"Wenceslaus Kvatopil, Captain."
But there was a postscript also.
"P.S.—Show this letter to nobody, and don't let it out of your hand. Destroy it when you have read it through, for, if it were discovered, it would bring me into the greatest trouble, as it is absolutely forbidden to write letters from the camp. That is why I have addressed it to you instead of to my wife, for I can count upon your discretion. In her triumph she would show the letter everywhere. But you burn it.—W. K."
Now, this letter made it my positive duty to visit Bessy, for I could only tell her about it by word of mouth. I might indeed have destroyed Kvatopil's letter, then written its entire purport to his wife in a letter of my own, but in that case she would certainly have carried my letter from pillar to post, and the mischief would have been the same.
If I went to her in broad daylight, every one would see me. I could not go incognito, for I was as well known as a bit of bad money. Besides that, the Hungarian national costume was in fashion just then. Every one who wore it might expect to have his name bawled after him in the street for a week afterwards at the very least. If, on the other hand, I were to go to Bessy when it was dark, and they were lighting the gas-lamps, that would only make matters worse.
And again, it would be an inconceivable absurdity not to suppose that one or other of Bessy's fair neighbours would not be looking out of the windows of the house opposite, with the most persistent curiosity, to see who was going in at the gate. And if but one of them saw me, the whole theatre would know all about it on the morrow.
A husband with a conscience (and there are such husbands) ought in such cases to stand before his wife with a demure countenance, and say to her honestly and openly: "My dear angel, I am obliged to pay a disagreeable visit to this or that lady, and I don't half like it; I wish you would come too." Whereupon the wife will naturally be quite magnanimous and say: "Go along by yourself, my dear; you know that I am not a bit jealous."
But my wife happened, just then, to be away acting at Szeged, and would not be back for a week. That would be an aggravating circumstance in the case of a visit.
While I was thus debating with myself, a smart little maid-servant came to my door. She had a covered market-basket on her arm, and she drew out of it a neatly-folded little billet-doux, which she placed in my hand. The note smelt of celery, under which it had been put. I recognised the handwriting of the address, it was Bessy's. I opened and read it. The maid stood there and waited. At last she grew impatient of the long delay, and said: "I am waiting for an answer."
"Oh, so you're still there? Stop a bit!"