Then someone behind him placed two hands on his shoulders, pressed him down into his seat again, and a well-known voice growled into his ear—
“Keep your seat.”
Apafi looked in the direction of the voice, and fell back in his chair completely overcome. His brother Stephen was actually standing behind him.
“You here too?” said Apafi, deeply distressed.
“I was a little late,” returned Stephen, “but quite early enough after all, and I’ll venture to remain here till you tell me to go.”
“So you have also resolved to plunge into destruction?”
“Brother,” said Stephen, “we are in the hands of God; but something has been put into our own hands also which may have a say in the matter,” and he touched the hilt of his sword. “Kemeny has lost the affection of the greater part of the country; why I need not now tell you. Your cause is righteous, nor do you lack the means of success.”
“But if it should turn out otherwise, what would become of my wife? Have you not seen her?”
“I came straight from her—that is why I came so late.”
“What! You have spoken to her? What did she say about my evil case? Was she not much troubled?”
“Not in the least. On the contrary, she was very glad of it, and said that Transylvania could not have got a better prince; that you deserved this honour far more than any of the magnates who practise nothing but tyranny and extortion, and that she much regretted her illness prevented her from assisting you with her sympathy and counsel.”
“Well, I should have liked it better if the election had fallen upon her,” said Apafi, half in jest and half in anger.
“Take heed to yourself,” answered Stephen archly; “the lady is already so much used to ruling the roost, that we shall live to see her put the Prince’s diadem on her own head, unless you plant it right firmly on your temples. Nay, brother, don’t look so serious; I was but in jest!”
But does not the proverb say that there is many a true word spoken in jest?
IV
A Banquet with the Prince of Transylvania
Meanwhile, his Highness, Prince John Kemeny, was faring sumptuously at Hermannstadt. This gentleman’s darling vice was gluttony—even if the whole machinery of state were to fall to pieces in consequence, he would not have risen from table, and amongst all his counsellors his cook always stood highest.
And now, too, we find him at dinner. He has converted the Town-hall to his own use, and it is thronged by his suite. In the courtyard we see spurred and ironclad cuirassiers flirting with the Saxon serving-maids; German musketeers, professedly on guard, who have left their muskets standing against the doorposts, in order to cultivate friendly relations with the scullions removing the dishes. With brimming glasses raised on high, they jocosely warble Hungarian airs picked up on the spur of the moment, improvising at the same time an absurdly artless sort of dance, in which one leg performs aimless aerial gyrations. On the other hand, the heydukes of the Hungarian bodyguard, dressed in yellow dolmans with green facings, sit morosely in twos and threes against the wall, not even condescending to look at the bumpers of wine thrust, from time to time, into their hands; but gravely tossing it down at a single gulp into its proper place, returning the empty pocal to the friendly butler, who has as much as he can do to keep his feet; keeps on offering the noble fluid to Tom, Dick, and Harry; and finding it easier to go backwards than forwards, is constantly backing against the head cook as he passes to and fro, bearing now a sugared almond tart adorned with flowers on a silver salver, and representing the tower of Babel, now a large porcelain bowl exhaling the spicy fragrance of hot punch, or a peacock on a large wooden platter, roasted whole, with his gorgeous headdress and splendid tail still upon him.
The head cook is scarcely able to force his way through the gaping mob of petitioners assembled here, who must wait till the Prince has dined, and are regaled in the meantime with wine, roast meats, and pastry, getting in short everything but what they came for—justice.
Within the dining-room itself the gentlemen and ladies are by this time in a merry mood. The meal has already lasted a pretty long time, and is likely to last a good while longer.
French gastronomic science seemed to have reserved all her masterpieces for Kemeny’s banquet. Nature’s three kingdoms have been laid under contribution to tickle the human palate. Every extravagant and extraordinary delicacy invented by Epicureanism, from the days of Lucullus to the days of Gallic gourmandism, is here in abundance. Here is to be seen every sort of foreign and domestic wine, in artistically-carved and gorgeously-coloured Venetian flasks, placed in huge silver refrigerators; game, large and small, of the rarest kind, on silver dishes; transparent, rose-coloured, quivering jellies with names unpronounceable by Hungarian lips; Indian fruits preserved in cane sugar; ragouts of cocks’ combs; enigmatical-looking snails, fit rather for the eye than for the palate; gigantic lobsters and the rarer kinds of marine fish fantastically disposed; meats which men who have already eaten to surfeit can only make believe that they enjoy by a supreme effort of the imagination; dishes which a true man would only eat by way of penance; immense pasties made entirely of pikes’ livers; large baskets of rosy swans’ eggs, which the guests may boil for amusement in little silver egg-boilers placed over
