In a few moments all was silence, mysterious and profound. All that could be heard, from far, far away, was an occasional note from the gypsy band’s bass viol whose distant rhythm sounded like a man’s heart beating in joyous expectation.
It was ten o’clock before everyone started to gather at the breakfast table and the news from the village of the bizarre consequences of the night’s adventure had already reached the house.
The dining-room was between the main living-rooms and the kitchen quarters. There were doors at each end of the room and as a succession of servants — the footmen, the butler and maids — passed through, so each of them brought more news until by midday the full story was known.
At dawn the watchman’s wife had risen to milk the cow and, finding that it was nowhere to be seen, had rushed back into the house to wake her husband and give him the dreadful news. Dumbfounded, they had together stared into the empty shed and then the curses began. ‘Stolen, God damn it! Stolen! But who did it, in God’s name?’
Chacha, the gypsy potter whose hut was just across the road, was the first to hear the news and the first to bear the brunt of the watchman’s wrath, who at once accused the poor man, with horrible curses, of being responsible for the theft. Chacha just shrugged his shoulders and laughed. Then the watchman’s wife remembered that it was market day in Sarmas and that there would be another market, in two days’ time, at Regen. Perhaps itinerant salesmen, who often drove their cattle that way as it was a shortcut across the mountains, had passed in the night? They could have stolen the cow! Surely it must be them! So she urged her husband to hurry after them so as to catch them before they arrived. The man grabbed his stick and rushed off to Sarmas which was ten kilometres away; the woman, sobbing and whimpering, limped up the crest of the Ormenyes in case she could see something, but she came back crestfallen and it was noon before they had both returned empty-handed.
By then the news of the theft had spread throughout the village and, as it was Sunday and there was no work to do, a group of villagers had collected in front of the watchman’s house, bewailing the loss and eager to be the first to hear what had happened.
Why, they lamented, their cattle were not even safe in their own houses! This was a dreadful thing, unheard-of, appalling! Everyone at once thought of their own possessions and this made them ever more sympathetic to the watchman who was sorrowfully repeating his sad tale, over and over again, to each newcomer who arrived. Meanwhile his wife, keening as for the dead, kept up a continual wailing chant: ‘Vaiii! Vaiii! My poor Jambor! Vaiii! You were so beautiful, so lovely! My poor Jambor!’ calling out the beast’s Hungarian name because even in Romanian villages in Transylvania all animals were given Magyar names.
From his hut the gypsy then called out softly that of course he didn’t know but that it was possible that the cow was up at the manor-house. Chacha had been the dark shadow that Adrienne and her friends had not noticed.
General astonishment. What was this the man was saying? What on earth could he mean? The watchman bellowed out furiously‚ ‘So now you tell me‚ you bastard?’
There was a roar of laughter for everyone at once grasped that the whole affair was nothing more than a joke, a trick played on the watchman to show him up as being so lazy that he whose job it was to guard the village could have his own possessions removed from under his very nose, indeed from his own backyard! And the more they thought about it the more they laughed. And at this moment their mirth got completely out of hand for just up the road the cow itself appeared‚ led by Zoltan and driven from behind by one of the Miloth stable-lads.
Up at the manor old Rattle, who always got up late, had just heard about the affair and stormed into the dining-room, roaring like a bull and shouting, ‘So my house is turned into a nest of thieves and robbers, is it? Shame on you all, to bring dishonour on my grey hairs! My honest house a receiver’s den, a dirty receiver’s den!’ he shouted as he rushed into the dining-room where his daughters and their guests were still chuckling over the news that the watchman had run all the way to Sarmas while his wife had climbed almost as far as Ormenyes. ‘Off with you, you rascal!’ he bellowed at his son. ‘Go hang your head in shame and take the poor beast back at once. Yes, you, at once I say, or I’ll break every bone in your body!’ and he lunged at young Zoltan with his stick — just as the boy was making for the door. Then he turned back, shaking with laughter, and said, ‘All right, you blackguards, how did you do it? Tell me all about it, my dears. Come on, tell me!’
He sat down at the table, spread a thick slice of bread and butter with honey and, his moustaches dripping, munched away as he listened eagerly to their tale. Still eating, he nodded and swallowed and let out great roars of laughter as they told him what had happened. This went on until it was nearly time for lunch. Only old Mademoiselle Morin, the sour-faced old governess, sat grimly at the end of the table and, every now and again, repeated, ‘Oh, ces enfants! Oh, ces terribles enfants!’ because even after more than twenty years in the house, her spinsterish nature, soured by a bad digestion, had never learned to appreciate the pranks of her former charges.
After lunch everyone went their own ways. Rattle, tired out by the previous evening’s dancing, decided to have a nap. Zoltan‚ Akos, Gazsi and Ida went down to the lake to look at the wild duck, and Margit and Adam, with Adrienne and Abady behind them, went walking in the garden.
Since Countess Miloth’s death the garden had been almost abandoned; the lilac bushes were untrimmed and the lawns were covered in weeds. As they followed a winding path Adam, to his disappointment, found himself once again alone with Margit whom he still thought of as a mere child. He was angry because he had only come to Mezo-Varjas to see Adrienne and had hoped, during his afternoon walk, once again to pour out to her all his adoration and love. Perhaps, persuaded by his eloquence, by the beautiful phrases he had planned in advance, she might at last be persuaded to take him seriously.
He looked sadly at Margit. ‘You see‚’ he cried. ‘She’s avoiding me. She won’t even hear what I have to say. Oh, I’m the unhappiest man in the world. If only I could tell her all my sorrows!’
Margit put her hand on the young man’s arm. ‘Well, you can tell me, you know. I’m your friend, a good friend, and I’m a very good listener‚’ and she led him away from the garden, through the park and up to an old wooden bench on a hilltop which overlooked the village and the abandoned Protestant cemetery.
Adam now poured out his heart as he once more went over all that he felt for Adrienne, how in the past she had seemed to listen to him sympathetically. Of course it was true that she had always teased him and joked about his declarations of love, but that had not mattered because his feelings for her were so true and beautiful and all he had wanted was to be allowed to adore her, to kneel before her without touching even the hem of her skirt. He knew he was not worthy of her but all he wanted was the chance to talk to her and show her what was in his heart. And now not even that was possible for she always cut him short and stopped him before he had got a word out. She wouldn’t even give him the chance to speak — even though that would be the only consolation possible for his hopeless sorrowing heart.
Young Margit was a wonderfully sympathetic confidante. She seemed to understand every nuance of what was in Adam’s heart as she cleverly led him on to bare his soul to her. And she seemed, too, to share his sorrow, saying how cruel it was of Adrienne and asking how she could possibly allow herself to be so cold and merciless. Adrienne was beautiful, of course, oh yes, very beautiful, but she could have no heart if she could so torment someone like Adam, someone so true and lacking in guile or deceit. Oh, how could she cause so much pain? And so she went on, comforting the lovesick young man, stroking his shoulders and lending him her minute lace handkerchief when he had to brush away his tears.