The Baron's Sons Part 18

"The same who drove the rioters away from the convent?"

"Yes."

"So far as I have learned," said Sister Remigia, "he has not since then a.s.sociated with the members of the Aula and the popular leaders."

"No," rejoined the baroness, "he has held himself aloof from them and refused to be drawn into their scheme. His men would have yielded, but they stand by their commander: if he bade them fight against their own kith and kin, they would obey him. Lately, however, the rebels have gained a new and unhoped-for ally."

"In whom?"

"In a woman, and a very dangerous one, too. She does not shrink from the boldest and most perilous undertakings. She is the young Baradlays' mother."

"But how, pray, could she have made her way through the investing lines?" asked the sister, in astonishment.

"By a daring stroke that seems hardly credible. Fritz told me all about it. This delicate widow of the late Baron Baradlay procured from an old market-woman in Schwechat, the costume and basket of a vegetable-vender, and then proceeded with this woman, on foot, her basket of onions and potatoes on her back, through the lines of the investing army, selling her wares on the way, until she reached the city. She is now here in Vienna, at number 17 Singer Street, in the shop of her attendant market-woman."

"And what is her object in all this?"

"To take her sons home with her. She wishes to persuade them to return to Hungary and enter the government service there."

"Has she spoken with them yet?" asked the nun.

"Not yet, fortunately. She only arrived this afternoon. Goldner has spoken with her, and she is to have an interview with her son Richard, the cavalry officer, to-morrow morning. She is allowed to go to him unmolested, and as surely as she speaks with him, he will yield to her. The general will then be informed of the affair through his secret agents, and before the hussars can carry out their plan, the whole squadron is to be surrounded. Who is the commanding officer in your section now?"

"The cuira.s.sier major, Otto Palvicz."

"Ah, he is the right man for the business. The hussars will be decimated, and Captain Baradlay shot."

To all this Edith was forced to listen, but she suffered no look of hers to betray how keenly it affected her. On hearing her lover's probable fate, she nearly choked over a piece of ham, and had to resort to a dose of vinegar to conquer a sudden faintness.

Alfonsine could not refrain from venting her spite on her cousin.

"Your appet.i.te," said she, "does not seem to suffer greatly at the prospect of losing your lover."

Edith helped herself composedly to another slice of ham. "Better to be executed than buried alive," she rejoined. Holding out her gla.s.s, she begged her cousin to pour her some chartreuse. "I must get used to it if I am to be a nun," she remarked playfully.

Alfonsine handed her the bottle and bade her help herself, and Edith's hand never once trembled as she filled her cognac gla.s.s to the brim with the green liquor; then she poured out a gla.s.sful for Sister Remigia.

"Drink with me, Sister Remigia," she cried, with a roguish smile; "we must take something to keep up our spirits."

The nun made a show of reluctance, but was finally obliged to yield to the seductions of her favourite beverage. Meanwhile the hostess proceeded with her instructions.

"Don't forget the address," said she,--"number 17 Singer Street, the vegetable shop in the bas.e.m.e.nt. The mother will be sure to return for her youngest son, and we must not let her escape us. Give the general full information of these details in the morning, but take care that Captain Baradlay doesn't get wind of the affair. That man must die, and we must leave him no loophole for slipping out of our hands."

An incomprehensible child, that Edith! Even now she asks nonchalantly for a piece of _fromage de Brie_, sips her chartreuse like an epicure, and refills her companion's gla.s.s as often as it is emptied. A well-spread table in this world, her soul's salvation in the next, and meanwhile the quiet life of a cloister, seemed to satisfy her every desire. Soon she was nodding as if overcome with sleepiness, and finally she leaned back on the sofa, and her eyes seemed to be closed; but through her long lashes she was watching intently the three women before her. They thought her asleep.

"Is she always like this?" asked the Baroness Plankenhorst.

"She is incorrigibly lazy," replied Sister Remigia. "No work, no books seem to interest her. Eating and sleeping are her sole delight."

"Well, we must make the best of the matter," returned Antoinette. "I hope she will enjoy her convent life. An allowance will be made for her support as long as she lives; that has been provided for."

"Are you, then, sure that she has lost her lover?"

"Quite. If he once has an interview with his mother, he will be persuaded to desert. Her eldest son she has already drawn into the net: he is now a recruiting officer in the Hungarian service, and is busy raising troops. But if Richard fails to meet his mother, and still refuses to join the insurgents, a ball will be sent through his head at the critical moment--so Fritz a.s.sures me. Two of his own men have vowed to shoot him if he opposes their wishes. So he has but a short shrift in any case. By to-morrow evening he will be either a dead man, a.s.sa.s.sinated by one of his troopers, or, if he attempts to desert, a prisoner in the hands of Major Palvicz; and, in the latter case, he will be shot day after to-morrow. It is all one to me how it turns out. I don't wish him the ignominy of a public execution, although he has given me reason enough to hate him."

