At this I gave up that Quixotic fight against windmills, and said to my own familiar spirit, my little inward devil—

"My dear little demon, I find you are a much more cunning little devil than I thought you to be, and I shall begin to listen to your advice. What the devil shall I kill myself for, when I have got sixteen million francs of ready money? Is there any need of my final surrender to you as yet? First, I'll see what services you'll do me still. The money I got by following your suggestions, but the suicide speculation was a failure. Evidently there are other devils more potent than you. Now let me see. If I judge correctly, I can spare you altogether, dismiss you with good references, such as, 'A fine little demon, very cunning, very devoted and submissive.' It would be easy for you to find another master, and I could well spare you. Why, with sixteen millions there is no need of my being unhappy, and giving way to despair; with so much ready money, I have Fortune at my command. She will come at my bidding. If every husband in France who is not beloved by his wife were to enlist against the Prussians, daring Death and Devil alike, the Prussians would very soon find their way home again. And if she has insulted, betrayed me with another man before she became my wife, I can revenge myself now, and why not? When Father Adam quarrelled with Mother Eve, he found consolation with Lilith, the dark-skinned Hashor, the almond-eyed Anaitio, the silent Mylitta. So, my dear little demon, I can't see of what use you can be to me any longer. I am tired of going death-hunting, and not fool enough to play a game of shuttlecock with a lump of gold. Then what's the use of my keeping you?"

"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!" laughed he. "Fancy your sending me off when you stand most in need of me and my advice. My dear boy, you were never so much my own as at this moment. You are tired of death-hunting? Very good; live on, drink deep of the fountain of life, drain it to the dregs, and much good may it do you! You have wealth and therefore power, and you will become just such a dare-devil villain as the man who has caused all this pother. You will betray innocent, confiding maidens, deceive loving friends, ruin families, and beget unfortunate, ill-starred beings. You will become a heartless libertine, a selfish sensualist. You will mock at God, mock at the Devil; and when you are all alone, you will dread and despise yourself. You will do evil for evil's sake, and rejoice at the despair of your brethren. Oh, you can't spare me now, my boy; you want me more than ever!"

I did not enter the Franc-tireur legion, although its captain was a countryman of mine, a chivalrous Hungarian: if I am not mistaken, his name was Varjassy. I returned to Brussels, and remained there.

My broker, Mr. X., came to me, quite submissive, doing penance in sackcloth and ashes. Again he called me sage and prophet, and finally asked me, "What next?"

"Nothing," I said. "We will not go near the Bourse again. We have made our booty; don't let us run the risk of losing it."

"You are certainly wise!" he said, admiringly. He took his own proportion, and bought property with it. The last time I had heard of him he had established a great dairy and was manufacturing an excellent cheese.

I had become a fashionable dandy. I was a member of the Jockey Club, was seen at the theatres and at all fashionable places of public entertainment. I opened my palatial residence to fashionable society, and took my wife to all social amusements fitted to her station in life. I took pride in the elegance of her toilette, and was jealously careful that her equipage should outshine all others.

Still I cannot say that this constant, tender consideration and attention to her affected her in my favour. On the contrary, I found that of late her glance had a troubled, I may say, puzzled expression when it rested on me; and when occasionally I entered her room unexpectedly I saw that she hastily concealed in a drawer a small and well-worn note-book. I supposed she was calculating what this expensive rate of living might cost. If she only computed what I spent officially, so to speak—that is to say, on herself and the household—she must have made it some four hundred thousand francs. The income on her million of florins would amount, at the utmost, to one hundred thousand francs, so she must naturally have come to the conclusion that her securities were scattered to the winds.

At that time the rosewood chest with the bonds, in exactly the same condition as when she had given them to me on our wedding night, was in my own possession again, and locked up in my safe. It had been my first care to take it home from the banking-house where it had been deposited. I had repaid the amount of the loan, received the securities, and found them all in excellent order.

By this time the period of Flamma's confinement had arrived, and a son was born. I had made her a proposition to postpone the christening for a month, and only then to give our aristocratic family connections at home information of the happy event. She consented, and by the time the christening took place she had fully recovered her health and beauty, or, rather, she had become more beautiful than ever; for, from a girlish maiden, she had developed into a blooming woman.

The little boy we christened William James. He was a well-formed, healthy child, and I myself had conscientiously selected a nurse for him.

When at last no harm was to be feared from excitement, and Flamma's health was fully established, I wrote her a line that I should like to have some conversation with her on money matters that afternoon. She wrote me in reply that I had anticipated her own wishes, and that she would be ready to receive me.

