told Boltay that if old Karpathy should send for the ring, it was not to
be sent back to him, but he was to come for it himself.

CHAPTER IX.

THE HUNTER IN THE SNARE.

Boltay and Teresa said not a word against Fanny's resolution, nor did
they talk about the wedding, but in the meantime they began to provide
the _trousseau_, for though as the wife of a magnate, she might come to
wear far more splendid things, she might nevertheless keep what they
gave her as a souvenir, and, amidst the whirl and bustle of the great
world, reflect from time to time, when she looked at their gift, on the
modest domestic joys that she had left behind her. At the same time the
preparations for Fanny's marriage were kept so secret that nobody could
possibly have known anything of that interesting event; it was not in
their natures either to brag about or lament over it.

Now a very singular thing happened about this time.

One day, when Master Boltay was at home in his factory, there rushed
into the place a shabbily, not to say raggedly, attired female whom
Master Boltay could not recognize as belonging to the circle of his
acquaintances. But there was no need for him to puzzle his head over it,
for the miserable creature herself hastened to inform him who she was.

"I am the unfortunate Mrs. Meyer, Fanny's mother," sobbed the woman in
the bitterness of her heart, throwing herself at Boltay's feet, and
covering first his hands and then his knees, and then his very boots
with her kisses, and shedding oceans of tears. Boltay, who was not used
to such tragical scenes, could only stand there as if rooted to the
spot, without asking her to get up or even tell him what was the matter.

"Oh, sir! oh, my dear sir! most worthy, honourable, magnanimous Mr.
Boltay, suffer me to kiss the dust from your boots! Oh, thou guardian
angel of the righteous, thou defender of the innocent, may God grant
thee many, many years upon earth, and, after this life, all the joys of
heaven! Was there ever a case like mine? My heart faints within me at
the thought of telling my tale; but tell it I must. The whole world must
know; and, above all, Mr. Boltay must know what an unfortunate mother I
am. Oh, oh, Mr. Boltay, you cannot imagine what a horrible torture it is
for a mother who has bad daughters--and mine are bad; but it serves me
right! I am the cause of it, for I have always let them have their own
way. Why did I not throw myself in the Danube after