“Do you care to see the sights of the village, madame?” asked Vavel of the mother, after they had partaken of the lunch prepared by the pastor’s housekeeper. The young lady, who was exhausted by the journey, had gone to her room. “There is a very old church here which is interesting.”
“Are there any fine pictures in it?” inquired madame.
“There is one,—a very touching scene,—’The Samaritan.’ ”
“Ancient or modern?” queried the lady.
“The subject is old—it dates back to the first years of Christianity, madame. The execution is modern.”
“Is it the work of a celebrated artist?”
“No; it is the work of our clerical host.”
The lady shook her head; she was uncertain whether Count Vavel was making sport of her or of the pastor.
But she understood him when she entered the church. The house consecrated to the service of God had become a hospital, and was crowded with wounded French soldiers. The women of the village, as volunteer nurses, were taking care of them, and performed the task as faithfully as if the invalids were their own sons and brothers. The pastor himself supplied the necessary medicines from his own cupboard; for no army surgeon came here at a time when twenty thousand wounded Frenchmen lay at Aspern, and twenty-two thousand at Wagram.
“Is it not an affecting tableau, madame?” said Count Vavel. “It would be a suitable altar-piece for Notre Dame—and the name of its creator deserves perpetuation!”
CHAPTER III
Monsieur le Capitaine Descourcelles rode an excellent horse, was a capital rider, and was plainly very much in love. These three circumstances combined brought back the gallant soldier from Raab by five o’clock in the afternoon.
The captain of the cuirassiers was not a little surprised to find the general’s wife playing cards with the hostile leader.
“General Guillaume agrees to everything,” he announced immediately, on entering the room. “He will release the ladies he has been holding as prisoners.”
Vavel hastened to shake hands with the bearer of these glad tidings, who was, however, more eager to kiss the hand of Vavel’s partner, and to inquire:
“I hope I find the ladies perfectly comfortable?”
“Very comfortable indeed,” replied madame. “Messieurs les Cannibales are very polite, and leur Catzique plays an excellent hand at piquet.”
“And where is mademoiselle? I trust she is not suffering from the fatigue of the journey?”
“Oh, no; she is very well. She is making her toilet, and will soon join us. I hope we shall leave here very soon.”
Madame now rose, and left the two soldiers alone in the room.
“Here,” observed the French captain, handing Vavel a paper, “is the sauf conduit.”
The pass contained the information that “Vavel de Versay, expatriated French nobleman and magnate of Hungary, together with the Countess Themire Dealba (alias Baroness Katharina Landsknechtsschild) and Sophie Botta (pretended Princess Marie Charlotte Capet), with attendants, were to be allowed to travel unmolested by any French troops they might chance to meet.”
Ludwig Vavel looked at this document a long time.
“Do you doubt the assurance of a French officer, monsieur?” asked the captain.
“No; I was just unable to understand why a word had been used here. I dare say it is a mistake. But no matter. I am greatly obliged to you.”
“Pray don’t speak of it,” responded the Frenchman, cordially shaking the hand Vavel extended toward him. “I must not forget to tell you that a four weeks’ armistice was agreed upon to-day.”
The ladies now entered the room, prepared to continue their journey. The face of the younger one wore a more cheerful expression than on her arrival at the parsonage. Madame thanked Vavel for his courtesy, then, with her daughter, entered the carriage and drove away.
Madame Guillaume was forgetfuclass="underline" she neglected to take leave of her host the pastor, and of her wounded countrymen in the church.
Vavel communicated the news of the armistice to his adjutant, and commanded him to return at once with the Volons to Fertöszeg, there to quarter themselves in the Nameless Castle, and await further orders. Then he mounted his horse, and, accompanied by Master Matyas, galloped out of the village.
Twilight had deepened into night when the two men arrived at Raab. The clocks were striking eight, and the French trumpets were sounding the retreat at every gate. Vavel, therefore, would not be allowed to enter the city until the next morning; but Master Matyas, who did not stop to inquire which was the proper way when he wanted to go anywhere, knew of a little garden that belonged to a certain tanner, and very soon found an entrance along a rather circuitous route among the tan-vats.
Vavel had already seen battered walls, and dwellings ruined by bombs and flames, yet the thought that he should find his loved ones amid these smoke-blackened ruins oppressed his heart.
The two men attracted no attention. In the last days there had been many strangers in the city, deputations from the militia camps, to assist in establishing the line of demarcation. Master Matyas, without difficulty, led the way among the ruins to the neat little abode where the worthy vice-palatine had established his protégés. When they came within sight of the house Matyas observed:
“The two Frenchmen with their bearskin caps are not on guard to-day. The vice-palatine’s servant seems to be doing sentry-duty.”
Vavel applied his spurs and cantered briskly toward the house, but moderated his speed when he came nearer. He remembered how easily Marie was frightened by the clatter of horse-hoofs.
At the corner of the street he alighted, and cautioning Matyas to exercise slowly the fatigued horses, proceeded on foot to the house.
The servant on guard at the door saluted in military fashion with drawn sword. Ludwig hurried into the house. In the hall he encountered the little Laczko, who, at sight of the visitor, dropped the boot and brush he held in his hands, and disappeared through a door at the end of the hall. Vavel followed him, and found himself in the kitchen, where the widow of Satan Laczi also dropped to the floor the cooking-utensil she had in her hand.
The count did not stop to question her, but went on into the adjoining room, whence proceeded the sound of voices, and here he found three acquaintances—the vice-palatine, Dr. Tromfszky, and the surveyor, Herr Doboka. The three started in alarm when they beheld Vavel. The doctor even made as if he would rush from the room—as when in the Nameless Castle the furious invalid had seized his groom by the throat.
The expressions on the three startled countenances brought a sudden fear to Ludwig’s heart.
“Is any one ill here?” he asked.
The vice-palatine and the doctor looked at each other, but did not speak; the surveyor began to stammer:
“I say—I say that—”
“Is Marie ill?” interrupted Vavel, excitedly.
Herr Bernat silently nodded assent, and pointed toward the door leading into the next room.
Vavel did not stop to inquire further, but strode into the adjoining chamber.
What a familiar little room it was, another fairy-like retreat like that of the Nameless Castle! Here were Marie’s toys, her furniture; the four cats were purring in the window-seat, and the two pugs lay dozing on the sofa.
A canopy-bed stood in the alcove, and among the pillows lay Marie. Katharina was sitting by the bedside.