Mathias Sandorf/Page 13

by Jules Verne

CHAPTER V.
THE WIDOW OF STEPHEN BATHORY.

The arrival of Dr. Antekirtt had been noised about not only in Ragusa, but throughout the province of Dalmatia. The newspapers, after announcing the schooner's arrival, had hurried down to the prey which promised to yield such a series of sensational articles. The owner of the “Savarena” could not escape the honors and drawbacks of celebrity. His personality was the order of the day. Legend had seized upon him for its own. No one knew who he was, whence he came, or whither he was going. This was just the thing to pique public curiosity. And naturally where nothing is known the field is more open and imagination has more scope.

The reporters, anxious to gratify their readers, had hurried in to Gravosa—some of them even went out to the schooner. But the personage about whom rumor was so busy was not to be seen. The orders were precise. The doctor would not receive such visitors. And the answers given to the visitors were always the same.

“Where does the doctor come from?”

“Where he pleases.”

“Where is he going?”

“Where he likes.”

“But who is he?”

“No one knows, and perhaps he does not know any more than you do.”

Not much to be gained for their readers from such answers as these. And so they gave reins to their imagination. Dr. Antekirtt became all they pleased. He became all these interviewers at bay thought fit to invent. To some he was a pirate chief. To some he was an African king cruising incognito in quest of knowledge. Some affirmed that he was a political exile, others that a revolution had driven him from his country, and that he was traveling for purposes of science and art. The readers could take their choice. As to his title of doctor there seemed to be two opinions: in the opinion of some he was a great physician who had effected wonderful cures in desperate cases; in the opinion of others he was a great quack who would have had some difficulty in producing his diplomas!

Under any circumstances the physicians of Gravosa and Ragusa would have no chance of prosecuting him for the illegal practice of medicine. Dr. Antekirtt maintained a constant reserve, and whenever a patient would have done him the honor to consult him he invariably declined.

The owner of the “Savarena” took no apartments on shore. He did not even enter any of the hotels in the town. During the first two days after his arrival at Gravosa he hardly got as far as Ragusa. He contented himself with a few walks in the neighborhood, and two or three times he took with him Point Pescade, whose natural intelligence he appreciated.

But if he did not go to Ragusa, one day Pescade went there for him. He had been sent on some confidential errand, and these were his replies to the questions asked him when he returned:

“And so he lives in the Stradone?”

“Yes, doctor—that is to say, in the best street of the town. He has a house not far from the place where they show visitors the palace of the old doges; a magnificent house with servants and carriages. Quite in the style of a millionaire.”

“And the other?”

“The other, or rather the others?” answered Pescade. “They live in the same neighborhood, but their house is down a narrow, winding, hilly street that takes you to houses that are more than modest.”

“And their house?”

“Their house is humble, small and dismal-looking outside, but I should think it was all right inside. It looks as though the people that lived there were poor and proud.”

“The lady?”

“I did not see her, and I heard that she hardly ever went out of the Rue Marinella.”

“And her son?”

“I saw him, doctor, as he came back to his mother.”

“What was he like?”

“He seemed thoughtful and anxious. They say that the young fellow has seen sorrow. And he looks like it.”

“But, Pescade, you have seen sorrow, and yet you do not look like it.”

“Physical suffering is not moral suffering, doctor. That is why I have always hidden mine—and even laughed over it.”

After this the doctor stopped his walks about Gravosa He seemed to be waiting for something that he had not desired to provoke by going to Ragusa, where the news of his arrival in the “Savarena” was of course known. He remained on board, and what he was waiting for happened.

On the 29th of May, about eleven o'clock in the morning, the doctor was examining the quays of Gravosa through his telescope, when he suddenly gave orders for the whale-boat to be launched, entered it and landed at the mole, where a man seemed to be watching for him.

“It is he,” said the doctor. “It is really! I recognize him, though he is so changed.”

The man was old and broken down with age, and although he was not more than seventy, his hair was white and his head was bowed. His expression was sad and weary, and his face was feebly illuminated by the half-extinguished look that his tears often drowned. He remained motionless on the quay, never having lost sight of the boat since it left the schooner.

