,—and respectfully requested the visitors to draw them over their boots.

“And why, pray?” demanded the astonished vice-palatine.

“Because in this house the clatter of boots is not considered pleasant; and because the socks prevent boots from leaving dusty marks on the carpets.”

“This is exactly like visiting a powder-magazine.” But they had to submit and draw their socks over their yellow boots, and, thus equipped, they ascended the staircase to the reception-room.

An air of almost painful neatness reigned in all parts of the castle. Stairs and corridors were covered with coarse white cloth, the sort used for peasants’ clothing in Hungary. The walls were hung with glossy white paper. Every door-latch had been polished until it glistened. There were no cobwebs to be seen in the corners; nor would a spider have had anything to prey upon here, for there were no flies, either. The floor of the reception-room into which the visitors had been conducted shone like a mirror, and not a speck of dust was to be seen on the furniture.

“The Herr Count awaits your lordship in the salon,” announced the groom, and conducted Herr Bernat into the adjoining chamber. Here, too, the furniture was white and gold. The oil-paintings in the rococo frames represented landscapes, fruit pieces, and game; there was not a portrait among them.

Beside the oval table with tigers’ feet stood the mysterious occupant of the Nameless Castle. He was a tall man, with knightly bearing, expressive face, a high, broad forehead left uncovered by his natural hair, a straight Greek nose, gray eyes, a short mustache and pointed beard, which where a shade lighter than his hair.

“Magnifice comes—” the vice-palatine was beginning in Latin, when the count interposed:

“I speak Hungarian.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the visitor, whose astonishment was reflected in his face. “Hungarian? Why, where can your worship have learned it?”

“From the grammar.”

“From the grammar?” For the vice-palatine this was the most astounding of all the strange things about the mysterious castle. Had he not always known that Hungarian could only be learned by beginning when a child and living in a Hungarian family? That any one had learned the language as one learns the hic, hæc, hoc was a marvel that deserved to be recorded. “From the grammar?” he repeated. “Well, that is wonderful! I certainly believed I should have to speak Latin to your worship. But allow me to introduce my humble self—”

“I already have the honor,” quietly interrupted the count, “of knowing that you are Herr Vice-palatine Bernat Görömbölyi von Dravakeresztur.”

He repeated the whole name without a single mistake!

The vice-palatine bowed, and began again:

“The object of my visit to-day is—”

Again he was interrupted.

“I know that also,” said the count. “The Fertöszeg estate has passed into the hands of another proprietor, who has a legal right to withdraw the lease and revoke the conditions made and agreed to by her predecessor; and the Herr Vice-palatine is come, at the request of the baroness, to serve a notice to quit.”

Herr Bernat did not like it when any one interrupted him or knew beforehand what he intended to say.

“On the contrary, I came because the baroness desires to renew the lease. She has learned how kind to the poor your worship is, and offers the castle and park at half the rent paid heretofore.” He fancied this would melt the haughty lord of the castle, but it seemed to increase his hauteur.

“Thanks,” frigidly responded the count. “If the baroness thinks the rent too high, she will find in her own neighborhood poor people whom she can assist. I shall continue to pay the same rent I paid to the former owner.”

“Then my business will be easily settled. I have brought my clerk with me; he can write out the necessary papers, and the matter can be concluded at once.”

“Thank you very much,” returned the count, but without offering to shake hands. Instead, he kept his arms crossed behind his back.

“Before we proceed to business,” resumed the vice-palatine, “I must tell your worship an anecdote. A professor once told his pupils that he knew everything. Shortly afterward he asked one of the lads what his name was. ‘Why,’ responded the youth, ‘how does it come that you don’t know my name—you who know everything?’ ”

“I cannot see why you thought it necessary to relate this anecdote to me,” observed the count, without a smile.

“I introduce it because I am compelled to inquire your worship’s name and title, in order to draw up the contracts properly.”

This, then, was the strategem by which he proposed to learn the name which no one yet had been able to decipher on the count’s letters?

The count gazed fixedly for several seconds at his questioner, then replied quietly:

“My name is Count Ludwig Vavel de Versay—with a y after the a.”

