Whoever in an evil hour encountered Fatia Negra had a shaking hand for the rest of his life.

Ever since that meeting at the csÁrdÁ Henrietta's hand also trembled to such an extent that it was only with the utmost difficulty that she could sign her own name.

What happened to her after that meeting? Whom did she recognize in Fatia Negra? How did she get home?—all these things remained eternal secrets. The lady was never able to tell it to anybody. Perchance she herself regarded it as a dream.

The poor lady used now to pray all day. For hours at a time she would kneel before the altar of the castle chapel returning thence to her perpetual walking to and fro, to and fro, kneeling down to pray again when she was tired out. And so she went on from morning to evening, nay, till late into the night, sometimes till midnight, sometimes till the dawn of the next day, up and down, up and down, between four walls, and then on her knees again a-praying.

She never appeared in the dining-room; her meals were sent to her room. She scarcely touched them, it was difficult to understand how she kept body and soul together.

She only quitted her chamber to go to chapel. At such times she would frequently meet domestics or strangers in the castle corridors, but she looks at nobody and says not a word. She does not notice that they are there, that they are amazed at her, that they greet her. No one has heard her speak for a long time.

And therefore they think her mad. At first only the domestics whispered this among themselves, then the villagers—and in a month's time it was notorious through Transylvania that the youthful Baroness HÁtszegi was out of her mind.

Early one morning, as Henrietta was returning from chapel, there suddenly appeared before her a ragged woman who must have been hidden in some niche as the servants had not seen her or driven her out.

"Stop one moment, my lady," whispered the woman and Henrietta seemed to hear in that whisper the voice of an old acquaintance, though she did not recognize the face. It was half masked in a cloth and the little she could see of it was disfigured by wounds and scars like the face of one who had been badly injured by fire. Henrietta was horrified at the sight of her, she looked so dreadful.

"Don't be frightened, my lady," said the woman falling down on her knees before her and seizing Henrietta's dress to prevent her from escaping, "I am Anicza."

Henrietta fixed her eyes upon the woman full of stupid amazement, and vainly sought in her face for some trace of the ideal loveliness which only the other day, so it seemed, had made her so charming. She began to fancy that the woman was under some evil spell and that if anyone could but repeat the talismanic word, her former loveliness would be restored to her.

"You cannot recognize me your ladyship for my face was burnt to death in the Lucsia Cavern. Oh, if it had only always been what it is now. I am much better as I am now. God has punished me because I let my soul be lost for the sake of my fair face. I am not vain now as I used to be. Yes, God has smitten all of us on account of our sins, as your ladyship already knows; but none has he smitten so hard as me. I denounced all my kinsfolk and acquaintances to the tribunal to be avenged on one man who had deceived me,—all of them were taken except him and he escaped. And now I am a beggar, an accursed creature whom everyone drives from his door, but what care I?—I never feel hungry. They took away all my father's property—heaven only knows how much there was, more than twenty thousand ducats, I think, and it would have been mine for I am his only child. I was summoned before the court, they said they would reward me for denouncing the society, they said they would give me a thousand ducats. Ha, ha, ha! a thousand ducats for making myself the wretched creature I am! But I did not come here to frighten your ladyship, I came here to humbly beg a favour. Gracious lady, the magistrates told me that a mixed commission will be appointed to try the forgers and that his lordship, the baron, will be the president of this commission; on him depends the life and death of everyone concerned."

Henrietta felt obliged to lean against the wall.

"My lady, I do not expect impossibilities, I cannot wish that the guilty should remain unpunished—justice is justice! But the leader of the whole gang was Fatia Negra, he planned everything, the others only carried out his orders. And now there is a lot of false witnesses ready to swear that my father was the ring-leader and throw all the blame upon him, but it was Fatia Negra and nobody else as God knows."

Every time the peasant woman mentioned Fatia Negra's name a spasmodic twitch convulsed Henrietta's pale features.

"Gracious lady," continued Anicza, "I implore you by the tender mercies of God not to abandon me. Grant me my petition! Either let them kill me or lock me up with the others. I implore you, my lady, to speak or write to your husband (if these things must be in writing) on my behalf. Do not let me perish. God will not be angry with you for protecting me."

Henrietta was now even less able to speak than before. But though she could not express herself in words, she placed one hand on the girl's head and raised the other tremulous hand to heaven, as one who takes a solemn oath before God. Then she tore herself away from Anicza, who had stooped to kiss the hem of her garment, and hastened back to her own room. On reaching the threshold of the house she looked back and saw that the girl had sunk down in the dust and was gratefully kissing the very traces of the footsteps of the departing lady.

On reaching her room Henrietta paced up and down it for a long time, wringing her hands as she went and moaning loudly: "My God! my God!" Then she flung herself down on her couch, writhing like one in mortal agony.

But soon she strengthened her heart and sat down at the writing-table. What had become of that beautiful handwriting of hers which had resembled copper plate? Scarcely legible letters now issued from her trembling hand, dumb witnesses of the terror of her heart, and yet write she must for it was her petition to her husband. Ah! that she should be forced to write to him.

Her letter was as follows:

"DREAD SIR: Tremulously and submissively I approach you. In the name of an unhappy creature I appeal to your compassion. You will be the judge of a lot of wretched men. Be merciful to them. By the grace of heaven I implore you, condemn them not! In the name of God, I implore you not to sign their death warrants. By the terrors of eternity I implore you do not ruin these men, for they are most innocent. N.N."

She durst not subscribe her own name.

And now she waited, she watched for the moment when Leonard quitted his room and, slipping in, laid the petition on the couch where he would be sure to find it. Nobody observed her.

The same day she encountered him, she had in fact sought for such an encounter. It was in the great armoury. Leonard, as soon as he perceived his wife, began humming some mad operatic tune, an opera bouffÉ air and bawled through the door to the dog-keeper to unleash the hounds.

The pale lady nevertheless approached him, with tottering but determined footsteps, and folding both her trembling hands as if in prayer, stood mutely in front of the door through which Leonard would have to pass, like some dumb spirit from another world. But Leonard merely shrugged his shoulders and passed her by, whistling all the time.

Again, on the following day, the timid petition lay on Leonard's table, written in the same tremulous characters. Henrietta had written it again, and again had crept into his chamber and in whatever part of the house the magnate might now be found, he everywhere encountered this pale tremulous figure who pressing her hands together and without uttering a word gazed at him beseechingly, imploringly—only they two knew why.

On the third day Leonard again found the petition and again encountered Henrietta.

This time he spoke to her.

"My dear Henrietta, have you read 'The Mysteries of Paris?'"

Henrietta, as usual, only stared at the speaker with frightened eyes and said nothing.

"How did you like the description of BicÈtre? A horrible place, eh? I have noticed that you have been behaving in rather a peculiar way lately. In fact, the whole district has been talking about it and saying that you are a little crazy. I have been asked all sorts of questions about it too.—Hitherto I have always told everybody that it is not true.—But if once I should say that it is true, then, you will be most certainly shut up in a mad house. Regulate your conduct accordingly."