The doctor looked as though he did not see the old man, still less recognize him. He took no notice of his presence. But before he had taken many steps the old man advanced upon him and humbly uncovered.

“Dr. Antekirtt?”

“Yes,” answered the doctor, looking at the poor old man, whose eyes as they looked at his gave not the slightest sign of recognition.

Then he added:

“Who are you, my friend, and what do you want with me?”

“My name is Borik,” answered the old man, “and I am in the service of Madame Bathory, and I have been sent by her to ask you to make an appointment for her to see you.”

“Madame Bathory?” repeated the doctor. “Is she the widow of the Hungarian who paid for his patriotism with his life?”

“The same,” answered the old man. “And as you have never seen her it would be impossible for yon to know her, seeing you are Dr. Antekirtt.”

The doctor listened attentively to the old man, who kept his eyes on the ground. He seemed to ask if the words contained some hidden meaning.

Then he resumed:

“What does Madame Bathory want with me?”

“For reasons you can understand, she desires to have an interview with you.”

“I will go and see her.”

“She would prefer to come to you on board.”

“Why?”

“It is important that the interview should be secret.”

“Secret? From whom?”

“From her son! It is not desirable that Mr. Peter should know that Madame Bathory had a visit from you.”

The reply seemed to surprise the doctor, but he did not allow Borik to notice it.

“I prefer to go to Madame Bathory's house,” said he. “Can I not do so in her son's absence?”

“You can, doctor, if you can arrange to come to-morrow. Peter Bathory is going this evening to Zara, and he will not be back for twenty-four hours.”

“And what is Peter Bathory?”

“He is an engineer, but up to the present he has not been able to secure an appointment. Ah! life has been hard for his mother and him.”

“Hard!” answered the doctor. “Has Madame Bathory been in want—?”

He stopped himself. The old man bowed his head, and his chest heaved with sobs.

“Doctor,” said he, at last, “I can not tell you more. In the interview which she desires Madame Bathory will tell you all that you should know.”

It was evident that the doctor was thoroughly master of himself to conceal his emotion so successfully.

“Where does Madame Bathory live?” asked he.

“At Ragusa, in the Stradone quarter, at 17 in Rue Marinella.”

“Can I see Madame Bathory to-morrow between one and two o'clock in the afternoon?”

“You can, doctor, and I will introduce you.”

“Tell Madame Bathory she can expect me at that time.”

“Thank you, in her name,” replied the old man. Then after some hesitation:

“You may think,” he added, “that she wishes to ask some favor of you.”

“And what may that be?” asked the doctor, quickly.

“Nothing,” answered Borik.

Then, after an humble bow, he walked away down the road from Gravosa to Ragusa.

Evidently the last words had been rather a surprise for the doctor. He remained motionless on the quay, looking after Borik as he walked away. And when he returned on board he shut himself up in his room and remained there during the rest of the day.

Point Pescade and Cape Matifou took advantage of the holiday thus given them. They did themselves the pleasure of visiting the fair as spectators. To say that the active clown was not tempted to remonstrate at the clumsy juggler, or that the powerful wrestler did not burn to take part in the struggle between the athletes, is to say what is contrary to the truth. But both remembered that they had the honor of belonging to the crew of the “Savarena.” They remained as simple spectators, and did not spare the bravos when they thought them deserved.

The next day the doctor went ashore a little after noon. After he had sent the boat back he started along the road from Gravosa to Ragusa—a fine avenue a mile and a quarter long, bordered with villas and shaded with trees. The avenue was not as lively as it would be a few hours later, when it would be crowded with carriages and loungers on horse and foot.

The doctor, thinking all the time of his interview with Mme. Bathory, followed one of the side streets and soon reached the Borgo Pille, a kind of stone arm which stretches along the triple line of the fortifications of Ragusa. The gate was open, and through the three walls gave access to the interior of the city.

A splendid paved road is the Stradone, extending from the Borgo Pille to the suburb of Plocce, after passing straight through the town. It runs along the foot of a hill on which rises quite an amphitheater of houses. At one end is the palace of the doges, a fine monument of fifteenth century age, with an interior court-yard, Renaissance portico and semi-circular windows whose slender columns are worthy of the best period of Tuscan architecture.

