Tempting Fate (38 page)

“That will do, I guess,” she said, the warmth and the aftermath of fear making her suddenly very tired. She felt her eyes begin to close. “Pardon me, Graf.”

“Please, rest if you wish, Frau Ostneige.” He was looking out the window at the lights along the lake. Fifty years ago there would have been darkness at this hour, and the earlier illumination would have been the faint amber glow of candles and lanterns. But now the lights were brighter, sharper, like diamonds flung on the darkness.

The Benz turned toward Beuerburg and Königsdorf, and Starnbergersee was lost in the night behind them.

“Baron Tiborkraj called you Prinz,” Gudrun said suddenly.

“It was my title once, and the Baron keeps to the old ways.” He hesitated a moment. “It is true that I am the son of a king, but the kingdom is gone now.” This was accurate enough, as far as it went. He did not mention that the kingdom had ceased to exist roughly four thousand years before.

“How sad,” she murmured, no longer resisting the drowsiness. After a moment, her head fell against his shoulder as she slept in the swaying automobile.

Ragoczy did not move her: he continued to stare out the window, an equivocal smile on his lips.

Text of a letter from Colonel Phillippe Timbres to the adjutant in charge of restoration supervision.

Chalons-sur-Marne

April 9, 1921

Restoration Office

Reims District, Marne

Dear Adjutant Couteau:

In response to your orders, I and my staff have completed the survey of all major damage done to buildings from Epernay and Givry on the north to Auxerre and Belfort on the south. Each building is cataloged, and the owner or owners, when known, are indicated and their present address included. In many instances there are no current locations for owners, and a diligent search will be required if these good citizens are to reclaim their property. There are several landowners who have already requested that they be allowed to sell off their holdings. With the ruin of fields and homes, the owners are without sufficient funds to restore their holdings, and it is my recommendation that priority be given to these distressed people, for they are the ones who are in the greatest need. Many of them have been bankrupted, and the sale of existing lands, no matter their condition, would mean the difference between a genteel life and the burdens of poverty. As soon as it is possible, this matter must be decided, and the parties notified.

A few farmlands will be useless for some time to come, and there are those who refuse to return to fields so lavishly sown with corpses. To these citizens I would suggest that immediate reparation of some sort be made. The trenches may be filled, but what they contain will never be forgotten. I will present myself in your offices on April 20, as requested, and at that time will answer the questions you and your staff might have. As exhibits of what we have found, I will provide photographs, so that a full and accurate assessment of damage may be determined. Should you require more than that, you have only to tell me and I will set my staff on it at once.

I have the honor to be

Most sincerely,

Phillippe Timbres, Colonel

7

Across the Seine, the Louvre stood magnificent in the moonlight, the streetlamps around it like a necklace. Franchot Ragoczy looked at it, his dark eyes remote, lost in the past. Behind him, at Number 9, Quai Malaquais, the neglected facade of Hôtel Transylvania frowned over the street. It had been well over a hundred years since he had walked here, and Ragoczy felt the now familiar sadness that overcame him at such moments. The Faubourg Saint-Germain-des-Prés was not as he remembered it. New wide boulevards, straightened to allow for cannon fire, cut through the ancient, twisted streets. There were buildings he had not seen, and those he knew of old were not as he saw them in his memory.

He was almost sorry that he had come this way, and seen this building as it was now. In the days when it had been his, it had glittered with richness and care. Even after it had been gutted by fire, he had seen it repaired and made more magnificent than ever. He had not wanted to part with it, but with the shadow of revolution over him, he had taken what had seemed the wisest course, and sold the splendid place. Looking at the uncurtained windows and damaged steps, he wished that he had not. He might, he told himself, have transferred it to one of his many aliases and kept it. That would have done little good, he realized, and only staved off the inevitable for a few years, until the Corsican Corporal had taken hold of France. He approached it, recalling the years he had owned it. Was his private chamber still intact, that golden room with the silken draperies of Chinese brocade? Vividly he recalled that night in October 1743 when he had first embraced Madelaine de Montalia. Madelaine. The thought of her possessed him, as it always did, and for an instant he closed his eyes, hearing her say, “With all those centuries, you still have concern for me?” as she looked at him with wonder. Madelaine, who had known him from the first for what he was, who had loved him without reservation. How much he had longed for her in the years since she had changed, and come into his life. It had been at Hôtel Transylvania that her father had been killed and she nearly made a sacrifice to Saint Sebastien, whose calcined bones lay somewhere in the cellars of the building. It was useless to think of her, to miss her, for the change had separated them in a way nothing else could. Those of his blood must seek the living, not one another. He had done so, and so had she, and neither had dared to be overmuch in each other’s company.