“Thanks. I shall not forget it; I have a very good memory,” said Herr Bernat, who was perfectly satisfied with his success. “Allow me, also, to inquire the family name of the worshipful Frau Countess?”

At this question the count at last removed his hands from his back, and with the sort of gesture a man makes who would tear asunder an adversary. At the same time he cast upon Herr Bernat a glance that reminded the valiant official of the royal commissioner, as well as of his energetic spouse at home. The angry man seemed to have increased a head in stature.

Instead of replying to the question, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving his visitor standing in the middle of the floor. Herr Bernat was perplexed; he did not know what to do next. Was it not quite natural to ask the name of a man’s wife when a legal contract was to be written? His question, therefore, had not been an insult.

At last, as the count did not return, there was nothing left for Herr Bernat to do but go to his room and wait there for further developments. The contracts would have to be renewed, else the count would have to vacate the castle; and one could easily see that a great deal of money had been expended in fitting it up. The count had transformed the old hunting-seat, which had been a filthy little nest, into a veritable fairy castle. Yes, undoubtedly the contracts would be renewed.

The vice-palatine was pacing the floor of his room in his noiseless cloth socks, when he suddenly heard the voices of his clerk and his servant outside the door.

“Well, Janos, we are not going to dine here to-day; from what I can learn, we are going to be eaten ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“The groom told me his master was loading his pistols to shoot some one. The count challenges to a duel every one who inquires after the countess.”

The voices ceased. The vice-palatine opened wide his eyes, and muttered:

“May the devil fly away with him! He wants to fight a duel, does he? I am not afraid of his pistols; I have one, too, and a sword into the bargain. But it’s a silly business altogether! I am to fight about a woman I haven’t even seen! And what will my wife say? I wish I hadn’t come into this crazy castle! I wish I hadn’t sealed a compact of fraternity with the baroness! Why did not I leave this whole installation business to the second vice-palatine? If only I could think of an excuse to turn my back on this lunatic asylum! But I am not going to run away from a pistol. The Hungarian noble is a born soldier. If only I had my pipe! A man is only half a man without his pipe. A pipe inspires one with ideas. Where, I wonder, is that Audiat gadding?”

At this moment the clerk opened the door.

“Fetch our luggage, Audiat; we are going to leave this damned lunatic asylum. The Herr Count may see to it then how he renews his lease.” Hereupon he kicked off the socks with such vigor that the very castle shook. Then, grasping his sword in his hand, he marched out of his room, and down the staircase, to prove that he was not fleeing like a coward, but was clearing his way by force.

When the clerk, who went to fetch the luggage, was about to enter the groom’s apartment, the count came toward him and said:

“You are the vice-palatine’s clerk?”

“That’s what they call me.”

“When do you expect to become a lawyer?”

“When I have passed my examination.”

“When will that be?”

“When I have served a year as jurat, and have paid a ducat for my diploma.”

“I will give you the ducat, and when you have become a lawyer I will employ you as my attorney at six hundred guilders a year. I know that a Hungarian gentleman will not accept a gift without making some return; I ask you, therefore, to give me for this ducat some information.”

“What is it you wish to know?”

“How can I obtain possession of a portion of Lake Neusiedl for my own use alone?”

“By becoming a naturalized citizen of the county, and by purchase of a portion of the shore. I dare say there are some landowners on the shore who would be glad to part with their possessions in exchange for solid cash. If you buy such an estate you will have sole right to that part of the water in front of your property, and to the middle of the lake.”

“Thank you. One more question: if you were my attorney, what could you do to prevent me from being ejected from this castle, in case I did not sign a new contract with the present owner?”

“First, I should take advantage of the law of possession, and drag the case through a twelve years’ process; then I should appeal, which would postpone a settlement for three years longer. Would that be long enough?”

“Quite!”

The count nodded a farewell to the youthful jurist without even inquiring his name; nor did Audiat venture to propound a like question to his future employer.

Bernat bácsi did not, as he had promised, return to the manor to tell the baroness the result of his visit. He drove direct to his home.