And then Erast Fandorin said in a squeaky but perfectly clear voice, “Tell me about her. About Bezhetskaya.”
Zurov tossed an exuberant lock of hair back from his forehead. “Ah yes, I forgot. You’re from the train.”
“From where?”
“That’s what I call it. Amalia—she’s a queen, after all—she needs a train, a train of men. The longer the better. Take a piece of well-meant advice: put her out of your head or you’re done for. Forget about her.”
“I can’t,” Erast Fandorin replied honestly.
“You’re still a babe in arms. Amalia’s bound to drag you down into the whirlpool, the way she’s dragged so many down already. Maybe the reason she took a shine to me was because I wouldn’t follow her into the whirlpool. I don’t need to—I have a whirlpool of my own. Not as deep as hers but still quite deep enough for me to drown in.”
“Do you love her?” Fandorin asked bluntly, claiming his privilege as the offended party.
“I’m afraid of her,” said Hippolyte with a dismal laugh, “more afraid than in love. And, anyway, it’s not love at all. Have you ever tried smoking opium?”
Fandorin shook his head.
“Once you’ve tried it, you’ll hanker after it for the rest of your life. That’s what she’s like. She won’t set me free! I can see perfectly well that she despises me and thinks I’m not really worth a damn, but she’s spotted something or other in me. Worse luck for me! You know, I’m glad she’s gone away, honest to God. Sometimes I used to think of killing her, the witch, strangling her with my own hands to stop her tormenting me. And she could tell, all right. Oh yes, brother, she’s clever. She was fond of me because she could play with me like with fire. First she would fan the flames, then she would blow them out, but all the time she knew that the fire might flare up and spread, and then she wouldn’t escape with her life. Otherwise what does she need me for?”
Erast Fandorin thought enviously that there was a great deal that might make a woman love the handsome Hippolyte, this devil-may-care hothead, without any need for flames. A handsome fellow like him was probably plagued by women. How was it that some people had such immoderate good luck? However, these were considerations that had nothing to do with the job at hand. He should be asking about business.
“Who is she, where from?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t like to talk about herself very much. All I know is that she grew up abroad somewhere. I think it was in Switzerland, in some boarding school or other.”
“And where is she now?” asked Erast Fandorin, without really expecting he would have any luck.
Zurov, moreover, was clearly taking his time to reply, and Fandorin’s heart stood still.
“Why—are you that badly smitten?” the count inquired morosely, and a hostile grimace momentarily distorted his handsome, capricious features.
“Yes!”
“Ye-es, well, it makes no difference, if a moth is drawn to a candle flame it will be burned up anyway…”
Hippolyte rummaged among the decks of cards, unironed handkerchiefs, and shop bills on the table.
“Where is it, dammit? Ah, I remember.” He opened a Japanese lacquered box with a mother-of-pearl butterfly on the lid. “There you are. It arrived by municipal post.”
Erast Fandorin took the narrow envelope with trembling fingers. Written on it in a slanting, impetuous hand was: To His Excellency Count Hippolyte Zurov, Yakovo-Apostolsky Lane, at his own house. According to the postmark, the letter had been sent on the sixteenth of May, the day that Bezhetskaya had disappeared.
Inside, he discovered a short note in French, with no signature.
I am obliged to leave without taking my leave. Write to me at: London, Grey Street, the Winter Queen Hotel, for the attention of Miss Olsen. I am waiting. And do not dare to forget me.
“But I shall dare,” Hippolyte threatened vehemently, but then he immediately wilted. “At least, I shall try…Take it, Erasmus. Do whatever you like with it…Where are you going?”
“I must be off now,” said Fandorin, tucking the envelope into his pocket. “I have to hurry.”
“Well, well.” The count nodded pityingly. “Off you go, fly into the flame. It’s your life, not mine.”
Outside in the yard Erast Fandorin was overtaken by Jean carrying a bundle.
“Here you are, sir. You left this behind.”
“What is it?” Fandorin asked in annoyance, glancing around.
“Are you joking, sir? Your winnings. His Excellency ordered me to be sure to catch up with you and give them to you.”
ERAST FANDORIN had a most peculiar dream.
He was sitting at a desk in a classroom in his provincial gymnasium. He had dreams of this kind—usually alarming and unpleasant—quite frequently, in which he was once again a pupil at the gymnasium and had been called out to the front in a physics or algebra lesson and his mind was blank. However, this dream was not just miserable but genuinely terrifying. Fandorin simply could not comprehend the reason for this fear. He was not up at the blackboard but at his desk, with his classmates sitting around him: Ivan Brilling; Akhtyrtsev; some fine, handsome young fellow with a high, pale forehead and insolent brown eyes (Erast Fandorin knew this must Kokorin); two female pupils in white uniform aprons; and someone else sitting in front of Fandorin with his back turned to him. Fandorin was afraid of the fellow with his back to him and tried not to look his way, but he kept straining his neck to get a look at the girls—one dark haired and one light haired. They were sitting at their desks with their slim hands studiously clasped together in front of them. One turned out to be Amalia and the other Lizanka. The first shot him a searing glance from her huge black eyes and stuck her tongue out, while the second smiled bashfully and lowered her downy eyelashes. Then Fandorin noticed that Lady Astair was standing at the blackboard holding a pointer, and everything suddenly became clear to him: this was the latest English method of education, in which boys and girls were taught together. And very good, too. As though she had heard his thoughts, Lady Astair smiled sadly and said, “This is not simply coeducation—this is my class of orphans. You are all orphans, and I must set you on the path.”
“By your leave, my lady,” Fandorin said, surprised, “I happen to know for certain that Lizanka is not an orphan but the daughter of a full privy counselor.”
“Ah, my sweet boy,” said her ladyship, smiling even more sadly. “She is an innocent victim, and that is the same thing as an orphan.” The terrifying fellow in front of Fandorin slowly turned around and, staring straight at him with whitish, transparent eyes, whispered, “I, Azazel, am also an orphan.” He winked conspiratorially and, finally casting aside all restraint, said in Ivan Brilling’s voice, “And, therefore, my young friend, I shall be obliged to kill you, which I sincerely regret…Hey, Fandorin, don’t just sit there like a dummy. Fandorin!”
“Fandorin!” Someone was shaking him by the shoulder, rousing him from his terrifying nightmare. “Wake up now. It’s morning already.”
He shook himself awake and jumped to his feet, turning his head this way and that. Apparently he had been dozing in his chief’s office, overcome by sleep right there at the desk. The joyful light of morning was pouring in through the window between the open curtains, and Ivan Brilling was standing there beside him, dressed as a petit bourgeois in a cap with a cloth peak, a pleated caftan, and mud-stained, concertina-creased boots.
“Dropped off, did you, couldn’t wait?” Brilling asked merrily. “Pardon my fancy dress. I had to go out in the night on an urgent matter. Go and get a wash, will you—stop gawping like that. Quick march.”