The Baron's Sons Part 33

"See there!" cried Rideghvary to Zebulon, pointing to the troops as they wound their way southward toward the heart of Hungary; "now comes our triumph; now we shall tread our foes under our feet. No power on earth can withstand our might." His face beamed with exultation as he spoke.

Zebulon Tallerossy was out of humour. His present part had pleased him so long as he had nothing to do but travel about with his patron, make the acquaintance of foreign celebrities, and receive honours and attentions wherever he went. That, he thought, was the fitting occupation of a great statesman, and he had looked to this same kind of statesmanship to bring everything to a quiet and orderly conclusion. But when he saw that matters were not destined to flow on so harmoniously much longer, he fell out of conceit with his role of statesman.

Returning with Rideghvary to the town that lay beneath them in the valley, he gave his friend and patron a hint of his dissatisfaction.

"Yes," said he, "she is a mighty power,--Russia; I don't know who could withstand her. But what will be the fate of the conquered?"

"_Vae victis_--woe to the vanquished!" returned the other sententiously.

"Well then," continued honest Zebulon, "let us suppose a case: what about such a man as odon Baradlay, whom we and all his countrymen esteem and love, and who, if his zeal has led him a little too far, has yet been influenced by none but the loftiest motives,--what will be done to him? A good man, fine talents, sure to be a credit to his country--he ought to be spared."

"_Mitgefangen, mitgehangen_,"[6] quoted Rideghvary briefly.

[Footnote 6: Caught with the rest, hung with the rest.]

For the rest of the drive Zebulon was silent.

In the evening, as Rideghvary was looking over the pa.s.sport blanks which he kept in one of the pigeonholes of his desk, he missed the very one to which he attached the greatest value. It was an English pa.s.sport with the official signature and stamp of the amba.s.sadors of all the intervening countries, the name and description of the bearer being alone left blank. Such forms were commonly held in readiness for secret missions. No one could have taken the missing paper except Zebulon; and when he had reached this conclusion, Rideghvary smiled.

In his comings and goings, the great man always took his friend with him. But how explain the friendship which he manifested for him?

Easily enough. Rideghvary was not a master of the common people's language, and it was the common people that he wished to reach.

Zebulon was their oracle, their favourite orator. One needed but to give him a theme, and he could hold his simple auditors spellbound by the hour. In his expeditions, therefore, Rideghvary knew that his honest friend would be indispensable to him when it came to persuading the good people that the invading hosts which pa.s.sed through their villages were not enemies, but friends, allies, and brothers. That, then, was to be Zebulon's mission, and he already suspected as much; but he had no heart for the task before him. Rideghvary, in his concern lest he should lose his spokesman, hardly let him go out of his sight, and even shared the same room with him at night; otherwise he might have found himself some morning without his mouthpiece.

Zebulon racked his brains for a plan of escape from his ill.u.s.trious patron, but all in vain. The patron was too fond of him. He had even tried to pick a quarrel with Rideghvary; but the other would not so much as lose his temper. Since their last talk, however, Zebulon was more than ever determined to shake off his affectionate friend.

"If you won't let me run away from you," said he to himself, "I will make you run away from me."

He had been pondering a scheme of his own ever since he chanced to see a Cossack eating raw cuc.u.mbers on an empty stomach. The Cossack plucked the cuc.u.mbers in a garden, and munched them with the greatest apparent relish. The plan was further developed as he watched the preparation of a dainty dish for the epicures of the Russian camp.

Turnips and beets were cut up together, mixed with bran, and then boiled in an immense kettle, the finishing touch being added by dipping a pound of tallow candles into the steaming mixture. The candles came out thinner, to be sure, but were still serviceable for illumination, while the stew was rendered perfect.

Zebulon's scheme attained to full development when the cholera broke out so fiercely in the Russian army that even a disastrous battle could hardly have wrought greater havoc. Rideghvary was mortally afraid of the cholera, carried in his bosom a little bag of camphor, wore flannel over his abdomen, shook flowers of sulphur into his boots, always disinfected his room with chloride of lime, drank red wine in the evening and arrack in the morning, and chewed juniper berries during the day.

On this weakness of the ill.u.s.trious man Zebulon counted largely for the success of his scheme. Entering a druggist's shop one evening, he asked for an ounce of tartar emetic. The apothecary was disinclined to furnish the drug without a physician's order, but Zebulon cut his objection short.

"Doctor's prescription not necessary," said he sharply. "I prescribe for myself--exceptional case. If I say I must have it, that's enough."

And he received his _tartarus emeticus_, divided into small doses.

In the night, while Rideghvary was asleep, Zebulon took two doses of his emetic. Honour to whom honour is due! Every man has his own peculiar kind of heroism. In Zebulon it was an heroic deed to bring on himself an artificial attack of cholera at a critical time like that.

But his scheme worked admirably. The audible results of the double dose of tartar emetic awakened Rideghvary from his slumbers. With one leap from his bed, he landed in the middle of the room, and ran into the pa.s.sageway, shouting: "The cholera is here! the cholera is here!"

