During the brief moment that elapsed since she fell into his arms the voice of Balint’s conscience spoke to him again, saying, Wait! Not now! Do it when you come back from Almasko. You can’t go there straight from another woman’s bed, it would not be right. Indeed it would be downright distasteful! So, instead of begging for Dinora’s love, he merely said: ‘You make me dizzy, spinning about like that!’ He tried to laugh convincingly so that she should think he had only been making a joke of it all. For a fraction of a second a worried look passed over her face, as if she had sensed her former lover’s thoughts and had found there something new — something dangerous and unexpected.
‘I only wanted to demonstrate what a fat woman looked like with no clothes on …’
A little later Tihamer Abonyi came out of his room. He made every effort to make Balint feel at home and welcomed him effusively. The conversation was about nothing in particular, and at dusk, just before Dinora’s husband had to leave for Aranyos-Gyeres to catch the Budapest train, Balint called for his horses and rode home.
Early next morning, when Countess Roza went to visit the stables, she spoke to the groom who had accompanied her son to Lelbanya.
‘Where did you stop to rest the horses?’
‘We went all in one go, my lady,’ said the boy. ‘But on the way back from Mezo-Varjas …’
‘Ah, so you went there too?
‘Yes, my lady, we slept there the day before yesterday. But coming back we stopped at Szilvas. I gave them their feed there, and I rubbed them down before we saddled up again.’
‘So you were there for some little time?’
‘We arrived about four, and didn’t leave until nearly eight, my lady.’
‘You didn’t have any trouble with the horses? They stood up to it all right?’
Countess Roza then walked over to look for herself, feeling the horses’ backs to see if there was any soreness, and running her hands over their tendons. She then left the stables well satisfied. What she had heard was good.
As she walked back to the house to have breakfast with her son, a tiny roguish smile, almost invisible, might have been discerned on her round little face.
Chapter Three
THE YELLOW BRICSKA, Count Uzdy’s travelling carriage which had been sent to the station to collect Balint, turned at great speed into the forecourt of the castle of Almasko, tore round the central lawn, and came to an abrupt halt in front of the main entrance.
On the steps was standing Uzdy’s butler, a grey-haired man with wide powerful shoulders, a short beard and clipped moustaches. His eyebrows were long and bushy and below them his eyes were large and unusually sad. He bowed correctly and stepped forward to offer his arm to Abady as he descended from the high-slung carriage. For a second Balint availed himself of the man’s aid and was astonished, when he touched the butler’s arm, to notice that the old man’s muscles were as hard as steel. As the butler preceded him up the steps the carriage moved on as swiftly as it arrived; presumably the luggage would be taken off somewhere else.
‘The Countess will receive your Lordship in the salon,’ said the butler in a lugubrious monotone and, leading the way across the oval hall, silently opened a pair of double doors. Balint went through and the doors were closed as silently as they had been opened.
The salon was a long room, oval like the entrance hall but much larger. The shutters were all closed, even those of the floor-length french windows which, presumably opened on to the castle’s garden front. Balint needed a few moments for his eyes to become adjusted to the gloom. The ceiling was high and covered with baroque stucco-work. The walls were painted a cold grey and the furniture, mostly heavy sofas and armchairs dating from the 1860s, was covered in tobacco-coloured cord. There were one or two old family portraits hung sparsely on the otherwise bare walls. There did not seem to be anything personal in the room and the general impression was stern and cold with every object carefully, symmetrically, and severely in its place.
Balint walked up and down for a little, waiting, his heart beating strongly in eager anticipation of Adrienne’s appearance. What would she say and how would she look in that curiously impersonal room? As he strolled over to the windows for the third time he was surprised, for he had not heard anyone enter, to hear a voice behind him. ‘Count Abady, how nice of you to come!’
It was Clémence Absolon, mother to Pali Uzdy and widow of his father Domokos, a thin elderly lady who stood very straight. She was the image of her son, but an old, female version, and it was clear that she must once have been very beautiful. She wore a grey dress, buttoned up high to the chin where a narrow white collar emphasized the severity of her appearance. On her abundant white hair was pinned a little lace widow’s cap. Countess Clémence walked with a curious stamping tread as if she had to force her body to move. A cold, distant smile hovered uncertainly on her thin lips. She seemed distant and unapproachable.
Seating herself in the centre of the principal sofa in the room Countess Clémence waved her guest to an armchair opposite. Her manner was formal and ceremonious.
‘Pray sit! Tea will be brought presently. I hope you had an uneventful journey?’
‘Excellent, thank you, Countess,’ said Balint, and, as his hostess remained silent for a moment and it seemed polite to keep some sort of conversation going, he started to tell how the Uzdy bricska which had been sent to meet him at Banffy-Hunyad had taken all the hills and valleys at such speed that it might have been one of the new automobiles.
‘My son likes to travel swiftly. That is why our carriage horses are all American trotters. My son says they are the best!’
Here was another topic. It was good for ten minutes, during which they discussed all the advantages and disadvantages of using American trotters. They then got on to their breeding. Balint began to wonder if Adrienne would ever come in.
The old butler brought in tea, placing the tray on a table by his mistress, and vanished as silently as he had come.
Now they talked about tea, whether China or Indian were preferable, or maybe Ceylon, and how nowadays in Transylvania more and more houses were serving tea instead of the traditional coffee with whipped cream. This was good for another fifteen minutes.
‘When did you get back from Budapest?’ The countess’s languid question revived the conversation which, by now, was beginning to falter. Abady recounted the latest political moves in the capital, explaining the different problems and any solutions that had been proposed. He spoke disinterestedly, as befitted conversation on such matters in good society. This was a useful subject for it could be made to last a long as anyone wished. The old lady sat bolt upright, unyielding and severe, listening to what her guest said and occasionally, out of good manners and not because the answer would be of any interest to her, she would ask a question — for keeping a conversation going was the duty of a well-bred hostess.
From time to time she took a delicate sip at her tea.
At last Balint heard a door being opened behind him. He started and then relaxed again. They were not Addy’s footsteps that he could hear, though they were obviously those of a woman. At the same time he could tell that a child had entered the room as welclass="underline" it was the English nanny with Adrienne’s little daughter. They went straight over to Countess Clémence. The child did not open her mouth but the nurse, speaking in English, said: ‘It’s time for our walk now, if your Ladyship agrees?’