His love, where he bestowed it, was genuine, for his nature was not capable of that deception. Yet among those who had known his passion, Madelaine was most cherished. All were unique and treasured, but Madelaine had come to him for himself alone, and he never, before or since, found such acceptance in any other person.

Ragoczy deliberately turned away from Hôtel Transylvania, and took a paper from his coat pocket. He had a scrawled address on the cheap, lined sheet, one that had been given to him by a servant in the house of Pavel Ilyevich Yamohgo, where he had called earlier. He read it again, renewing his shock that Duchess Irina Andreivna Ohchenov should be reduced to living in the squalor he remembered the Rue des les Minces Chèvres to be. For some little time he stood, wondering if it would be wise to visit Irina with Madelaine so much on his mind. That question had perturbed him on other occasions, but at no time as much as it did now. He glanced back over his shoulder at Hôtel Transylvania, thinking that perhaps he should not have come this way. But it was done now, and could not be altered. He knew himself well enough to realize that he wanted to see the building, had, in fact, been avoiding this moment during his other recent journeys to Paris; He gave one short, resigned chuckle. His homeland had disappeared millennia ago and was almost lost to the memory of man. The temple where he had served so long lay under the sands. His villa outside Rome was a ruin. His palace in Seville was rubble. His house in Shiraz had been destroyed. His compound in Lo-Yang had been burned to the ground. His palazzo in Florence had been taken down to provide stones for the expanded city walls. Now Hôtel Transylvania was touched by decay. One day his Schloss would crumble, his manors in Russia would mingle with the earth. He ought to be used to the continuing loss, but he was not He wrenched his gaze away from the Hôtel and forced himself to walk away from it, into the maze of streets that had not been part of the transformation wrought by Napoleon Bonaparte.

Half an hour later he finally came upon the Rue des les Minces Chèvres, and he looked in appalled sorrow at the narrow lane, the cobbles in poor repair, the buildings sagging and fetid with the weight of centuries of poverty. He had seen such streets before, in many cities, had occasionally lived in the stench and despair they spawned, but as always, his soul was sickened by the hopelessness and degradation that were manifested in slums.

There were few people about, it being past midnight. One man in a greasy jersey and tight trousers gave Ragoczy a calculating look as he went past, and from one of the windows above a woman in a torn blouse leaned out and whistled unmelodically.

At number 14, Ragoczy stopped. A small light above the door staved off a little of the darkness and showed a door that had been painted red many years ago. Ragoczy knocked twice and then tried the latch. He stepped into a room the size of a closet which might, in charity, be called a lobby. There was a warped desk for the concierge to one side of the narrow staircase, and a set of letterboxes on the opposite wall. The place smelled of stale vegetables and bacon grease.

“Concierge?” Ragoczy called out, not too loudly, and waited a moment before repeating this.

There was a grumble from the door behind the desk, and eventually a woman of indeterminate shape and age peeked out. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I am come to see Irina. Ohchenov. I understand that she lives here. Will you be good enough to tell me which is her room?” Ragoczy adopted the aristocratic manner in the hope that the woman would cooperate with him.

“She’s not the sort who sees the likes of you,” the concierge answered with a nasty smirk. “Holds herself very high up, does she, and never passes the time of day with any of us.”

“That’s not surprising,” Ragoczy said quietly. “Is it worth twenty francs to you to tell me which is her room?” He reached into his pocket for the money as he spoke.

“Twenty francs? Why should you pay me that if you don’t want to work some mischief with her? I want no trouble here, mauvais oiseau. So far the police have left me alone. You aren’t going to change that.” She folded her arms and glowered up at him with hostility.

