The afternoon of the following day, Henry entered the count’s study to announce that a crazy person was below, who insisted on speaking to the lord of the castle. The stranger said he had invented a cannon that would at one shot destroy fifteen hundred men. He would take no denial, but insisted that Henry should tell the Herr Count that Master Matyas had arrived.
“Yes; I sent for him to come here,” answered the count. “Show him up.”
The appearance of the man whom Henry conducted to his master’s presence was certainly original. He wore a costume unlike any prevailing fashion. His upper garment was so made that it might be worn either as a coat or a mantle; if sleeves were desired there were sleeves, and none if none were required. Even his shoes were inventions of his own, for no regular shoemaker could have fashioned them. He held between the fingers of his right hand a bit of lead-pencil, with which he would illustrate what he described on the palm of his left hand.
“You come in good time, Master Matyas,” said the count.
“Yes—yes. If only I had been in good time at the battle of Marengo!” sighed the singular man.
“Too late now for regrets of that sort, Master Matyas,” smilingly responded Count Vavel. “Facts cannot be changed! I have a task for you which I desire to have completed as quickly as possible. Come, and I will show you what I want you to do.”
It was the hour Marie spent in her garden; consequently the count was at liberty to conduct the jack of all trades to the young girl’s apartment, and explain what he wished to have done.
Master Matyas listened attentively to what the count said, and took the necessary measurements. When he had done so, he turned toward his patron, and said in a serious tone:
“Do you know why we lost the battle of Marengo? Because General Gvozdanovics, when Napoleon’s cavalry made that famous assault, was not clever enough to order three men into every tree on that long avenue—two of the men to load the muskets, while the third kept up a continual fire. The French horsemen could not have ridden up the trees, and the entire troop of cavalry would have dropped under the continuous fire! The general certainly should have commanded: ‘Half battalion—half left! Up the trees—forward!’ ”
“That is true, Master Matyas,” assented Count Vavel; “but I should like to know if you fully understand what I want you to do, and if you can do it?”
Master Matyas’s face brightened suddenly. “I’ll tell you what, Herr Count; if I succeed in doing what you want, I shall be able, if ever Napoleon makes another attack on us, to pen him up, with his entire army, so securely that he won’t be able to stir!”
“I have no doubt of that!” again assented the count. “What I want, however, is a secure barrier that cannot be opened from the outside. Pray understand me. I want this barrier made in such a manner that the person within the barricade will have sufficient light and air, but be invisible to any one outside, and be perfectly secure from intruders. Could not you let me have a little drawing of what you propose to do?”
“Certainly”; and taking a small sketch-book from his pocket, Master Matyas proceeded to do as he was requested—first, however, explaining to the count a drawing of the cannon which would mow down at one shot fifteen hundred men. “You see,” he explained, “here are two cannon welded together at the breech, with their muzzles ten degrees apart. But one touch-hole suffices for both. The balls are connected by a long chain, and when the cannon are fired off, the balls naturally fly in opposite directions and forward at the same time, and, stretching the chain, mow off the heads of every man jack with whom it comes in contact! Fire! Boom! Heads off!”
The count was perfectly satisfied with Master Matyas. He had found a man who fully understood his business, and who knew how to hold his tongue on all subjects but on that of his infernal machines, and of his stratagems to defeat Napoleon. For two weeks Master Matyas labored diligently at his task in the Nameless Castle, during which time Henry heard so much about warlike stratagems that his sides ached from the continued laughter. But when the villagers questioned Master Matyas about his work at the castle, they could learn nothing from him but schemes to capture the ever-victorious Corsican.
“Herr Count,” one day observed Henry, toward the close of the second week, “if I hear much more of Master Matyas’s wonderful battles, I shall become as crazy as he is!”
And the count replied:
“You are crazy already, my good Henry—and so am I!”
At last the task was completed. Count Vavel was satisfied with the work Master Matyas had performed, and it only remained for Marie to express herself satisfied with the arrangement which would barricade her every night as securely as were the treasures of the “green vault” in Dresden.
A few days afterward was Marie’s sixteenth birthday. Count Vavel had come to her apartments, as usual, to congratulate her, and to hear what her birthday wish might be. But the young girl, whose sparkling eyes had become veiled with melancholy, whose red lips had already learned to express sadness, had no commands to give to-day.
After dinner the count, on some pretence, detained Marie in the library while Master Matyas completed his task in her room.
