Anarchistbanjo's World

The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

On the other side of the bankholder an old man leaned low in
the chair with almost extinguished eyes, whose long fingers
crawled like spider legs out of the lace cuffs when it was
necessary to reach for gold. A daunting, ugly, hunchbacked
person with a deep brown face, finger-thick, coal-black
eyebrows and sharp, thin lips ate sweets from a gold paper bag,
and the pungent smell of bitter almonds, which I had already
noticed when I entered the room. Between him and a dark
green, silver-laced hussar with hairy hands shyly sat a young
girl all huddled together, who immediately attracted my
attention. Nevertheless my glance also took in as well a man in
expensive clothes, whose nose consisted of fiery red turkey
flaps and a high official, judging from his embroidered jacket,
who turned a blue-white, blind horse’s eye toward me. All the
people at that gaming table were somehow marked in some
way.
But the young girl, whose completely unexpected charm
so deeply touched me, had an indescribable resemblance to my
Aglaja, my dead cousin, was of perfect grace and beauty and
looked like a wonderful flower in a heap of rubbish. She
looked at me with a pleading and help-seeking look, as it were
that penetrated my heart like sweet fire, and in a moment filled
it with fierce tenderness.
It was as if Aglaja were sitting opposite me in a slightly
changed form, with a silent plea for protection and salvation
from some danger. Soon I heard her name, which the
hunchback pronounced in a strange German and always in a
harsh commanding tone:
“Zephyrine.”
And every time the monster spoke of some service from
the fair and lonely child, the toothless mouth of the spider-
fingered old man, whom they called Count Korony, lit up with
an unspeakably repugnant and lascivious grin. I immediately
made up my mind to approach this girl, who I loved at first
sight and to offer her my services, of which she seemed to need.
This feeling became so violent in me, that I could hardly
control myself and several times I was tempted to approach her,
especially when her gray, gold-flecked eyes looked at me and I
could see Aglaja’s unforgettable stars directed at me.
Nevertheless, I was wise enough not to admit a
completely incomprehensible affection and to wait for a
favorable moment, which would allow the inconspicuous
beginning of a conversation.
Meanwhile, the game was played very high, and the
bankholder with the hooded eye raked in whole mountains of
gold. Apart from him, the feisty Spanish Jewess was in luck. At
first I played well and doubled twice, but I lost on the very next
play. And little by little I got into a heat, tried to quickly bring
back what I had lost and again and again repeatedly lost. The
girl’s gaze clung sadly to me, and once it was as if she
reminded me with an almost imperceptible wink of her eye to
be careful and to keep an eye on the bankholder. I had to reach
deeper and deeper into my money cat, more and more of my
gold pieces went into the hands of the bankholder and the fat
woman, and as midnight approached, I realized with a
nameless horror that my cash was exhausted and only a few
gold pieces were my own.
Bitter remorse seized me for my imprudence. Too late I
thought of the fact that such secret playhouses were only set up
for the catching of bullfinches, and I remembered how often I
had heard that the apparent opposing players after the departure
of the plundered divided the profit that had been taken from
their victim. This was thanks to the skilful way in which they
worked together.
But as much as I was on my guard after Zephyrine’s
secret hint and looked at the bankholder’s hands, I could find
little wrong that would have given me the right to declare the
game invalid and demand the lost money back. But even then
my rebellion would have been in vain and ridiculous because
these numerous people were prepared for such things. I didn’t
even know where this house was located and would never be
able to find it the next day!
In despair, I bet two of my four remaining gold pieces,
when the clock on the mantelpiece of the fireplace struck
midnight and played a hoarse, mournful gavotte.
At that moment the double door was opened, and a
strange, hollow-eyed man, dressed entirely in black mourning
livery pushed a new player in a wheelchair to the table. It was
an ancient, quite frail old man with a white wig, just like the
servant, only more expensively dressed in black. His face
betrayed great wisdom, but also an eventful life. For it was
crisscrossed by countless wrinkles and furrows. But the waxy
color and the strange immobility of the wrinkles gave this well-
educated head of a witty old man something eerily corpse-like
and dead. Uncertain memories penetrated agonizingly on me.
Unconcerned about the poorly concealed astonishment of
the table company, the old man slid a roll of money onto the
cloth and immediately joined in the game without speaking a
word. Whispering, everyone looked at him. It seemed to me
that the candles had been burning darker since he had come
into the hall with his servant.
