Maurus Jokai - The Nameless Castle

“Themire is dead!” solemnly returned the baroness. “Let us not speak of her. Here, take these treasures into your own keeping; they are no longer safe with me. Open the casket and convince yourself that everything is there.”

“I cannot open it; I have not got the key.”

“Have you lost your ring?”

“No. I have trusted the most notorious thief in the country with it. I have sent him with the ring to Marie. I bade him show it to her, and tell her that she was to follow him wherever he might lead her. Satan Laczi has the ring.”

Katharina covered her eyes with her hand, and stood with drooping head before her lover.

“I have deserved this,” she murmured brokenly.

Vavel passed his hand over his face, and sighed. “It was all a dream! It was madness to expect impossibilities,” he murmured. “I am familiar enough with the stars to have known that there are constellations which never descend to the horizon. The ‘Crown’ is one of them! Of what use are these rags now?” he exclaimed, with sudden vehemence, pointing to the casket, which Katharina still held on her arm. “Whom can they serve? They have brought only sorrow to him who has guarded them, and to her to whom they belong. I cannot open the casket; but I need not do that to destroy the contents. Pray throw it into the fire yonder.”

Katharina obeyed without an instant’s hesitation. After a while the metal casket began to glow in the midst of the flames. It became red, then a pale rose-color, while a thin cord of vapor trailed through the keyhole.

“The little garments are burning,” whispered Vavel, “and the documents, and the portraits, and the heap of worthless money. From to-day,” he added, in a louder tone, “I begin to learn what it is to be a poor man.”

“I have already learned what poverty means,” said Katharina. “Look at these clothes! I have no others, and even these are borrowed.”

“I love you in them,” involuntarily exclaimed Vavel, extending his hand toward her.

“What? You offer me your hand? Do you believe that I am Katharina—only Katharina?”

“That I may wholly and entirely believe that you are Katharina, and not Themire, answer one question. A creature who calls himself the Marquis de Fervlans and Leon Barthelmy is lying in ambush somewhere in this neighborhood, waiting for you to settle an old account with him. If you are the same to me that you once were, and if I am the same to you that I was once, tell me where I shall find De Fervlans, for it will be my duty then to settle with him.”

Katharina’s face suddenly blazed with eager excitement. She flung back her head with a proud gesture.

“I will lead you to the place. Together we will seek him!” she cried, with animation in every feature.

“Then give me your hand. You are Katharina— my Katharina!”

He bent toward her, and the two hands met in a close clasp.

Count Fertöszeg ordered the drums to beat a reveille; then he selected from his troop one hundred trusty men, and galloped with them in the direction of Neusiedl Lake. Katharina on her mule, without the tinkling bell, trotted soberly by his side.

There was a notorious troop with Napoleon’s army, the sixth Italian regiment, which was called the “Legion of Demons.”

The troop was made up of worthless members of society—idlers, highwaymen, outcasts, and desperate characters, who had lost all sense of respectability and morality. The majority of them had sought the asylum of the battle-field to escape imprisonment or worse.

When their commander led his “demons” to an attack, he was wont to urge them thus:

“ Avanti, avanti, Signori briganti! Cavalieri ladroni, avanti! ” (“Forward, forward, Messieurs Highwaymen! My chivalrous footpads, forward!”)

A division of this legion of demons had made its way with the vice-king of Italy thus far through the belt-line, and had been intrusted with the mission mentioned in De Fervlans’s letter to General Guillaume. The marquis commanded this body of the demons, he having, as Colonel Barthelmy in the Austrian army, become thoroughly familiar with that part of Hungary.

Lisette and Satan Laczi’s little son were living alone at the Nameless Castle.

When Marie, who was come in quest of her friend Cambray, rang the bell, the door was opened by the lad.

“Is there a strange gentleman here?” she asked.

“I don’t know. He went to see Lisette, and I did not see him come away,” was the reply.

“Then let me come in,” said the young girl. “I want to speak to Lisette, too.”

“She will beat me if I let you come in,” returned the boy, opening the door after a moment’s hesitation.

The fumes of camphor were perceptible even in the vestibule; and when Marie’s little conductor knocked at the door of the kitchen, a heaping shovelful of hot and smoking coals was thrust toward him, and a scolding voice demanded irritably:

“What do you want again? Why do you keep annoying me, you little torment!”

“Excuse me, Lisette,” humbly apologized the lad, “but our young mistress from the manor is here.”

At this announcement Lisette hastily shut the door again, and opened a small loophole in an upper panel, through which she spoke in a sharp tone:

“Why do you come here? Has the Lord forsaken you over yonder, that you come back to this pest-house? Get out of it as quickly as you can. Go down and hide yourself in the Schmidt’s cottage—perhaps they will not betray you. Anyway, you can’t stop here with us.”

“That is just what I mean to do, Lisette,—stop here with you,” smilingly responded Marie. “Where is my friend Cambray?”

“How should I know where he is? A pretty question to ask me! He isn’t anywhere. He has gone to bed, and you can’t see him.”

“I shall hunt till I find him, Lisette.”

“Well, you will do as you like, of course; but you will not find M. Cambray, for he doesn’t want to see you.”

“Very well,” returned Marie. Then to the lad by her side, “Come with me, Laczko; we will hunt for the gentleman.”

Lisette was beside herself with terror at the danger which threatened Marie; but before she could utter another word, the young girl and her little escort had disappeared down the corridor.

There was a great change everywhere in the castle. The floors were covered with muddy foot-tracks; huge nails had been driven into the varnished walls, and great heaps of dust, straw, and hay lay about on the inlaid floors of the halls and salon. Marie hardly recognized her former immaculate asylum.

She called, with her clear, soft-toned voice, into every room, “Cambray! father! art thou here?” but received no reply.

Then she mounted the staircase to her own apartment. The door was open like all the rest, but a first glance told Marie that the room had not been used until now. Lisette, beyond a doubt, had lodged her respected guest in this only habitable chamber.

Marie entered and looked about her. The metal screen was down!

She hastened toward it. There was a light burning in the alcove, and she could see through the links by placing her eyes close to them. The noble old knight was lying on the bare floor, with his hands forming a pillow for his head. His glassy eyes were fixed and staring, and burning with a startling brightness. His parched lips were half-open, as if he were speaking.

“Cambray! Father!” called Marie; in a tone of distress.

“Who calls? Marie?” gasped the fever-stricken man, making a vain attempt to rise. He fell back with a deep groan, but flung out his hand as if to ward off her approach.

“Let me come in, Cambray. It is I, your little Marie. Please let me come in. There, close to your right hand, is a button in the floor. Press it, and this screen will rise.”