They Were Counted (63 page)

Laszlo felt that he must find a way to communicate directly with her, but how? It wouldn’t be possible through Peter; he’d never go against his mother. Niki was out of the question; he was no friend to Laszlo. Then Laszlo remembered the little maid who had brought Klara’s letter. What was her name, Ilus Varga? Was that what the concierge had said when he brought up the letter after telling the girl that she could not go up to Laszlo’s flat as he had given orders not to be disturbed? He would write a line to her to give a message to her mistress that she must find a way to see him.

 

By noon the Casino was already full to overflowing. Even the great glass-covered veranda was packed with people. After their lunch Balint and Laszlo went into the empty billiard-room.

At once Balint started off severely. Laszlo must be out of his mind, he said. If he went on like this he would be ruined, and then nothing would save him from a shameful life of depravity.
Already
it was obvious that he was spending far more than his
respectable
but by no means large fortune could provide, and if he went on gambling, everything he had would disappear. It was madness, sheer madness!

Laszlo listened to him and smiled, conscious that in a moment or two he would demolish all his cousin’s arguments with a single word.

‘Now you must swear not to gamble anymore!’ said Balint. ‘Promise me!’ and he put his hand on Laszlo’s shoulder in a
gesture
of sympathetic entreaty.

‘I have nothing to promise,’ replied Laszlo, ‘as I don’t gamble any more!’

‘Not possible? Since when?’

Laszlo laughed awkwardly. ‘As it happens, only since
yesterday
. Last night, this morning, I didn’t join the game. I promised somebody!’

‘Who? When?’

‘Somebody … somebody who is even dearer to me than you, yes, even dearer than you!’

Balint realized that it must be Klara of whom he spoke.

‘So much the better then. It’s a pity it came so late, but no
matter
! I’m very glad, and I’m sure you’ll keep your promise. But look here, my dear fellow, stop this stupid life at once. If you go home now, immediately, it’ll be all the easier to make the break. It’s a dreadful habit and very hard to resist.’

‘Don’t worry, I can do it!’

‘You’d better,’ said Balint grimly. ‘Habit is strong and when everyone around you … Look! The Burian talks will end today – they’re quite futile anyway, or so I hear – and the House will be adjourned. I’ll go with you to Transylvania tomorrow. We’ll
travel
together. I’d be happy to do it!’

‘No! I can’t leave yet. You must understand. Not yet, not while they are still here. At the end of the season, when everyone goes. In ten or twelve days. Then I’ll go.’

‘Better to go at once, while your mind is still made up. I’m really very worried about you.’

‘It’s impossible! I can’t leave now because of something quite different. But immediately afterwards, then I’ll go. I swear it.’

They got up and shook hands. Laszlo, in mock reverence, clicked his heels and gave a military salute.

‘This is how I will announce myself.
Melde
gehorsamst
–
reporting
for duty, Sir!’ And with this he turned around and hurried away.

 

Three days went by during which Laszlo hardly saw Klara, and when he did it was always in a crowd where they would have been watched. The princess, guarding her stepdaughter like a
detective
on duty, was never far away from her. Three days, three bad days, during which Laszlo heard that they had been to some gathering in the woods on the Margit Island or spent an evening at a country-house not far from the city, excursions from which Aunt Agnes had been careful to arrange his exclusion.

It was more than Laszlo could bear. Somehow he would have to get word to Klara to meet him or he thought he would die of agony and frustration. If only he knew where she was and what they all were doing, then at least he might be able to catch a glimpse of her.

On the fourth morning he awoke early, still tormented by the thoughts that had kept him awake so late the night before. How to do it? How? If he wrote to Klara, the letter was sure to be
intercepted
by her mother, for Princess Agnes was capable of any act, however mean, to ensure that her commands were obeyed. Then again he remembered the little maid, Ilus. She was a good girl, even if she always seemed so sad. He was sure she would do anything for her mistress so if he could send a message through the maid, then it stood a chance of reaching Klara. Nobody would bother about a maidservant’s letters.

He got up at once and went to his desk. As usual he had no writing paper, so he took out one of his visiting cards and wrote a few words on the back:
‘
Dear
Ilus,
Come
to
see
me
today.
I’ll
be
at
home
all
afternoon
. Please
come!
’ Only this, nothing more.

