Tempting Fate (77 page)

Irina laughed strangely. “We are both exiles, Mr. Rozoh. Of course I will teach you French.” She thought for a moment. “Where is the Count, do you know?” Before he could answer, she went on, “No, you said you did not, didn’t you?”

“He is still in Germany, I think.” Nikolai knew without doubt that the Count would not leave until those who had killed Laisha were dead. He would leave Germany only to follow them.

“And when he has revenged her, what then?” Irina asked, but expected no answer. She rose from her chair. “Mr. Rozoh, I am grateful to you for bringing me this news, but it saddens me more than I can express to hear of it. I would much rather have heard it thus, from you, than read Roger’s letter.” She walked the length of the room. “Had he improved at all when you left?”

Nikolai shook his head. “He was no different from that day he came to the hospital. He was always very polite, and he behaved with complete propriety, but his eyes did not change and I heard him at night, twice, walking through the Schloss. Once he spent the greater part of the night in the music room, playing all the things they had played together, all the music she liked. It was worse than weeping, that music.” He had not mentioned this to anyone before, and he studied Irina to see what her reaction might be.

“Dear God,” she said quietly. “The clothes you have brought, they’re hers, aren’t they?”

“Yes. They’re hers.” He went carefully to the bookcases. “He could not bear to look at her things. Roger packed it all. He purchased a Minerva and had the boxes put into it, and then told me to come here. He said … he would be here later.” There was little conviction in this last statement, and the exchange of glances he had with Irina revealed her own doubt to him.

“Yes,” She bent to pick up the largest of the pieces of broken glass. “He will come, of course, eventually. But what will happen to him?” She held the shards carefully, so as not to cut herself on them.

“Roger was worried about him. He did not say so; he’s not that sort, but he had a look about him…” Nikolai gave an embarrassed shrug. “I wish there were something I could do, but the Count would not permit it, not from me, or anyone.”

Irina had not been paying a great deal of attention to what Nikolai had said, but this last caught her attention. “How do you mean, not permit it?” She deposited the glass in a ceramic ashtray.

“He … there is something about him, I don’t know how to describe it, but I have seen it. If you offered him your help, fie would be polite and most appreciative, but he would not accept it. He will not let Roger give him comfort or help. If he will not take it from Roger, he most certainly will not let
me
assist him,” Nikolai said with quiet hopelessness.

“Do you believe he needs help? Yes, I can see you do. And from what you have told me,” she went on with more strength of purpose, “I would agree. The pain of losing a child is … very great. For him, given his nature”—she glanced away from Nikolai as her memories of her nights in Ragoczy’s arms surged through her—“it would be more painful, I think.”

Nikolai found it difficult to speak, but forced himself to say, “I owe him … everything. He could have refused to aid me. I expected that of him, but…”

“Expected it? Why?” Irina was faintly distracted: there was an elusive idea at the back of her mind, and she could not get a grip on it.

“I had met him in Russia, under … awkward conditions.” That cold monastery kitchen, with Dmitri and Yuri drunk, and almost no food left, those little monks’ cells with their noble prisoners. Nikolai flinched as he recalled how Ragoczy had tricked and overpowered him.

“What conditions?” Irina asked a second time.

With a strange laugh, Nikolai said, “I was his jailer. He escaped. I should have had sense enough to fly with him, but…”

“Jailer?” Irina stared at him. So this was the man Ragoczy had told her about in her frigid dasha? This was the man he had left in his cell? And he was now his chauffeur? “How like him!”

“I suppose so,” Nikolai said, and shook his head over it, as he had so many times in the past. “Do you see why I believe I must try, somehow, to help him? He found me working with a crew of criminals repairing a road. He paid my debts and gave me employment, when I had been his jailer. If I do nothing for him now, then…”

Irina came up to Nikolai and put her hand on his arm. “Mr. Rozoh, you’re quite right. Something must be done. But you admit you cannot do it, nor can I. And if Roger is stymied, then…” She stopped and put her hand to her cheek.

“You’ve thought of something?” Nikolai said, feeling hope for the first time. He looked down at Irina’s face. “What is it?”

