A Hungarian Nabob. Mor Jokai
of the bridges, some like hermitages, others like lighthouses, and their own peculiar trumpets to proclaim loudly to approaching guests over which of the bridges they ought to go to reach the castle.
Beyond the bridges extended the winding ways of the English garden, which in those days had quite thrown into the background the earlier taste for stony, wall-like, rectilinear alleys. A man might now wander helplessly about for hours among densely foliaged trees without being able to find his destination. He would see the beds beside him everywhere thickly planted with flowers in full bloom, and at every turn he would come upon arcades of jasmine with idyllic benches underneath, or marble statues of ancient divinities overgrown with creeping gobæas, or pyramids of modish flowers piled one on the top of the other. In one place he would behold masterly reproduced ruins, with agaric and cactus monsters planted amongst them. In another place he would observe an Egyptian tomb, with real mummies inside, and outside eternally burning lamps, which were replenished with oil early every morning, or a Roman altar with vessels of carved stone and Corinthian vases. Here and there, in more open places, fountains and waterfalls plashed and gurgled in marble basins, throwing jets of water into the air, and enabling merry little goldfish to disport themselves, whence the stream flowed among Oriental reeds into artfully hidden lakes, where, on the tranquil watery mirror, swam beautiful white swans, which did not sing as sweetly as the poets would have us believe, but made up for it by eating no end of Indian corn, which was then very much dearer than pure wheat.
Supposing a man to have safely run the gauntlet of all these obstructions and admired all these marvels, he would, at last, somehow or other, stumble upon the terrace leading to this Tusculum, every stage of which was planted thickly with orange trees, some in bloom, while others were weighed down by loads of fruit. Among these orange trees to-day we perceive that young gentleman we have already been fortunate enough to meet. Nevertheless, as a whole twelve months has elapsed since then, and the fashion has changed completely, we must look at him pretty hard before we shall recognize him.
The calicot season is at an end. The young dandy now wears a long overcoat reaching to the knee, buttoned by broad pendant gew-gaws, with stiff, inexpressibly high-reaching boots. There is no longer the trace of a moustache; it has been supplanted by whiskers, of a provocative description, extending from the ears to the nose, and quite changing the character of the face. The hair is parted, smoothed in the middle, and pressed down from the top by a frightful sort of thing, which they called chapeau à la Bolivar, a hat with so broad a rim that it could serve just as well as an umbrella.
This was Abellino Kárpáthy.
The banker's staircases and antechambers are swarming with hosts of lazy loafers strutting about in the silvered liveries of lackeys, who hand the arriving guests on from one to the other, and deprive them on entering of their overcoats, sticks, hats, and gloves, which they have to redeem on their return in exchange for liberal pour-boires. These worthy bread-wasters know Abellino of old, for Hungarian magnates are well aware that it is especially necessary in foreign lands to keep up the national dignity in the eyes of domestics, and here is only one way of doing this, i.e. by scattering your money right and left, parting with your guineas, in fact, every time you have a glass of water or drop your pocket-handkerchief. You know, of course, that a really elegant cavalier never carries any sort of money about with him short of guineas, and these, too, must be fresh from the mint, and well sprinkled with eau de Cologne or some other perfume, so as to be free from the soil of vulgar hands.
In an instant Abellino's cloak, cap, and cane were wrested from him, the servants rang to each other, and ran from apartment to apartment, and the cavalier had scarce reached the last door when the first courier came running back with the announcement that Monsieur Griffard was ready to receive him, and with that he threw open the wings of the lofty mahogany folding-door which led into Monsieur Griffard's confidential chamber.
There sat Monsieur Griffard surrounded by a heap of newspapers. In front of the banker, on a little china porcelain table, stood a silver tea-service, and from time to time he sipped from a half-filled saucer some fluid or other, possibly a raw egg beaten up in tea and sweetened by a peculiar sort of crystallized sugar, made from milk which was said to be a very good remedy against chest complaints, but was extraordinarily dear, for which reason many a bigwig thought it de bon ton to suffer from chest complaints, so as to have an excuse for using the sugar. The banker himself was a very respectable-looking old gentleman of about seventy, with a face gracious to amiability, and at first sight certainly most taking. Not only the dress, but the whole manner of the man, vividly suggested Talleyrand, one of whose greatest admirers he actually was. His hair was of a marvellously beautiful white, but his face quite red and clean-shaved, and therefore all the fresher and more animated; his teeth were white and even, his hands extraordinarily smooth and delicate, as is generally the case with men who have had much to do with the kneading of dough.
No sooner did the man of money perceive Abellino at the open door than he put down the paper which he was reading without the aid of an eyeglass, and, advancing to meet him to the very threshold, greeted him with the most engaging affability.
"Monseigneur," exclaimed the young Merveilleux (such was the title of the dandies of those days), "I am your servant to the very heel of my shoe."
"Monseigneur," replied Monsieur Griffard, with similar pleasantry, "I am your servant to the very depths of my cellar."
"Ha, ha, ha! Well said, well said! You answered me there," laughed the young dandy. "In an hour's time that bon-mot will be repeated in every salon of the town. Well, what's the news in Paris, my dear money monarch? I don't want bad news—tell me only the good!"
"The best news," said the banker, "is that we see you in Paris again. And still better news than that is seeing you here."
"Ah, Monsieur Griffard, you are always so courtly!" cried the young man, flinging himself into an armchair. "Well, Monsieur Griffard," he continued, regarding himself at the same time in a little pocket-mirror to see whether his smooth hair had been rumpled, "if you have only got good news to tell me, I, on the other hand, have brought you nothing but bad."
"Par exemple?"
"Par exemple. You know I went to Hungary to look after a certain inheritance of mine, a certain patrimony which would bring me in a clear million and a half."
"I know," said the banker, with a cold smile, and one of his hands began playing with a pen.
"Then you also know, perhaps, that in the Asiatic kingdom where my inheritance lies, nothing is on such a bad footing as the land, except it be the king's highways. But no, the law is much the worse. The highways, if the weather be dry, are tolerable, but the law is always the same whether there be rain or sunshine."
Here the young Merveilleux stood up as if to allow the banker an opportunity to congratulate him on this jeu d'ésprit, but the other only smiled calmly.
"You must know, moreover," continued Abellino, "that there is a vile expression in the Hungarian language, 'Intra dominium et extra dominium,' which may be expressed in French by 'In possession and out of possession.' Now, whatever right anybody may have to any property, if he be out of possession he is in a hobble; while he who happens to be in possession, let him be the biggest usurper in the world, may laugh at the other fellow, and spin the case out indefinitely. Now, here am I, for instance. Just fancy, the inheritance, the rich property, was almost in my hands; I hasten to the spot in order to enter into my rights, and I find that some one has been before me, and sits comfortably in possession."
"I understand," said the banker, with a cunning smile, "some evil-disposed usurper is in actual possession, Monseigneur Kárpáthy, of the property that was so nearly yours, and will not recognize your rights, but stupidly appeals to that big book, among whose many paragraphs you will also find these words written, 'There is no inheriting the living.'"
The young dandy stared at the banker with all his eyes.
"How much do you know?" he cried.
"I know this much—the evil usurper who makes so free with your inheritance is none other than your uncle himself, who is so lacking in discretion as to sufficiently come to himself