Chapter I: The Supper at the Mravucsans'

I am not fond of drawing things out to too great a length, so will only give a short description of the Mravucsans' supper, which was really excellent, and if any one were discontented, it could only have been Madame Krisbay, who burned her mouth severely when eating of the first dish, which was lamb with paprika.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "something is pricking my throat!"

But the pudding she found still less to her taste (a plain paste rolled out very thin, and cut into squares, boiled and served up with curds and whey, and small squares of fried bacon).

"_Mon Dieu!_" she said, "it looks like small bits of wet linen!"

Poor Mrs. Mravucsan was inconsolable at her guest's want of appetite.

"It is such a disgrace for me," she said.

Then it occurred to her to offer her some of her preserved fruit, and to this madame seemed to take a fancy, for she finished up the dish, and in proportion as her hunger was appeased, her liking for her surroundings increased.

She had the Lutheran clergyman, Samuel Rafanidesz, on her right, and the schoolmaster, Teofil Klempa, on her left, and to them was deputed the task of entertaining the unfortunate foreigner. Their invitations had been put in this form:

"You _must_ come, for there is to be a German lady at supper, whom you are to entertain."

And they did all they could to prove to the rest of the company how much at ease they were in good German society.

Madame Krisbay seemed very contented with her neighbors, especially when she discovered that the Rev. Samuel Rafanidesz was a bachelor. What! did clergymen marry there? (Perhaps, after all, she had not come to such a bad country!)

The schoolmaster was a much handsomer man, but he was older, and was, besides, married. He had an intelligent face, and a long, flowing black beard; he had, too, a certain amount of wit, which he dealt out in small portions. Madame Krisbay smiled at his sallies. Poor woman! She would have liked to have laughed at them, but did not dare to, for her throat was still burning from the effects of that horrid paprika. Now and then her face (which was otherwise like yellow wax) got quite red from the efforts she made to keep from coughing, which, besides being the forerunner of old age, she also considered very demeaning.

"Don't mind us, my dear," called out the mayor's wife, "cough away as much as you like. A cough and poverty cannot be hidden."

Madame began to feel more and more at home, for, as it turned out, the clergyman had been at school at Munich, and could tell a lot of anecdotes of his life there, in the Munich dialect, much to madame's delight. The Rev. Samuel Rafanidesz did not belong to the stiff, unpleasant order of clergymen, and there was a Slovak sentence composed by Teofil Klempa, often repeated by the good people of Babaszek, which bore reference to him, and which, if read backward, gave his name: "Szedi na fare, Rafanidesz" ("Stay in your parish, Rafanidesz".) But he never took this advice, and had already been sent away from one living (somewhere in Nograd) because of an entanglement with some lady in the parish. Mrs. Mravucsan knew the whole story, and even the lady, a certain Mrs. Baho. She must have been a silly woman, for it was she herself who let the cat out of the bag, to her own husband too; and she was not a beauty either, as we can see from Mrs. Mravucsan's words:

"Rafanidesz was a fool. You should never ask a kiss from an ugly woman, nor a loan from a poor man, for they immediately go and boast of it."

Thus Mrs. Mravucsan. It is true she added:

"But if any one were to call me as a witness, I should deny the whole thing."

So you see, I can't stand good for the truth of it either. But that is neither here nor there.

Madame Krisbay certainly enjoyed the company of her two neighbors, and those gentlemen soon raised the whole country in her estimation. But it was lucky she understood no Slovak, and could not hear the conversation carried on by the intelligence of Babaszek. Of course they were clever people too, in their way, and Veronica often smiled at the jokes made, for they were all new to her, though the natives of Babaszek knew them all by heart; for instance, the rich butcher, Pal Kukucska, always got up when the third course was on the table, and drank to his own health, saying:

"Long life to my wife's husband!"

It would really be waste of time to try and describe the supper, for nothing of any real importance happened. They ate, they drank, and then they went home. Perhaps they spoke of important matters? Not they! Only a thousand trifles were discussed, which it would be a pity to put in print; and yet the incidents of that supper were the talk of Babaszek for weeks after. For instance, Mr. Mravucsan upset a glass of wine with the sleeve of his coat, and while they were wiping it up, and strewing salt on the stain, Senator Konopka, turning to the lady of the house, exclaimed:

"That means a christening, madam!"