At the appointed time I carried the rosewood chest with her dowry to her room. I found her engaged with the same worn-looking note-book that I had already noticed, but this time she did not hide it upon my entrance. She offered me a seat, but I set the chest on the table in front of her, and, looking her in the face, I said—

"Madame, to-day it is seven months since that eventful evening on which you made me certain confidential disclosures. At that time I did not make any remark on the subject, because the state of your health was such that, in my capacity as a physician, conscientious scruples prohibited me from creating in you any excitement which might prove fatal to yourself and to another being. You will not refuse to bear witness that I have paid you all the care and attention which your condition required, and that I have done everything that was possible, under the circumstances, to save you from emotions which might be injurious. I have nursed you conscientiously, and omitted nothing which I thought necessary to your health and that of your child. But now your health is fully established, your child is christened, and I have given him an honourable name and a good nurse, which is all that he requires for the present. Now the time has come when I may express my real sentiments to you. I shall even now forbear to reproach you. In this whole baneful connection between us the fault has been mine alone. It was my boundless vanity, my absurd conceit, which led me to believe that a beautiful, wealthy, and high-born young lady would choose me, of all men, for her husband, without any secret motive or hidden reason to prompt her. I ought to have known my own worthlessness better, and not yielded to a flattering self-conceit. You see, I acknowledge my fault fully, and I own that I have deserved my punishment. I have no accusation against you. You were desperate; you had to save your reputation, and you did not stop to consider what it might cost me so long as it served your purpose. Of course, the pride and honour of Countess VernÖczy were of much higher importance than the life, the honour, of an insignificant fool like myself. Move over, you paid for the services you had procured with admirable magnanimity. You placed your whole dowry at my disposal. But now your honour and reputation are saved; so is that of your child. There is no need of my suffering longer for a fault for which I have bitterly atoned. Now, pray, let me restore to you the money which you placed in my hands on that memorable night. Let me beg you to take slate and pencil, and convince yourself of the entire correctness of the amount."

She looked at me as if mesmerised, and mechanically she obeyed me. I opened the chest, took out the papers, and, as she had done on the night of our wedding, I dictated to her the titles of the various deeds and securities, and she wrote as I dictated.

The amount was correct. "You see that the coupons are inside," I said; "those of last year and those of this year also. Not one has been touched."

"And our household expenses?" asked she, breathlessly.

"Were liquidated by me with my own money. Now, pray, take the property out of my hands, for this is the last time that we shall ever speak with or behold each other as long as we live." She gazed up at me, trembling in every nerve. I continued—

"I shall leave you to-day, and you will never learn whither I have gone or where I am. Like the criminal escaping from jail, I shall change my name, and deny the term which I have served at your side. I shall possess no name, no home, no family. I shall be a stranger and an outcast, wandering to and fro for fear that the acquisition of a settled residence might betray my abode to you. And now, there are three roads open to you. You may return with your child to the old home of the Dumanys, my poor Slav kingdom. There you may live, secluded from the world, bringing up your child and teaching him virtue, honesty, and useful employments. You may dole out alms to the poor, and in this mournful solitude pray to God for happy oblivion or the still happier news of my death. This is one of the roads open to you; it is the stony path of virtue, dreary and tiresome. The second path is the flowery one. You may throw yourself upon the waves of life, drink deep of the cup of pleasure, not troubling yourself with scruples as to what is allowed and what forbidden. Your youth, beauty, and wealth will carry you up to the pinnacle of pleasure—only beware of the consequences! I, the husband, shall be separated from you by whole oceans perhaps, and shall not be here to legitimatise the result of a faux pas. There is still a third way—a divorce; and I authorise you to commence your suit. Only, you know, this way is tedious, and requires great sacrifices. Monetary sacrifices also, for we cannot get a divorce without being converted to Protestantism, and in that case, according to your grandfather's will, you are obliged to give up your dowry—this million. But you have also to give up the Church and the religion in which you were born and brought up, and which has given you consolation in despair, and the saints whom you are accustomed to invoke to your aid. Still, the road is open to you, and I will give you four hours to make your decision. If it should be for a divorce, I am ready to go with you to Transylvania to procure a divorce under the Unitarian laws."

As I finished she rose from her seat, her cheeks aglow, her eyes burning. "I know a fourth way," she said, catching her breath.

"And that is?"

"I will not let you go!" she cried, taking hold of my arm with both hands, and clinging to me with her trembling body.