He left his clothes lying in the room, and procured fresh ones to put on. Whatever luggage and papers of his were in the bedchamber, he ordered to be fumigated before he would touch them. Then, calling for his carriage, he drove out of the town in all haste.

Meanwhile, Zebulon, after the drug had done its work, went to sleep again and snored till broad daylight. With this _salto mortale_ he disappeared from public life.

CHAPTER XXV.

GOOD OLD FRIENDS.

It was the evening of the thirteenth of August. The Hungarians had that day laid down their arms. odon Baradlay sat at an open window in the fading twilight, writing letters to his mother and his wife, informing them that he should await his fate where he was, even as the Roman senators had calmly awaited theirs, sitting in their curule chairs and scorning to fly before the invader. He viewed the situation with the calmness of a philosopher and showed none of the feverish uneasiness of those who were intent only on their own personal safety.

He had not even thought to provide himself with a pa.s.sport, as so many of his a.s.sociates had done.

While he thus sat, writing his letters and heedless of his surroundings, a stranger approached him.

"Am I addressing odon Baradlay?" he asked.

"That is my name," replied odon. "May I ask yours in return?"

"My name is Valentine Schneiderius, evangelical clergyman of Pukkersdorf. I have brought you a letter, but am in haste and must not linger. As long as the Russians are in our rear the way is open; but presently it will be closed." He delivered his letter and withdrew.

odon broke the seal and read:

"DEAR FRIEND,--I shall never forget the ties that unite our families. Your late lamented father was my friend, and nothing could now induce me to look on and see the destruction of a true patriot like yourself. Would to G.o.d I could help many more! I send you an English pa.s.sport, all signed and sealed, to take you out of the country. Write any name you choose in the blank s.p.a.ce.

Burn this.

"Your old friend, "ZEBULON TALLeROSSY.

"P. S. Go by way of Poland and you won't be known. When safe, think of your country; perhaps you can yet do something for your poor people.

"Z. T."

odon examined the pa.s.sport and found it complete in every detail,--even to being creased and soiled like a much-handled doc.u.ment. Then he threw it down, ashamed at the thought of using it to save his life when so many of his comrades in arms were in danger of death or captivity. Yet the mere prospect of safety made his pulse beat more rapidly, and involuntarily his thoughts turned to those dear ones at home who looked to him for comfort and support,--his wife and two little children.

He read once more the last words of Zebulon's postscript; they showed no little shrewdness on the writer's part. What if he could really secure aid for his country abroad? The temptation was too great. He took up the pa.s.sport again and glanced at the signatures on its back.

Among them was Rideghvary's. No, that man should never enjoy the triumph of hissing in his ear: "This is the last step to that height!"

He burned Zebulon's letter, as well as the two he had just written to his wife and his mother, and, summoning his servant, bade him hasten to Nemes...o...b..and inform his mother of his flight to a foreign country; she should hear further particulars from him later. Then he completed his preparations for a hasty departure, wrote in the name "Algernon Smith" on the pa.s.sport, put the paper in his pocket, called a carriage, and set out on his flight.

The enemy's first outpost was successfully pa.s.sed. The commanding officer examined his pa.s.sport, found it correct, and affixed his signature. odon was free to go on. His second station was Gyapju, whence he wished to continue directly to Varad, and thence by way of Szigeth into Galicia. At Gyapju he was conducted to the commandant's quarters. Entering with an unconcerned air, he inquired to whom he should show his papers. There were several officers in the room, one of whom asked him to wait a few minutes until the commandant came in.

Meanwhile an adjutant made the necessary examination of his pa.s.sport and found it apparently all right; the one thing now required was the signature of the commanding officer.

The entrance of the latter caused odon a violent start. The man before him was--Leonin Ramiroff, grown to manly proportions and wearing the stern, soldierly look of one entrusted with military responsibility.

The adjutant called his attention to the paper awaiting his signature, a.s.suring him that it was all in order. Leonin took up a pen, wrote his name, and then turned to hand the pa.s.sport to odon. The latter felt his heart stop beating as he met that sharp, penetrating gaze.

"You are not Mr. Algernon Smith," exclaimed the Russian officer in English, drawing himself up to his full height; "you are odon Baradlay."

odon's heart sank within him. "And are you going to betray me?" he asked, likewise in English.

"You are my prisoner."

"This from you, Leonin Ramiroff, my bosom friend of old, my faithful comrade on a long winter journey when we were chased by wolves; you, the man who plunged into the icy river to save me at the risk of your own life?"

"I was merely a young lieutenant in the guard then," replied Leonin coldly.

"And now will you hand me over to my bitterest foes, to the derisive laughter of the conqueror, to a miserable death on the scaffold?"

"I am now a colonel of lancers," was the other's only reply; and with that he tore the pa.s.sport in two and threw it under the table. "Take the prisoner away and put him under guard."