Of course Mrs. Mravucsan blushed, but Veronica asked in a most innocent tone:

"How can you know that?" (She was either a goose, that young girl, or she was a good actress.)

Now who was to answer her with a face as innocent as the Blessed Virgin's must have been when she was a girl in short frocks? They all looked at each other, but luckily the forester's wife, Mrs. Wladimir Szliminszky, came to the rescue with this explanation:

"You see, my dear, the stork which brings the children generally lets one know beforehand, and the knocking over a glass is one of the signs it gives."

Veronica thought for a bit, and then shook her head unbelievingly.

"But I saw the gentleman knock the glass over himself," she objected.

To this Mrs. Szliminszky had no answer ready, so, according to her usual custom, she turned to her husband and began worrying him.

"Wladin, cut the fat off that meat."

Wladin frowned.

"But, my dear, that is just the best bit."

"Never mind, Wladin, I can't allow it. Your health is the first consideration."

And Wladin obediently cut off the fat bits.

"Why is your coat unbuttoned? Don't you feel how cold it is? Button it up at once, Wladin."

The forester did as he was told, and with the pleasant feeling of having done his duty, turned his attention to his plate again.

"Not another bit, Wladin, you've had enough. We don't want you to dream of bulls to-night."

Wladin obediently put down his knife and fork, and prepared to drink a glass of water.

"Give it me first," cried his wife excitedly. "I want to see that it is not too cold."

Wladin handed over his glass of water.

"You may drink a little of it, but not too much. Stop, stop, that will do!"

Poor Wladin! He was a martyr to conjugal love! For sixteen years he had suffered under this constant thoughtfulness, and though he was a strong man when he married, and had never been ill since, yet every minute of his life he expected some catastrophe; for, through constant warnings, the unfortunate Pole had worked himself up to the belief that a current of air or a drop of water could be disastrous to him. He felt that Nature had bad intentions toward him.

"Take care, Wladin, or the dog will bite your foot!"

One of the watch-dogs was under the table gnawing at a bone he had possessed himself of, and a little farther off the cat was looking on, longingly, as much as to say: "Give me some of that superfluous food."

Now began the so-called "amabilis confusio." Every one spoke at once, and every one about a different subject. The Senators had returned to the important question of the corpse hanging in the wood; Mrs. Mravucsan complained that no one was eating anything, and looked as wretched as she could.

Each one drank to the other's health, and during the quiet moment that followed, a voice was heard:

"Oh, Wladin, Wladin!"

It was Mrs. Szliminszky's voice; she evidently objected to her husband drinking, and her neighbor, Mr. Mokry, the lawyer's clerk, objected to her constant distractions, in spite of the interesting theme they were discussing.

"That strong cigar will harm you, Wladin; you had better put it down. Well, and why did you go to Besztercebanya, Mr. Mokry?"

"I had a lot to do there, but, above all, I bought the suit I have on."

He looked admiringly at his dark blue suit for about the hundredth time that evening.

"It is a very nice suit. What did you pay for it?"

"I had it made to measure at Klener's, and went to try it on myself."

"What was the price?"

"It is real Gacs cloth, and quite impervious to rain; you should see it by daylight!"

"Yes, of course, but what did it cost?" asked the Polish lady, her thoughts still occupied with her husband.

"I saw the piece of cloth myself; this was the first length cut off it. It has a peculiar look in the sunlight."

"Yes, yes; but I asked the price of it."

But it was difficult to bring Mokry to think of other things when he was once launched on the subject of his new suit.

"Klener has a tailor working for him, a certain Kupek, who used to work at one of the court tailors' in Vienna, and he said to me: 'Don't grudge the money, Mr. Mokry, for this is such a durable stuff that your own skin will wear out first.' Please feel it."

"It's as soft as silk. Wladin, my dear, I think you had better change places with me. You are in a draught there each time the door is opened. What are you making such a face for? You surely don't mean to argue with me? Over you come now!"

The beloved martyr changed places with his wife, and now Mrs. Szliminszky was on the opposite side of the table, next to Wibra; but he was entirely taken up with Veronica, who was chattering to her heart's content. The clever young man, of whom it was said he would once be the first lawyer in Besztercebanya, was listening to the girl with as much attention as though a bishop were speaking, and would not for a moment have taken his eyes off her.

