“No, we have not thought of it yet.”
“The floor above us is vacant, and is reasonable in price.”
“If you say so, engage it for us. We will obey you as little Franz and Carl do.”
“Very well. Now tell us all—all—all.”
St. Arnaud and Gavin, both talking at once, plunged in and gave an account of all they had passed through since parting at the gates of Glatz on the moonlight night two months before. St. Arnaud told about Bettina’s unflattering behaviour to them at separating, and Madame Ziska screamed with laughter, saying:
“I am glad my niece knows so well how to take care of herself;” to which Count Kalenga added, smiling:
“She has inherited some of my wife’s spirit, for many times, when I was a presumptuous young officer, and she was the object of my devotion, I came perilously near having my ears boxed. I think, however,” he continued, turning to Madame Ziska with an air of affectionate deference, “that all the women of your family have remarkable propriety of bearing, and exact respect from all.”
Madame Ziska coloured with pleasure at this.
Supper was brought, and the whole party grew merry, even Kalenga. The enthusiasm with which the Empress Queen had filled St. Arnaud and Gavin was deeply gratifying to their hosts, and Gavin’s solemn promise that the sword given him by Maria Theresa was forever at the service of her and her family, was but a just acknowledgment of his obligations to her.
“You should have seen her as I did, at Presburg, in 1741, when she won the hearts of all Hungarians,” said Kalenga, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes sparkling, and his hand involuntarily reaching for the sword, no longer at his side, that he had worn so many years in the service of the Empress Queen. “She was then but twenty-four-years old, and the handsomest woman of her time. On the day of her coronation, when she rode gallantly up the Sacred Mount wearing the tattered robe of St. Stephen over her splendid habit, the iron crown of St. Stephen on her head, and, drawing St. Stephen’s sword, defied the four corners of the earth, she was sovereign of the hearts of all who saw her. But greater still was she when she entered the Hall of the Diet, wearing the Hungarian dress, in deep mourning, and the same crown and sword of St. Stephen. Never can any who lived that hour of glorious patriotism forget it. She was the picture of majesty, fearless and unappalled, when, standing upon her throne, she recounted to us, the assembled nobles of Hungary, all the dangers that menaced her, and her sole defence lay in the loyalty and generosity of her Hungarian people. The King of Prussia, when he attacked her kingdom, openly counted upon her timidity as a young and inexperienced princess. Young and inexperienced she was—but no man ever made so great a mistake as Frederick when he reckoned upon the timidity of Maria Theresa. She had ever the courage of a hundred kings in her woman’s heart. So did she inspire us on that never-to-be-forgotten day, that as one man we rose, and with shouts and cheers and clanging of our swords, as we drew them half way from their scabbards and sent them ringing back again, cried: ‘We will die for our King, Maria Theresa.’ At that, the woman’s heart, which ever dwells in her, made itself felt. She, who had scorned fear when the men around her trembled, and who proposed to die rather than yield to injustice, burst into tears, and wept before us. Oh, then we were wild—we wept, too—but they were tears of love and admiration and devotion to her who was so much a queen and yet so much a woman. And from that day to this has she been the darling of the Hungarian people!”