They Were Counted (96 page)

Kadacsay opened one of the braided buttons on his loose
hussar’s
jacket and took out an official-looking paper from an inner pocket. He handed it over without saying a word. It read:

Though these terrible words seemed to swim before his eyes Wickwitz was still able to try and lie his way out of it: ‘There must be some mistake,’ he murmured in a low voice.

Gazsi inclined his head, his whole demeanour showing that he doubted if any mistake had been made. For a moment neither of them spoke.

‘Hast
du
noch
etwas
zu
sagen
–
haven’t you anything else to tell me?’ asked Wickwitz at last.

Now Kadacsay replied instantly, though very slowly and with special emphasis: ‘The colonel entrusted me with a private
message
to be passed by word of mouth only. It is this: the
commanding
officer of your regiment informs you that should the signatures on Countess Dinora Malhuysen-Abonyi’s promissory notes be forgeries, then you are to proceed at once to Brasso and report to regimental headquarters. But if those signatures are really your own …’

‘If they are?’

‘If they are genuine … if you signed those papers … then it were best … if only for the honour of the regiment that …’ and Gazsi got up and placed a revolver on the table, ‘… that you should use this at once! That is the colonel’s message.’

The dark hair over Wickwitz’s low forehead seemed to fall even lower over his brows. His large cows’ eyes were almost closed:

‘So? So? So that’s it, is it?’ He repeated the words several times more.

Kadacsay picked up his shako. When he reached the door he turned: ‘These things are easier if done quickly!’ he said lightly. ‘Shall I close the door behind me?’

Baron Egon got up, straightening his fine athlete’s figure to its full height. ‘I’ll close it myself!’ he said in a hard and determined voice.

Gazsi hesitated a moment. Then he turned back. ‘Goodbye, my friend!’ he said putting out his hand which Wickwitz took in his hand and grasped strongly. For some seconds they remained hands clasped and silent. Then Kadacsay slipped quickly out.

Egon was alone. He walked up and down the room, once, twice, three times … and at the fifth turn he suddenly broke into peels of hard, ugly laughter. He rang the bell; and when the
servant
came in he asked the man to bring him a railway time-table. There was an outgoing train at six o’clock. This was extremely handy, for at that hour he was unlikely to encounter anyone he knew at the station. He looked at his watch: it was ten to five. Wickwitz quickly changed into shooting clothes. Then he packed all his civilian clothes into the smaller of his two suitcases. The larger he left where it was. His uniforms he hung neatly in the wardrobe. Then he picked up his sword with its gilded hilt and looked at it, remembering what a joy it had been when he had first been entitled to wear it. Then he put it carefully into the wardrobe. He looked around the room. On the table lay the
revolver
, the gift of his excellent colonel. Egon smiled ironically to himself, his moustaches curling with amusement. That present is far too good to leave behind! he thought, as he slipped the weapon into his pocket. Then he rang the bell again and ordered a
carriage
to be brought to the door.

‘I shall be away for a day or two,’ he said. ‘Most of my things are still in the room. Please see that it’s kept for me until I return!’

When they announced that the carriage was waiting Wickwitz looked around the room to check that he had forgotten nothing. He had everything he needed. He was driven to the station where he calmly boarded the six o’clock train and left. He had
completely
forgotten the message he had sent to Judith that morning. It had never even entered his head.

By dawn the next day he was over the Romanian border.

 

Kadacsay walked back slowly, stopping briefly every so often as if he were expecting someone to come hastening after him. At last he reached the Casino. He had not really wanted to come back, for he dreaded having people coming up to him asking questions, but he felt himself obliged to do so because he had told the hotel concierge to telephone him there ‘should anything happen’.

The Casino was humming like an upturned beehive. The only thing that everyone knew for certain, and this they had got from Alvinczy at once, was that no duel would take place and that
Nitwit
had been ordered back to his regiment. When Uncle Ambrus returned he had said it was because of some questionable dealings that touched the Austrian baron’s honour.

As soon as Kadacsay came in he was besieged with questions, but he replied so rudely that the others soon left him alone.
Disappointed
, they said to each other that really this Gazsi was getting above himself! Why, he was behaving just like an Austrian, a lackey of the Emperor in Vienna! It was the sort of thing that showed how much they needed Hungarian words of command and sword tassels in national colours! It was obvious. Everything would then be different. As it was, as soon as anyone put on the imperial uniform they didn’t want to have anything more to do with their old friends!