I broke out into a bitter, scornful laugh. "Countess," said I, "do you believe that there is in the world an interest, a sentiment, a spirit of magnanimity or of cowardice, which is powerful enough to hold me in jail now that the time for which I have sentenced myself has expired? That there is any power existing which could tie me to your side, if but for another day? Well, I have read the hate, the contempt, the scorn in your eyes, and you were justly entitled to those feelings; but you cannot wish me to endure these daily pangs and lacerations of my wounded self-esteem for ever. You cannot ask of me to live on at the side of a woman who hates me, despises me, and scorns me, simply because it would suit that woman to retain her present position. No, my lady! Even my ample stock of weak foolish indulgence is at an end. I go, and I go for ever! Not even in Paradise do I wish to meet you again. And if you go to salvation, I shall go to perdition to avoid you!"

The effect of my cruel, insulting words were marvellous. They did not seem to hurt or offend her; she seemed to delight in them, drink them in like some sweet, delicious nectar. Her face, her eyes, her attitude spoke of exultant admiration, of triumphant joy, of ecstatic delight.

"True!" she said, "it is all true that you have said. Only what I have felt for you was never hate; it was love warring against contempt, and contempt fighting against love. Yes, I have despised you; for I was told, and I believed it, that money was all that you cared for, and your own words have confirmed me in this opinion. Do you remember, after you had told Cenni and me the story of your friend, you spoke of the qualities of the girl whom you might marry? She must be young and beautiful, and wealthy and luxurious. Young and beautiful—I thought—to suit your vanity; wealthy and luxurious—because you loved wealth and luxury; and your conduct after our marriage hourly convinced me of the correctness of the supposition. You accepted your position without a murmur. I was burning with shame and humiliation, ready at a word to fall at your feet, and make you a confession which would cleanse me from the burning stigma, remove from me the brand of shame. But you accepted the money, and asked no questions, and I left you in despairing contempt. Our married life was much too luxurious to undeceive me, and I believed that you were making use of my money to feed your appetite for pleasure. When you protected me against danger, nursed me in my odious condition, I thought, 'All is well to him as long as he can keep the money. He fears for my life, because, in case of my death, he would have to restore the money.' The comfort, the splendour, the costly presents, dresses, and jewels which you bestowed upon me were so many accusations against yourself. And yet how I longed to be able to respect you! When the newspapers spoke of your undaunted courage, of your disinterested and indefatigable activity, your self-denial, generosity, and discreet modesty, how my heart yearned for you! How my soul cried out to you, 'Why are you not the same to me as to the world? Why are you brave, generous, disinterested, and self-denying to them, and not to me? Why am I, of all persons alive, condemned to know you for a cowardly, avaricious, and selfish man, when, in spite of all that, my heart burns for love of you?' And now you have thrown off the hideous mask you wore, have shown me your real face, shown me how much I have misjudged you, how I have sinned against you! You give me back that money untouched. You have not even spent the interest of it, and now I see how I have wronged you in accusing you of greed. All your tender care, your delicate attention, your patient indulgence were given to me out of your magnanimous sense of duty, the heavenly generosity of your soul! And now that I know you in all the glory of your goodness, now that I have found my ideal in you and my love has grown into worship, now you tell me that you are lost to me for ever, that you will not be mine, and I must choose the paths you point out to me. No, sir; that is impossible! You cannot cast me off, now that I love you! I have sinned against you, caused you insufferable pains, infinite tortures; but my whole life shall be given to atone for those sins by meek submission, dutiful obedience, ardent love. I cannot choose between those paths you have shown me. I do not want to be consumed by the fires of sinful love, nor to freeze in the ice of solitude and self-abnegation. I want to be happy, and to make you happy. I want to love, and I do love you!"

"You have a child."

"That child! That living stigma which was branded into my flesh by a miserable assassin! I hate it so much that I will never kiss it, never pray for it. Its very sight is loathsome to me! I have given birth to it, but shall never love it as a mother!"

After this tempest of her emotions she threw herself against the door, barring it against me as though to say: "The way through this door, the way that separates you from me, leads over my body."

I looked at her, and the sight of her deep and real agitation summoned me to a silent condemnation of my base hypocrisy. What was I but a cunning dissembler, coming here to play a great part before her, making believe that I had not touched her money, when I had time and again risked it in speculations? And the very house she lived in, the comfort and splendour that surrounded her, were the result of the profits her money had acquired. How dared I make a parade of my generosity, when all the time I had been scheming for her ruin and dreaming of revenge? Truth and sincerity were all on her side; the halo of virtue around my head was false.

