This went on well into the afternoon. At six o’clock the last petitioner left and he was free to get away. He decided to visit the Miloths and so, ordering his man to saddle up, he left the inn and together they took the road back up to the grassland plateau. Balint knew, of course, that Adrienne would not be there but thought, as he was so near, that if they heard that he’d been to Lelbanya and not ridden over they would think that last September he had come only to see Adrienne.
When they reached the ridge above the town they rode first to the north and then shortly afterwards turned to the north-west. In half an hour they could see Mezo-Varjas in the valley below. Balint stopped for a moment as from where they were they could already see the whole Miloth estate and manor house as well as the village nearby.
Riding into the stable yard they had hardly dismounted and handed over their horses to the Miloths’ grooms when a voice could be heard from somewhere inside the barn. It was old Rattle, as usual shouting a stream of complaint at his servants.
‘You idiots! A guest arrives and no one tells me! I’ll beat the daylights out of you all!’ and he came bustling out crying, ‘Where are you, my dear chap, where are you?’ as he peered out among the lilac bushes that surrounded the barn doors. Then he turned back to face the interior of the barn, waving his arms furiously. ‘Asses! Idiots! Pig-headed brutes!’ but, seeing Balint, he came forward open-armed: ‘How nice of you to visit us! What a pleasure! I am glad you came!’
When they reached the house even the normally sour Countess Miloth seemed pleased to see him, as well as her younger daughters, while Mlle Morin managed a weak smile and became almost cheerful.
Nevertheless nothing was the same as when he had last been there.
After dinner the girls went into a corner to whisper together while Countess Miloth and the French governess sat down to their needlework in silence. Only old Miloth was in his element having someone in the house to whom he could retell his stories of Garibaldi and the campaigns that unified Italy. He was so fully in his stride when Countess Miloth rose to say goodnight and left the room accompanied by the others, that he never paused or drew breath except to make sure that Balint did not leave too.
The two men remained together for a long time. The old soldier paced up and down the room laughing loudly at his own tales and describing with wide gestures and arms flung out the oddnesses of Italian behaviour and how he himself had got tangled up in the macaroni that had been hung out to dry, had been thrown from his mule on the slopes of Vesuvius; and, most hilarious of all, how once Garibaldi had scolded him in mistake for someone else! Old Rattle had not had such a good time for many a day.
Balint listened to it all with pleasure. He liked the old man and he liked, too, the fact that his tales were good-natured and humorous. Hearing him run on was like listening to a stream of light-hearted melody, flowing and unstoppable. All Balint had to do was occasionally to interject a word or two, such as ‘Bravo!’ or ‘How amusing — fascinating — embarrassing — amazing!’ or whatever adjective seemed most appropriate, and Rattle would at once embark on another tale, full of simple humour and good fun. For the first time Balint was able to observe the old man and so he remarked, as he never had before, that Rattle had the same golden eyes as Adrienne, a sort of glowing amber, and for some reason this came with a shock of surprise, for it had never occurred to him that there might be any resemblance between his Adrienne and the faintly ridiculous Akos Miloth. But the discovery of the likeness between them endeared old Rattle to him and so he listened once again to his much-told tales with affection and emotion.
Finally they went to their rooms.
Balint had just taken off his jacket and was unbuttoning his waistcoat when he heard a faint knock at the door of his room. He looked at the door-handle but it did not turn and Balint thought that perhaps he had been mistaken. There was another knock, so Balint opened the door and looked out.
It was Judith.
‘Can I come in for a moment?’ she asked and slipped into the dimly-lit guest-room.
The young man quickly put on his jacket again.
‘There’s nothing to be upset about!’ said the young girl hurriedly. ‘I just wanted to ask a favour of you. Don’t worry, it isn’t much, really it isn’t!’
‘Well, what can I do for you?’ Balint tried to look serious and conceal his amusement at what he took to be some little girl’s prank.
‘Look, AB, the thing is … well, you see, they all treat me like a child, as if I ought to be ashamed of it. But I’m watched all the time … controlled … and, well, it isn’t very much but could you just take this letter and post it, anywhere’ll do, just put it in a postbox. Will you do it? Please! It’d be a great favour. You will do it, won’t you?’
They stood facing each other near the bed. The single candle that Balint had put down on the table lit Judith’s face, passionate, determined, desperately waiting for his reply.
‘A letter? In secret so that your parents won’t know?’
‘Yes! Please take it, please!’ and she handed him a long narrow but thick envelope.
Balint’s face clouded over. It occurred to him at once that the letter could only be for that scoundrel Wickwitz. After a moment’s reflection he said: ‘Forgive me, Judith, but no! You’re asking me something I can’t do!’ And his voice was even colder than his words.
‘I see! You really won’t?’
‘No.’
Judith stepped back, hatred in her eyes, her lips pulled back from her even white teeth: ‘I understand. So you’re on their side, are you, with all the rest of them, with my mother and Adrienne? I ought to have known better than to have asked you, of all people. I see now that it was you who put Adrienne against him, because you hate him, don’t you? Oh, I’ve known that for a long time, I’ve seen it in your eyes. You’re the one who’s responsible for this horrible mess. First you persuaded Adrienne and then she got at my mother. I see it all now; you might as well admit it!’
Abady was very angry. Looking her straight in the eyes, he said icily: ‘I didn’t have to! It wasn’t necessary, but if it had been, I certainly would have!’
They looked at each other for a moment. Then Judith tossed her head and left the room.
Balint was annoyed with himself for letting his last words slip from him. If he hadn’t been so angry he would never have done so.
Why say such things, why he asked himself. He lay awake for some time thinking over what had just happened.
No one came to wake him in the morning, to rap on the shutters and get him out of bed. In consequence he slept late and it was nearly ten o’clock before he was dressed. He breakfasted alone on the vine-covered veranda. Everything was calm. No one bothered him and no one hurried him. It was all very different from the last time he had been there! Balint began to regret that he had come.
Eventually old Rattle came in from the fields. He was an assiduous farmer who every day from dawn until midday made the rounds of his property. He went everywhere and, as he used to say, he would put everything in order, a process which consisted mainly of scolding everyone he met. Today he returned to the house so soaked in sweat that the back of his homespun jacket was wet to the touch. He was in the high good humour that sprung from consciousness of a job well done. He shook hands with Balint and greeted him effusively: ‘How are you, my dear chap? Did those idiots give you breakfast? Did they bring you any bacon? It wasn’t ‘off’, was it? Janos, where the devil are you hiding?’ he called out suddenly.