had wept herself out on his breast, the poor lady grew
calmer, and ceasing her sobbing, said in a determined voice--

"And now I swear to you before that God who will one day judge me for my
sins, that if ever I see you again, that same hour shall be the hour of
my death. If, then, you have any compassion, avoid me! I beg of you not
your love but your pity; I shall know how to get over it somehow in
time."

Rudolf's fine eyes sparkled with tears. This poor lady had deserved to
be happy, and yet she had only been happy a single moment all her life,
and that moment was when she had hung sobbing on his breast.

How long and weary life must be to her from henceforth!

Rudolf quitted the woman, and scarce waiting until Kárpáthy had awoke,
he took his leave and returned to Szentirma. He was very sad and ill at
ease all the way.

On reaching home, his merry, vivacious, affectionate wife flew towards
him, and dried the traces of the bitter tears with her loving kisses.

"Ah, ha! so you were at Madaras, eh?" said Flora, roguishly; "a little
bird whispered me that you would go a-spying. Well, what have you
discovered?"

"That you are right," said Rudolf, tenderly--"women are not weak."

"Then there is peace between us. And what news of Fanny?"

"God help the poor lady, for she is very, very unhappy!"




CHAPTER XVIII.

UNPLEASANT DISCOVERIES.


It was the winter season at Pest. The Szentirmays had also arrived
there, and the beautiful countess and her worthy husband were the ideals
of the highest circles, and everybody tried hard to make their
acquaintance. But the greatest commotion of all was made by the arrival
of Mr. Kecskerey. Without him the whole winter season would have been
abominably dull. There was no mention even of balls and assemblies until
he came back again. Some men have a peculiar talent, a special faculty,
for arranging such things, and it was "our friend" Kecskerey's
speciality. The whole world of fashion called Kecskerey "our friend," so
it is only proper that we should give him the same title.

His first business was to get together a sufficient number of gentlemen
to form a club where only eminent and distinguished members of society
would assemble. Kecskerey himself was a singularly interesting person,
and when he had dressed himself for the evening, and laid himself out to
be agreeable, he had such a store of piquant anecdotes to draw upon, all
more or less personal experiences during his artistic ramblings, that
even the tea-tables were deserted and the witty gentleman was surrounded
by merry crowds of eager listeners.

Something particular was in the wind now, for there was a considerable
whispering among Kecskerey's _habitués_, and they let it be known that
should he be seen conversing with Abellino, it would be as well to be
within earshot, as something unusually interesting would be going on.

"Why, what great misfortune can have befallen Abellino that our friend
Kecskerey can speak of him so lightly?" inquired Livius, turning towards
Rudolf. "Generally speaking, he is in the habit of treating him with
greater respect in view of his ultimate claims to the Kárpáthy estates."

Rudolf shrugged his shoulders. What did it matter to him what befell
Abellino?

Look; now he is coming in! He had still that defiant, devil-may-care
step, that haughty, insolent look, as if the whole world were full of
his lackeys, that repellent beauty, for his features were as vacant as
they were handsome.

"Ah, good evening, Bélá; good evening, Bélá!" screeched our friend
Kecskerey, while Abellino was still some distance off; he did not move
from his place, but sat there with his arms embracing his legs like the
two of clubs as it is painted on old Hungarian cards.

Abellino went towards Kecskerey. He attributed the fact that he drew
after him a whole group of gentlemen, who quitted the tea-tables and the
whist-tables to crowd around him, to the particular respect of the
present company to himself personally.

"I congratulate you," cried Kecskerey, in a shrill nasal voice, waving
his hands towards Abellino.

"What for, you false club?"

Thus it was clear that Abellino also was struck by Kecskerey's great
resemblance to the historical playing-card already mentioned, and this
sally brought the laughter over to his side.

"Don't you know that I have just come from nunky, my dear?"

"Ah, that's another matter," said Abellino, in a somewhat softer voice.
"And what, pray, is the dear old gentleman up to now?"

"That's just where my congratulations come in. All at home send you
their best greetings, kisses, and embraces. The old gentleman is as
sound as an acorn, or as a ripe apple freshly plucked from the tree.
Don't be in the least concerned on his account; your uncle feels
remarkably well. But your aunt is sick, very sick, and to all appearance
she will be sicker still."

"Poor auntie!" said Abellino. "No doubt," thought he to himself, "that
is why he congratulates me; and good news, too. No wonder he
congratulates me. Perhaps she'll even die--who knows?--And what's the
matter with her?" he asked aloud.

"Ah, she is in great danger. I assure you, my friend, that when last I
saw her, the doctors had prohibited both riding and driving."

Even now the real state of things would not have occurred to Abellino's
mind, had not a couple of quicker-witted gentlemen, who had come there
for the express purpose of laughing, and were therefore on the alert for
the point of the jest, suddenly laughed aloud. Then, all at once, light
flashed into his brain.

"A thousand devils! You are speaking the truth now, I suppose?"

His face could not hide the fury which boiled up within him.

"Why, how else should I have cause to congratulate you?" said Kecskerey,
laughing.

"Oh, it is infamous!" exclaimed Abellino, beside himself.

The bystanders began to pity him, and the softer-hearted among them
quietly dispersed. It was a horrible thought that this man, who on
entering the room had believed himself to be the master of millions,
should have been plunged back into poverty by a few words.

Kecskerey alone had no pity for him. He never pitied any one who was
unfortunate; he reserved all his sympathy for the prosperous.

"Then there's nothing more to be done," murmured Abellino, between his
teeth, "unless it be to kill myself or that woman."

