‘Justh accepted the proposal,’ cried Alvinczy, ‘but Kossuth turned it down this morning. I had it directly from him!’
Alvinczy was visibly proud and pleased to be playing such an important role as the bearer of the news everyone was waiting to hear. He was all the more pleased with himself, for though he had been a Member for three years, and was a tall, handsome, elegant young man, who had even been known at the gaming tables — without ever playing as recklessly as had Laszlo Gyeroffy a few years before — until now he had hardly been noticed. So he told his tale over and over again, to anyone who would listen; and each time he did it in exactly the same words, as honest men with a limited vocabulary are apt to do.
The news created great excitement. Only two of those present listened calmly and without enthusiasm. One of them was Antal Szent-Gyorgyi, who had almost certainly known in advance because of his close connections with the imperial court, and who in any case would automatically approve anything the Monarch might decide; and Balint Abady.
Abady’s aloofness sprang only from the fact that his whole mind was now filled with the question of Adrienne’s divorce. A few weeks before he had had a letter from her announcing that her daughter was now back with her. Then another letter had come telling all about the visit to Absolon and the consultation with Dr Kisch. Balint had not understood why the doctor had had to be dragged into it all and, though still remaining resigned to the need for patience, was beginning to fret at the idea of further delays. And so, whatever daily sensations shook the world of politics, Balint’s mind was occupied solely with thoughts of Adrienne, now far away at Almasko where their fate would soon be decided.
It was with indifference, therefore, that he listened to Alvinczy’s great and important news; and he took equally calmly Szent-Gyorgyi’s invitation, which was in itself a most exceptional distinction, to go with him by car to Alag where the great annual steeplechase was to be run that afternoon and in which one of Count Antal’s horses was the favourite. ‘All right!’ he said when asked, and that was all, for was it not the same where he went and what he did or said or heard, when the only thing that mattered was when Adrienne would be free of her husband? Beside that, no one, and nothing, was of the smallest importance to him, and he barely noticed that in the car waiting for them below there were already two exceptionally pretty girls, his cousin Magda Szent-Gyorgyi and Lili Illesvary.
He had talked a lot to Lili when they had both been at Jablanka for the previous December’s shooting party. Later, during the carnival season, he had seen her at the few grand balls he had attended and it had turned out — by chance, of course — that they had often found themselves next to each other in the ballroom or buffet. Occasionally they had danced a waltz together and once he had found himself, during the spring season, asking her for a cotillion for she admitted, as if it were a shameful secret only to be whispered about, that she didn’t have a partner. All this had happened so naturally that it had appeared to Balint, who had been so taken up by the thoughts of his love for Adrienne that he had hardly noticed the existence of any other woman, that if he had spent more time with Lili than with any other girl, it had all been purely by chance. Of course he had enjoyed being with her for she talked well and her conversation had been both piquant and soothing like a draught of fresh orangeade.
It was the same now. Apart from some of those whose life was spent with horses and whom Balint barely knew, there were few women at the races, and so he passed the whole afternoon with Magda and Lili.
On their way back they asked him to dine with them that evening and one of them — it might have been Lili — said that they would be going to the Park Club.
When he arrived there were only a few people on the long terrace, just some young men staying at the club and the Lubiansky girls with their father; and, at a table some way off, Laszlo Lukacs and his beautiful wife. Sitting with them was another man whom Balint recognized even though his back was turned to them. It was Count Slawata, the confidential adviser to the Heir. Balint wondered if it was Slawata’s presence that had made Lukacs choose a table so far off and well away from the bright lights of the chandeliers. Was there perhaps some connection between Lukacs and those plotters in the Belvedere Palace? Could it be that the Homo Regius — the King’s Man — was now also in direct touch with the next ruler?
Balint did not want to have to meet Slawata at this time; and furthermore he was in no mood for prolonged political discussions; and so, when they had finished dinner and the girls had first talked of dancing to the gramophone and then decided that it was too hot and that they would rather play some parlour game, Balint at once agreed to join in. It was still partly that he did not really care what he did, but also he now felt quite unable to listen to any more of old Lubiansky’s endless complaints about the way the country was being governed, and also wanted to get as far away from Slawata as possible.
They went indoors and settled in one of the cool drawing-rooms. Lili suggested they play the old parlour-game of ‘Up Jenkins’ which meant that they had to separate into two equal groups who sat on opposite sides of a table with the leaders of each group facing each other in the centre. One of them selected some small object, such as a coin or a ring, to be the ‘Jenkins’ and, on the command ‘Up Jenkins!’, he showed it to the opposing team. When the command came, ‘Down Jenkins!’, he put his hands under the table and, concealed by the cloth, passed it to another member of his team. Now came ‘Jenkins on the table!’ and all the team who were hiding Jenkins had to put their hands on the table.
Who had Jenkins? This was the game and there was much laughter and mockery as they all made guesses. In the end the leader had to decide and could point to only one of the hands on the table. If he was wrong there was much triumph on the side with Jenkins and gloom on that of the seekers, and the game went on until Jenkins had been found. Then Jenkins crossed the table and it all started again.
Magda offered a ring to be Jenkins, and the two leaders were Lili and Balint.
They were sitting facing each other across the table. Lili was wearing a light summer dress with rather short but wide sleeves of broderie anglaise and through the many little embroidered holes in the material could be caught glimpses of the pink skin of her arms and shoulders. The dress was suitable only for a young girl and was almost childish in its virginal whiteness — but was far more arousing than any sophisticated décolletée.
At first Balint hardly noticed. Slowly, however, indeed every time that Lili lifted her hands in some gesture to show everyone the ring and the wide sleeves slid back on her bare arms, he found himself flooded by a strange magic. It was as if she sat there before him clad only in a wedding shift, her flesh barely covered by fine gossamer, smiling expectantly and looking at him with some unspoken question in her eyes. Even Balint knew that this was no game, no meaningless attempt at flirtation but was rather the eternal urge of the female to attract and to lure. Everything about her told him the same story. Her petal-like skin with its elusive scent, the slightly parted lips, the dress falling in soft folds around the infinitely desirable curves of her firm breasts: this was no trivial, shallow game but rather the subconscious display of the finest weapons in a woman’s armoury of attraction.