And she loved me! She confessed that love with the frank truthfulness of her nature—confessed it in words that sent a thrill of delight through my whole frame! And I, who am burning for love of her, I stand here like a pagan idol, in stony indifference, looking down at the bleeding heart which is held up as a sacrifice to me. No, I am no stone! Avaunt, Hathor, Mylitta, Baaltis, I am none of yours! And thou too, vile, wretched Dissimulation, I cast thee forth! Depart from the presence of this true woman!

I went to her and took her hands. "If your boy is not to have the love of a mother, he shall have that of a father instead. I shall love him dearly and be a true father to him."

As I said this, she broke into passionate sobbing, and, crouching down at my feet, she threw her arms around my knees and wept bitterly.

"No," said she, "do not lift me up, for my confessions are not yet ended. I have asked you for mercy heretofore. I now ask you for justice; for a righteous judgment! I have never been the degraded wretch you believed me to be, have never been the mistress of another man, never listened to his words of love, so help me God! Siegfried was not my betrayer, he was my assassin! He made use of Diodora's and Cenni's absence from the house, at a time when a slight illness had prevented me from accompanying them, to drug my wine at the table, and during the lethargy caused by the soporific potion he slew my soul! Devil as he is, he took a devilish revenge, because I had shown him my contempt and abhorrence."

Before this I was down on my knees, covering her eyes, her hair, her face, and her mouth with my kisses; weeping in the excess of my love and happiness. "Why did you not tell me this before? Why not on the night of our wedding?" I asked.

"I intended to! Do you remember that I asked you if you had no other question to address to me? You said 'No,' and pointed to the door. For a few moments only your eye had rested with a fiery glare on a two-edged dagger which lay upon the table. If you had carried out the wild promptings of your wrath, if your hand had raised the dagger against me, if only a single word or action had given me proof that you were the man I wished you to be, and not the wretch who accepts the money which is offered in return for his name and honour, I should have spoken. Oh, how I have longed to do it!"

I pressed her to my heart and kissed her again. "You are innocent," I said: "as innocent as that poor child himself. You have not sinned; others have sinned against you. And now that you have confessed to me, let me also confess to you, and, if you can, forgive me!" I told her all—my evil designs, the monetary speculations, my suicidal purposes, my moral cowardice. She listened, shuddering, but, when I had finished, she nestled close to my heart and kissed me passionately. She had forgiven.

After this we decided to leave Europe and go to the New World—to America. My old Slav kingdom I did not care to keep; it was best to give up everything, and wipe out all memory of myself. So I left it to be sold in payment of the debts I had accumulated. In the New World fortune clung to me with the same persistence. Whatever I undertook was sure to succeed, and all my enterprises were fortunate. So, in course of time, I became the "Silver King." We came to Europe on account of little James, who all at once ceased speaking and became a mute. We tried American physicians, but to no purpose, and so we came to Europe in order to consult the best professional talent. Now you know all. You know how it was possible for the little son of a South American nabob, after regaining his lost speech, to speak Hungarian, and you know who taught him to speak that language. The child has never loved anyone but me, and no one has loved him but myself. And I love him truly and with all my heart. For to him I am indebted for all my present happiness; not only for my wealth, for wealth alone is not happiness. A man may be happy without wealth, and be very unhappy with it; but I owe him this.

He took a photograph from his pocket-book, and showed it to me—four laughing little cherub heads, peeping out of a bath-tub, like birds from the nest. "These my little James has brought me," he said, with tears of joy in his eyes; "if he had not come, these would not have come either. So, you see, my dear friend, I was thrown into Hell and fell into Paradise."

"I beg your pardon," said I to Mr. Dumany, as he finished his story, "but I am curious to know what became of Siegfried? Would you mind telling me?"

"Oh, he is a very famous man at present, and fills a very honourable position. He is engaged as horse-tamer in the Paris Hippodrome, and they say that he is excellent in 'jumping.' I have not seen him yet, but I hear he has a good salary, and is a general favourite. He is very much praised and admired by those who have seen him. I think it highly creditable in a man when he lives honourably by means of his ability and talent."

By this time the dawn had greeted us. Through the chinks of the closed shutters the rising sun was stealing, decorating the wall-tapestry with rings of golden red, adding radiant circles to the smoke-wreaths of our cigarettes, and sending long glittering darts into all the corners and behind the curtains.

Presently, breaking the monotony of our voices, which punch and cognac had made hoarse, a sweet, silvery voice chimed in, "ApÁcska! ApÁcska!" ("Papa! Papa!") and a little unfledged cherub was peeping out from the bed-curtains. "You may come to me," said Mr. Dumany, smilingly, and, in an instant, little James was out of bed, and, barefooted, in his little nightgown as he was, he ran to his father, shouting with glee, climbing up into his lap, and throwing his little arms caressingly around his neck, laughing mischievously the while. At the noise of this babbling and laughter, similar sounds were heard in the next room, just as in a bird's nest when one little fledgeling chirps all the rest join in, lifting the little heads and trying the winglets.