Joska Kendy was sitting with this group so Gazsi was unable to run to the shelter of his old hero. Therefore he went to look for Abady with whom he had become far more friendly since his visit to Denestornya. He needed someone to talk to with whom there would be no need to discuss what had just happened in Wickwitz’s hotel room. He wanted to have someone to sit with until that telephone call came for him. Balint and he settled down in the empty reading room where no one was expected to talk. For some time Gazsi did not open his mouth and there was a long silence between them. Then Balint said: ‘It was Dinora’s
promissory
notes, I suppose?’

Baron Gazsi nodded. Still he said nothing. They waited until it was already after half-past six. Then they went to the telephone and were put through to Wickwitz’ hotel. Kadacsay asked for the hall porter and when he came on the line, said:

‘Please go at once to Lieutenant Wickwitz’s room. What? He left the hotel? When? An hour ago. All right, thank you.’

‘You’d better come with me,’ said Gazsi, after a moment’s thought. ‘I’m not sure I can cope with this on my own!’

Both men hurried over to the hotel.

‘He only took his overnight bag – the small one,’ said the
porter
. ‘He didn’t say where he was going. It must have been about six o’clock: there are three trains around then, going to different places, of course. No, he didn’t pay his bill, he said he’d be back in a day or two!’ They asked for the key and went up.

The room was in perfect order. Gazsi looked down at the table. The revolver was nowhere to be seen. He went over to the
wardrobe
and opened it: inside there were all Wickwitz’s army things, tunics, blouses, braided satin waistcoats, parade trousers, officer’s caps, two pairs of hussar’s boots with their woods in place, and even his sword: not a trace of plain-clothes, no civilian suits, no shirts, no under-linen, no shoes!

Gazsi felt sick and he was so shocked that he went quite pale: ‘Come on!’ he said, ‘let’s get out of here!’

They left the hotel and wandered about the narrow streets of the old town. As they did so Gazsi told the whole story to Balint. Now it was obvious that Nitwit had run away, but before Gazsi took any further action Balint said that they must get definite proof of what had happened; they only had the word of the hotel porter that he’d gone to catch a train.

They went together to the station and questioned the porters. Yes, one of them remembered the gentleman; he had put his
luggage
on the train to the frontier. ‘Yes, he definitely went on that train. I know the Lieutenant well, I’ve often carried his bags.’

Kadacsay went to see the stationmaster who confirmed that they had sold a half-price officer’s ticket, second class, for the six o’clock train that afternoon. Kadacsay and Balint walked back together to the town centre. They walked slowly along while they discussed what action should be taken. Someone had to be told that Wickwitz had bolted, but who? The Hussar regiment at Brasso would not thank them if the news had first been reported to the local infantry garrison. They didn’t like to send a wire, for that was too public; and a letter would take too long.

Finally Gazsi decided he would return himself to Brasso on the night express. There they would know what was to be done.

A
S SOON AS BALINT REACHED HOME
after his long walk with Gazsi that evening he sent a note to Adrienne. He wrote:
‘
W.
decamped
this
afternoon.
Tell
you
all
tonight.’
That night at his usual time he let himself in through the window of Adrienne’s sitting-room and told her in detail everything that had transpired during the day. They talked for a long time, relieved at the way everything had turned out, for surely Judith would now see how worthless was the man on whom she had pinned her hopes. Of course it would be dreadful for her when she found out the whole truth, and so Adrienne planned next morning to tell her only what was absolutely necessary, letting it out bit by bit as Balint reported it to her. She felt it would be easier for Judith if she were to learn the truth gradually, but always as soon as Balint brought any more news, just in case Judith might hear something elsewhere.

The clock of the Monostor tower had just chimed out the
quarter
after three when Balint was about to let himself out.

It was a bright moonlit night. Even so, outside the windows of Adrienne’s rooms the shadow of the house was so dense that it was difficult to see anything before the little gate which led to the bridge. Balint’s hand was already on the handle of the french
window
when he suddenly stopped. In front of him he had seen the dark outline of a woman walking quickly towards the bridge. It was Judith. Swiftly she passed to the other side and took the path beside the river bank. For a moment Balint hesitated, wondering if he ought not to go back and tell Adrienne, but there would be no time for that if he were to follow the girl to prevent her doing something foolish. Quickly he slipped out and went after her.

It was easy to follow her along the moonlit road, even though from time to time he lost sight of her for a moment in the shadow of the trees. She was in a great hurry, walking so fast that even Balint was pushed to keep up with her. When they reached the outskirts of the town Judith headed straight towards the railway line, slipping quickly into the station as soon as she arrived.