Kecskerey's strident rasping voice seemed to cut clean through that
desperate murmur.

"If you want to kill or be killed, my friend, I should advise you to
read Pitaval,[11] wherein you will find all sorts and kinds of tips for
murderers, including lists of poisons both vegetable and mineral, a
liberal choice of weapons of every description, and the best means of
disposing of the _corpus delecti_ afterwards, either by submersion,
combustion, dissection, or inhumation. The whole twelve volumes is a
little library of itself, and a man who reads it patiently through to
the end will easily persuade himself that he is a born murderer. I
recommend the matter to your attention. Ho, ho, ho!"

[Footnote 11: The allusion, no doubt, is to F. G. de Pitaval's "Causes
célèbres et intéressantes."--TR.]

To all this Abellino paid no attention. "Who can be this woman's lover?"
said he.

"Look around you, my friend, and choose for yourself."

"At least I should like to recognize and kill him."

"I am absolutely sure I know who her lover is," remarked Kecskerey.

"Who?" asked Abellino, with sparkling eyes. "Oh, that man I _should_
like to know!"

Kecskerey, who was having rare sport with him, drew his neck down
between his shoulders, and continued--"How many times have I not seen
you fall upon his neck, and kiss and embrace him!"

"Who is it, who is it?" cried Abellino, catching hold of Kecskerey's
arm.

"Would you like to know?"

"I should."

"Then it is--her husband."

"This is a stupid jest," cried Abellino, quite forgetting himself; "and
nobody will believe it. That woman loves somebody, loves some one with
shameful self-abandonment. And that old scoundrel, her husband, knows
and suffers it in order to gratify his vengeance on me. But I will find
out who he is, I will find out who it is if it be the devil himself, and
I will bring a scandalous action against this woman, the like of which
the world has never yet seen."

At that moment a loud manly voice rang out amidst the group of listeners
who were beginning to rally Abellino, and ironically beg him not to
suspect them as they were quite innocent, and could not lay claim to the
honour of making Madame Kárpáthy happy.

"Gentlemen," it said, "you forget that it is not becoming in men of
breeding to make ribald jests about the name of a lady whom nobody in
the world has any cause or any right to traduce."

"What, Rudolf! Why, what interest have you in the matter?" inquired the
astonished Kecskerey.

"This much--I am a man and will not allow a woman whom I respect to be
vilified in my presence."

That was saying a great deal, and there was no blinking it, not only
because Rudolf was right and enjoyed the best of reputations, but also
because he was known to be the best shot and swordsman in the place, and
cool-headed and lucky to boot.

So from henceforth Madame Kárpáthy's name ceased to be alluded to in the
club.




CHAPTER XIX.

ZOLTÁN KÁRPÁTHY.


What Abellino had cause to tremble at had really happened. Madame John
Kárpáthy had become a mother. A son was born to her.

Early one morning the family doctor invaded the sanctum of the Nabob
with the joyful intelligence--"Your wife has borne you a son!"

Who can describe the joy of Squire John thereat? What he had hitherto
only ventured to hope, to imagine, his hardiest, most ardent desire was
gratified: his wife had a son! A son who would be his heir and
perpetuate his name! who was born in happier times, who would make good
the faults of his father, and by means of his youthful virtues fulfil
the obligations which the Kárpáthy family owed to its country and to
humanity.

If only he might live long enough to hear the child speak, to read a
meaning in his sweet babblings, to speak words to him that he might
understand and never forget, so that in the days to come, when he was
the _fêted_ hero of all great and noble ideas, he might say, "I first
heard of these things from that good old fellow, John Kárpáthy."

What should be the child's name? It should be the name of one of those
princes who drank out of the same wine-cup with the primal ancestor of
the House of Kárpáthy on the fair plains of Hunnia. It should be
Zoltán--Zoltán Kárpáthy--how beautifully that would sound!

Presently they brought to him this new citizen of the world, and he held
him in his arms and kissed and embraced him. He could scarce see him for
the tears of joy that streamed from his eyes, and yet how greatly he
longed to see him! With twinkling eyes he regarded the child, and a
fine, vigorous little lad it was, like a little rosy-cheeked angel; his
little hands and neck were regularly wrinkled everywhere from very
plumpness, his mouth was hardly larger than a strawberry, but his
sparkling eyes, than which no precious stone was ever of a purer azure,
were all the larger by contrast, and whenever he drooped them the long
lashes lay conspicuous on his chubby cheeks. He did not cry, he was
quite serious, just as if he knew that it would be a great shame to be
weak now, and when Squire John, in his rapture, raised him to a level
with his lips and kissed his little red face again and again with his
stiff, bristly moustache, he began to smile and utter a merry little
gurgle, which those who were standing round Squire John were quite
positive was an attempt to speak.

"Talk away, my darling little soul," stammered Squire John, perceiving
that the child was screwing up his little round lips all sorts of ways,
as if he knew very well what he wanted to say but could not find the
right words, "talk away, talk away! Don't be afraid, we understand you.
Say it again."

But the doctor and the nurses thought well to interpret the little
suckling's discourse as a desire to go back to his mother. Enough of
caresses then, for the present, they said, and, taking him out of Squire
John's arms, they brought him back to his mother, whereupon the good
gentleman could not but steal softly into the adjoining room and listen
whether the child was crying, and every time anybody came out he would
ask what was going on or what had happened since, and every time
anybody went in he sent a message along with him.

Towards the afternoon the doctor emerged again, and asked him to retire
with him to another room.

"Why? I prefer being here; at least I can hear what they are talking
about."

"Yes; but I don't want you to