They spoke quietly, as though they were discussing very important questions, though they were in reality speaking of the most innocent things. What did Veronica do at home? She read a good deal, and took long walks. What did she read, and where did she walk? And Veronica gave the titles of some books. Gyuri had read them all too, and they began exchanging notes regarding some of them, such as "Elemer the Eagle," "Ivan Berend," "Aranka Beldi." Gyuri considered Pal Beldi very stupid for not accepting the title of prince when it was offered him. Veronica thought it was better he had not done so, for if he had, the novel would never have been written.

Then Gyuri began to question her about Glogova. Was it very dull? Veronica looked at him, surprised. How could Glogova be dull? It was as though some ignorant person had asked if Paris were dull.

"Is there a wood there?"

"A beautiful one."

"Do you ever go there?"

"Of course."

"Are you not afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Well, you know, woods sometimes have inhabitants one might be afraid of."

"Oh, but the inhabitants of our woods are more afraid of me than I of them."

"Can any one be afraid of you?"

"Oh, yes they are, because I catch them."

"The robbers?"

"Don't be so silly, or I shall be cross!"

"I should like to see what you look like when you are cross."

"Well, I shall be if you talk such rubbish again. I catch butterflies in the wood."

"Are there pretty butterflies there? I had a collection when I was a student; I believe I have it still."

At this a desire for rivalry seized hold of Veronica.

"You should see my collection," she said. "I have all kinds. Tigers, Admirals, Apollos; only, it is such a pity, my Apollo has lost one of its wings."

"Have you a Hebe?"

"Oh, yes, it is nearly as big as the palm of my hand."

"And how big is that? Let me see it."

Veronica spread out her hand on the table; it was not so very big after all, but fine and pink as a roseleaf. Gyuri took a match and began to measure it, and in doing so, accidentally touched her hand with his finger, upon which she hastily drew it away and blushed furiously.

"It is very hot," she said, putting up her hand to her hot face, as though she had drawn it away for that purpose.

"Yes, the room has got quite hot," broke in Mrs. Szliminszky. "Unbutton your coat, Wladin!"

Wladin heaved a sigh of relief, and undid his coat.

Veronica returned to the subject of the butterflies.

"I think butterfly catching must be the same to me as hunting is to a man."

"I am very fond of butterflies," answered Gyuri, "because they only love once."

"Oh, I have another reason for liking them."

"Perhaps because of their mustaches?"

Veronica turned her head away impatiently.

"Mr. Wibra, you are beginning to be unpleasant."

"Thank you for the compliment."

"What compliment?"

"You say I am beginning to be unpleasant, which is as much as to say I was pleasant till now."

"I see it is dangerous to talk with you, for you put words into my mouth I never intended saying. I shall not speak again."

"I'll never do it again, never, I assure you. Only do talk," pleaded Gyuri.

"Do the butterflies really interest you?"

"Upon my honor, they interest one more at this moment than lions and tigers."

"I think butterflies are so pretty--like a beautifully dressed woman. And what tasteful combinations of color! I always look at their wings as though they were so many patterns of materials. For instance, look at a Hebe, with its black and red under-wings, do not they match beautifully with the yellow and blue-top wings! And then the Tiger, with its brown and yellow-spotted dress! Believe me, the renowned Worth might with advantage take a walk in the woods, and learn the art of combining shades from the butterflies."

"Gently, Wladin!" called out Mrs. Szliminszky at this moment. "How many lungs have you? A three-kreutzer stamp is sufficient for local letters."

Wladin and Senator Fajka were wondering how matters would stand if they were both very deaf, and Wladin was talking so loudly that his loving spouse felt bound to put in a word of remonstrance, and request him to have some respect for his lungs.

"They are quite close to each other, and yet they shout as though they were trying to persuade some one not to put a fifteen-kreutzer stamp on a local letter. Oh dear! When will people be more sensible?"

At that moment, Senator Konopka rose and drank to the health of the host, the "regenerator" of Babaszek. He spoke in exactly the same thin, piping voice as Mr. Mravucsan; when the guests closed their eyes, they really believed the master of the house himself was speaking, and sounding his own praises; of course this caused great amusement. Upon that up sprang the mayor, and answered the toast in Konopka's voice, with just the same grimaces and movements he always made, and the merriment rose in proportion. Kings do this too in another form, for at meetings and banquets they pay each other the compliment of dressing up in each other's uniforms; and yet no one thinks of laughing at them.

Toast succeeded toast.

"You have let the dogs loose now," whispered Fajka to Konopka.