The station was dimly lit and Balint had to look furtively around for a while until he discovered her sitting alone in the second-class waiting room. There she was, hunched on a bench by the wall and clutching a small overnight case on her lap, waiting.

Keeping discreetly out of sight Balint, wondered what he should do next. Should he speak to her? But if he did, what could he say? He would have to explain how he came to be here, disclosing that he had followed her from the villa and therefore revealing too that he had been with Adrienne. That was clearly impossible. He decided to wait and see what transpired and, as he stood there,
began
to piece together what must have happened. He was filled with pity for the poor girl who did not know that the man she loved so much had already left the previous day without giving her a thought. Here she was, at dawn the day after he had bolted,
waiting
, waiting, waiting for him to come so that they could escape
together
to Austria to what she thought would be infinite bliss.

Poor, poor Judith … to be waiting for Wickwitz!

What could he possibly do? Should he go to her and tell her the truth? She would never believe him and was sure to assume that he had made it all up, and God knows what she would do then! It was a pity that he had no way to warn Adrienne of what was happening, but it was already after four and if he were to
return
to the villa, he would have to do so on foot, for at that early hour there were no fiacres available and it would soon be dawn and someone was sure to see him. Best, perhaps, to stay where he was and speak to Judith only after the express to Budapest, which was to have taken Judith and Wickwitz on the first stage of their journey to Graz, had already left. Then he would not have to
explain
anything for the facts would speak for themselves: and what hideous, vile facts they were!

Slowly the station came to life. A locomotive could be heard shunting in the marshalling yards. Then there was a plaintive whistle and a goods train rumbled slowly by the sooty windows of the station. Some lamps were waved at the end of the platform and a market train came slowly to a halt, from which third-class passengers emerged carrying heavy loads on their shoulders.

Then dawn came, and dim light began to filter on to the
platform
. The carriages for the Budapest train were shunted in and a few sleepy passengers began to arrive. Soon the platform was crowded.

Bells rang in the waiting rooms and a porter started shouting: ‘Nagy-Varad, Puspokladany, Szolkok, Budapest!’ in a slurred voice, and people began boarding the train. Balint watched Judith from a distance. She did not move but, as time went by, she
obviously
became more and more restless. Her hands were clenched nervously on the handles of the bag on her lap. When the second bell sounded she came out on to the platform, brushing by Balint without seeing him, her eyes searching down the length of the platform. She looked into the train and then into the first-class waiting room. Finally Balint could stand it no longer. He stepped over to her and touched her arm. The girl started violently.

‘Judith! The man you’re looking for left yesterday!’ he said.

Judith stared at him, eyes wide open as if she had seen a ghost, her mouth distorted with hatred.

‘You? You here? Everywhere it’s you!’

Balint repeated what he had just said.

‘Who? What are you saying? Left yesterday?’

The carriage doors were being slammed shut. There was a blast from the locomotive’s whistle and the train started to move. The girl looked wildly around her, then she ran forward a few steps but the train gathered speed and moved off down the track. Her hopes vanished as she looked vainly after the disappearing train and her knees gave way under her. She would have fallen if Abady had not quickly put his arms round her waist and
supported
her.

‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘There’s no point in standing about!’

He led her swiftly out of the station and into a one-horse
carriage
which he found waiting there. ‘To the Monostor road. I’ll tell you where later,’ said Abady to the driver.

Until now Judith had let herself be led without seeming to
notice
what was happening. The shaking of the carriage soon brought her to her senses. When she saw who it was sitting beside her, she shrank back into the corner of the carriage, her eyes filled with fright like a wild bird caught in a trap. She stared into Abady’s face with a look of surprise and loathing and as they drove her gaze never wavered, so hard was she looking at him. Petrified, unable to speak, she just stared at him as the carriage rumbled slowly down the long road to the Uzdy villa. Twice Abady tried to explain that he himself had just been going to catch that train when he had chanced to see her, but he faltered, unable to continue, faced with the look in those wide-open eyes.

When at last the carriage stopped in front of the wrought-iron gates of the Uzdy villa, Judith was still staring at him in silence.

Balint did not know what to do next. It was only now that they had reached the girl’s home that he realized how awkward it would be if he were to be caught bringing home one of the Miloth girls at dawn. How could he possibly smuggle her into the house
without
being seen by the servants, who must at that time be stirring? To be discovered now would provoke God knows what gossip!

