‘Who is she, this girl?’ asked Sara, though she knew, and had done for some time, all about Baron Egon’s pursuit of the Miloth girl. She knew about it because young Zoltan, who had often read the letters he had carried between them, had boasted to Mme Lazar’s son about the matter and he, thinking she would want to know everything about someone who called upon her regularly, had recounted what he had been told to his mother. Where is all this leading to now, she wondered?
Wickwitz told his tale, little bit by little bit. It was his own version, of course. He explained how he had felt sorry for the girl, indeed so sorry for her that he’d even considered marrying her out of pity. Just that, out of pity, because she was so desperately unhappy.
Sara shrugged a generous shoulder. ‘There’s no reason to rush into anything, especially marriage. She’ll get over it in time. All girls have some unhappy love affairs when they’re young, but no one ever died of it!’
Egon insisted: ‘But this isn’t quite so ordinary. In fact, it’s an extreme case! Look, meine Liebe, these are the letters I’ve been getting!’ and he brought out a packet from his inner pocket. ‘I always carry them with me,’ he said untruthfully, ‘as I’m afraid to leave them lying about in my hotel room. Have a look at one or two of them, and you’ll see what I mean!’
Sara took the letters and started to read. When she had finished one she placed it in her lap and took up another. She read for a long time, with great attention, and when she had finished the last one, she turned to him and said: ‘Poor girl! She really is very smitten!’
‘Didn’t I tell you? You see how serious it is?’ replied Wickwitz, triumphantly thinking that his plan had worked. And he suddenly broke into a peal of that strangely ugly barking laughter which transformed his otherwise handsome if melancholy features into an ugly satyr’s mask.
The woman watched him as attentively as she had read the letters. She took shrewd note of his laughter. Then she said: ‘I think you were right: the best thing would be to marry the girl!’
This was quite the wrong answer and Wickwitz, shattered, did not know how to proceed. His plan hadn’t worked. For a moment he looked at her dully and then, though not very convincingly, he said faintly: ‘But, Sara, I love you, only you!’ He reached out to take her hand and looked up with infinite sadness in his great calf-like eyes.
‘Ah, well, that doesn’t really matter, does it?’ She laughed lightly. ‘These things aren’t very important for people like you and me. But, since you’ve asked, that’s what I think you ought to do!’
‘Have I done anything to offend you?’ asked Wickwitz putting on his saddest expression.
‘Absolutely not! On the contrary, I feel flattered that you have confided in me and, naturally, for the present, and until you’re married, you’ll always be welcome here! As always — on the same terms. These things really are so unimportant. It makes no difference at all.’ and she allowed Baron Egon to start kissing her arm all the way to the shoulder.
Later on, before he left, Wickwitz asked her to let him have back Judith’s letters, but she did not hand them over.
‘I’ll keep them here for you!’ she said in a decided manner that brooked no denial. ‘They are much too dangerous’ — she almost said ‘valuable’ — ‘to keep in a hotel room!’ She went to her desk and locked them in a drawer. ‘This is a much better place!’
Thus did Wickwitz’s plans go awry; worse, in fact, than even he knew, for when his carriage drove away and she waved him goodbye from the window he was quite unaware that she was thinking: An agreeable animal, but, oh dear, what a scoundrel! And stupid! Even stupider than I thought. Imagine trying to trick me with all that talk about marrying the girl! And as for letting me see everything she’s written to him, it’s despicable! That poor girl! I’m glad I’ve kept her letters. Stretching voluptuously she got up, dressed, selected a sunshade and went out to oversee the afternoon milking.
Wickwitz was angry. As soon as he got home he counted what money he had left: only a few hundred crowns. He took a look at the banker’s promissory notes and saw that in February the prolongation of Dinora’s draft had cost him eight hundred and thirty crowns, in May the same. Meanwhile he had to live. There had been Carnival. That had taken a lot. Money just disappeared and he could not go on as he had. Something had to he done, and done immediately. His only remaining chance was Judith: they would just have to elope, for there was no other means of being sure of her. But for this, too, he would need money. The only way would be to cash Countess Abonyi’s drafts; he could think of nothing else.
A day or two later he went to Vasarhely to see Soma Weissfeld the banker. But Baron Weissfeld would not co-operate even when shown Dinora’s signatures. In fact he refused even to discuss the matter. ‘We can’t take these into consideration,’ he said. ‘We did it originally only because you told us the Countess would repay the drafts when she had sold her crops. Since then we’ve agreed to delay the repayment, but the matter is not straight and above-board, so I am afraid …’
In vain did Wickwitz try to intimidate the banker by glaring at him menacingly; but the latter held his ground and, far from becoming immediately submissive, himself took the offensive. ‘Should Count Abonyi get to hear of all this, what would be the effect, do you think?’
There was obviously nothing doing here.
Back in Kolozsvar Wickwitz found a café-restaurant near the railway station which he had heard was frequented by commission agents. After giving the head-waiter a good tip he asked if the man knew where he could borrow some money. As a result of what he was told he took a train to Varad and there, at the Privatbank Blau, which was obviously more of a money-lending shop than a real bank, he obtained nine thousand crowns on the promise of repaying twelve thousand in six month’s time. It was expensive, but he had to have the money. What was worse, however, was that now he had to countersign the drafts himself, with his own name. He knew that this was dangerous, for everything that he had borrowed previously had been in Dinora’s name and had been covered by her signature. Until now there had been no proof that he had been involved and so, if it came to it, he could have denied all knowledge of the transactions. No one would have blamed him, or even accused him, for his word would have been quite enough, since in matters where a woman was involved it was the accepted thing that one knew nothing. Discretion was the privilege of a gentleman. But now that he had himself signed the Privatbank’s drafts the matter was quite different, and much more serious. He had just six months to arrange everything and that meant that he would have to move quickly. It was lucky that before going to Nagy-Varad he had given young Zoltan a beautifully phrased sentimental letter for Judith in which he had renewed the link that he had so recently severed and asked if they could not meet somewhere in secret.
The girl’s reply arrived a fortnight later. It came in a thick envelope which also enclosed the letter which Abady had given to Adrienne and which she had sent back to her sister. Judith had written the first letter when she had received that from Wickwitz saying goodbye to her. Of course it was no longer important to either of them but Judith still sent it on to him as a sort of self-justification, telling him of its history and how it had been given to AB’s groom, intercepted by AB and then … but there really was no need to go into all these details because eventually she had got it back. Now she wrote with love and devotion: ‘Of course I’ll join you whenever you ask. I trust you with my life.’ She told him how carefully she was guarded, so it would be impossible to see her now, but that if the family came to Kolozsvar as they usually did at this time of year, then no doubt something could be arranged.