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Updated: July 11, 2025
"Here," he said, taking him by the sleeve and speaking in his own tongue, "I wish to present you to friends of mine. Prince Pierre Bukaty," he added, stopping in front of a tall, old man, with bushy, white hair, and the air of a mediaeval chieftain, "allow me to present my old friend Cartoner." The two men shook hands without other greeting than a formal bow.
It was, moreover, said in Warsaw that the law had actually stretched a point or two for the Prince Bukaty on more than one occasion. Like many outspoken people, he passed for a barker and not a biter. It does not fall to the lot of many to live in a highly civilized town and submit to open robbery.
Prince Bukaty had indeed known no other life, and to such as had daily intercourse with him he was quite a peaceful and jovial gentleman.
The Prince Bukaty had a touch of that rough manner which commands respect in this smooth age, and even Russian officials adopted a conciliatory attitude towards this man, who had known Poland without one of their kind within her boundaries.
Cartoner sipped his coffee, and looked reflectively at his companion over the cup. "Cartoner," Paul Deulin had once said to a common friend, "weighs you, and naturally finds you wanting." It seemed that he was weighing Prince Martin Bukaty now. "I saw your father also," he said, at length. "He was kind enough to ask me to call, which I did." "That was kind of you.
Prince Bukaty lived in a small palace in the Kotzebue street, and when he took his morning stroll in the Cracow Faubourg he passed under the shadow of a palace flying the Russian flag, which palace was his, and had belonged to his ancestors from time immemorial. He had once made the journey to St.
But now, without apparent reason, that which is called fate had suddenly accorded him that gracious and inconsequent attention which has forever decided the sex of this arbiter of human story. Cartoner still knew what he wanted, and avoided the common error of wanting too much. For the present he was content with the desire to avoid the Princess Wanda Bukaty. And this he was not allowed to do.
"Bukaty would not stoop to that. Remember they are a patient people. They waited thirty years." "And struck too hastily, after all," commented Deulin. "Bukaty would not link himself with these others, who talk so much and do so little.
Netty smiled a little pathetically, and glanced up at him beneath her lashes, which were dark as lashes should be that veil violet eyes. "Now you are laughing at me, because I am not clever," she said. "Heaven forbid! But I am laughing at your dream for Martin Bukaty. He will never come to what you suggest as the cure for his unsatisfactory life.
"I propose what any other young lover would propose to do to run away with her from Warsaw." "When?" Deulin looked at his watch. "In half an hour. Think of the risks, Bukaty a young girl." And he saw a sudden fierceness in the old man's eyes. The point was gained. "I could take her to Cracow this evening. Your sister there will take her in." "Yes, yes! But will Wanda go?"
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