"Well, there's no help for it now," sighed Gyuri, as he stood on the last rung of the ladder, wondering what he was to do next, and feeling like Marius among the ruins of Carthage, only there were not even ruins to his Carthage; all hopes had returned to the clouds from which they had been taken.
Slowly he walked through the shop to his dog-cart, which was waiting outside, and the old woman waddled after him, like a fat goose. But once out in the street, she suddenly seemed to wake up, and seized hold of the lawyer's coat.
"Wait a bit. I had nearly forgotten it, but my son Móricz, who is a butcher in Ipolyság, was here at the time; he had come to buy oxen, I remember. My son Móricz knows everything, and may I never go to heaven (Rosália evidently had a strong objection to leaving this world) if he can't throw some light on the subject. Go to the fair, my dear boy, to the place where the sheep stand, and speak to the handsomest man you see there, that will be my son Móricz; he's handsome, very handsome, is Móricz. Speak to him, and promise him the fifty florins. I am sure he once told me something about that umbrella. For when my poor dear Jónás died, Móricz went to look for him, and when he found traces of him, he went from village to village making inquiries, till everything was clear. (Here Rosália gazed tearfully heavenward.) Oh, Jónás, Jónás, why did you treat us so? If your senses had left you, why must you follow them? You had enough sons who would have taken care of you!"
She would have gone on like this all day, if Gyuri had not stepped into his dog-cart and driven off to the scene of the fair as she had advised him.
After putting a few questions to the bystanders, he found Móricz Müncz, a short, stout man, his pock-marked face looking like a turkey's egg. He was as ugly as a Faun. His butcher's knife and steel hung from a belt round his waist, and on his arm was tattooed the head of an ox.
He was just bargaining for a cow, and its owner, a tanner, was swearing by heaven and earth that such a cow had never been seen in Bábaszék before.
"It will eat straw," he assured him, "and yet give fourteen pints of milk a day!"
"Rubbish!" answered Móricz. "I'm not a calf, and don't intend to look upon this cow as my mother. I'm a butcher, and want to kill it and weigh it."
"That's true," said the honest tanner; and of his own free will he lowered the price by five florins.
Móricz did not seem to think that enough, and began poking at the ribs of the cow.