He need not have worried, thanks to Margit’s quickness in grasping what had happened. Margit had woken just as dawn was breaking. She saw at once that Judith’s bed was empty. She had dressed quickly and run down to Adrienne who had told her of the dramatic turn in the story, of the duel between Laszlo and Wickwitz and how Wickwitz had left town suddenly. Sensibly Margit did not enquire how Adrienne knew all this, but she quickly realized though she had not herself seen it, that Zoltan, who had come to see them in the morning, must had brought a message for Judith and that Judith must have tried to follow their prepared plan and slipped away to the station in the night. It was there that they must look for her.

As Adrienne was dressing hurriedly Margit went to find the Uzdy doorman and sent him to find a fiacre, and she was
therefore
waiting for it to arrive when the one-horse carriage bringing Abady and Judith drew up before the gates. She ran out, helped her sister out of the carriage, kissed her swiftly and led her into the house without saying a word.

All this was done so rapidly that none of the Uzdy servants were aware that anything untoward had happened to Judith. So resolutely and sensibly did Margit act that neither then nor ever afterwards did anyone in the house except Adrienne and Margit – nor anyone in the great world outside – ever hear even a
whisper
of Judith’s attempted escape.

 

If Judith Miloth was spared the town’s gossip, poor little Dinora Abonyi was not, and her part in the Wickwitz débâcle was quickly the talk of Kolozsvar.

Outside the family the only people to know the truth – Abady, Gyeroffy and Kadacsay – kept their mouths shut and said
nothing
. And yet, within the space of two weeks everyone knew all about Dinora and her promissory notes.

Aunt Lizinka’s overheated and airless drawing-room was the
Solfatara
–
the sulphurous volcano – from which most of the poison gas was distributed abroad. Recently the old Countess Sarmasaghy had occupied herself principally with the so-called ‘Tulip Drive’. This was the new craze from Budapest where a number of grand society ladies had started a movement to buy only Hungarian-made articles. Though everyone convinced themselves that thereby they were striking a body-blow at the
industries
of Austria, and the capital rang with patriotic speeches and fervent leading articles in praise of the movement, the fact
remained
that it had little practical effect. Shopkeepers cunningly pretended that all their fabrics were made in Hungary, whether or not the silk was really manufactured at Lyons and woollens and linen in Austria. In Transylvania the vogue did not catch on as it did in the capital, for everyone had always bought their rich trousseaus and grand dresses in Vienna as things were cheaper there than in Budapest, and they were not going to change just because someone in Budapest said they should. In the past, Aunt Lizinka had done the same. However, learning that her
archenemy
Miklos Absolon bought his boots from Goisern, his
suit-lengths
from Tyrol and his sporting guns from Springer, she threw herself into the Tulip Drive principally so that she could accuse him publicly of being a traitor to his country.

The Wickwitz affair came as a godsend to Aunt Lizinka, who promptly dropped the hopeless cause of the Tulip Drive for the infinitely more delectable task of stirring the cauldron of local scandal. She applied herself to this with tremendous energy,
serving
up daily to the old ladies who frequented the Sarmasaghy drawing-room new slices of scandal-cake, each more titillating than the last and new draughts of witches’ brew strong enough and shocking enough to go to anyone’s head. Lizinka made the very most of such a tasty affair and stirred up the biggest storm she could: a storm in a teacup it might be, but a tempest to those who lived in a teacup – and poor little Dinora drowned in it. It was not long before Aunt Lizinka had ferreted out all the facts, and everything she discovered she immediately broadcast using an assumed moral indignation to mask her enjoyment of such
lurid
and sordid details. She became a sort of dirt volcano whose
daily
eruptions splattered all within reach. Apart from the central figures, Wickwitz, Dinora and poor Tihamer Abonyi, there were plenty of others who suffered from Lizinka’s gossip factory. Jeno Laczok and his banker friend Baron Soma Weissfeld were given a good smear as it had been their establishment that had first
accepted
Dinora’s notes when presented by the Austrian baron: ‘What a disreputable action by a bank, my dears, downright shady I call it to accept such things’; Laszlo Gyeroffy: ‘my
precious
nephew, you know, the reckless gambler’; young Dodo Gyalakuthy, because Wickwitz had once pursued her; Baron Gazsi, because he was Wickwitz’s companion in arms; Abady: ‘
Remember
how
he
used to run after that little whore!’; and even Miklos Absolon, though all she could think up to say about him was: ‘I can’t say anything now, but you’ll all soon find out that that old liar is mixed up in it too!’ Everyone came in for their share of Lizinka’s brand of innuendo and self-righteous condemnation.

Abonyi, though much against his will for he owed his social
position
to his wife, found himself obliged by convention to sue for divorce and, when this was granted, retired sadly to his own
property
in the Vas district where he counted for nothing.