CHAPTER XXII.

A WOMAN'S HATRED.

In the Plankenhorst house another of those confidential interviews was being held in which Sister Remigia and her pupil were wont to take part.

Prince WindischgrA¤tz's latest despatches had brought news of a decisive engagement in the Royal Forest near Isaszeg. At seven o'clock in the evening the ban[5] had been on the point of dealing the Hungarians a final crushing blow, and the commander-in-chief had been assured he might go to sleep with no anxiety as to the issue. It was not until seven in the morning that he was awakened by the ban himself with the announcement that he had abandoned the field to the enemy. Despatches to that effect were immediately sent to Vienna.

[Footnote 5: The victory of Croatia.]

Baroness Plankenhorst and her daughter, with Sister Remigia and Edith, sat talking over the battle of Isaszeg and the supposed victory of the Austrians. Three of the ladies were in the best of humours. In the midst of their lively discussion there came a knock at the door and RideghvAiry entered. Both of the Plankenhorst ladies hastened to meet him, greeted him with loud congratulations, and seated him in an armchair. Then for the first time they noticed how pale he looked.

"What news from the front?" asked the baroness eagerly.

"Bad news," he replied; "we have lost the battle of Isaszeg."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Antoinette.

"Yes, it is true," declared the other.

"But why are you so certain of it?" asked Alfonsine. "People are so easily deceived by false rumours."

RideghvAiry threw a searching glance at the speaker. "It is more than a rumour, Miss Alfonsine," said he with emphasis. "What I tell you is the truth. The messenger who brought the news was on the spot when Otto Palvicz fell."

The colour suddenly faded from the young lady's cheeks.

"Otto Palvicz?" repeated Sister Remigia. No one else uttered the name.

"Yes," returned RideghvAiry, "the courier who was despatched to us was an eye-witness of the encounter between Otto Palvicz and Richard Baradlay. They aimed their swords at each other's heads both at the same time, and both fell at the same instant from their horses."

There were now two pale faces turned anxiously toward the speaker, who continued with cruel deliberation:

"Baradlay still lives; Otto Palvicz is dead."

Edith sank back with a sigh of relief and folded her hands as one who gives thanks in silence, while Alfonsine, her features convulsed with rage and despair, sprang up from her chair and stood looking down wildly upon the speaker. Her mother turned to her in alarm. Was she about to betray her carefully guarded secret? But the girl cared little then what she said or who heard her.

"Cursed be he who killed Otto Palvicz!" she exclaimed, with an ungovernable outburst of passion; and then, overcome by her feelings, she sank down on the sofa, sobbing violently. "Oh, my dear Otto!" she moaned, and then, turning again to RideghvAiry: "There is no one in this city or in the whole world that can hate better than you and I. You know all: you have seen me and heard me. Is there any retribution in this world?"

"Yes," answered RideghvAiry.

"Find it for me, even if hell itself has to be searched for it. Do you understand me?"

"We both understand each other," was the quiet reply.

"And if at any time your hatred slumbers or your zeal slackens, come to me."

"Never fear," returned RideghvAiry; "we shall see ourselves revenged in good time--though the heavens fall. We will turn all Hungary into such a scene of mourning as will live in the memory of three generations. For the next ten years black shall be the fashionable colour to wear. I hate my country, every blade of grass that grows in its soil, every infant at its mother's breast. And now you know me as I know you. Whenever we have need of each other's aid, we shall not fail to lend it."

So saying, he took his hat and departed without bowing to any one in the room.

Sister Remigia, as in duty bound, sought to administer spiritual consolation and advice to Alfonsine. "Throw yourself in your affliction on Heaven's mercy," said she with unction, "and God will not fail to strengthen and console you."

Alfonsine turned upon her with a wild look. "I ask nothing of Heaven's mercy," she retorted; "I have ceased to pray."

The nun folded her hands piously and sought to soothe the passionate young woman. "Remember," she urged, "that you are still a Christian."

"I am a Christian no longer," returned the other. "I am a woman no longer. Just as there are creatures on earth who cease to be women, call themselves nuns, and do nothing but pray, so there are others that cease to be women and do nothing but curse--or worse if they can."

Sister Remigia, shocked by these impious words, which it was sacrilege even to listen to, gathered up her cloak and hastened to depart, motioning to Edith to follow. But Alfonsine barred the young girl's way and held her back.

"You are not to return to the convent," said she; "you will stay here with us."

The pious nun did not stop to remonstrate. She was only too glad to escape from the house.

"Do you know why I have kept you?" asked Alfonsine, when the other had gone. "I have kept you in order that I may whisper in your ear every night, when you lie down to sleep: 'I will kill him. The man you love has murdered the man whom I love, and the murderer must die.' You shall taste the despair that embitters my heart. You shall not be happy while I am miserable."

She threw herself into an armchair, weeping passionately, and Edith sought her old room.