CHAPTER III
At last war was declared; but it brought only days of increased unhappiness and discontent to the tiger imprisoned in his cage at the Nameless Castle—as if burning oil were being poured into his open wounds.
The snail-like movements of the Austrian army had put an end to the appearance of the apocalyptic destroying angel.
Ludwig Vavel waited like the tiger crouched in ambush, ready to spring forth at the sound of his watchword, and heard at last what he had least expected to hear.
The single-headed eagle had not hesitated to take possession of that which the double-headed eagle had hesitated to grasp.
Napoleon had issued his memorable call to the Hungarian people to assert their independence and choose their king from among themselves.
Count Ludwig received a copy of this proclamation still damp from the press, and at once decided that the cause to which he had sacrificed his best years was wholly lost.
He was acquainted with but a few of the people among whom he dwelt in seclusion, but he believed he knew them well enough to decide that the incendiary proclamation could have no other result than an enthusiastic and far-reaching response. All was at an end, and he might as well go to his rest!
In one of his gloomiest, most dissatisfied hours, he heard the sound of a spurred boot in the silent corridor.
It was an old acquaintance, the vice-palatine. He did not remove his hat, which was ornamented with an eagle’s feather, when he entered the count’s study, and ostentatiously clinked the sword in its sheath which hung at his side. A wolfskin was flung with elaborate care over his left shoulder.
“Well, Herr Count,” he began in a cheery tone, “I come like the gypsy who broke into a house through the oven, and, finding the family assembled in the room, asked if they did not want to buy a flue-cleanser. At last the watchword has arrived: ‘To horse, soldier! To cow, farmer.’ The militia law is no longer a dead letter. We shall march, cum gentibus, to repulse the invading foe. Here is the royal order, and here is the call to the nation.”[3]
Count Vavel’s face at these words became suddenly transfigured—like the features of a dead man who has been restored to life. His eyes sparkled, his lips parted, his cheeks glowed with color—his whole countenance was eloquent; his tongue alone was silent.
He could not speak. He rushed toward his sword, which was hanging on the wall, tore it from its sheath, and pressed his lips to the keen blade. Then he laid it on the table, and dashed like a madman from the room—down the corridor to Marie’s apartment. Without knocking, he opened the door, rushed toward the young girl, raised her in his arms as if she were a little child, and, carrying her thus, returned to his guest. “Here—here she is!” he cried breathlessly. “Behold her! Now you may look on her face—now the whole world may behold her countenance and read in it her illustrious descent. This is my idol—my goddess, for whom I have lived, for whom I would die!”
He had placed the maid on a sort of throne between the two bookcases, and alternately kissed the hem of her gown and his sword.
“Can you imagine a more glorious queen?” he demanded, in a transport of ecstasy, flinging one arm over the vice-palatine’s shoulder, and pointing with the other toward the confused and blushing girl. “Is there anywhere else on earth so much love, so much goodness and purity, a glance so benevolent—all the virtues God bestows upon his favorites? Is not this the angel who has been called to destroy the Leviathan of the Apocalypse?”
The vice-palatine gazed in perplexity at the young girl, then said in a low tone:
“She is the image of the unfortunate Queen, Marie Antoinette, who looked just like that when she was a bride.”
Involuntarily Marie lifted her hands and hid her face behind them. She had grown accustomed to the piercing rays of the sun, but not to the questioning glances from strange eyes.
“What—what does—this mean, Ludwig?” she stammered, in bewilderment. “I don’t understand you.”
Count Vavel stepped to the opposite side of the room, where a large map concealed the wall. He drew a cord, and the map rolled up, revealing a long hall-like chamber, which, large as it was, was filled to the ceiling with swords, firearms, saddles, and harness.
“I will equip a company of cavalry, and command it myself. The entire equipment, to the last cartridge, is ready here.”
He conducted the vice-palatine into the arsenal, and exhibited his terrible treasures.
“Are you satisfied with my preparations for war?” he asked.
“I can only reply as did the poor little Saros farmer when his neighbor, a wealthy landowner, told him he expected to harvest two thousand yoke of wheat: ‘That is not so bad.’ ”
“Now I intend to hold a Lustration, Herr Vice-palatine,” resumed the count. “Here are weapons. Are enough men and horses to be had for the asking?”
“I might answer as did the gypsy woman when her son asked for a piece of bread: ‘You are always wanting what is not to be had.’ ”
“Do you mean that there are no men?”
“I mean,” hastily interposed Herr Bernat, “that there are enough men, and horses, too; but the treasure-chest is empty, and the Aerar has not yet sent the promised subsidy.”
“What care I about the Aerar and its money!” ejaculated Count Vavel, contemptuously. “I will supply the funds necessary to equip a company—and support them, into the bargain! And if the county needs money, my purse-strings are loose! I give everything that belongs to me—and myself, too—to this cause!”
He opened, as he spoke, a large iron chest that was fastened with iron bolts to the floor.
“Here, help yourself, Herr Vice-palatine!” he added, waving his hand toward the contents of the chest. It was a more wonderful sight than the arsenal itself. Rolls of gold coin, sacks of silver, filled the chest to the brim.
Herr Bernat could only stare in speechless amazement. He made no move to obey the behest to “help himself,” whereupon Count Vavel himself thrust his hands into the chest, lifted what he could hold between them of gold and silver, and filled the vice-palatine’s hat, which that worthy was holding in his hand.
“But—pray—I beg of you—” remonstrated Herr Bernat, “at least, let us count it.”
“You can count it when you get home,” interrupted Count Vavel.
“But I must give you a receipt for it.”
“A receipt?” repeated his host. “A receipt between gentlemen? A receipt for money which is given for the defense of the fatherland?”
“But I certainly cannot take all this money without something to show from whom I received it, and for what purpose. Give me at least a few words with your signature, Herr Count.”
“That I will gladly do,” responded the count, turning toward his desk, and coming face to face with Marie, who had descended from her throne.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, laying her hand on his arm.
“Write.”
“Are you going to let strangers see your writing, and perhaps betray who you are?”
“In a week the strokes from my hand will tell who I am,” he replied, with double meaning.
“Oh, you are terrible!” murmured Marie, turning her face away.
“I am so for your sake, Marie.”
“For my sake?” echoed the young girl, sorrowfully. “For my sake? Do you imagine that I shall take pleasure in seeing you go into battle? Suppose you should fall?”
“Have no fear on that score, Marie,” returned the young man, confidently. “I shall have a guiding star to watch over me; and if there be a God in heaven—”