Miklós Bánffy - They Were Counted

The other matter was more personal. As soon as he arrived back in the capital he asked about Laszlo Gyeroffy and, unhappily, the man he asked was Niki Kollonich.

Niki laughed maliciously: ‘Haven’t you heard? Don’t you know about it?’ he said, with obvious enjoyment. ‘You won’t see him at the Casino any more! His gambling went too far, but they allowed him to resign, thank God. He was lucky to escape being thrown out!’

‘You seem pretty pleased about it!’ Balint rounded on him angrily.

‘Not at all,’ the other said hurriedly. ‘I only meant that it was just as well for the rest of us, for his family. It would have been very awkward if there had been a scandal and he’d been thrown out publicly. It was all hushed up.’

Balint went round at once to the apartment house in Museum Street where Laszlo had had his flat. By the entrance door he found a sign posted: FOR RENT. FURNISHED ROOMS WITH PRIVATE ENTRANCE. THIRD FLOOR. He went in search of the hall-porter, who confirmed that, two weeks before, Count Gyeroffy had given up his flat, packed up all his possessions and left.

‘Did he leave an address?’

‘No, but I believe he went back to Transylvania. I don’t really know.’

BEFORE GYEROFFY WENT TO VARAD, and afterwards to Kolozsvar where he had the unfortunate encounter with Wickwitz, he had promised Fanny Beredy to remain in Transylvania only for two or three days before returning to go with her, and the rest of her court, Szelepscenyi, d’Orly, Solymar, Devereux and the two nieces, to Milan to hear a new Puccini opera. Fanny hoped that the trip might help wean her lover away from his foolish wasteful life and she had also thought how wonderful it would be to travel together, to stay in the same hotels, spend the nights in each other’s arms, and do so many things that were impossible for them in Budapest where their every move was sure to be seen by someone they knew. When a week had gone by and Laszlo had not returned, she sent him a telegram: no reply. She sent him another and another. Still no reply. Fanny was deeply hurt and, telling herself that her lover needed to be taught a lesson, she swallowed her disappointment and left for Italy with the others.

Gyeroffy got back to Budapest the day after Fanny had left. He arrived late in the evening. In the depressed and self-tormenting mood that he had been unable to shake off since his discovery of Wickwitz’s perfidy and unscrupulous behaviour, nothing would have induced him to remain alone in his cold little furnished apartment. The mere thought of it filled him with repulsion.

All the time in the train from Transylvania, during which he had felt impelled to reassure himself every few minutes that the great wad of banknotes was still safely in the inner pocket of his jacket, for that large sum of money was the sacred ransom by which he would redeem Fanny’s pearls and his own honour, he had been obsessed by the thought that he himself was no better than Wickwitz. You are a scoundrel, he said to himself, just like Nitwit. By what right did you insult him when you are just as guilty as he is? And, as the train rumbled on he kept on repeating to himself to the rhythm of the train’s movement: You’re as bad as he is … as bad as he is … as bad as he is … as bad as he is …

He had to go out. But where? He went to the Casino, his legs seemingly finding their own way with no conscious direction from his head. He just dashed out, unchanged, only pausing long enough to throw some cold water on his face and wash his hands. On the way he kept on touching the packet in his pocket, that sacred packet which must not be lost as it represented all that he had left in the world. When that had gone there would be no more!

It was midnight when he walked up the Casino steps.

A ball was in progress in the great ground-floor rooms. Carnival had lasted longer than usual that year and the huge building resounded with the music of the band. As Laszlo walked through the hall they were just carrying into the ballroom the cotillion favours, those little delicate nosegays of flowers, and the sight pierced Laszlo’s heart sharply. All this life was finished for him now. Never again would he set foot here, immaculately dressed, to lead the dancing. Here, too, he had failed. He almost ran to the stairs so as to escape the sounds of music and gaiety that came from the ballroom. In the hall there were a number of little groups of men discussing politics, arguing and making statements. Laszlo hurried past and disappeared up the stairs.

In the big card-room on the first floor poker was being played for small stakes. Gyeroffy decided not to join in but had a small table brought close to the play and told them to serve his dinner there. He ordered a bottle of absinthe, the most potent of the waters of Lethe, hoping that thereby he could drown the self-accusatory feelings that gnawed at his heart. Time went by and some of the onlookers from the big game at the baccarat-room upstairs came down and told how play was higher than ever upstairs, with astronomical sums being won and lost. Laszlo automatically felt his inner pocket to be sure that the packet of money was still in its place. He went on drinking in silence, talking to no one. Later on someone else came in and told everyone that the Black Cockatoo, the Croatian millionaire Arzenovics, was ‘losing his shirt’ upstairs. It seemed that he had had the most amazing run of bad luck. A little later someone else put their head round the door and said the same thing.

Laszlo got up and went into the little anteroom from which led the stair up to the baccarat-room. He paused, listening. From above nothing could be heard except the soft chink of counters and the occasional phrase: ‘ Je donne … Non! Les cartes passent. ’

He stood there for a long time his fingers just touching his jacket where he could feel the wad of money in the inside pocket.

Then slowly, as if drawn by a magnet, automatically, he started up the stairs.

For a while Laszlo watched the play, standing mesmerized behind the seated gamblers. There were never less than twenty or thirty thousand crowns on the table. Donci Illesvary, young Rosgonyi, Wuelffenstein and Gedeon Pray were all there and whether they bet high or low they always won. Stacks of chips were ranged in front of Neszti Szent-Gyorgyi and across the table from him sat Zeno Arzenovics; but no one was standing near Zeno, for onlookers don’t like to stay too close to a loser. All those not playing were grouped behind Szent-Gyorgyi across the table: it was as if everyone were laying siege to the rich man from Bacska who, his elbows spread wide on the baize-covered table and seated between two empty chairs, stood his ground with a stony, expressionless face. Each time he lost he calmly noted the sum on a slip of paper by his side. The only sign that these continual losses were becoming a serious matter even for him was the chewed-up state of the cigar in his mouth. ‘Sixteen! Banco !’ He lost again. ‘Twenty-four! Banco !’ That went too. And so it went on. Arzenovics did not win once; but one of the others at the table won twenty-eight times running, and most of what he won had been lost by the Black Cockatoo.

A little voice inside Laszlo said: ‘You could win all you need on a single hand!’ but Gyeroffy did not move. The voice went on: ‘Try it! The money’s on the table: you’ve only got to grab it! You can stake ten or fifteen thousand, that’s all you need, and there’s plenty in your pocket. Remember Napoleon’s ‘ La victoire estauxgrosbataillons! ’ But Laszlo stood fast, not moving, only his hand fingering his waistcoat pocket. Then Pray, who was sitting next to the empty chair on Arzenovic’s right, won nine times running. ‘You idiot!’ muttered Laszlo’s little voice. ‘If you’d joined in as I suggested a lot of that would be yours. Go on! Join in! Just with the four thousand that’s your own, if you must, but at least with that …’