Baron Wickwitz was penniless. His mother lived in Graz and gave him a small allowance out of the meagre pension she received as a field marshal’s widow. She gave as much as she could, but even if she were to mortgage part of her pension — as she had once before when Egon got himself into trouble at the military academy (and that, too, had been overlooked for the sake of his father) — it would not be enough. Even Egon himself could not bear the thought of troubling her further, good-hearted though she was. He had to find some other solution.
Marriage? A rich wife? There seemed no other way.
His first thought was young Dodo Gyalakuthy. She was perfect. An only child who had inherited from her father five thousand acres at Radnotfalva and two other estates in the high prairie-land, she was the ideal candidate to get him out of a tight spot. Later she would inherit more from her rich mother. No one could be better.
It was lucky that Radnotfalva was not far from Maros-Szilvas where the Abonyis lived. He could easily propose himself there, to pretty little Dinora who had been so sweet to him the previous winter. At Maros-Szilvas he would have no expenses, he would be close to the field of action. And as for that good old Tihamer Abonyi, he would be delighted. Had he not asked him several times before to come and train his horses? He ought to thank him — he might even win some races for him!
Wickwitz worked all this out sitting at a marble-topped table in a cafe in Brasso after the disagreeable interview with the colonel. His thinking was slow, with the plodding logic of a limited intelligence. And when he thought of Count Abonyi’s gratitude he chuckled to himself, pleased with his own quick-wittedness. His spirits rose and he walked over to the pretty little cashier-girl, with whom he had already spent several agreeable evenings, and started to whisper to her. She agreed to meet him after closing hours and, in high good humour in spite of his miserable situation, he ordered a bottle of champagne. After all it was his last night in Brasso … and one only lives once.
He had arrived at Szilvas the following day and been warmly welcomed by the Abonyis. Almost at once they went to look at the racing stables and Wickwitz commented contemptuously on the condition of Tihamer’s horses. Weren’t they given any oats, he asked? And when Abonyi said that they had twelve pounds a day, Wickwitz laughed as if he didn’t believe it but said nothing.
That afternoon Abonyi asked him to stay and take charge of the stables. And the little countess was pleased because it meant she would have her friend with her. All this had happened at the beginning of June.
Wickwitz soon took Dinora into his confidence and told her some of his plans. He said that he loved only her but he had to marry; there was no other way.
At Radnotfalva he was welcomed equally warmly. The widowed Countess Gyalakuthy was a kind good-natured woman, and she had noticed what a difficult time her daughter had. It would be good for her to be with someone who entertained her. And if it led to anything, if Dodo fell in love with him — though, as a foreigner and coming from a family of which she knew little, he was hardly the ideal son-in-law that she had had in mind — did it really matter? The widowed Countess suspected that this strong silent young man was really rather stupid, but he seemed to be a good boy who would appreciate her daughter and, after all, Dodo had enough brains for two.
Wickwitz had met Judith Miloth at the Gyalakuthys’ and, with the keen sense of the totally self-centred, he had felt that the young girl was attracted to him, something of which he had seen no sign in Dodo. Thinking in sporting terms, as he was apt to do, he had said to himself that one should not put all one’s money on the favourite but hedge the bet with a wager on a hopeful outsider. As there were three girls and a boy in the Miloth family it was clear the Judith’s dowry would not be large but, if the worst came to the worst and Dodo would not have him, it would surely be enough to clear the debts if he married her. Time was running out. One way or another he had to find the means to pay before his leave ended in December.
Something made a slight movement between Balint and Adrienne; it was the hedgehog who had come out from under the leaves of a big plantain weed that covered the ground just beside the path on which they waited.
The little animal moved with quiet confidence a few inches away from the place where Adrienne had rested her suede-gloved hand. Something must have struck him as strange as he sniffed warily to catch its unfamiliar smell, the little snout covered with fine hairs quivering with concentration. He looked around with little bright button eyes and his needle-sharp quills, sleekly at rest, seemed as smooth as a soft fur coat. Such a strange little animal, he did not hurry, but moved deliberately down the path, sniffing to right and to left as he went, for all the world like a miniature bear. Suddenly he was no longer there. Without any noise and moving surprisingly swiftly he disappeared off the path; and even the grass did not move in his wake.
As he finally vanished from their sight, young Zoltan and the girls cried out: ‘Why didn’t you catch him, Addy? He was right there, beside you. What a shame! You ought to have caught him!’
For a moment Adrienne did not answer. Then she said: ‘I couldn’t! We shouldn’t do it! Poor thing, we must let him live his own life. He must be free.’
Her voice sounded faint, remote …
After dinner they all sat in the countess’s sitting-room and listened to Akos Miloth’s stories of his days with Garibaldi. He was happy to have someone there to whom he could recount all over again the tales his family had heard so many times already. He loved to recall those days and the stories had been well polished with retelling. He had fought in Sicily with the Thousand and had had many adventures which were fascinating to anyone who had not heard them before. Count Miloth told them well, with humour and without conceit.
His daughters grew impatient and soon fled back to the dining-room where they had laid out a jigsaw puzzle, which was then all the rage and which they had brought back from the party at Siklod. Soon they became completely absorbed.
‘Come on, AB, come and help us,’ they called after a while. But Balint, out of politeness to his host and because he was so interested in the tales he was hearing, did not obey until Adrienne came back into the sitting-room and, laughing, took his hand, dragged him up from the sofa and led him into the adjoining room.
The next morning Balint was woken by voices calling to him. Someone knocked on the shutters of his room and called out: ‘Come on, lazy-bones, get up! We’ve been up for hours!’
In fifteen minutes he had joined them on the long veranda where they were having breakfast. The girls and young Zoltan had already finished and could hardly wait for Balint to drink his coffee and buffalo milk. Then they all walked up through the garden, laughing and talking until they found a small meadow with a haystack, up which young Zoltan immediately climbed and started pretending to be an Indian chief doing a war-dance.
‘Come down, you idiot, you’ll spoil the hay!’ they shouted at him, but the boy just jumped about all the more, hooting war-cries.