It was very good chocolate. It should have been. He had given them a canister of it a while ago, and some, with a vanilla-bean in it to keep it fresh. As, each time he visited, there was always a cup given to him, either the canister—like the pitcher of Philemon and Baucis—was inexhaustible, or the royal couple never drank any at all. Well, well. It gave them pleasure to give, and this was in itself a gift.
“And this,” said the King, after a moment, “is the ring of Duke Pasquale.” And he produced an immensely worn little box not entirely covered anymore with eroding leather and powdering velvet. And, with a dexterous push, sprang up the lid. It made a faint sound.
Eszterhazy with great presence of mind did not spill his hot chocolate into his lap.
Evidently the tarnished band was silver, as—evidently—the untarnished and untarnishable band was gold. They were intertwined and must have been the very devil to keep clean, whenever the task was still being attempted. Though somewhat misshapen—perhaps something heavy had rested on it, long ago? while it was being perhaps hidden, long ago?—the width hinted that it might indeed have been a thumb-ring. Long ago. And set into it was a diamond of antique cut, more antique certainly even than the ring-work.
“There were once many,” said the old man.
“Oh yes,” said the old woman. “The wonder of it, as it must have been. The Pasqualine Diamonds, as they were called. Who knows where the others are. We know where this one is. He besought us to sell. So, so. Conceive of it. Sell? We did not even show.”
Eszterhazy brought himself back to his present physical situation, drank off some of the chocolate. Asked, “And do you wear the ring? Ever? Never? Often?”
The old woman shook her mad old head. “Only on appropriate occasion.” She did not say what an appropriate occasion would be; he did not ask. He observed that the ring was on a chain, one of very common metal. His finger touched it. He raised his eyes. “It is the custom to wear it on a chain,” she said. “When one wears it, it should be worn on a chain, like a pendant. So, so, so. My late and sainted father-in-law wore it on a silver chain, and his late and sainted father wore it on a golden one. Thus it should be so. Or,” the pause could not be called a hesitation, “almost always so. So, so, so. One does not wear it on a finger, not even on the thumb; certainly not on the finger; on the thumb, least of all. It would be a bad thing to do so. So, so, so. Very bad, very bad. It is ours to be keeping and ours to be guarding. As you see. So, so. So, so, so.” She coughed.
Her husband the King said, “I shall take it now, my angel.” Take it he did; it was done so deftly and swiftly that Eszterhazy was not sure what was done with it. He had some idea. He was not sure.
Need he be? No.
It was madness to think of these two mad old people living in poverty year after year, decade after decade, when a fortune lay ready to be redeemed. It was made; it was also noble. Turn the ring into money, turn the money into silk dresses, linen shirts, unbroken shoes, proper and properly furnished apartments; turn it into beef and pork and poultry and salad fresh daily, into good wine and wax candles or modern oil lamps—turn it as one would: how long would the money last? Did the ‘King of the Single Sicily’ think just then in such terms? Perhaps. He said, as he accompanied his former pupil to the worm-eaten door, this is what he said: “Today’s fine food is tomorrow’s ordure. And today’s fine wine is tomorrow’s urine. Today’s fine clothes are tomorrow’s rags. And today’s fine carriages are tomorrow’s rubble. And after one has spent one’s long and painful years in this world, one wishes to have left behind at least one’s honor unstained. Which is something better than ordure, urine, rags, and rubble. Something more than urine, ordure, rubble, and rags. Be such things far from thee, my son. Farewell now. Go with the Good God and Blessed Company of the Saints.”
One must hope. Eszterhazy went.
Thus: the Pasqualine Ring.
There had been a meeting of the University’s Grand Ancillary Council, to discuss (once again) the private-docent question; and, Eszterhazy being a junior member, he had attended. The conclusion to which the Grand Ancillary Council had come was (once again) that it would at that specific meeting come to no conclusion. And filed out, preceded by dignitaries with muffs and ruffs and chains of office and maces and staves and drummers and trumpeters. About the necessity of all this to the educational process. Dr. Eszterhazy had certainly some certain opinions; and, being still but a junior member, kept them to himself.
The Emperor, who was ex-officio Protector, Professor-in-Chief, Grand Warden, and a muckle many other offices, to and of the University, did not attend . . . he never attended . . . but, as always, had sent them a good late luncheon instead of a deputy: this was more appreciated. Eszterhazy found himself in discussion over slices of a prime buttock of beef with a Visiting Professor of one of the newer disciplines, “Ethnology” it was called. Older faculty members regarded an occasional lecture on Ethnology as a permissible amusement; further than that, they would not go.
“Where did your last expedition take you?” asked Eszterhazy. Professor De Blazio said, West Africa, and asked Eszterhazy to pass the very good rye bread with caraway seeds. This passed, it occurred to the passer to ask if there were leopards in West Africa. “Although,” he added, “that is hardly Ethnology—”
De Blazio said something very much like, “Chomp, chomp, gmurgle.” Then he swallowed. Then he said, “Ah, but it is, because in West Africa we have what is called the Leopard Society. I believe it to be totemic in origin. Totem, do you know the word totem? A North-American Red-Indian word meaning an animal which a family or clan in primitive society believes to have been its actual ancestor. Some say this creature changes into human form and back again.—Not bad, this beef.—Is it Muller who sees in this the source of heraldic animals? Can one quite imagine the British Queen turning into a lion at either the full or the dark of the moon? Ho Ho Ho.” Each Ho of Professor De Blazio was delivered in a flat tone. Perhaps he felt one could not quite imagine it. “Mustard, please.”
Eating the roast beef, for a few moments, speaking English between mouthfuls, Eszterhazy could think himself in England. And then the stewards came carrying round the slabs of black bread and the pots of goose grease. And he knew that he was exactly where he now thought he was: in Bella, the sometimes beautiful and sometimes squalid capital of the Triune Monarchy of Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania.
Fourth largest empire in Europe.
The Turks were fifth.
The gaslights in the great salon in the town-house of old Colonel Count Cruttz were famous gaslights. Cast in red bronze, they were in the form of mermaids, each the length of a tall man’s arm, and each clasping in cupped hands the actual jets for the gas flames as they, the mermaids, faced each other in a great circle: with mouths slightly open, they might be imagined as singing each to each. This was perhaps a high point of a sort in illumination, here in Bella. Well-dried reeds were used to soak up mutton-tallow or other kitchen grease, and these formed the old-fashioned rush lights which the old-fashioned (or the poor) still used at night. They smelled vile. But they were cheap. Their flickering, spurting light was not good to read by. But they were cheap. They were very, very cheap. Tallow-candles. Whale-oil. Colza-oil, allegedly stolen here and there by Tartars to dress their coleslaw. Coal-oil, also called paraffin or kerosene. Gas-lamps. From each pair of red-gold hands the red-gold flames leaped high, soughing and soaring. Often attempts had been made to employ the new experimental gas mantles. But Colonel Count Cruttz always shot them away with his revolver-pistol.