“What
would
it cost to make you willing to allow me to visit Madame Ohchenov?” he asked wearily. “Thirty francs? Forty? Or shall I simply shout her name until she hears me?”

“Fifty francs,” the concierge said at once. “Fifty. And for that, I expect no noise, and no notoriety, whatever it is you want with her. If you plan murder, I will describe you to the police. They take a dim view of people killing Russians.”

“If I were going to do Madame Ohchenov harm, I would scarcely announce myself and offer you a bribe—if I bothered with you at all, it would be to silence you. Now, which door is Madame Ohchenov’s?” He saw the woman’s eyes widen for an instant, and then she spat once, near his feet.

“The money first. Give me the fifty francs.” She leaned across the worn desk, her eyes eager.

Ragoczy counted out the fifty francs with care and handed them to the concierge. “Count them for yourself, as well, ma petite. I would not want to cheat you.” His expression was ironic and disappointed at once.

“I warn you, Monsieur, I will not forget you.” She tucked the fifty francs away in a pocket of her shapeless dress. “Assez! Her door is the third on the left at the head of the stairs. She has a bedroom and a parlor, so you will have to knock loudly. If my other tenants are disturbed and complain, you will have to leave.” With a satisfied nod, she went back through the narrow door and closed it with great finality.

“Quel plaisir,” Ragoczy remarked to the darkness, and went up the stairs. He heard an argument in the first room he passed, conducted in Neapolitan Italian in low but vehement voices. There was a scuffle, the sound of a piece of furniture overturning, and then silence. The next door was quiet, as was the third door. He hesitated, then lifted his hand and rapped softly. “Irina Andreivna,” he called out softly, continuing in Russian, “please, open the door. Duchess. This is Count Ragoczy. Wake up, my dear.” He listened, and there was no response, so he knocked again, more forcefully. “Duchess, wake up.”

He heard the sound of movement behind the door and a sleepy few words. Steps approached, and from the room beyond, he heard Irina say, “You’re speaking Russian.”

“Da, mayah sestra,” he answered. “Let me in.”

The bolt was drawn back, and the door opened so that a yellow sliver of candlelight cut into the dark hallway. Irina’s wan face looked out at him. “It is you.”

“Yes, it is I,” he agreed. “May I come in?”

She put a hand to her brow to push away the strands of hair disordered by sleep. “Of course. Please.” She pulled the door wide and let him enter. “What time is it?”

“Quite late. Forgive me for coming at this hour.” He closed the door behind him and looked quickly around the parlor. The light, he saw, came from a vigil candle placed before an icon of Saint Veronika. Nothing else in the room, save Irina herself, was Russian. There were two shabby chairs with poorly-mended cane seats, a settee that might have been new fifty years before, a plank-topped table with two flowerpots on it, and an old chest with simple iron fittings.

Irina watched his eyes, and sighed. “It isn’t much, Count, but I have very little left, and must guard what there is carefully.” She wore a cotton kimono robe over her nightgown and her feet were bare. As she drew up one of the chairs, she indicated the other. “Do sit down, Count.”

Ragoczy stood quite still, his elegant suit of fine black wool, white silk shirt, and black silk tie contrasting uncomfortably with his surroundings. He approached Irina’s chair and looked down at her, concern in his penetrating dark eyes. “How has this happened, Irina? Tell me.”

“This? Why, it is the best I can do for myself, Count.” She rubbed her eyes. “When morning comes, this will be a dream.”

“I am no dream, Irina Andreivna; not now.” He laid one hand on her shoulder. “You have an uncle in Paris, a wealthy man who lives quite well and is without heirs. How is it that I find you here?”

“He does not want me, or any of us, if there are any left,” she said simply. A year ago she would have railed at Pavel Yamohgo, but she no longer believed that this mattered. Her Uncle had denied her, and that was the end of it. She looked toward the torn curtains that hung in the window. “My cousin and his family … there was the influenza. Olga and Tania died, and Sasha had never properly recovered. Kiril took the boy with him.”