“I’m not certain it is possible,” she cautioned in a soft, tense tone. “But there is a chance … I’ve never been precisely sure how things stood between them, but each has spoken of the other with such endearment…”

“Who are you talking about?” Nikolai asked, beginning to feel impatient with Irina, and chagrined that she might have found the thing that he had missed.

Irina started out of the room. “I must write a letter at once, Mr. Rozoh. If you will excuse me? Phillippe will show you out.”

“But, Madame Ohchenov…” he began, starting toward her.

“The French lessons? Is that it? Come on Tuesday in the afternoon. We will begin then. Forgive me, now…” Irina favored him with a distracted wave.

“Who are you writing to?” Nikolai shouted after her.

She came back to the door and gave Nikolai a long, thoughtful look. “If I tell you, you must not say anything. I don’t know that it will work, or that it will do any good at all.”

“You have my word that I will not mention the name,” Nikolai said with great formality. He thought of the officers he had had in the army and of the integrity one or two of them had possessed. This middle-aged woman reminded him of those officers, and he took his path with great seriousness.

“I trust your word, Mr. Rozoh. If anything comes of this, I will notify you of it at once. It might require time.” She tried to remember how long her last letter had taken to reach that desolate part of Syria, and was annoyed that she could not.

“I will be coming to you to learn French. You may tell me then if there are developments.” He studied her a little, wondering what she had looked like when she had been a Duchess, with servants around her and the grandeur of the Imperial Court as her setting.

“Excellent. That way, you may also tell me what news there is of Count Ragoczy. It may work; it may work.”

“Fine,” Nikolai said, waiting. “Roger told me he would send me notice of their plans, so that I can be ready to receive them when they come to Paris. By that, I imagine he means that I will know when to drive the Minerva to the rail station to meet them.”

“That will be a wonderful day,” Irina said quickly. “Perhaps we will be able to speed it a little. Pray that I have not guessed incorrectly, Mr. Rozoh.” She banished her frown and her doubt at once, and said with a determined little nod, “I am going to write to Madelaine de Montalia and tell her what you have told me.”

This announcement was clearly supposed to evoke some sort of response from Nikolai, but he said nothing, for unlike Irina Ohchenov, he had never heard of Madelaine de Montalia. He watched Irina turn and hurry away down the hall, and a few minutes later Phillippe Timbres came to escort him to the door, saying nothing but the few words courtesy required, so that Nikolai decided not to ask the man what he knew of Madelaine de Montalia, if, indeed, he knew anything at all. He would have been amazed had he lingered for half an hour to hear what Phillippe Timbres said when he saw the letter that Irina had written.

“You can’t send this, my love.”

“What?” She looked around at him. “Why ever not?”

“It isn’t appropriate. You presume too much. It would be most unwise to post it.”

“But I must,” Irina said, at her most reasonable as she began to write delivery instructions on the envelope.

“It is no concern of hers, Irina.” For some reason he did not entirely understand, Phillippe felt distress on Madelaine’s behalf. “They hardly know each other. This is far too personal to be shared with a mere acquaintance.”

“Do you think that is all they are?” Irina asked him with an odd, unreadable expression. “I didn’t get that impression from either of them.”

“Oh? What impression did you get then?” He was as close to being angry with her as he ever came.

“I think that they have been very close at one time. There is something that happens to their eyes when they hear the other’s name.” She hunted in her desk drawer for stamps as she spoke, and at last found what she was looking for.

“They are lovers?” Phillippe asked incredulously. “Are you suggesting that?”

“Not now, of course, but I think they were, when Madelaine was young.” There was a little brass postal scale on the desk, and she placed the envelope on it, adjusting the counterweight on the beam.

“Madelaine
is
young,” Phillippe protested with a growing lack of ease.

“Do you think so?” Irina asked quietly. “I did once, but not anymore.” She put four stamps on the envelope, then regarded Phillippe seriously. “My dearest, I do not want to alarm you, or to do anything that displeases you, but it is necessary, I promise you, that I do this. Without Comte Ragoczy’s help…”—she exhaled shakily—“well, it is a debt I can never repay, but this will reduce it in part. I cannot stand by idly and leave him in pain. He did not leave me.”

