When they came to a small clearing they sat down. Balint was afraid that Addy would object if he put his arms around her. Before that he must put her at her ease and make her forget what had happened during the night. When she did sit down he pointedly did not sit close to her but found a place where he was just out of reach. Then he handed her Judith’s thick envelope.
After a brief hesitation, Adrienne, seeing that the crumpled envelope was already half open, pulled the letter out. Four pages were covered with Judith’s emphatic square letters. Adrienne read attentively what her sister had written, slowly taking it all in. Then, still holding the letter, she said: ‘Poor Judith! Poor, poor girl!’ For a long time she said nothing more but just sat there wrapped in her own thoughts. Balint waited, saying nothing. At last Addy spoke: ‘You know, this is really all my fault. Yes, really, don’t be surprised! I’m at the bottom of it all. All this unhappy affair is my doing. Not directly, of course, but she’s heard me say many of the things she writes in this letter: “I will save you. That’s my vocation, to sacrifice everything to savea man from himself.”That might have been me, a hundred years ago before I knew … I used to say things like that! Listen to this: “No matter howguilty the world thinks you, I care nothing as long as you are true to me.”These were my ideas, and when I was a girl I used to proclaim them proudly, thinking that it was all so true and so beautiful. Now it’s all been manna for poor little Judith …’
She paused for a while, her brows knitted in thought. Then she went on: ‘But she goes even further: “Even if you’ve done wrong, if you believe yourself guilty …” She keeps using phrases like that. I don’t quite understand, has Wickwitz something on his conscience, has he done something wrong, something wicked?’
‘It’s possible!’ said Balint grimly.
‘Do you know anything about it?’
Balint hesitated; but he had to answer. ‘Yes I do! But I can’t say anything about it as I was told in confidence. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.’
‘Not even me …?’
It was hard not to give in, but Balint’s sense of honour prevailed. ‘Not even you!’
Curiosity unleashed the eternal female in Adrienne. She slid over to Balint and took his hand. ‘You must give me some idea! At least say something. Not everything, of course, but just what sort of thing. Is it horses … or women? What is it? Surely you can tell me that?’
‘It’s money! A sordid, ugly affair. Very nasty indeed, but don’t ask me to tell you more!’
‘I could have guessed as much. The man has a horrid laugh.’
At midday the guests gathered in the drawing-room before lunch. Uzdy came in with a big pile of newspapers. He seemed in high good humour, a triumphant glitter in his narrow black eyes.
‘News from Budapest,’ he said. ‘Most interesting!’ He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. ‘There is a new government! Now all you politicians, which one of you can guess who’s the new Minister-President?’
The Alvinczys suggested Kossuth, then Andrassy, and finally Wlassits.
Uzdy shook his head and laughed. Then he turned to Abady. ‘Haven’t you anything to say? You keep silent but you’re the only one here who ought to know. I’m only a modest member of the Upper House, but you are a Member of Parliament, an elected legislator, a professional. Well? Won’t you give us the benefit of your opinion? What’s your guess? We’re all waiting for you?’
‘Geza Fejervary?’
‘Bravo! Alle Ehre, alle Respekt, alle Ehre — quite right, my congratulations!’ and Uzdy bowed, swinging his arms and letting the upper part of his body dangle loosely as if it had been broken at the waist. ‘Well said, indeed! There’s clear sight for you! Congratulations! Respekt!’ At this point Adrienne came in and Uzdy turned to her at once: ‘I’ve just put all your followers to the test. Our friend Abady was the victor; he’s a genius!’
Countess Clémence now came in. Her presence had a calming effect on her son and, though the conversation was still about Budapest politics, it proceeded in a quiet and gentlemanlike manner. Everyone deplored the nomination of a government by the Crown without any elective justification. Why, it was little else than a return to absolutism, and there had not been anything like that since 1848! This continued throughout the meal.
Seeing Adrienne once again beside her husband, Balint was haunted by the memory of what he had discovered the previous night. It was made all the worse by Uzdy’s air of triumphant possession, by the way he flaunted his ownership of her in front of the guests. He would lean over and fondle her arm during the meal, caress her shoulders when they rose to leave the table, and all these things he did, not with the tender air of a man in love with his wife but rather as if he needed always to remind himself — and everyone else — that she was his, just as a dog belongs to its master. Balint shuddered every time Uzdy touched her and convinced himself that the husband knew this and redoubled his efforts to demonstrate his rights in consequence. It was unbearable, intolerable!
As soon as lunch was over Balint asked if he could have a carriage to take him to the station. He used the formation of the new government as a pretext, saying that he would be urgently needed in Budapest as there would certainly be an emergency meeting of the House. No doubt a telegram was already waiting for him at his house at Kolozsvar. He must go at once, by the very next train.
Balint felt badly about leaving so abruptly, especially as it meant that he would not be able to see Adrienne alone before he left. He wanted so much to say a few tender words to her, words that would tell her how much he felt for her and how he understood the horror of her life. But anything was better than staying in that dreadful house and having to be a witness, every minute of the day, to a situation he hated; and nothing would be worse than staying and making polite conversation, keeping a straight face, and pretending to notice nothing when all the time he had murder in his heart. He was sure that Adrienne understood why her friend was leaving so suddenly, and indeed, when he took his leave she did not urge him to stay on — though there had been sorrow in her golden eyes and an unspoken demand for his pity. When she said goodbye, her lips had opened slightly as if she were offering them to be kissed. It was just as Balint had taught her on the cushions in the Uzdy villa, but that was all …
‘Never! Never again!’ said Balint out loud to himself as Uzdy’s fast American trotters whisked the yellow-wheeled bricska out of the forecourt. ‘I’ll never set foot in that house again!’
Chapter Four
THE ROYAL DECREE appointing the Fejervary government caused general consternation. All over the country people were stunned and apprehensive. No one believed that such a thing was possible since, for more than half a century, they had felt secure in the knowledge that they were living in a democratic parliamentary era. What had just happened was the negation of their civil rights, while that feeling of security had been suddenly and unexpectedly shattered. Those now in power issued communiqués that stated categorically that there would be no changes other than those essential for carrying on the business of government, and that nothing, again excepting only what was necessary, would affect any man’s constitutional rights. No one believed a word of it and the government’s explanations were not even thought worth considering. At first some people imagined that all this must be the outcome of some nefarious plot by Tisza; but this theory was soon seen to hold no water since Tisza publicly condemned the appointment of the new government and declared himself opposed to the new cabinet. He even refused to see any member of his own party who showed signs of sympathy with this unconstitutional move. Not for years had a political event been so universally condemned.