Then the man in the wheelchair turned two black,
lusterless eyes on me and said with a voice that seemed to
come from unfathomable depths:
“Herr von Dronte, I invite you to play with me en
compagnie!”
I only managed to nod. Like mist it sank on Zephyrine’s
lovely face, on her shimmering hair, on the ring-laden hands of
the Spanish Jewess and the nimble fingers of the bankholder.
The cards fell.
Silently, the old man slipped me half of his winnings, a
whole roll of golden sovereigns.
The bankholder mumbled something between his teeth,
the fat woman was wiping sweat and grease powder from her
forehead, and the hussar uttered a half-loud Hungarian curse.
Again the cards fell, thin old man’s fingers pushed new gold
pieces to me. The time passed, fell in golden drops down on me.
I saw that people from the other tables stood up, that a ring of
curious faces surrounded us. But all were silent. Only the quiet
fall of cards, the few words necessary for the game and the
metallic, fine clink were heard. Soon I could no longer put both
hands around the gold treasure in front of me. I began stealthily
to fill my money cat. When it was full to bursting I stuffed the
ducats into my pockets.
Already I had three times more money than I had
possessed when I entered this house. The coattails hung down
heavily, the vest bulged at the pockets. Everyone lost – the man
with the horse eye, the fat Jewess, the bankholder, the hussar,
the red-nosed one, the courtly one, the count, the hunchback
next to Zephyrine. With trembling hands they rummaged in
pockets and bags, their faces shone with sweat, the spit shine of
the brows melted into sooty blackness, their eyes gawked –.
I was rich. I could not even accommodate any more gold.
Then the clock on the fireplace gave the single stroke of the
hour after midnight and began to play the out-of-tune gavotte.
Immediately the black servant grabbed the chair, and the old
man, looking frail and suffering, nodded to me with a faint
smile, and the wheelchair passed soundlessly through the open
door through which it had entered an hour ago.
I jumped up and hurried out of the completely frozen
group of people around the table to express my thanks to him.
No one hindered me. I still felt how an ice-cold, small,
trembling hand sought mine, and I clenched my fingers around
a folded piece of paper, which she pushed toward me. I ran as
fast as I could into the anteroom. Where was the man in the
wheelchair?
A sleepy servant handed me my coat, hat and sword. I
gave him a few gold foxes and hurried down the stairs. The old
woman stood at the gate as if she had just let someone out. She
opened the door indifferently. While walking I heard the raging,
shouting and wild curses in the rooms upstairs. But I had no
time; I had to thank my rescuer.
But the street was empty. Nowhere a trace of the old man.
I ran into side alleys. Nothing. Nowhere a sound. How had he
disappeared so quickly?
Then – suddenly – I saw with terrible, indescribable
clarity, like a picture on a dark background, the chapel with the
dead man before me, from whose defenseless hand I was
supposed to take a cross – for Fangerle, the desecrator of the
corpse.
Half fainting, I leaned against a wall, and I almost fell
from fright, as the hinges of the lantern over me shrieked in the
wind.
I still held Zephyrine’s note in my cramped hand, I
unfolded it and read:
“Save me!”
In my great desire to protect Zephyrine from a danger
unknown to me, but of which she was well aware, I
remembered my childhood friend Lorle, with whom I had met
on the day of my arrival in Vienna in such an unusual way. As
strong as my nostalgia for her body had been, the acquaintance
with a being who reminded me in the deepest way of Aglaja,
had been enough to cool my desires with regard to the beautiful
Laurette Triquet, as she now called herself, and her sensual
embers. But no one could be of better help to me, in my
hitherto futile effort to find this beloved girl and her
hunchbacked guardian than that clever girl and, judging from
her rise, she was in possession of valuable relations.
In Schönlatern Street, I was directed to an old house,
which, similar to that gambling house, from the outside didn’t
show any of the comfort and beauty of its furnishings. A
magnificent marble group, the robbery of Proserpina, stood at
the foot of the stone stairs I was climbing, and Venetian
Moorish boys, painted in gold and colors, stood in their
wooden immobility on their heels, holding up lanterns.
The cute chambermaid, who, with coquettish skirts
walked in front of me up the stairs, opened the door to a pale
yellow silk room for me, then disappeared with an apology
through the heavy curtain held by cupids, behind which there
was a small door. At the opening of this I briefly heard a
shrieking laughter, which filled me with astonishment, since I
had never met a person with such a hideously piercing voice.