Chapter XXXIX

In which everyone at last gets his deserts.

Old Zurdoki, whose unseemly amours had been the cause of the tragedy of two loving hearts, so far from being sobered by this sad occurrence, so far from taking to heart the blood of the gentle lady which had flowed through his foul fault, had no sooner escaped from Poland with a part of the Prince's routed troops (the rest had been carried away captive to the Crimea by the Tartars) than he set about another evil prank. Failing to seduce one of the pretty women, he now spread his nets for the second.

Here, too, he soon found a willing go-between. Even if Red Barbara were no more, there was still enough of witches and to spare. Was not Annie, the wife of the kopanitschar, at hand? So far from being scared at the fearful fate of her superior, she burned to occupy the vacant place of honor in the witches' ranks. For the saying of the sages, that from the blood of one martyr a hundred others spring up, is equally true when applied to evil-doers. Among sinners also there are enthusiasts who count it an honor to suffer for hell, and where one felon is executed a hundred are always ready to step into his shoes. This was especially the case with witches. The burnt and tortured members of that grim sisterhood always had immediate and innumerable successors. The world seemed too small to hold them all. The love of evil notoriety took possession of them like a sort of intoxication, and plunged into the abyss even those who otherwise would never have thought of becoming witches. It is thus that we are able to explain why Annie undertook a far more dangerous commission than even that by which Barbara had found her death. Moreover, the dazzling promises of Zurdoki, who was no niggard with his money, had also great weight with her. And Zurdoki was now richer than ever. George Rakoczy, when the Crim Tartars invaded Hungary, had intrusted the whole of his treasures to Zurdoki to conceal them in Berga Castle. On the way thither as much of this treasure might be lost as Zurdoki pleased. Who amid the hurly-burly of those troubled times would ever think of calling him to account for it?

So Zurdoki intrusted to Annie the billet-doux which he had written to the lovely Isabella, the spouse of Count Hommonai. He had not been very particular in his style, nor had he wasted his ardor in romantic effusiveness, but he went straight to the point like the man of business he was. He said he was ten times richer than Hommonai, and if the countess were kind to him, he would give her three hundred ducats down and a diamond collar such as princesses wear, besides making a will in her favor, whereby she would inherit after his death a city, a castle, two-and-twenty villages, and all the flocks, herds, and studs thereunto belonging.

Zurdoki, therefore, did not woo very romantically, perhaps, but for all that the letter was full of burning love. He thought that the handsomeness of the gift would make the lovely lady forget the ugliness of the giver.

But Isabella was very wroth when she received this shameful proposal. She immediately took the letter to her husband, and begged him to order the bearer of it to be exemplarily whipped. They were then dwelling at their castle at Saros.

"No," said Count Hommonai; "why whip the bearer of the letter, it is the writer who deserves a whipping." And he there and then dictated to his wife the answer she was to send to Zurdoki, which was so worded as to seem to consent to his proposition.

Annie, whom Isabella also rewarded most handsomely, took back the letter and delivered it to the ancient Celadon.

The object of Hommonai's stratagem was to get Zurdoki into his hands, so Zurdoki fell into the trap which he himself had laid.

Count Hommonai had an occasion ready to hand. He had a pair of old retainers, a coachman and a female lodge-keeper, both of Turkish extraction, and living together as man and wife after the Turkish fashion. These the count had converted to the Calvinistic Christian faith, and now they were to be united at the altar according to the Christian rite.

Such cases used to make a great sensation, for in those days, when the Turk was a mighty potentate who had two-thirds of Hungary in his power, and kept the remaining third in constant fear and trembling, it was an extraordinary phenomenon when a Mussulman pair voluntarily denied the Prophet and went over to the Christian faith. Therefore, all the neighboring gentry were invited from far and near, and most of them came, so that Count Hommonai's castle had to be enlarged in all haste by wooden annexes, so as to provide suitable accommodation for the servants of so many guests.

To this memorable wedding Zurdoki was also invited. Indeed it may be said that it was mainly on his account that the whole affair was got up.

He was well aware of this; but he fancied that the lady had arranged it all for love of him, whereas it was the husband's doings, and there is always a great difference between the motives of a husband and the motives of a wife.

Zurdoki arrived on the day of the wedding and brought thirty retainers with him. Hommonai received him very heartily, and did not once allude to the old theme of dispute; nay, he even allowed the old coxcomb to dance attendance upon his wife and whisper all sorts of tender compliments in her ear.

The ceremony was conducted with all due solemnity, and the behavior of the converted couple engrossed all the attention of the assembled guests. They could talk of nothing but how the bridegroom could not draw the ring off his finger; how he gave the bride his left hand instead of his right; how the bride, under the influence of the baptismal water, began to sneeze; and how the bridegroom drained the chalice to the very dregs instead of only sipping it; and how both of them, when they should have said "yes," only shook their heads, which, with the Turks, signifies assent. Who, under such circumstances, had any time to notice that Zurdoki was constantly whispering to the lady of the house?

Next followed a splendid banquet of four-and-twenty courses. During the meal Simplex played on the farogato, so as to put even the gypsy musicians to shame. Since Valentine's death he had entered the service of Count Hommonai as trumpeter, at a salary of five hundred gulden and his keep, which shows in what high estimation a skillful trumpeter was held in those days.

After the meal was over the ladies withdrew to their rooms to dress for the dance, but the gentlemen remained behind over their cups.

Then, according to a good old custom of Russian origin, the "fratina" went from hand to hand. This "fratina" was a silver pocal, set with precious stones and engraved with many sage saws, and the men drank to each other out of it and drained it to the very dregs. No one laughed at him who fell in this contest. The servants simply picked him up and carried him into his bedroom, that he might there sleep off his carouse.

