Balint assured him that everything had been done just as it should be and that his breakfast had been excellent. He asked if they could go to see the mares and their foals and then have a look at the Miloth breeding stables.
Rattle agreed, much pleased to be asked. His horses were all large, handsome and strong, big-boned animals showing all the best signs of the old Transylvanian breed though with a special touch of class, for Rattle’s father, Ferenc Miloth, had been one of the first of his compatriots to bring in thoroughbred stallions from England. The first one that he had imported was called Jason and his portrait hung in the drawing-room.
When they returned from the paddocks they went to the stables where Rattle explained everything passionately. Balint noticed that the boxes were none too clean and that the horses they contained, though beautiful, had been carelessly groomed. None of this seemed to be noticed by Rattle, but then he lived surrounded by disorder, perhaps because he never ceased to shout and scold whether or not there was any reason.
As they strolled back to the house they met the two girls. Margit, as always, was bright and smiling, but Judith looked cold and withdrawn. The two men walked on and Balint, glancing back, saw that the girls had turned into the stableyard.
After lunch Balint started for home. Once again they climbed up to the grassy prairies to the crest of the ridge that led to the south. It was a cloudy day and it was perhaps as a result of this that Balint felt strangely depressed.
When they reached Maros-Ludas and were walking their horses side by side the groom suddenly broke his silence and spoke to his master:
‘If your Lordship has no objection I’d like to stop for a moment at the post office.’
‘Why?’ asked Balint.
‘One of the young ladies asked me to post a letter at the first post box we came to!’ replied the young man as he took from an inner pocket the same thick envelope that Judith had tried to give Balint the night before.
‘There’s no point in stopping now,’ said Balint. ‘Give it to me and I’ll post it myself at Maros-Szilvas.’
He took the letter from the lad and put it in his own pocket, thinking that it was insufferably cheeky of Judith to use his servant to smuggle out her clandestine correspondence. He was extremely angry, and became even angrier when he reflected that if Judith’s parents came to hear about the letter they would think that he had been the girl’s accomplice.
Balint broke into a smart trot, though he knew that this could only be kept up until they came to the next steep climb up to the plateau again. By the time they had to reduce their speed to a walk Balint’s anger had subsided and he began to wonder why he had so abruptly and eagerly taken charge of the letter. It was nothing to do with him and it was always far better not to meddle in other people’s affairs. He wondered what he should do with it. Burn it? Hardly that, for he had no right. If he sent it back to Judith it would probably fall into her mother’s hands and then the girl would get into trouble. Post it? Not that either, because then he would be guilty of helping that loathsome Wickwitz with whatever he was now up to. He pondered the matter all the time they were climbing upwards. As they reached the top the solution came to him; he would pass the letter on to Adrienne and then she could decide the best course. He would go to Almasko as soon as he could and get rid of this embarrassing burden. That would be the best, indeed the only solution. Balint was immensely pleased with himself at the thought that he had found a way out of this latest predicament. It was always satisfying to find a suitable answer to a difficult question and Balint now felt such a sense of happiness that he whistled cheerfully as he rode along the next stretch of the way. The tune was Toselli’s ‘Serenade’, then very much in fashion.
The garden of Dinora Malhuysen, Countess Abonyi, was hidden behind the long wall that bordered the road. Inside the gates a winding avenue of thickly planted bay trees led to the house, which was a high one-storey building built in the Biedermeier style. At the front was a long covered veranda whose roof was supported by brick pillars. Here cane garden chairs had been placed, and, from one of those, Dinora jumped up, obviously pleased, indeed delighted, that Balint had arrived.
‘How nice that you’ve come!’ she cried, running down the steps to greet him and holding out both hands joyously. They went back up the steps hand in hand and sat down next to each other in the comfortable, white-painted chairs.
‘I didn’t think you’d come! You rode past the other day, didn’t you — the day before yesterday it was, surely? But you didn’t stop. I saw you from the summer house.’
‘I was in a great hurry. I was already late.’ lied Balint.
‘It doesn’t matter. Everything’s all right now that you have come!’ And Dinora jumped up again, kneeled coquettishly on the cane seat next to Balint and kissed him suddenly on the mouth. Then she laughed: ‘That’s your punishment for avoiding me, Little Boy, naughty Little Boy!’ She turned away and sat down again where she had been before.
‘How bold you are!’ said Balint. ‘That was foolhardy, anybody could have seen us!’ But he was laughing too.
‘Oh, there’s no one here. Tihamer’s having a siesta in his room. He’s having an early nap now as he’s going to Budapest on the night train. Can you sleep in the afternoon? I can’t, and anyhow why sleep so much? It’s a waste of time …’ and she chattered on, twittering merrily about a host of trivialities.
This was the moment, thought Balint, when he should speak to her and suggest that they come to an understanding. Why, even tonight, or tomorrow? Clearly there would be no difficulties, but somehow the words did not get spoken.
To lead up to the subject, he asked: ‘What’s the news about Wickwitz?’
‘Nitwit? I don’t know. Yes, I do. He’s somewhere near Kolozsvar, shacking up with a fat Armenian widow, they tell me! Very fat, ugh! You can imagine what she looks like in bed!’ She raised her hands in disgust and crinkled up her little nose. ‘Yes, a widow lady, it seems, and she’s called something like Bogdan Lazar. What a pretty name!’
‘She isn’t fat!’ remarked Balint.
‘You know her, then?’
‘I met her at some charity do, a bazaar or something. She’s much too good for Nitwit! She’s dark — rather beautiful, I should say.’
‘Of course! I know who you mean, I’ve seen her too. Do you fancy her, Little Boy?’
To tease, Balint paused for quite a long time and then, rather mysteriously and with a serious expression, he said: ‘I’m not sure … who knows?’
Dinora fell for this, completely believing him, and at once started to ask how anybody could possibly make love to such a creature, who probably had hairy legs and no doubt gave off the oddest odour when she got over-heated. How could Balint think of such a person, she demanded, he who was so fastidious? Jumping up and walking about, Dinora got quite excited trying to disgust Balint at the idea of Mme Lazar’s charms.
Balint watched her with an amused smile, thinking that it wasn’t fair to allow her to get so upset. He really shouldn’t tease her so, he thought, and anyway, this was the moment to strike and tell her why he’d come. Accordingly he grabbed her arm and pulled her down on to the cane sofa beside him. ‘Stop it!’ he said. ‘That’s enough now!’
Dinora looked up at him, both surprised and hopeful, thinking that now he would start to hold her in his arms, caress her and kiss her and ask for love. All this she read from the expression on his face, for she had seen it before, long ago when they had been lovers.