This masterpiece was a peculiar curtain composed of small squares of steel so joined together that light and air could easily penetrate the screen. It was fitted between the two marble columns which supported the arch of the bed-alcove. When the metal curtain was lowered, by means of a cord, two springs in the floor caught and held it so securely that it could not be lifted from the outside. To raise the screen the person in the alcove had only to touch a secret spring near the bed, when the screen would roll up of itself.
“And hast thou no wish this year, Marie?” asked the count, adopting, as usual on this anniversary, the familiar “thou.”
“Yes, I have one, dear Ludwig,” replied the young girl, but with no brightening of the melancholy features. “I have lost something, but thou canst not give it back to me.”
“And what may this something be? What hast thou lost, Marie? Tell me.”
“My former sweet, sound sleep! and thou canst not buy me another in Vienna or Paris. I used to sleep so soundly. I used to be so fond of my sweet slumber that I could hardly wait to say my prayers, and often I would be in dreamland long before I got to the ‘Amen.’ And if by any chance I awoke in the night and heard the clock strike, I would beg of it not to hurry along the hours so fast—I did not want morning to come so soon! But now that I have to sleep with locked doors, I lie awake often until midnight—terrified by I know not what. I dread to be so entirely alone when everything is so quiet; and when it is dark I feel as if some one were stealthily creeping about my room. When I hear a noise I wonder what it can be, and my heart beats so rapidly! Then I draw the covers over my head to shut out all sound, and if I fall asleep thus I have such disagreeable dreams that I am glad when I waken again.”
Count Vavel gently took the young girl’s hand in his.
“Suppose I could restore to thee thy former sweet slumber, Marie? Suppose I take up my old quarters on the lounge by the door?”
The young girl gazed into his eyes as if she would penetrate his very soul. Then she said sorrowfully: “No, dear Ludwig; that would not restore my slumber.”
“Then suppose I have thought of something that will? Come with me, and see.”
She laid her hand on his arm, and went with him to her room.
Ludwig conducted her into the alcove, and stepped outside.
“Draw the cord which hangs at the head of the bed,” he said, smiling at her wondering face.
Marie did as he bade her, and the metal screen unrolled, and was caught in the springs in the floor.
“Oh, how wonderful!” she exclaimed in amazement. “I am a prisoner in my own alcove.”
“Only so long as you care to remain in your prison,” returned Count Vavel. “No one can lift the screen from this side; but if you will press your foot on the little brass button in the floor at the foot of the column to your left, you will be at liberty again.”
The next instant Master Matyas’s handiwork was rolled up to the ceiling.
Marie was filled with delight and astonishment.
“There is another work of art connected with this wonderful mechanism,” said the count, after Marie had rolled and unrolled the screen several times. “The cord which releases the screen rings a bell in my room. When I hear the bell I shall know that you have retired; then I shall bring my books and papers into your room out yonder, and continue my work there. Only enough light will penetrate the screen to the alcove to prevent utter darkness. You will not need to be afraid hereafter, and perhaps the sweet, sound sleep will return to you.”
Marie did not offer to kiss her guardian for this birthday gift. She merely held out both hands, and gave his a clasp that was so close and warm that it said more than words or kisses. She waited impatiently for evening to test the working of her wonderful screen. She did not amuse herself with her cards, as usual, but went to bed at ten o’clock. At the same moment that the screen unrolled and was caught by the springs in the floor, Count Ludwig’s footsteps were heard in the corridor. In one hand he carried a two-branched candlestick, in the other his pistol-case and ink-horn. His pen was between his lips; his books and papers were held under his arm. He seated himself at a table, and resumed his studies.
Marie would have been untrue to her sex had she not watched him for several minutes through her metal screen—watched and admired the superb head, supported on one hand as he bent intently over his book, the broad brow, the classical nose, the chin and lips of an Achilles—all as motionless as if they had been molded in bronze. A true hero—a hero who battled with the most powerful demons of earth, the human passions, and conquered. From that day Marie found her old sweet sleep again.
The second day Marie’s curiosity prompted her to signal to Ludwig half an hour earlier. He heard, and came as readily at half-past nine o’clock. And then the little maid (like all indulged children) abused her privileges: she signaled at nine o’clock, and at last at eight o’clock—retiring with the birds in order to test if Ludwig would obey the signal.
He always came promptly when the falling screen summoned him.
And then Marie said to herself:
“He loves me. He loves me very much—as the fakir loves his Brahma, as the Carthusian loves his sainted Virgin. That is how he loves me!”