The doctor had not to go as far as this. The Rue Marinella that Borik had mentioned the day before turns off to the left about the middle of the Stradone. If his pace slackened at all it was when he threw a rapid glance at a mansion built of granite, whose rich façade and square out-buildings were to the right of him. Through the open gate of the court-yard he could see the master's carriage with superb horses, with the coachman on the box, while a man-servant was waiting on the flight of steps under the elegant veranda.

Immediately afterward a man got into the carriage, the horses came out of the court-yard, and the gate closed behind them. This was the individual who three days before had accosted Dr. Antekirtt on the quay at Gravosa; he was the old banker of Trieste, Silas Torenthal.

The doctor, desirous of avoiding a meeting, turned quickly back, and did not resume his journey until the carriage had disappeared at the end of Stradone.

“Both in the same town!” he murmured. “This is chance; it is not my fault.”

Narrow, steep, badly paved, and of poor appearance are the roads which open on to the left of the Stradone. Imagine a large river with the tributaries on one of its sides all mountain torrents! To secure a little air the houses cluster on the hill-side one above the other and touch one another. Their eyes look into their eyes, if it is allowable so to speak of the windows or dormers that open along their fronts. Thus they mount one over another to the crest of one of the two hills whose summits are crowned by Forts Mincetro and San Lorenzo.

No vehicle could travel there. If the torrent was absent, except on days of heavy rain, the road was none the less a ravine, and its slopes and inequalities were rendered passable merely by steps and landing-places. There was a great contrast between the modest dwellings and the splendid mansions of the Stradone.

The doctor reached the corner of the Rue Marinella and began to mount the interminable staircase which did duty for it. He had gone about sixty yards when he stopped in front of No. 17.

There was a door opened immediately. Old Borik was waiting for the doctor. He introduced him without saying a word into a room cleanly kept, but poorly furnished.

The doctor sat down. There was nothing to show that he felt the least emotion at finding himself in this house, not even when Mme. Bathory entered and said:

“Dr. Antekirtt?”

“Yes,” said the doctor.

“I should have liked to have saved you the trouble of coming so far and so high,” said Mme. Bathory.

“I came to call on you, madame, and I hope you will think I am quite at your service.”

“Sir,” replied Mme. Bathory, “it was only yesterday that I heard of your arrival at Gravosa, and I immediately sent Borik to request an interview with you.”

“Madame, I am ready to hear what you have to say.”

“I will retire,” said the old man.

“No, you can stay, Borik!” answered Mme. Bathory. “You are the only friend our family has, and you had better know all I am going to say to Dr. Antekirtt.”

Mme. Bathory sat down and the doctor sat in front of her, while Borik remained standing at the window.

Professor Stephen Bathory's widow was then in her sixtieth year. If her figure was still upright in spite of the burden of age, her white hair and deeply wrinkled face showed how much she had to struggle against grief and misery. But she seemed still as energetic as ever, and in her was apparent the valiant companion and confiding friend of him who had sacrificed his life for what he deemed to be his duty.

“Sir,” said she in a voice of which she in vain endeavored to hide the emotion, “you being Dr. Antekirtt, I am under an obligation to you, and I ought to tell you what happened at Trieste fifteen years ago—”

“Madame, being Dr. Antekirtt I can spare you the mournful story. I know it, and may add—being Dr. Antekirtt—that I know what has been your life since the never-to-be-forgotten 30th of June, 1867.”

“Will you tell me,” said Mme. Bathory, “what the reason of the interest you take in my life?”

“The interest, madame, that a man must feel for the widow of a Magyar who did not hesitate to risk his life for the independence of his country.”

“Did you know Professor Bathory?” asked the widow.

“I knew him, I loved him, and I reverence all who bear his name.”

“Are you, then, a native of the country for which he died?”

“I am of no country, madame.”

“Who are you, then?”

“A dead man not yet gone to his grave,” answered the doctor coldly.

