"
Szilard was bound to believe that this was true, for tear-drops sparkled
in the countess's eyes.
"Is it my fault?" he asked bitterly.
"It is neither your fault nor hers. I know that as a fact. The cause of
it all is money, the thirst for money. There is not a more miserable
creature in the wide world than the daughter of a rich man. But that is
the least of her misfortunes. They married her to a man who did not love
her, who only took her because her grandfather was a millionaire. Her
grandfather frightened her into the match by threatening her with his
curse and now, when she has become the wife of this man who does not
even feel friendship for her, I hear that this same old grandfather has
made another will depriving her of everything."
Szilard's lips trembled at these words.
"You can imagine what will be the result. This young woman loves not and
is not loved. They gave her away to an Oriental nabob who, imagining his
wife to be wealthy, scatters his money like a prince. And now this man
has suddenly been startled by the report that his wife has absolutely
nothing!--do you know the meaning of the expression: bread of charity?"
"I have heard the expression, but the bread itself I have never tasted."
"Then you can have no idea what that sort of bread is like which a man
gives to the wife whom he finds to be poor, when he fancied her to be
rich--oh! that sort of bread is very, very bitter!"
Ah! thought Szilard, the bread that _I_ offered her was only dry--not
bitter.
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