On the fourth morning he awoke early, still tormented by the thoughts that had kept him awake so late the night before. How to do it? How? If he wrote to Klara, the letter was sure to be intercepted by her mother, for Princess Agnes was capable of any act, however mean, to ensure that her commands were obeyed. Then again he remembered the little maid, Ilus. She was a good girl, even if she always seemed so sad. He was sure she would do anything for her mistress so if he could send a message through the maid, then it stood a chance of reaching Klara. Nobody would bother about a maidservant’s letters.
He got up at once and went to his desk. As usual he had no writing paper, so he took out one of his visiting cards and wrote a few words on the back: ‘Dear Ilus, Come to see me today. I’ll be at home all afternoon. Please come!’ Only this, nothing more.
As Laszlo never had any envelopes either, he dressed hurriedly and went down to ask the concierge’s wife if she could give him one. It was large and rough, but it would have to do. Slipping into it the card, he wrote on the outside the maid’s name and addressed it merely to the Kollonich Palais.
Then, still unshaven, he hurried to Kalvin Square. It was about ten o’clock. Not wanting to go up to the house where he would be recognized he handed the letter to a street porter.
‘Do I wait for an answer?’ asked the old man when Laszlo had told him what he wanted and put some coins in his hand.
‘No answer. But you must give it to her personally, into her own hands, you understand!’
‘Yes, sir. Just as you wish, sir!’
It had been a bad mistake to send a street porter. If Laszlo had sent his message by post it would have arrived the same afternoon at the latest. As it was, the whole operation drew unnecessary attention to itself. Firstly, it was unusual for a maid-servant to receive letters by special delivery. What sort of person was it, anyone might wonder, who would spend money having a letter carried 50 yards just for a servant? It certainly wasn’t any relation. A member of her family, someone of her own kind, would never lay out forty cents for something that normally cost eight; not only that, they wouldn’t be in such a hurry. A stranger then? But who could it be? It was very odd and out of the ordinary.
The porter was a conspicuous figure who always wore a red beret. This would have attracted little notice in a block of apartments with several floors and many different tenants. There he could have entered quite freely. But it was no means the case when he presented himself at the covered portico of the grand town house of the princely Kollonich family. There he was prevented from entering the mansion by a liveried door-keeper, a huge man with a bushy beard who wore an intimidating quantity of gold braid and who peremptorily demanded where the man thought he was going and asked him to state his name and the name of the person to whom he was delivering the letter. The Kollonich door-keeper was not only powerfully built but was also filled with a sense of his own importance.
The porter, an honest and conscientious fellow, explained his mission and insisted that he had been instructed to hand the letter only to the person to whom it was addressed. This started an argument which, brief though it was, at once brought a footman running out, for the door-keeper had a stentorian voice and this undignified noise could be heard inside the house.
‘Well? Who’s it for?’ shouted the doorman, ‘Ilus Varga? No you can’t go up. If you want an answer you can wait outside on the sidewalk. What? No answer? Then move along! I don’t want any hanging about outside this house, thank you very much!’
There was nothing that the porter could do but hand over the letter and move on before he caused any more trouble.
The footman came down the steps to where the doorman stood. There he was joined by a serving-man in a baize apron and hands covered in brass polish who had been cleaning the fittings of the inner doors. ‘Who’s this for?’ they both asked. ‘Ilus?’ The doorman handed over the envelope and both the other men handled it trying to establish what it contained. All that they could determine was that a little rectangular disc seemed to be inside. It certainly wasn’t money and therefore must be a visiting card which meant that it had been sent by a gentleman despite the poor quality of the envelope. ‘Ilus must be doing all right!’ chuckled one of them, as they stood round the doorman.
At this moment the butler Szabo, who was doing the rounds of the house, came down the steps.
‘What’s all this going on here?’ he asked sternly, gesturing to the under-servant in the baize apron to get back in the house and carry on with his work. The footman, to explain why he had left his post at the foot of the main staircase in the hall — and because he was terrified of the butler — started to gabble incoherently:
‘Well, you see, sir, a letter arrived, for Ilus Varga… a street porter … he wanted to come in … a porter …’ he hesitated. ‘Just a porter … therefore …’ he tailed off lamely.
‘Where is it? Give it to me!’ and, as the footman handed it over, Szabo went on, ‘I’ll take care of this!’ Slipping the letter into his breast pocket he turned and went back up the steps.
In a few moments all was back to normal. The lackey was polishing the brasses, the footman was back yawning at the foot of the great staircase, and the doorman went back to his place standing with splayed legs and chest thrown out to dazzle the passers-by with the importance of the house in front of which he stood.
The princess was just going from her bedroom to her dressing room to get out of her morning negligé and put on her afternoon dress when Fräulein Schulze, her German maid, came in.
‘Your Grace! The butler Szabo begs your Grace’s pardon and asks the favour of a short audience.’
‘Now?’ said Princess Agnes, surprised because such a request was unusual.
The household arrangements of the Kollonich Palais were performed so automatically and smoothly that something exceptional must have arisen if she had to be consulted at this hour.
‘Let him come in,’ she said, sitting down by her writing desk — for one must always be seated when interviewing servants.
Fräulein Schulze, whose corsetted figure had all the rigidity of a sergeant-major, went out as soon as Szabo entered the room. He stood respectfully near the door.
From head to toe the butler’s whole body seemed to epitomize that of an honourable man. The expression of his face was never less than stony; not a muscle of his handsome classical features moved to reveal the smallest emotion. He was scrupulously clean and always closely shaven. With his exceptional height and the bearing of a great English statesman, no one would have thought that he was born a simple peasant boy somewhere in the country of Feher.
The butler stood erect, his mouth closed, calm and without stiffness, waiting to be spoken to.
‘Well, Szabo, what is the matter?’ demanded the princess who, when speaking to any of her servants, used the family names only of the butler, the chef and Fräulein Schulze; the last because she came from a better family.
‘Your Grace,’ said the face of stone, ‘I beg pardon of your Grace for this inconvenience, but something has happened which affects the reputation and good name of this princely household.’ Szabo spoke ponderously, giving equal emphasis to each word.
‘What is it?’ asked the Princess, surprised.
‘There is a young maidservant, the Duchess Klara’s maid — her name is Ilona Varga, or something like that. She is not, I beg your Grace’s pardon, worthy to be employed in such a noble house.’