Mme. Bathory and Borik started at this unexpected reply; but the doctor immediately continued:

“However, madame, it is necessary that the story that I asked you not to tell should be told by me, for if there are any circumstances about it that you know there are others you do not know, and of these you will not be ignorant much longer.”

“Be it so, then; I am listening.”

“Madame,” began the doctor, “fifteen years ago three Hungarian nobles became the chiefs of a conspiracy, the object of which was to give Hungary her ancient independence. These men were Count Mathias Sandorf, Professor Stephen Bathory and Count Ladislas Zathmar—three friends united for years in the same hope, three living beings with but one heart.

“On the 8th of June, 1867, the evening before the day on which the signal of the rising was to be given which was to extend through Hungary to Transylvania, Count Zathmar's house at Trieste was entered by the Austrian police. Count Sandorf and his two companions were seized, taken away and thrown into prison that very night in the donjon of Pisino, and a week or two afterward were condemned to death.

“A young accountant named Sarcany was arrested at the same time in Count Zathmar's house; he was a perfect stranger to the plot, and was set at liberty after the affair was Over.

“The night before the execution an attempt at escape was made by the prisoners who were left together in the same cell. Count Sandorf and Stephen Bathory availed themselves of the lightning conductor and got out of the donjon of Pisino. They fell into the torrent of the Foiba at the moment when Ladislas Zathmar was seized by the warders and prevented from following them.

“Although the fugitives had very little chances of escaping death, for a subterranean stream bore them through the center of a country they did not even know, they succeeded in reaching the banks of the Leme Canal, near the town of Rovigno, and at Rovigno they found shelter in the house of a fisherman, Andrea Ferrato.

“This fisherman—a brave fellow—had made all preparations to take them across the Adriatic, when, out of pure personal revenge, a Spaniard named Carpena, who had discovered the secret of their retreat, gave information to the police of Rovigno. They tried to escape a second time. But Stephen Bathory was wounded and recaptured, while Mathias Sandorf was pursued to the beach, and sunk under a shower of bullets, the Adriatic never giving up his corpse.

“The day after, Stephen Bathory and Ladislas Zathmar were shot in the fortress of Pisino. Then, for having given them shelter, the fisherman, Andrea Ferrato, was sentenced to imprisonment for life, and sent to Stein.”

Mme. Bathory bowed her head. Sad at heart, she had listened without a word to the doctor's story.

“You knew all these details, madame?” asked he.

“Yes, as you do probably, from the newspapers.”

“Yes, from the newspapers,” was the reply. “But one thing which the newspapers did not tell the public, because the matter was conducted in secret, I happened to learn owing to the indiscretion of one of the warders of the fortress, and that I will now tell you.”

“Proceed.”

“Count Mathias Sandorf and Stephen Bathory were found in Ferrato's house, owing their being betrayed by Carpena, the Spaniard. And they were arrested three weeks before in the house at Trieste, owing to traitors having informed against them to the Austrian police.”

“Traitors?” exclaimed Mme. Bathory.

“Yes, madame, and the proof of the treason was produced at the trial. In the first place these traitors had intercepted a letter addressed to Count Sandorf, which they had found on a carrier-pigeon and copied; and in the second place they had managed to obtain a tracing of the grating which enabled, them to read the dispatch. Then when they had read the message they handed it over to the Governor of Trieste. And doubtless a share of Count Sandorf's wealth was their reward.”

“The wretches! Are they known?” asked Mme. Bathory, in a voice trembling with emotion.

“No, madame,” answered the doctor. “But perhaps the three prisoners knew them and would have said who they were had they been able to see their families before they died.”

It will be remembered that neither Mme. Bathory, then away with her son, nor Borik, who was in prison in Trieste, had been able to visit the prisoners in their last hours.

“Shall we never know the names of these wretches?” asked Mme. Bathory.

“Madame,” answered the doctor, “traitors always end by betraying themselves. But this is what I have to say to complete my story:

“You remained a widow with a boy of eight, almost penniless. Borik, the servant of Count Zathmar, would not leave you after his master's death; but he was poor, and had only his devotion to offer you.”