Mokry drank to the health of the lady of the house, and then Mravucsan stood up a second time to return thanks in his wife's name. He remarked that, to their great disappointment, one of those invited had been unable to come, namely, Mrs. Muencz, who had at the last moment had an attack of gout in her foot, which was no wonder, considering the amount of standing and running about she did when there was a fair in their town. Then they all emptied their glasses to the health of the old Jewess.

After the shouts of acclamation had died away, Wladin Szliminszky called out:

"Now it is my turn!"

"Wladin, don't make a speech!" cried his wife. "You know it is bad for your lungs to speak so loud."

But she could do nothing now to prevent him; a henpecked husband is capable of everything; he will button or unbutton his coat, eat or drink to order, but refrain from making the speech his brain has conceived he will not; at least, it has never yet been heard of in the annals of Hungarian history.

"I take up my glass, gentlemen, to drink to the fairest flower of the company, beloved by God, Who on one occasion sent down His servant from Heaven, saying: 'Go down at once, Peter, with an umbrella; don't let the child get wet.' Long life to Miss Veronica Belyi!"

Veronica was as red as a rose, especially when the guests all got up one after the other, and went and kissed her hand; some of them even knelt to do it, and pious Mrs. Mravucsan bent down and kissed the hem of her dress.

Gyuri thought at first on hearing Wladin's peculiar speech that the good man had gone mad, and now seeing every one following his example, was more surprised than ever, and a strange feeling crept over him.

"What miracle is it your husband is referring to?" he asked, turning to Mrs. Szliminszky.

That good lady looked at him surprised.

"What! Don't you know the story? Why, it is impossible. It is even printed in Slovak verse."

"What is printed?"

"Why, the story of the umbrella ... Wladin, you are very hot, your face is the color of a boiled lobster. Shall I give you my fan?"

"What about the umbrella?" queried Gyuri impatiently.

"It is really strange you have never heard anything about it. Well, the story runs, that when your fair neighbor was a little child, they once left her out on the veranda of the priest's house. Her brother, the priest of Glogova, was in the church praying. A storm came on, it poured in torrents, and the child would have been wet through and have got inflammation of the lungs, or something of the kind, if a miracle had not taken place. An old man appeared on the scene, no one knows from where; he seemed to have fallen from heaven, and he spread an umbrella over the child's head."

"My umbrella!" burst unconsciously from the lawyer.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, nothing."

His blood coursed more quickly through his veins, his heart beat faster, he raised his head quickly, with the result that he also knocked his glass over.

"A christening, another christening!" called out every one.

"My best wishes," said Mr. Rafanidesz, turning to Mrs. Szliminszky, who blushed becomingly and told him not to talk nonsense.

But the young lawyer would not let her continue the conversation; he drew his chair nearer to hers, and said:

"Please go on."

"Well, the gray-haired man disappeared, no one knew how nor where, and those who saw him for a moment swore it was St. Peter."

"It was Muencz!"

"Did you speak?"

Gyuri bit his lip, and saw that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

"Nothing, nothing; please go on."

"Well, St. Peter disappeared, and left the umbrella behind him."

"And does it still exist?"

"I should think it does indeed. They keep it as a relic in the church of Glogova."

"Thank God!"

He drew a deep breath, as though a great weight had fallen from him.

"Found!" he murmured. He thought he would have fallen from his chair in his joy.

"And to whom does it belong? To the Church?" asked Gyuri.

"It may be yours once," said Mrs. Szliminszky. "It will be Veronica's when she marries; the priest of Glogova told me so himself. 'It will belong to my sister,' he said, 'unless she makes a present of it to the Church when she marries.'"

"Oh, no," said the lawyer, shaking his head. "At least, I mean ... What am I saying? What were we speaking about? It is fearfully warm, I'm stifling. Please, Mr. Mravucsan, could we have the window open?"

"Of course," and the mayor ran to open it.

"Button up your coat, Wladin!"

A fresh spring air entered by the window, and a slight breeze put out both the candles.

"Kisses allowed," called out Klempa.

A branch of lilac was just outside the window, and spread its delicious perfume through the room, decidedly more pleasant than the fumes of tobacco smoke which had filled it a minute before.

Madame Krisbay, startled by the sudden darkness, gave vent to a little scream, and Klempa seized the opportunity to exclaim:

"I assure you it was not I!"