“Comte Ragoczy!” Phillippe scoffed. “He sounds like one of those characters in romantic novels. The tall, mysterious foreigner—”

“He isn’t tall,” Irina said patiently.

“And noble, too,” Phillippe went on, paying no attention to her interruption. “The savior of those in distress!”

“He was that, for me,” Irina said.

“Why?” Phillippe inquired.

She regarded him with dignity. “You would laugh if I told you, Phillippe, and then I would be angry with you. I do not wish to be.”

Phillippe’s face fell, but he could not resist adding, “There is a character in a novel with his name, now that I think of it. In
Manon Lescaut,
there is a Prince Ragoczy who owns Hôtel Transylvania, the old gambling establishment.”

“The Ragoczy name is famous in Hungary, Phillippe. They were a most illustrious house.” She got up from the desk, the letter in her hand, “Were there only the Comte, the name would be honored enough.”

Phillippe pushed his hands into his pockets, saying somberly, “You know him well.”

Irina met his eyes levelly. “Very well. Without him, I would be dead by now. And you see, Phillippe, I know what it is to lose a treasured child, and I sympathize with him.”

For a short time Phillippe said nothing, then he took her hand that held the letter and kissed it. “You say he saved your life, ma amie, and for that I must be grateful to him, whoever and whatever he is. Do what you must, but try not to be disappointed if your plan does not work.” The smile that Irina bestowed on him almost banished the jealousy that he felt, both because of Madelaine de Montalia and this Comte Ragoczy he did not know.

Text of a letter from James Emmerson Tree to his cousin Audrey.

Liege, Belgium

August 3, 1926

Dear Audrey;

I was very sorry to hear about Aunt Myra’s death in June. She was a very good woman and I will miss her. From what Uncle Ned told me, you were the one who made the difference for her in the last few weeks, and I gather he was not much help for you. He kept telling me in his letter that women are good at sickroom things and men aren’t. What he meant was that he didn’t want to deal with Aunt Myra’s illness and so he left the whole thing in your lap. He might not ever tell you that you did a good thing and did it well, but I will. You did a selfless and courageous thing, Audrey, and you deserve more credit than you’ll probably ever get, but if my opinion means anything to you, then rest assured that it is the highest possible.

You may wonder what I’m doing in Belgium; the answer is, I just got kicked out of Germany. I was touring the country, doing a number of articles, most of them for Crandell but a few for magazine sales, as well, and in Berlin I covered some meetings and rallies of the National Socialists, the ones they call the Nazis, when they aren’t being nice. Whatever it was I did (and I still can’t find out what it was), I stepped on somebody’s toes, because the next thing you know, I was being asked to leave, and none too gently, I’ve been looking over my articles, and for the life of me, I don’t know what it was I said that offended them. The National Socialists were very strong in Bavaria for a time, but they’ve really spread out in the last couple years. They sound a little like the Ku Klux Klan, only about Jews instead of Negroes. They keep talking about economics and race as if they were the same thing, and the need to preserve the Pan-Germanic culture. There are those in Germany who believe that the National Socialists will be the next major power in politics, but I’m not so certain. They’re well-organized and they have a neat, military look to them, but it seems to me that most of their membership is working-class, and the Germans are awful snobs. If they’re going to get anywhere, they’re going to need a little more blue blood in their ranks, or they aren’t going to be taken too seriously. If they could convince one of the old Kaiser’s kids to come out in their favor, then I think they’d be a real threat. I don’t know what Hindenburg thinks of them—that was one of the things I was hoping to find out while I was in Germany—but he’s got a fair amount of power now that he’s President and it could be that his favor or lack of it will tip the scales for them. One thing that the National Socialists have done is started an organization for kids, kind of like the Scouts but more political, called the Hitlerjugend, named for one of their leaders. It’s something like the Ballilla in Italy. Both of them seem pretty strange to me; it’s like their kids are all turning into political watchdogs, and that is a move they might learn to regret.

I did get to the Krupp works at Essen. They’re really impressive. There’s a new merger going on in steel in Germany, by the way: Rhine-Elbe and Thyssen’s company are now Vereinigte Stahlwerke, or United Steel Works. I will say this for the Germans: when it comes to technology, they’re right on the mark.