A Hungarian Nabob Part 30

"Yes, to-morrow," replied f.a.n.n.y. Their eyes flashed with a strange fire as they looked at each other.

Thereupon Squire John rushed to his carriage, opened the door himself, without waiting for Palko to let down the steps, and, turning round, shouted once more, "To-morrow afternoon!"

"Hush, hus.h.!.+" said f.a.n.n.y, putting her index-finger to her pretty little lips.

"Drive into Pressburg!" cried Squire John with impatient celerity, while Palko clambered up on to the box from whence he phlegmatically looked down upon his master.

"What are you staring at, sirrah? Drive on, I say."

"We have left something behind here," said the old servant.

"What have we left behind, eh?"

"Twenty years of your age, my honoured young sir," replied Palko, without the suspicion of a smile.

Squire John laughed good-naturedly at the comic rejoinder, and a few moments later a cloud of dust far away on the high-road was all that was to be seen of the carriage.

Early next morning a servant arrived at Boltay's country house by the market cart, with the embroidered sofa which Mrs. Meyer sent to f.a.n.n.y.

The servant whispered secretly that a letter had been thrust into the bottom of the sofa; and so it was.

f.a.n.n.y searched for the letter till she found it. It was in her mother's handwriting. The rich gentleman was delighted, it said, so delighted in fact, that he had arranged to give a grand party in f.a.n.n.y's honour at Mr. Kecskerey's rooms; and a beautiful invitation card was enclosed, addressed to--"Mademoiselle f.a.n.n.y de Meyer avec famille."

Quite a family party, you see!

f.a.n.n.y sent back the servant with the message that she accepted the invitation to supper, and sent her best greetings to Mr. Kecskerey.

But who was this Mr. Kecskerey you will ask? Well, he was a worthy gentleman who was wont to play no inconsiderable part in the refined society of the day, and supplied one of the most crying necessities of the age. Every one knew him, everybody, that is, who prided himself upon being somebody, whether he was a great n.o.bleman or a great artist. His rooms, his suppers, his breakfasts were the usual rallying points of the whole world of fas.h.i.+on.

Eminent damsels, whose enthusiasm for art constrained them to come to closer quarters than usual with this or that famous artist; liberal-minded amazons, who extended their tender relations beyond the chains of Hymen; lively dames, who loved to see around them good-humoured, free-and-easy folks, instead of the usual dull and dignified drawing-room loungers; foreign millionaires, who desired to be regaled with an exhibition of beauty and enjoyment; _blase_ souls, who infected others with the contagion of their own disgust; crazy poets, who needed but a nod to immediately rise to their feet and declaim their own verses; two or three newspaper correspondents, who describe in their journals everything that they hear, see, eat, and drink at Mr.

Kecskerey's suppers, and many others of a like kidney, were the sort of guests who frequented these saloons of an evening, generally twice a week.

It must not be supposed for a moment, however, that there was ever the slightest breach of good manners at Mr. Kecskerey's social evenings. Any one supposing the contrary would be making the greatest mistake in the world. The most rigorous propriety was the order of the day, or rather of the evening. First of all, the artists and _artistes_ recited, sang, and played the piano, and then those who chose might dance a few modest quadrilles and waltzes together. Then every one went to supper in the most perfect order, the ladies sitting down and the gentlemen standing while they ate and drank. Sometimes a few gla.s.ses of champagne were drained to toast the ladies who were present, or, perhaps, some of the celebrities of the day. Then, after a little brief but lively conversation, a few more quadrilles and waltzes would be danced, and at eleven o'clock the ladies would rise and retire, and only a few dandies--the younger and the older men as a rule--would remain behind for a gla.s.s or two, or a hand at cards.

From this every one can easily see that at these evening entertainments there was not the slightest thing that could be considered an offence against good manners or good morals. Oh no! Mr. Kecskerey would never have allowed such a thing; he was too proud of his renown for that. He was no minister of love, not he! He only gave people the opportunity of meeting together if they liked, and that is entirely a personal matter, of course.

An especially grand a.s.sembly was to be held at Mr. Kecskerey's on the day fixed for f.a.n.n.y's appearance by Abellino and his friends. They naturally sent out all the invitations, as the money for the entertainment came out of their pockets, and all the elegant world of their acquaintance was to do honour to the occasion.

On the morning of the critical day Mrs. Meyer, dressed in the self-same garments which Master Boltay had got for her, took her seat in a hackney-coach, and drove out of town. All the way along she was concocting the further details of the great affair. Leaving the coach standing on the outskirts of the wood, she would make her way on foot to Boltay's dwelling, and there she would say that she had brought the things from town. f.a.n.n.y would then go out for a walk with her under the pretext of looking at the crops, and on reaching the coach they would step in, shut the door, and off they would set at full tilt without asking leave of anybody.

Maturing thus her amiable designs, she safely reached the meadows near Boltay's dwelling. Providence was so far merciful to her that she did not break an arm or a leg on the way. On reaching her journey's end, however, a very cruel surprise awaited her, for in reply to her inquiries about f.a.n.n.y, the servants informed her that the young lady had driven into Pressburg early that very morning.

She was amazed, and not without reason.

"I suppose the old people took her to town?" said she.

"No; they went away at daybreak. The young lady had departed only a couple of hours ago in a hired carriage."

Alas, alas! What was the girl thinking about? Perhaps she only wanted to steal a march upon her mother, and look after the lucrative business herself unaided? Perhaps some one had explained to her that it was best altogether to dispense with the services of go-betweens in such affairs? Well, it would be a pretty thing indeed if she had wiped her mother out of the reckoning altogether!