As Laszlo never had any envelopes either, he dressed hurriedly and went down to ask the concierge’s wife if she could give him one. It was large and rough, but it would have to do. Slipping into it the card, he wrote on the outside the maid’s name and
addressed
it merely to the Kollonich Palais.

Then, still unshaven, he hurried to Kalvin Square. It was about ten o’clock. Not wanting to go up to the house where he would be recognized he handed the letter to a street porter.

‘Do I wait for an answer?’ asked the old man when Laszlo had told him what he wanted and put some coins in his hand.

‘No answer. But you must give it to her personally, into her own hands, you understand!’

‘Yes, sir. Just as you wish, sir!’

 

It had been a bad mistake to send a street porter. If Laszlo had sent his message by post it would have arrived the same afternoon at the latest. As it was, the whole operation drew unnecessary
attention
to itself. Firstly, it was unusual for a maid-servant to
receive
letters by special delivery. What sort of person was it, anyone might wonder, who would spend money having a letter carried 50 yards just for a servant? It certainly wasn’t any
relation
. A member of her family, someone of her own kind, would never lay out forty cents for something that normally cost eight; not only that, they wouldn’t be in such a hurry. A stranger then? But who could it be? It was very odd and out of the ordinary.

The porter was a conspicuous figure who always wore a red
beret
. This would have attracted little notice in a block of
apartments
with several floors and many different tenants. There he could have entered quite freely. But it was no means the case when he presented himself at the covered portico of the grand town house of the princely Kollonich family. There he was
prevented
from entering the mansion by a liveried door-keeper, a huge man with a bushy beard who wore an intimidating quantity of gold braid and who peremptorily demanded where the man thought he was going and asked him to state his name and the name of the person to whom he was delivering the letter. The Kollonich door-keeper was not only powerfully built but was also filled with a sense of his own importance.

The porter, an honest and conscientious fellow, explained his mission and insisted that he had been instructed to hand the letter only to the person to whom it was addressed. This started an
argument
which, brief though it was, at once brought a footman running out, for the door-keeper had a stentorian voice and this undignified noise could be heard inside the house.

‘Well? Who’s it for?’ shouted the doorman, ‘Ilus Varga? No you can’t go up. If you want an answer you can wait outside on the sidewalk. What? No answer? Then move along! I don’t want any hanging about outside this house, thank you very much!’

There was nothing that the porter could do but hand over the letter and move on before he caused any more trouble.

The footman came down the steps to where the doorman stood. There he was joined by a serving-man in a baize apron and hands covered in brass polish who had been cleaning the fittings of the inner doors. ‘Who’s this for?’ they both asked. ‘Ilus?’ The
doorman
handed over the envelope and both the other men handled it trying to establish what it contained. All that they could
determine
was that a little rectangular disc seemed to be inside. It
certainly
wasn’t money and therefore must be a visiting card which meant that it had been sent by a gentleman despite the poor
quality
of the envelope. ‘Ilus must be doing all right!’ chuckled one of them, as they stood round the doorman.

At this moment the butler Szabo, who was doing the rounds of the house, came down the steps.

‘What’s all this going on here?’ he asked sternly, gesturing to the under-servant in the baize apron to get back in the house and carry on with his work. The footman, to explain why he had left his post at the foot of the main staircase in the hall – and because he was terrified of the butler – started to gabble incoherently:

‘Well, you see, sir, a letter arrived, for Ilus Varga ... a street porter … he wanted to come in … a porter …’ he hesitated. ‘Just a porter … therefore …’ he tailed off lamely.

‘Where is it? Give it to me!’ and, as the footman handed it over, Szabo went on, ‘I’ll take care of this!’ Slipping the letter into his breast pocket he turned and went back up the steps.

In a few moments all was back to normal. The lackey was
polishing
the brasses, the footman was back yawning at the foot of the great staircase, and the doorman went back to his place standing with splayed legs and chest thrown out to dazzle the passers-by with the importance of the house in front of which he stood.

 

The princess was just going from her bedroom to her dressing room to get out of her morning negligé and put on her afternoon dress when Fräulein Schulze, her German maid, came in.