There was a general confusion in the darkness, but Mrs. Szliminszky, wanting to prove she was above being troubled by such trifles, quietly continued her conversation with Gyuri.

"It is a pretty little legend, Mr. Wibra. I am not easily imposed upon, and, besides, we are Lutherans; but I must say it is a very pretty legend. But the umbrella is really wonderful. Sick people are cured if they stand under it; a dead man rose to life again when it touched him. It is of no use your shaking your head, for it is true. I know the man himself, he is still alive. Altogether the things that umbrella has done are wonderful, especially the fact that it has brought luck and riches to the priest of Glogova."

A dark suspicion took possession of Gyuri, and when the candles were relighted, it was to be seen he was as pale as death.

"Is the priest rich?" he asked.

"Very rich," answered Mrs. Szliminszky.

He drew nearer to her, and suddenly seized hold of her hand, pressing it convulsively. The good lady could not make out why. (If he had done so a minute sooner, she could have understood it, but the candles were alight now!)

"He found something in the umbrella, did he not?" he asked, panting.

Mrs. Szliminszky shrugged her white shoulders, half visible through the lace insertion of her dress.

"Why, what could he find in an umbrella? It is not a box, nor an iron case. But for the last fourteen years people have come from great distances to be married under the umbrella, and they pay generously for it. And then when a rich person is dying anywhere beyond the Bjela Voda, from the Szitnya right as far as Krivan, they send for the priest of Glogova to hear their confession, and after their death, to bury them under the umbrella."

Veronica, to whom the mayor's wife had been showing the embroidered table-cloth, calling her attention to the fineness of the linen, now caught a few words of the conversation.

"Are you speaking of our umbrella?" she asked amiably, leaning toward them.

Gyuri and Mrs. Szliminszky started.

"Yes, my dear," answered the latter, slightly confused.

Gyuri smiled mischievously.

"I see," said Veronica, "you don't believe the story."

"No, I do not."

"Really?" asked the girl reproachfully; "and why?"

"Because I never believe nonsense, and because ..."

He had nearly said too much, but he kept back the words that rose to his lips when he saw how wounded the girl appeared at his incredulity. She smiled, turned her head away, and gazed silently at her plate. Gyuri was silent too, though he felt inclined to cry out:

"I am rich at last, for in the handle of that umbrella there are unknown treasures."

It is remarkable that if good luck befalls a man, his first wish (for he still has wishes, even if they are all fulfilled) is to communicate it to others; he would like trumpets sounded, heralds to be sent round to announce it to the whole world. But then comes doubt, the everlasting "perhaps." And so it was with Gyuri.

"What is the umbrella like, Miss Veronica?" he asked.

Veronica closed her lips firmly, as though she considered it unnecessary to answer him, then thought better of it, and said:

"It is not much to look at; it is of faded red stuff, looks a thousand years old, and is patched all over."

"With a border of small green flowers?"

"Have you seen it?"

"No, I only asked."

"Yes, there is a border of green flowers on it."

"Could I see it?"

"Certainly. Do you wish to?"

"That is what I am going to Glogova for."

"Why, if you don't believe in it?"

"Just for that very reason. If I believed in it I should not go."

"You are a heathen."

She drew her chair away from him, at which he at once became serious.

"Have I hurt you?" he asked contritely.

"No, but you frighten me," and her lovely oval face expressed disappointment.

"I will believe anything you like, only don't be afraid of me."

Veronica smiled slightly.

"It would be a shame not to believe it," struck in Mrs. Szliminszky, "for it is a fact--there is plenty to prove it. If you don't believe that, you don't believe anything. Either the miracles in the Bible are true, and if so, this is true too, or ..."

But she could not finish her sentence, for at that moment Madame Krisbay rose from the table, saying she was tired, and would like to retire to her room, and Mrs. Mravucsan led her and Veronica to two small rooms opening on to the courtyard. In the doorway Gyuri bowed to Veronica, who returned it with a slight nod.

"Shall we start early in the morning?" he asked.

She bowed with mock humility.

"As you like, Mr. Thomas," she said.

Gyuri understood the reference, and answered in the same strain:

"It depends upon how long the saints sleep."

Veronica turned her head, and shook her fist playfully at him.

"I will pay you out!" she said.

Gyuri could hardly take his eyes off her, she looked so pretty as she spoke. Let the saints look like that if they could!