"Reveille is sounded," said my friend, with a happy smile. "I have to go and muster my troops; this next chamber is their bedroom."

But the muster was postponed, for the commander-in-chief arrived—the mother. She was in a plain, dark dress, but her beautiful face bore a soft expression of happiness which I had not seen the day before. "You are up yet?" she asked.

"And you are up already?" asked her husband.

"Yes. I have been out to my confessor's. You have made a clean breast to your friend at home; I have done the same in the confessional, and I have come home much happier than I went, and I truly hope much better." With that she bent down to the child, and kissed it tenderly.

"I have been an unnatural and undutiful mother," she said, in a low, trembling voice, "and if you, in your generous pity, in the overflowing kindness of your nature, had not taken this poor innocent to your heart, it would not have known the tender love, the sweet care of a parent. Father Augustin has shown me the great, black sin in my breast. How can I hope for mercy from Heaven if I mercilessly lock my heart against my own innocent offspring? How can I hope for love and respect from my other children, if I withhold a mother's love from this one? Oh, my dearest husband! here in the presence of your friend, whom you have made cognisant of our past sorrows and trials, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the love you have borne my child!" And before he could prevent the action she had bent down and pressed her lips to his hand.

"Flamma! dearest!" he said, overcome by his emotion, "you have been the truest, the most considerate, most loving, and most dutiful of all wives and mothers; but this day you have filled my cup of happiness to the brim. This one drop, the mother's kiss to the sweet innocent, was wanting. This day shall henceforth be kept as a high holiday, as this little darling's real birthday, for it has given him a mother."

He held up the boy to her, and at the sweet, inviting smile and the opened arms the little one threw open his arms also; one of them he drew around his mother's, the other around his father's neck, and then he showered a volley of kisses and caresses on both. Never in all my life have I seen a picture more lovely and beautiful than this.

"Come, my little one," said the mother, after a while, to the child, "it is too early yet for you to rise. Come to your little brothers and sisters and sleep awhile longer," and, nodding sweetly to us, she disappeared, with the child on her arm, through the tapestry portiÈre that led to the children's bedroom.

The "Silver King" silently pressed my hand as I said—

"Sir, you are the happiest man on earth, nor can all the crowned monarchs of the world compare to you in wealth!"

"Yes," he said, after a while, "I am very happy. But I owe you an explanation, before I take leave of you. You may think it singular that a man who is the father of a family should disclose such intimate secrets to a friend of whom he knows beforehand that he will make public use of the disclosure, and relate to his readers the events he has learned. But, you see, so much has already been said about my wife and me—the fantastic imagination of one half of our fellow-creatures has invented so much to feed the idle curiosity of the other half, that the plain truth will serve in general as a cooling sedative. There are different versions afloat as to how we got our money. Some say that I was a general spy of the Prussians, and that my money was a fee for the information furnished, or, in plain words, the betrayal of the positions of the French forces. Others say that my wife had been the mistress of a King, and was enriched by him, and that she still draws a life-pension from the Civil List; while superstitious fools will have it that I have sold myself to the Devil, and am supplied by him with infernal lore. Against all of these the disclosure of the plain truth will be the best defence. Human I am and have been, and human have been the temptations and trials that have beset me. The only Devil to whom, for a time, I sold myself, was the demon in my own breast—a poor, feeble spirit, and long ago subdued by the more potent angel of love and peace."

THE END.

Transcriber's Note:

The following typographical errors in the original text have been corrected.

In Part I, Chapter V, "religous monomania" has been changed to "religious monomania".

In Part I, Chapter VIII, "Yes, I wan you immediately" has been changed to "Yes, I want you immediately".

In Part I, Chapter XIII, "photograpers" has been changed to "photographers".

In Part II, Chapter IV, "siezed" has been changed to "seized".

In Part II, Chapter X, a missing quotation mark has been added to the sentence,

Upon the steel blade was graven, in golden letters, "Buona notte; and "Buona notte! buona notte," I kept incoherently murmuring.

In Part II, Chapter XII, "distinguised" has been changed to "distinguished".

In Part II, Chapter XV, an extra "are" has been deleted from "you are are mistaken in this house".

In Part II, Chapter XVII, "Moveover" has been changed to "Moreover".

In Part II, Chapter XVII, "infernal ore" has been changed to "infernal lore".