He was worried about Adrienne. What was troubling her? Why did she seem so disillusioned? She had married Pal Uzdy of her own free will — she had chosen him herself. No one had forced her. Presumably she had been in love and so she had married him: why else? But, if that were so, whence came that inner revolt, that tension, the bitter tone in her voice when she spoke of the purpose of life and its aims? Perhaps her husband had turned out to be cruel. Perhaps he even struck her. Balint would not have put it past that evil-faced satanic man. As the thought came to him, he involuntarily clenched his hand into a fist on the tablecloth.
And why did she still retain that girlish, maidenly appearance? She did not have either the assurance or the mature look that came to most girls with marriage and motherhood. The oddly shy movement on the terrace when she pulled the stole up round her bare shoulders was not the normal assured gesture of a fulfilled woman.
Something was wrong and he must find out what it was. Perhaps he would be able to help; he would deeply like to. Perhaps Adrienne would tell him, and then he would be able to advise and reassure her, or his unselfish understanding might find a realistic solution to her problem, whatever it was. Obviously he must try to help — and the best way would be to go over to the Miloths’ place that afternoon.
The two glossy bay horses that the Countess Roza had sent from Denestornya trotted along the smooth well-worn road. The lake, edged by reeds, was on the right of the road and in the distance lay the village of Varjas, a group of thatch-roofed houses surrounded by plum trees. On one side of the valley was the outcrop of rock on which stood the Romanian church with its toothpick spire, and on the other, above the village, were the gardens of the Miloth estate. All around to the west hills rolled towards the sunset as soft as waves. The carriage rounded the last turn in the road by the lake. Ahead on the left the boundary to the Miloth property, a thick hedge of acacia trees planted in a straight line up the hillside completely obscured the view ahead. All at once, as the carriage approached the acacia thickets, there was the sound of galloping horses. Five riders, bare-back and masked like bandits, suddenly appeared from behind the trees.
The riders were all dressed in extravagant and peculiar clothes. The leader wore a Turkish turban, the others had wide-brimmed Boer felt hats or fur caps with ear muffs and one had a red fez. They wore odd coats: dressing gowns and rubber macintoshes. This most awe-inspiring sight was somewhat diminished by the fact that three of the bandits wore silk stockings and high heels. Galloping towards the carriage they cried out ‘Your money or your life!’ in high girlish voices, while the last, who was perhaps, after all, a man, sounded a blast on a hunting horn.
The first two jumped off their horses and ran to the carriage shouting ‘Hand over your money! Your jewellery!’ as they menaced Balint with a broomstick and a squash racket. In an instant their ferocity was overcome by merriment as Balint knelt on the carriage floor and with clasped hands begged for mercy, no resistance being possible in the face of such power.
Laughing, the bandits took off their masks. The turbanned leader was Adrienne, her brother Zoltan the warrior with the squash racket cudgel and two of the others were Adrienne’s sisters, Judith and Margit, who almost fell off their horses they were laughing so much. Everyone started to talk at once:
‘We heard you were coming …’
‘The man from the stables told us …’
‘Did we frighten you?’
‘… and when he came out from Lelbanya this morning, he said you’d asked him the way.’
‘Why are you so late?’
‘How long can you stay?’
‘It’s marvellous you’re here!’
With all the talk no one noticed that Adrienne’s mount, which was only a draught-horse usually employed drawing a plough, had turned away and begun to amble homewards. He was fifty paces away before they noticed and then all was excitement as they realized that here was another chance for a chase.
Wickwitz, the rider with the horn who had remained behind the others, immediately rushed after the riderless charger. The others followed, while Adrienne jumped into the carriage beside Balint and urged the coachman to give chase: ‘After him! After him! Faster! Faster!’ and she leant forward passionately beating the front seat with her fists. Her turban unwound and her wavy hair streamed in the wind. It was not long but very thick like a rich dark mane. With her laughing mouth, her eyes wide with excitement, her chin jutting forward and the short windswept hair, she looked almost boyish. Adrienne’s whole being was filled with the excitement of the pursuit. She seemed unaware of her tousled hair, of the bodice slipping from her shoulders or the skirt that pulled up over her knees as she jumped into the carriage. Nothing mattered but the excitement of the moment.
Balint looked at her. How beautiful she was, how different and how passionately alive compared with the Addy of two days before, with whom he had stood on the dark terrace of the Castle of Siklod; the Addy with whom, in whispers, he had discussed the problems of the world at such length, the Addy who had spoken only in short broken phrases broken by long eloquent silences. Today she was a young huntress, an Amazon, her whole being alive with energy and passion. She cared for nothing but the exhilaration of the chase; nothing in the world was important but the need to catch the runaway.
The farm-horse, normally so quiet and calm, was disturbed to find himself alone and free and soon became frightened. And his fright was increased by the shouts of his pursuers and the thunder of the hoofs on the road. He broke into a canter and then a gallop, and the loose reins slipped until they flapped against his forelegs like the touch of a whip. He raised his head and went off at a speed no one would have believed possible from such an old big-bellied animal.
Down the road to the village they went, the old farm-horse in front, neighing fiercely, the four riders in hot pursuit and the carriage team from Denestornya bringing up the rear in a swift racing trot. They sped through the village and up the steep slope to the Miloths’ house, cantering straight into the farm yard where the old horse made directly towards the stables just managing to enter without skinning himself against the yard gates. He was lucky not to have been hurt. Everyone thronged after him, relieved to find that he had got back unharmed into his own stall. He was already calmer by the time they reached him and, after snorting a couple of times in their direction, turned calmly to munch the hay in its rack at the back of the loose-box.
The little group walked up through the farm buildings to the garden of the manor house whose white walls could be glimpsed through a thick grove of ancient elms. As they approached they could hear the noise of someone shouting in apparent rage. Balint stopped, but the others went on quite unconcerned. Young Zoltan turned to Balint.
‘Don’t worry! It’s nothing! It’s only Papa!’ he said, not in the least worried.
As they reached the long vine-covered veranda they could see Count Akos Miloth standing at the top of the steps. He was a stocky, elderly man with a wide moustache and a large mouth. He was shouting furiously:
‘How dare they! Galloping off with the farm horses! They could all be crippled! Who did it? And my fur cap, my raincoat, my dressing-gown? I’ll teach them all a lesson and a half, stealing my things!’ and he went on in the same vein, repeating himself and working himself up into a rage.