When Sister Remigia at length aroused Edith and led her, apparently half asleep, down to the carriage, Antoinette accompanied them with a light, explaining as she went that all the men-servants had been called away to the barricades. Her real purpose was to see Edith safely seated in the coach, and sound asleep by the nun's side. She had only the vaguest suspicions regarding her niece, but it was best to take no chances.

The heavy coach rumbled slowly through the dark streets. Perhaps the driver himself was half asleep. When they were well on their way, Edith opened her eyes and peered cautiously about. Her sole thought was to make her escape, even if a thousand devils stood guard at the carriage door, and the ghosts of all who had fallen in the last few days haunted the unlighted streets of the city. Sister Remigia was already fast asleep; it was her eyes, not Edith's, that refused to hold themselves open after the evening's ample repast. The chartreuse had done its work.

a.s.suring herself of her companion's condition, Edith softly opened the door at her side and sprang lightly to the ground, unperceived by the deaf and sleepy coachman. Swiftly, and with wildly beating heart, she ran back toward the heart of the city, leaving the coach to lumber on its way without her. It was only with difficulty that she could find her way in the dark. The tall tower of St. Stephen's loomed up ahead of her, and thither she turned her steps, hoping to find some one in that neighbourhood to direct her farther. With limbs trembling, and heart anxiously throbbing, now that she was safe from observation, the poor girl hastened on as best she could. Twice as she ran she heard the great tower-clock strike the quarter-hour, and she knew she must have gone astray; for half an hour suffices to go from one end of the inner city to the other. Coming to a street corner, she paused and looked about for the tower, and at last made it out on her right. Then she knew where she was, and concluded that Singer Street must be somewhere in the vicinity. As she stood there in uncertainty, the great clock struck again--midnight this time--and, as it struck, a fiery rocket shot upward from the turret's summit,--a signal seen and understood by some one in the distance.

By the bright but momentary glare of this rocket, Edith's eyes sought in all haste the name of the street in which she stood. With a thrill of joy, she read on the wall over her head the word "Singerstra.s.se."

Now she had the Ariadne clue in her hand, and, before the rocket burst and its light suddenly went out, leaving her in apparently deeper darkness than before, she had learned that the house next to her was number 1, and that consequently all the numbers on that side of the street were odd. By simply counting the doors she could soon find number 17.

Feeling her way with her hands like a blind person, lest she should omit a door in her course, Edith moved slowly from house to house, counting the numbers as she went.

"Thirteen, fifteen," she whispered; "now the next will be seventeen.

Who is there?" she cried suddenly, starting back in alarm as her hands encountered a human form.

"The blessed Virgin and St. Anne!" exclaimed the unknown, equally frightened. It proved to be an old woman who was crouching in the doorway, and over whom Edith had unwittingly stumbled.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" panted the girl, recovering from her fright.

"You see I was so startled at finding any one here."

"And I was startled, too," rejoined the other. "What do you wish here, miss?"

"I am looking for number 17."

"And what is your errand at number 17?"

"I wish to speak with a woman, a vegetable-vender who arrived here this evening with another market-woman."

"This is the house," said the old woman, "and I have the key in my pocket. Follow me."

She opened the narrow bas.e.m.e.nt door and admitted the girl, following her and locking the door behind them. At the end of the corridor a lamp was flickering on the floor in the draught. The old woman raised the lamp and examined her guest by its light. At sight of the convent dress she started back with an exclamation of surprise. In the young girl's form and face, as she stood there under the feeble rays of the lamp, was something that suggested to her the saints and martyrs of old.

Edith was conducted to a low bas.e.m.e.nt room, in whose corners she saw piles of potatoes and beets, with strings of onions hanging on the walls. In the middle of the room stood two straw chairs, on one of which was a tallow candle stuck into a hollow potato, while the other was occupied by a woman dressed in the costume of a Vienna vegetable-vender. She looked up and calmly surveyed the newcomer. Her face was not one to betray surprise at any unexpected occurrence; indeed, its expression indicated an unusual degree of self-mastery.

But the girl practised no such self-control. Hastening forward and sinking on her knees before the stranger, she seized her hand and looked into her face with wide-open eyes.

"Baroness Baradlay," she exclaimed breathlessly, "they are plotting to murder your son!"

The other started slightly, but stifled the cry that rose to her lips.

"Richard?" she stammered, forgetting her caution for an instant.

"Yes, yes," cried the other; "Richard, your Richard! Oh, dear madam, save him, save him!"

The baroness looked into Edith's face with searching scrutiny. "You are Edith?" she asked.

The girl started in surprise. "Have you heard my name already?" she asked.