Soon after the Szliminszky pair started for home, accompanied by a man carrying a lantern. Mrs. Szliminszky had made Wladin put on a light spring coat, hung a long cloak over his shoulders, tied a big woollen scarf round his neck, and having ordered him only to breathe through his nose, once they were out, she turned to Gyuri again.

"Yes, it is a beautiful legend, it made a great impression on me."

"Poor legends!" returned Gyuri. "If we were to pick some of them to pieces, and take the romance out of them, their saintly odor, their mystery, what strange and simple truths would be left!"

"Well, they must not be picked to pieces, that is all. Wladin, turn up the collar of your coat."

The lawyer thought for a minute.

"Perhaps you are right," he said.

After a short time Gyuri also asked to be shown to his room.

"The magnet has gone!" muttered the lawyer's clerk.

Hardly had the door closed when Kukucska, the butcher, exclaimed:

"Now we are free!"

He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, thus showing the head of an ox tatooed on his left arm, then winked knowingly at Mravucsan. The mayor seemed to understand the look, for he went to a cupboard and pulled out one of the drawers, from which he took a pack of cards. The knave of spades was missing, but that did not make any difference to the intelligent members of Babaszek society, for they had once before played "Preference" with those cards, and the last player had simply received one card less when they were dealt out, though he was supposed to have the knave of spades, and it was called the "spirit card." If they were playing spades, the last player in imagination threw the knave on it, saying: "I play the spirit card!" So now, in spite of this small difficulty, they decided to play, and the game lasted till daylight. The Senators, the butcher, and the clergyman played, the lawyer's clerk dealt, and Klempa looked on, having no money to lose, and went from one player to the other, looking over their shoulders, and giving them advice what to play. But one after the other sent him away, declaring he brought them bad luck, which rather depressed him. So the poor schoolmaster wandered from one to the other, till at last he took a seat between the clergyman and the butcher, dropped his weary head on the table, and went to sleep, his long beard doubled up, and serving as a pillow. But he was to have a sad awakening, for that mischievous Pal Kukucska, seeing the beard on the table, conceived the idea of sealing it there; and fetching a candle and sealing-wax, they dropped some on the beard in three places, and Mravucsan pressed his own signet ring on it. Then they went on playing, until he should awake.

Other incidents, and not very pleasant ones either, were taking place in the house. Madame Krisbay, to whom the mayor's wife had given her own bedroom, would not go to bed with the enormous eider-down quilt over her, for she was afraid of being suffocated during the night. She asked for a "paplan" (a kind of wadded bed cover), but Mrs. Mravucsan did not possess such a thing, so she brought in her husband's enormous fur-lined cloak and threw it over madame, which so frightened the poor nervous woman that she was attacked by migraine, and the mayor's wife had to spend the night by her bed, putting horse-radish on her temples.

An unpleasant thing happened to Veronica too. As soon as she was alone in the Mravucsans' best bedroom, she locked the door, hung a cloak on the door-handle so that no one could look through the key-hole, drew the curtains across the tiny windows which opened on to the courtyard, and then began to undress. She had taken off the bodice of her dress and unfastened her skirt, when all at once she became aware of two bright eyes watching her intently from under the bed. It was a kitten, and it was gazing at her as intently and admiringly as though it had been a prince changed by some old witch into the form of a cat. Veronica, alarmed, caught up her skirt and bodice, and put them on again.

"Go along, you tiresome kitten," she said; "don't look at me when I'm undressing."

She was such an innocent child, she was ashamed to undress before the kitten. She dressed again, and tried to drive it out of the room, but it hid itself under the bed, then jumped on a cupboard, and it was quite impossible to get rid of it. Mrs. Mravucsan, hearing the noise from the next room, called out:

"What is the matter, my dear?"

"I can't drive the cat out."

"Never mind, she won't hurt you."

"But she always watches me," answered Veronica.

She put her candle out, and began to undress in the dark, but that tiresome cat walked into the middle of the room again, and her eyes shone more than ever.

"Wait a bit, you curious little thing," said Veronica. "I'll get the best of you yet."

She made a barricade of chairs, then got inside it, as though she were in a fortress, and began to undo her boots. Do you think that barricade made any impression on the kitten? Not a bit of it. There she was again, on the top of the chairs, from there one jump took her on to the washing-stand, and another on to Veronica's bed. There she was seized upon and a shawl bound round her head.

"Now, kitty, stare at me if you can!"

And after that she managed to undress in peace.