He to whose head the wine flew soonest was the host himself. He very soon had had enough, and laid his head down on the table. They quickly carried him away.

"This wine really is very strong," said Zurdoki. "I suppose the vintage is of the year of the great comet? It has got into my head too." And with that his tongue began to loll out, his head sank back in his easy-chair, and the tankard fell from his hand.

"He's had his fill too," said the guests, whereupon four servants raised him from his chair and carried him to his room.

But Zurdoki was not drunk after all; he had only been pretending. As soon as he was alone in his room he locked the door, and sought for a tapestried door concealed at the foot of the bed. Through this he proceeded to a little corridor which led direct into the countess's room.

The time of the rendezvous could not have been better chosen. The guests who had not already succumbed to the wine proceeded from the dining-room to the dancing-room, and there practiced a martial dance among themselves till the fumes of the wine had evaporated and the ladies assembled, when they began to dance together the palotás, the polonaise, the torch dance, and the dance of the three hundred widows.

No one thought of the absent.

Zurdoki found the countess in her chamber; she had been waiting for him, and was quite alone.

The old inamorato at once fell down upon his knees before the lovely lady, and to convince her of the sincerity of his passion laid at her feet the promised gifts; a purse filled with gold, the collar of brilliants, and the will and testament, authenticated by the seal of a cathedral chapter.

"All this is thine, my beloved, if thou wilt receive me favorably."

"Get up, sir! and you will certainly have a warm reception," replied the lovely Isabella.

At this the enamored old buck sprang to his feet, as fiery and lusty as a young weasel.

On the wall opposite were life-size portraits of Count Hommonai and his wife, but between them hung a beautiful Venetian mirror in a cut-glass frame. The old vulture placed himself before this mirror, and, stroking his gray mustache, exclaimed very complacently, as if rejoicing in his beauty: "Come now, my lord Count Hommonai, which of us two is the handsomer fellow now?"

"Why, I am, of course, and always shall be!" cried Count Hommonai; for he was behind the picture, which opened like a tapestried door, and out he stepped.

The terror-stricken Zurdoki stood there with his mouth wide open. He now perceived that they had been fooling him all along.

Count Hommonai did not exchange many words with him, but seized him by the collar and thrust him into the room where all the other guests were dancing. They were not a little astonished to see their host and his friend, who, as they fancied, had been overcome with wine, now appear among them quite brisk and sober. But what astonished them still more was the circumstance, that whereas they had both been carried off to their respective bedrooms a few moments before, they now both came out of the countess's chamber.

"Look, gentlemen!" cried the count derisively, "look at that old buck-goat who would fain browse in my garden!"

At this, a roar of laughter greeted the discomfited Lothario, and his terror at being caught in forbidden ways now turned into furious rage at being mocked in public. Perceiving his page, to whom he had intrusted his sword when he sat down at table, he beckoned to him, tore the weapon from his hand, and planting himself in front of Hommonai, exclaimed:

"Shame, confusion on you, to entice a nobleman into a trap and ridicule your guest in your own house! But you shall not boast of it to anyone, and the marriage feast which you arranged on my account shall now be turned into a funeral wake. You must fight me, sir!"

Hommonai's only intention had been to make the old libertine a butt and a laughing-stock. He had, therefore, no weapon with him. But when Zurdoki drew his sword and challenged him to single combat, he also called his page, sent him for a rapier, and stood on his defense. The guests in the hall fell back to give the combatants room. Nobody attempted to intervene. It was only right that such an insult should be settled by arms.

First the furious Zurdoki aimed a mighty blow at the count, but miscalculating the length of his saber, the point of his weapon only grazed the yellow, gold-gallooned jack-boots of the count, and then struck the floor. But the blow which Hommonai dealt him in return settled him on the spot, and he breathed forth his filthy soul at the feet of the aggrieved husband.

And everyone present said it served him right. Hommonai ought to have killed him a year ago at least. Then Zurdoki would not have persuaded Prince George Rakoczy to undertake his unlucky campaign, then many good Hungarian warriors would not have fallen into captivity, and Hungary and Transylvania would not have been wasted with fire and sword.

But when the Countess Isabella heard that her husband had killed the old fool, she said:

"What a pity he had but one life! He has only atoned for the blood of my poor Michal. Valentine Kalondai is still unavenged."

They then called the maids, who cleansed the floor with hot water. Meanwhile the host led his guests into the castle gardens, and told them of all the miserable plots in which the evil-minded old libertine had played a part, down to his latest intrigue when he had attempted to seduce the countess. To prove his words he produced the gifts and the will which were to have served as a decoy, and gave them to the Protestant bishop who had celebrated the wedding of the Turkish couple, that he might employ them for the benefit of the College of Sarospatak. Zurdoki had spent not a farthing on church or school, but now his sinful liberality was to be turned to pious uses.

Then they returned to the dancing-room; the fiddles, flutes, and farogatos struck up, and the guests danced over the very spot where Zurdoki's blood had flowed, just as if absolutely nothing had occurred.

And surely you cannot express your contempt for a man more emphatically than by dancing over the spot where his blood has been, only an hour after his death!

* * * * *

Simplex, from whose contemporary diary we have compiled this history, most of whose events the narrator had himself witnessed and experienced, subsequently entered the service of Achatius Baresai, whom the Padishah had made Prince of Transylvania in George Rakoczy's stead. He also accompanied his Highness on his journey to Turkey. His latest memoirs are dated from Stamboul. What ultimately became of him no one has ever been able to find out.