“Then, madame, you left Trieste for this humble dwelling at Ragusa. You have worked, worked with your hands to earn sufficient for your material as well as your mental needs. You wished, in fact, that your son should follow in science the path that his father had made illustrious. But what an incessant struggle it was, what misery you had so bravely to submit to! And with what respect I now bend to the noble woman who has shown such energy as a mother, and made of her son—a man!”

And as he spoke the doctor rose, and a shade of emotion just made itself visible despite his habitual reserve.

Mme. Bathory had nothing to say in reply. She waited, not knowing if the doctor had finished, or if he was going on to relate such facts as were personally known to him, and concerning which she had asked for the interview.

“However, madame,” continued the doctor, divining her thoughts, “human strength has doubtless its limits, and as you fell ill and exhausted with such trials you would doubtless have succumbed if an unknown—no, a friend of Professor Bathory—had not come to your aid. I should never have said anything about this had not your old servant told me of your wish to see me—”

“Quite so,” answered Mme. Bathory. “Have I not to thank Dr. Antekirtt?”

“And why, madame? Because, during the last five or six years, in remembrance of the friendship which bound him to Count Sandorf and his two companions, and to help you in your work, Dr. Antekirtt has sent you a sum of a hundred thousand florins? Was he not only too happy to put the money at your disposal? No, madame; it is I, on the contrary, who ought to thank you for having accepted the gift if it was of any help to the widow and son of Stephen Bathory.”

The widow bowed, and answered:

“In any case I have to thank you. This is the first object of the visit I wished you to make. But there was a second—”

“What is that, madame?”

“It was—to give you back the money—”

“What, madame,” said the doctor, quickly, “you do not wish to accept it?”

“Sir, I do not think I have any right to the money, I do not know Dr. Antekirtt. I never heard his name. The money may be a sort of alms coming from those whom my husband fought and whose pity is hateful to me. And so I do not care to use it, even for the purposes Dr. Antekirtt intended.”

“And—so this money—”

“Is untouched.”

“And your son?”

“My son will have nothing but what he owes to himself.”

“And to his mother!” added the doctor, with whom such grandeur of soul and energy of character could not but excite admiration and command respect.

Mme. Bathory had risen, and from a desk which she unlocked took forth a roll of notes, which she handed to the doctor.

“Sir,” she said, “take back the money, for it is yours, and receive the thanks of a mother as if she had used it to educate her son.”

“The money no longer belongs to me, madame,” replied the doctor, refusing it with a gesture.

“I repeat that it never belonged to me.”

“But if Pierre Bathory can use it—”

“My son will find the situation for which he is fit, and I can trust him as I can trust myself.”

“He will not refuse what his father's friend insists on his accepting.”

“He will refuse.”

“At least, madame, will you allow me to try?”

“I beg you will do nothing, doctor,” answered Mme. Bathory. “My son does not know that I have received this money, and I do not wish him ever to know it!”

“Be it so, madame! I understand your feelings, although I am a stranger and unknown to you! Yes, I understand and admire them. But I repeat, if the money is not yours it is not mine.”

Dr. Antekirtt rose. There was nothing in Mme. Bathory's refusal to annoy him personally; and her delicacy only filled him with a feeling of profound respect. He bowed to the widow, and was turning to leave when another question stopped him.

“Sir,” said Mme. Bathory, “you have told me of some miserable proceedings which sent to their deaths Ladislas Zathmar, Stephen Bathory and Count Sandorf?”

“I said what was true, madame.”

“But does any one know these people?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Who?”

“God.”

And as he spoke the doctor made a low obeisance and left.

Mme. Bathory remained in deep thought. By some sweet sympathy, for which she could not account, she felt herself irresistibly drawn toward the mysterious personage who was so mixed up with the events of her life. Would she ever see him again? And if the “Savarena” had only brought him to Ragusa to make this visit, would the yacht go to sea and never return?

The next day's newspapers announced that an anonymous gift of 100,000 florins had been made to the hospitals of the town.

It was the gift of Dr. Antekirtt, but was it not also the gift of the widow who had refused it for herself and her son?