Away! Back to the coach! Back to Pressburg in hot haste, if the horses died for it. But where could the girl be? What if she had gone quietly off with Abellino in the meantime; or, still worse, with some one else, and did not turn up at all? Oh, what bitter grief and anguish a mother's heart has to contend with!

Meanwhile, all the guests were a.s.sembled in Mr. Kecskerey's saloons. One after another bevies of charming women alighted at the entrance with delicate coquetry, permitting the eye-gla.s.sed cavaliers to catch glimpses of their tiny beribboned feet as they dismounted from their equipages. In the hall, liveried footmen distributed tickets for shawls and slippers. The master of the house, the honourable Mr. Kecskerey, with dignified condescension, received the arrivals in the doorway.

Everybody knows that Kecskerey's money does not pay for the evening's entertainment, and he himself knows that they know it. And yet, for all that, they bow and sc.r.a.pe to one another as politely as if he were a real host and they were real guests. Mr. Kecskerey's shrill nasal voice resounded above all the din and bustle.

"I am so delighted that you have not rejected my modest invitation. Your excellency has, indeed, honoured my poor house by your presence.

Mesdames, so kind of you not to forget the most sincere of your servants. Sir, it is really too good of you to neglect your important studies on my account! Countess, your siren song is generally acknowledged to be the gem of the evening, etc."

The amiable host laid himself out to make the diversion of his guests as free and unconstrained as possible. Those who did not know and wished to know each other were immediately introduced, though it is possible that they had known each other of old, without his or any one else's intervention. He gave the poets printed sheets, in which they could read their own works. He made the musicians sit down before the piano, and placed behind their backs some one to praise them, and he possessed the art of saying something obliging, something interesting, to every one; he scattered freshly done-up gossip and piquant anecdotes amongst the thronging crowds, he knew how to make tea better than any one else, and his eye was upon everybody, so that n.o.body felt neglected. A model host, indeed!

At last Abellino arrived. It was not in his power to be punctual. An elderly foreign gentleman was leaning on his arm, and he led him straight up to the host, and introduced him.

"Friend Kecskerey--Monsieur Griffard, the banker."

Fresh bowings and sc.r.a.pings and shaking of hands.

"Pardon me, honoured host, for my indecent haste in introducing among the _elite_ of your distinguished guests as if he were a bosom friend, such a cosmopolitan celebrity, who, only this very hour, has unexpectedly arrived here from Paris."

Oh, as for that, Mr. Kecskerey, so far from granting his pardon, expressed himself obliged and gratified a thousand times over at having been afforded the felicity of an introduction to such a distinguished personage. And all this took place with as much solemnity as if Abellino was not in reality the host of the evening, and as if everybody did not know it!

As a matter of fact, the worthy banker had come all the way from Paris (and there was no railway communication between the two places then, remember) on purpose to convince himself with his own eyes, whether the old Nabob, on whose skin he had staked such a pile of money, was really going to die or not?

Mr. Kecskerey lavished his most delicate attentions upon the eminent stranger, conducting him into the society of the most charming women, his princ.i.p.al object therein being to relieve Abellino of this incubus.

As for Abellino, he withdrew, meanwhile, with a few young bucks of his own age, into the card-room, where he was likely to pa.s.s the time most agreeably until the arrival of f.a.n.n.y.

A good many people were already seated round the green table, amongst them being Abellino's rival, Fennimore, at the sight of whom Abellino burst into a noisy impertinent laugh.

"Ah, Fennimore!" cried he. "You certainly ought to have mighty good luck at cards to-day, for, so far as love is concerned, everything is going against you. Diable! you will have to win a jolly lot, for you've lost a thousand ducats to me already. You laid a wager that I would not win the girl, eh? You shall see presently. And perhaps you all fancy that the expenses of this evening will come out of my pocket? You are very much mistaken, I can tell you. It is Fennimore who will have to pay. Here, give me an inch of room at the table, and I'll try my luck."

Fennimore said not a word; he was keeping the bank just then. A few moments later the bank was broken. Abellino won heaps and heaps.

"Ah, ah, my friend! the proverb 'Luckless at cards, lucky at love,' does not seem to apply to you. Poor Fennimore, G.o.d help thee!"

Fennimore arose; he would play no more. He was livid with rage. He had lost his wager (he had bet Abellino a thousand ducats that he would never seduce f.a.n.n.y)--he had lost his money, and he had to bear, besides, the stinging sarcasms of his triumphant rival. His heart was full of gall and venom. More than once he was on the point of making a vigorous demonstration with a heavy candlestick; but he thought better of it, and at last got up and quitted the room.

Abellino went on playing and winning, and in his teasing, tormenting way stung those who lost to the very quick. He was stupefied by the day's good luck. He could not restrain his laughter.

"Well," cried he at last, sweeping into his pocket the banknotes piled up before him, "Fennimore's twofold ill luck has given the lie to the proverb. I am going to contradict it with my twofold good fortune."

In the very next room he came face to face with a lackey who had long been looking for him. Mrs. Meyer was waiting for him, the man said; she was in the ante-chamber, but could not come in, for she had only just returned from a journey, and had not had time to change her dress.

Ugh! that was not a good sign. Abellino immediately hastened out to have a word with her. She said that she had not come across the girl, but she was sure to come, as otherwise she would not have accepted the invitation.

Abellino received the pleasant tidings very angrily, and left Mrs. Meyer alone in the antechamber. Diable! if they should make a fool of him, after all!

There, however, he could not afford to display his anger; no, there he had to carry it off with a joyous, triumphant, provocative face to the very end. He would rather lose all his money than be left in the lurch by the girl now.