‘I am very happy,’ said the little attorney on taking his leave, ‘to be of service to your Lordship in this way. Should your Lordship find some other solution at a later date, naturally I will withdraw and we can cancel the arrangement.’
In this way Laszlo raised enough to redeem Countess Beredy’s pearls. The next day he went to Budapest by the midday train, thinking that with such a large sum in his pockets it was wiser to travel by day.
Chapter Eight
A DRIENNE SAT AT HER DESK but she was not writing. Instead she looked out over the garden which, though leafless was now free of the winter snow, to the rickety wooden bridge over which ten days before Judith had made her escape from the house and which Balint had used each time he came to see her.
He had been there only last night …
Because of Judith, Adrienne had still only been able to see Balint at night. If she so much as heard his name Judith’s face became contorted with terror as if it had been he who had been the sole cause of her terrible disappointment. Most of the day the girl would wander about pathetically, answering mechanically any questions put to her. She would only come to life if Balint were mentioned, and then it was as if the sound of his name was a torment to her. Consequently Adrienne could not allow Balint to visit her during the day as long as her sisters remained at the Uzdy villa; and for the moment there was no question of their leaving, for Countess Miloth was still in the sanatorium.
All the same, thought Adrienne, these night visits must stop, and not only because of the risks involved.
Four days before, when Balint had just let himself in through the drawing-room window, Uzdy had arrived unexpectedly from the country. Luckily they had heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs from the courtyard and there had just been time for Balint to slip back into the darkness of the drawing-room and hide himself behind the door to Adrienne’s room, holding himself rigidly motionless lest the parquet should give a creak under his weight, and for Adrienne to replace the candle on the table by the bed, when Uzdy entered her room still in his hat and travelling coat.
‘You’re still awake? At this hour? Why is that?’ he asked from the door that led from the passage.
‘My sisters have only just left me.’
‘Of course. Yes, of course.’ Uzdy’s little eyes looked around the room, apparently searching for something. His glance fell on the little Browning on the lower shelf of the bedside table.
‘You have a revolver? Since when?’
Adrienne did not answer. With the bedclothes pulled up to her chin she merely stared at him. Uzdy laughed.
‘That’s good! Very clever! Out here, so far from the town, anybody could cross the mill stream, a burglar, anybody!’ He walked up and down for a minute or two, taking long strides with his extra-long legs. Then he abruptly stopped by the drawing-room door, opened it and peered into the darkness of the room beyond. He seemed to be listening. It was only for an instant but to Adrienne it seemed like an eternity. Her heart was beating strongly, but she did not move or speak.
Uzdy closed the door.
‘You are right to be prepared,’ he said. ‘Anyone could get in from there. Would you like a wire fence by the river? Or perhaps a wolf-trap? What? A trap, eh? That’d be good, very good! What?’ He laughed again, though for what reason it was not clear. Towering above her, his laughter seemed to come from the ceiling. Still Adrienne said nothing. He went on: ‘Well, I’ll be going now. You just sleep … sleep … sleep.’ He threw his head back and, seemingly even taller than ever, he turned to go. At the door he looked back, and with no expression on his satanic features, said ‘Au revoir!’ and left the room as quickly as he had come.
At noon on the following day Uzdy left again for the country.
That night Abady had come again and told her how he had stood, scarcely daring to breathe, behind the open door and they had both laughed about it regardless of the danger they had been in. Neither of them minded, for neither was afraid for their lives.
But, thought Adrienne, now it was not because of the danger that these stolen meetings would have to stop. What was life? That signified nothing … but there was something else.
On their last night together something had happened that had frightened her. A strange new feeling had flooded over her and filled her woman’s body. She knew not what, but it had frightened her. It was something altogether new, and came without warning.
Until now she had always remained calm when Balint was caressing her. It had been agreeable, soothing, so soothing that sometimes she had fallen asleep in his arms just like a child. Those hands that stroked her body, that glided so gently over her skin, the lips that strayed from her mouth, always kissing so gently, gently, and then returning to take possession of her lips for longer than before, had given her merely a sense of agreeable languor, so that this unnoticed conquest to which she had yielded more and more territory had not disturbed her and indeed had hardly meant more than when they dined at the same table or danced together at the public balls, But last night, as their farewell kiss came to an end, Adrienne had felt overwhelmed by a sudden and unexpected weakness. From somewhere deep inside her there came an altogether new feeling which threatened to overcome any strength she had, to sweep away all control, all will power so that her very bones seemed to melt in the radiance of some magic daze. Somehow she had managed to recover herself sufficiently to push him away, suddenly, almost rudely, saying: ‘Go! Go now!’ It was an order: ‘Go! Go!’
Balint looked down at her for a long time, and she was still not sure whether there had not been just the shadow of a smile upon his face.
‘May I come tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow, yes! But now you must go!’
It was of this that Adrienne was now thinking.
For a long time she pondered, wondering if she should write to tell him not to come any more. Should she write that she did not want to yield to him and become his lover, his mistress? That this was something that she couldn’t, wouldn’t do? Should she tell him all the thoughts that had obsessed her the whole morning, that she had pondered over a hundred times? She did not know how to write such things, and yet she could hardly put him off without giving some reason. Her courageous nature was such that she had always been prepared to face anything, and now what she would have liked most in the world was to open her heart and tell him face to face, when he came to her that evening, everything that was in her mind. But for once she was afraid, afraid of herself, afraid that she would not have the strength to resist him and afraid that his searching, caressing hands, his mouth, his eyes, his very presence beside her, would overcome her will and soothe her anxieties as they so often had before until she became bewitched into acquiescence. She was afraid that at this meeting, which she planned to be their last, her sorrow at parting would so shake her determination that now, just when they should part, she would no longer be able to resist him and they would at long last be joined for ever together.
And so she would have to write.
After a long time she took up her pen and started, and when she had started she wrote hurriedly, finding the right words with great difficulty and often scratching them out and starting again. Luncheon was announced long before she had finished, but still she did not move. Margit came into fetch her, but still she did not get up. ‘You go in,’ she said. ‘Sit down, start without me. I’ll join you later, perhaps, but don’t disturb me now!’ And she went on writing, the words pouring from her helter-skelter, just as they came from her heart, muddled, haphazard, desperate.