"A famous robber-chieftain in these mountains whom they can never lay hands upon."
Henrietta cast anxious glances around her.
But here Hátszegi coolly interrupted him by striking his plate with his fork: "I won't have my wife frightened to death by your highwayman yarns," cried he, and changed the conversation. Shortly afterwards Henrietta went to her chamber, leaving her husband with Mr. Gerzson and his guests.
Such was Henrietta's first night after her marriage. She at least was so far fortunate as not to be obliged to see her husband. Towards morning she dozed off, and when she awoke again she found that the whole company had long ago set off fox-hunting, nor did they return till late in the evening, tired out, wet through, and dripping with sweat. Henrietta meanwhile had discovered the remains of a dilapidated library in an old disused huntsman's hut, had ferretted out of it a few Latin books, and had amused herself with them,—at least so far as she was able, for many of the leaves had been torn out and used as tinder.
It is notorious that tired sportsmen are about the dullest dogs on earth; so Henrietta felt that she would not lose much when her husband told her she had better go to rest early, as they must be up betimes next morning. And, indeed, next morning they were off so early that, except their old host, not one of the hunting party was there to bid them God speed! But he again conducted his lady-guest to her carriage on his crippled arm and arranged her cushions comfortably for her with his three-fingered hand.
It was a very fine day for a journey, and the windows of the two carriages were let down so that Henrietta was able to view the landscape stretching out before her. She had never been here before, it was all new to her. She discovered from Clementina's lamentations that they had still a three days' journey before they reached home, and that they would spend the coming night at the castle of Count Kengyelesy. The coachmen had told Margari so, and he passed the news on to Clementina. It also appeared that Count Kengyelesy was a very curious sort of man, who contradicted Baron Hátszegi in everything, yet for all that they were never angry with and always glad to see each other. The count was also said to have a young wife who did not love him. So ran the gossip of the servants. It was all one to Henrietta what they said about Count Kengyelesy and his consort.
Between five and six in the afternoon they reached the count's castle, which lay outside the village in the midst of rich tobacco and rapeseed fields, and enclosed on three sides by a splendid English garden; the place was arranged with taste and evidently well-cared for.
That the count expected the arrival of the Hátszegis was evident from the fact that dinner was awaiting them. Kengyelesy was a little puny bit of a man with very light bright hair, white eyelashes, and a pointed chin made still more pointed by a long goatish beard. It always pleased him very much when his friends confidentially assured him that he had a perfect satyr-like countenance.
His wife was a young, chubby, lively lady with smiling blue eyes unacquainted with sorrow, whom her husband on the occasion of a bal paré at Vienna had seen, fallen in love with, and carried off, although the girl's father, a retired Field-marshal, was quite ready to surrender her—they preferred, however, the romance of an elopement.
The countess received her lady-guest with the most effusive heartiness, called her by her Christian name on the spot, and invited her to do that same with her. She told Henrietta she was to feel quite at home, dragged her all over the castle, and showed her in rapid succession her rare flowers, her Parisian furniture, her Japanese curiosities; played something for her on the piano, made her parrot talk to her and incontinently popped on her finger a large and beautiful opal ring, which she told her she was to keep as an eternal souvenir.