Part 41 (1/2)

Her ladys.h.i.+p threw back her fur cloak, took off the silken kerchief and put two candles before her. She trimmed them both, like one who ”loves the beautiful.”

You might have called her face very beautiful: she had lively, sparkling eyes, strong brown complexion, rosy lips, and arched eyebrows: it was right that such light as there was in the room should burn before her.

In the darkness, on the long bench at the other end of the table, sat Lorand, who had ordered a bottle of wine, rather to avoid sitting there for nothing, than to drink the sour vintage of the Lowland.

Beside the bar, on a straw mattress, was sleeping a Slavonian pedler of holy images, and a wandering jack-of-all-trades; at the bar the bushy-headed host grinned with doubtful pleasure over such guests, who brought their own eatables and drinkables with them, and only came to show their importance.

Lorand had time enough calmly to take in this ”ladys.h.i.+p,” in whose carriage he had come so far, and under whose roof he would probably live later.

She must be a lively, good-natured creature. She shared every morsel with her servant, and sent what remained to the coachman. Perhaps if she had known she had another nameless travelling companion, she would have invited him to the repast. As she ate she poured some rye-whiskey into her tin plate; to this she added figs, raisins and sugar, and then lighted it. This beverage is called in our country ”krampampuli.” It must be very healthy on a night journey for a healthy stomach.

When the repast was over, the door leading to the courtyard opened: and there entered the rogue who had been left outside, his hat pressed over his eyes, and in his hand one of his pistols that he had taken from his girdle.

”Under the table! under the bed! all whose lives are dear to them!” he cried, standing in the doorway. At these terrible words the Slavonian and the other who were sleeping on the floor clambered up into the chimney-place, the host disappeared into the cellar, banging the door after him, while the servant hid herself under the bench; then the robber stepped up to the table and extinguished both candles with his hat, so that there remained no light on the table save that of the burning spirit.

The latter gave a weird light. When sugar burns in spirits, a sepulchral light appears on everything: living faces look like faces of the dead; all color disappears from them, the ruddiness of the countenance, the brilliance of the lips, the glitter of the eyes,--all turn green. It is as if phantoms rose from the grave and were gazing at one another.

Lorand watched the scene in horror.

This gay, smiling woman's face became at once like that of one raised from the tomb; and that other who stood face to face with her, weapon in hand, was like Death himself, with black beard and black eyelids.

Yet for one moment it seemed to Lorand as if both were laughing--the face of the dead and the face of Death, but it was only for a moment; and perhaps, too, that was merely an illusion.

Then the robber addressed her in a strong, authoritative voice:

”Your money, quickly!”

The woman took her purse, and without a word threw it down on the table before him.

The robber s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and by the light of the spirit began to examine its contents.

”What is this?” he asked wrathfully.

”Money,” replied the lady briefly, beginning to make a tooth-pick from a chicken bone with her silver-handled antique knife.

”Money! But how much?” bawled the thief.

”Four hundred florins.”

”Four hundred florins,” he shrieked, casting the purse down on the table. ”Did I come here for four hundred florins? Have I been lounging about here a week for four hundred florins? Where is the rest?”

”The rest?” said the lady. ”Oh, that is being made at Vienna.”

”No joking, now. I know there were two thousand florins in this purse.”

”If all that has ever been in that purse were here now, it would be enough for both of us.”

”The devil take you!” cried the thief, beating the table with his fist so that the spirit flame flickered in the plate. ”I don't understand jokes. In this purse just now there were two thousand florins, the price of the wool you sold day before yesterday at Debreczen. What has become of the rest?”

”Come here, I'll give you an account of it,” said the lady, counting on her fingers with the point of the knife. ”Two hundred I gave to the furrier--four hundred to the saddler--three hundred to the grocer--three hundred to the tailor:--two hundred I spent in the market: count how much remains.”