The countess, thoroughly alarmed, begged him to explain.
With seeming reluctance he recounted the growing unrest at Lelbanya and how Count Balint’s re-election was menaced by the growth of revolutionary fervour. So far he told only the truth; there was no need to invent. Now, however, was the time for a little embroidery. In the last few days, he told Countess Roza there had been a new and even more serious development. Another candidate had presented himself, a worthless demagogue who had made himself much beloved by the gullible country folk of Lelbanya, and he, Azbej, felt he could never again hold up his head if such a scoundrel of a popular agitator should set himself up as a rival to the young Count and beat him at the polls! It was terrible, unthinkable! He had not slept all night worrying about this dreadful dilemma they now faced. It was no longer possible for the young master to withdraw his candidature, for he had already made his election address and this had been printed in the newspapers. To withdraw now would be an admission of weakness, of defeat, of lack of courage — a mortifying blow to the prestige of the family. And for the future lord of Denestornya to be defeated by such a low class rascal …! He left the phrase unfinished.
The countess reacted just as he had expected. Aghast at the thought of such humiliation she swallowed her pride, forgot or ignored the fact that it was really to her son that the lawyer should have applied, and turned to Azbej.
‘How terrible! This must not be allowed! Is there nothing we can do?’
Now came the opportunity he had been seeking. He told the countess that he must now reveal to her something that he would never normally have dared mention. Always in the past, that is until Count Balint’s election, Lelbanya had been bought! The first and only time in the memory of all the electors living that a candidate had been elected cleanly, without corruption, had been the Noble Count’s election in the previous year. The people had become accustomed, and now expected, to be paid; and in this time of ferment even the prestige of the Abadys was not enough to overcome the people’s greed. He would never have dared mention the matter, let alone propose such a solution if the Gracious Countess had not herself asked. As it was he could see no other way. There was a pause.
‘How much?’ asked Countess Roza.
The lawyer’s carefully phrased speech had made a deep impression on the countess. All her ingrained pride of race rebelled against the very idea that a failed small-town municipal employee should succeed where her son, the descendant of palatine princes and imperial viceroys, had failed, that an obscure town clerk should defeat an Abady. It was not for this that she had been brought up to believe herself all but royal in lineage, that, moving from one great room to another in the castle of Denestornya, she had been told that the portraits of her ancestors that hung upon the walls represented governors, commanders-in-chief, and great national heroes including even Istvan Bathory’s famous general. If anything the countess was even prouder of the part played by the family in Hungarian history than she was of its ancient noble status. Living for so many years alone and isolated from the political events of the capital, this pride in the thought that Abadys had always played an important role in the country’s affairs had become as ingrained in her way of thinking as had the sense of her own superiority and importance. Since she had been a child no one had contradicted her — except her husband and that was different — and what she had wanted, and commanded, was automatically carried out. And now …’
‘How much?’ she said again.
‘It is difficult to say, exactly, but I think we could do it with forty thousand crowns.’
The countess rose and went over to a little rosewood escritoire which stood in the window embrasure. She sat down, opened a drawer and rummaged around for a moment without taking anything out. She liked to think that no one knew where anything was kept nor how much money she had, little dreaming that Azbej, with the help of the two ladies, knew all the details even better than she did: he even managed even to draw commissions from the banks each time that she made deposits. Finally Countess Roza drew out a savings-bank book and carefully re-locked the drawer.
‘Take this!’ she said, handing it to him. ‘The account contains forty thousand, seven hundred crowns, and there’s a half year’s interest due. Use this!’ Then her natural generosity overcome any reservations that good sense might have suggested.
‘Don’t mention any of this to my son. I wouldn’t like him to know that I had made this sacrifice for him!’
Nothing could have suited Azbej better. He pledged himself to the utmost secrecy and bowed himself from the gracious lady’s presence. A few days later a telegram arrived for the countess saying: ‘Situation promising’ and, on the eve of the elections, another which announced: ‘Victory certain!’
On the morning of 20 January a third telegram arrived which stated: ‘Rival withdrew. Count Abady elected unanimously. Congratulations. Azbej.’
The following day Azbej returned to Kolozsvar and again asked for a private interview with the countess. He brought with him the sum of five thousand, two hundred and twenty-seven crowns and forty-two cents in cash. This amount, he explained as he handed it to Countess Roza, had not been needed; and he proceeded to account for the rest in minute detail. The countess, impressed by this display of meticulous honesty, praised his reliability and expressed her pleasure with him and joy at the success of his mission.
He then went to see Balint.
Here he was not so well received, indeed he met with marked coldness.
‘Now I expect to be told what really happened,’ said Balint icily.
Azbej hummed and hawed. Naturally the majority of the electors wanted only his Lordship, the other had no chance and when he, Azbej, had persuaded him that his candidature was hopeless of course he had resigned. Balint, unconvinced, then asked why the lawyer had written that it might be ‘disadvantageous’ for him to appear at Lelbanya? Azbej parried this awkward question by saying that the man had had some adherents and he thought it better not to expose his Lordship to possible insult. Then why, asked Balint relentlessly, had the man withdrawn?
At this point Azbej felt that the moment had come when he would have to admit at least a part of the truth; by no means all of course, not that he already had had the other candidate’s resignation in his pocket by 14 January, nor that of the countess’s forty thousand crowns he had given fifteen to the fake candidate and kept twenty for himself. He decided to mention only that his Lordship’s gracious mother had sent a certain sum of money and that it had had the desired effect and was just about to open the tiny red mouth that lurked in the hedgehog beard when Balint interrupted.
‘I warn you that I’ll resign at once if I hear that there has been any dirty business!’
The little lawyer now realized that he had better keep his mouth shut; it would not fit his plans at all for Count Balint to stay at home after all the trouble he had taken to get him elected. Quickly he searched for another explanation. Using all his powers of invention Azbej launched into a long and complicated story about the morning of the election.
Balint listened to his rigmarole in silence. Then he dismissed the lawyer as coldly as he had received him. He did not believe what he had been told, but not knowing about his mother’s part in the affair, thought that he would have to seek some other explanation. But the good impression that the lawyer had previously made had received its first serious dent.