Mademoiselle laughed for the first time in those difficult days – at least, in my presence.
‘Now, Monsieur Ziukin, you rest and Erast and I will take a little stroll about Maiden’s Field, Pogodinskaya and Pliushchikha,’ she said, painstakingly enunciating the names of the Moscow streets, but the only word that I heard was Erast.
How could he be ‘Erast’ to her?
‘I am perfectly well,’ I assured them both, ‘and I would like to accompany you.’ Fandorin stood up and shook his head.
‘Masa will accompany us. I am afraid that he is still angry with you. And the time spent in the lock-up has probably not improved his mood at all.’
Of course, I did not simply lie there, but I had nothing to occupy myself with, for Somov had taken complete possession of all my responsibilities and, to do him justice, he was managing them quite well – at least I did not discover any serious omissions, although I checked on the condition of the rooms and the table-ware and the stables, and even the state of the door handles. There was nothing I had to do, apart from ordering the roses in Her Highness’s room to be replaced with anemones and having an empty bottle that had rolled under Lieutenant Endlung’s bed taken away.
So I had been relieved of my duties, beaten (deservedly, which was the most painful thing) and humiliated in front of Mademoiselle Declique, but what tormented me most of all was the nightmarish vision of Mikhail Georgievich languishing in a damp dungeon. Shock, coercion, physical torment, the prolonged effects of narcotics – all of these traumas, suffered at such a young age, would be certain to have dire consequences. It was terrifying to think how they might affect the grand duke’s character and psychological health. But it was still too early to be worrying about such things. First His Highness had to be freed from the clutches of the cruel Doctor Lind.
And I promised myself that I would forgive Fandorin everything if only he could save the child.
The members of our household returned early in the evening after attending the ceremony of the consecration of the State Banner in the Armoury Palace.
In the corridor Xenia Georgievna took hold of my sleeve and asked quietly: ‘Where is Erast Petrovich?’
Her Highness seemed willing to make me her confidant in her affaire de cœur2, but I felt absolutely no desire to assume this ambivalent role.
‘Mr Fandorin has gone out with Mademoiselle Declique,’ I replied impassively, bowing and remaining bent as if I had forgotten to straighten up so that I would not have to meet the grand princess’s gaze.
Xenia Georgievna seemed quite unpleasantly surprised.
‘With Emilie? But why?’
‘It has to do with the plans to free Mikhail Georgievich,’ I said without going into details, wishing to end this conversation as soon as possible.
‘Ah, what an egotist I am!’ Tears sprang to the grand princess’s eyes. ‘I am horrid, horrid! Poor Mika! No, I think of him all the time, I was praying for him all night long.’ Suddenly she blushed and corrected herself. ‘Well, almost all night . . .’
These words, which could be construed in only one way, finally spoiled my mood completely, and I am afraid that during supper I was insufficiently attentive in my duties.
The mealwas a special one, arranged in honour of our English guests on the occasion of the birthday of the Queen of England, who is known in our Family simply as Granny and is genuinely respected and dearly loved. The last time I had seen ‘the grandmother of all Europe’ was in the spring in Nice, when Queen Victoria held a party for Xenia Georgievna and Prince Olaf. I thought that the Empress of India and ruler of the leading empire in theworld seemed very aged but still strong. Our court servants say that after the death of her husband for a long time she maintained a connection with one of her own servants, but looking at this admirable majestic individual it was quite impossible to believe in such a thing. In any case, there is always all sorts of gossip about royalty, but one should never give any credit to rumours until they have been officially confirmed. I, at least, do not encourage gossip about Her Britannic Majesty in my presence.
In arranging a supper in Granny’s honour, Georgii Alexandrovich wished to make up at least in part for the lack of attention paid to his English guests as a result of the misfortune that had befallen the Green House. The preparations had been supervised by Somov – all that remained for me to do was to check the table settings and the menu. Everything was impeccable.
The festivities fell flat, although Endlung tried as hard as he could, and even Georgii Alexandrovich behaved as a genuinely hospitable host ought to. But all efforts were in vain. Pavel Georgievich sat there with a glum face and did not even touch his food; he only drank wine. Xenia Georgievna seemed distracted; His Lordship and Mr Carr did not even look at each other and laughed somehow too loudly at the lieutenant’s jokes, as if they were deliberately pretending to be carefree and lighthearted. From time to time there were prolonged pauses, a sure sign of an unsuccessful evening.
It seemed to me that the shade of the unfortunate little prisoner was hovering over the table, although not a word was spoken about him. After all, the Englishmen had not officially been informed about what had happened – that would have meant the inevitable dissemination of the secret across the whole of Europe. As long as the subject was not touched upon, it did not exist. As men of honour, Lord Banville and Mr Carr would keep silent. And if they did say anything, it would only be in private, among their own circle. That, of course, would fuel rumours, but nothing more than that. And I have already spoken about rumours.
I stood behind Georgii Alexandrovich’s chair, giving signs to the servants if anything needed to be brought in or taken out. But my thoughts were far away. I was wondering how I could exculpate my unwitting debt of guilt to Mikhail Georgievich and whether there was some other way in which I could help to save him. And also – I will not attempt to dissemble – several times I recalled the trusting even admiring way in which Mademoiselle Declique had looked at Fandorin – Erast. I must admit that in picturing myself as Mikhail Georgievich’s rescuer, I imagined how she would look at me in the same way – perhaps with even greater admiration. Foolish, of course. Foolish and unworthy.
‘Why does it have to be me?’ Pavel Georgievich asked, lowering his voice. ‘You were the one who promised to take them to the opera today.’
‘I can’t,’ Georgii Alexandrovich replied just as quietly. ‘You will go.’
Just for an instant – evidently because my thoughts were occupied by extraneous matters – I imagined that I had begun to understand English, for the conversation at the table was naturally in that language, but then I realised that these remarks had been made in Russian.
Pavel Georgievich spoke in a jolly voice, with his lips stretched out into a smile, but his eyes were as spiteful as could be. His father regarded him with a perfectly benign air, but I noticed that the back of His Highness’s neck was turning crimson, and that certainly boded no good.
By this time Xenia Georgievna was no longer at the table – she had withdrawn, citing a slight migraine.
‘Is it because she has arrived?’ Pavel Georgievich asked, still smiling in the same way and looking at the Englishmen. ‘Are you going to see her at the Loskutnaya?’
‘None of your business, Paulie,’ said Georgii Alexandrovich, smacking his lips as he lit up a cigar. ‘You’re going to the opera.’
‘No!’ Pavel Georgievich exclaimed so loudly that the Englishmen actually started.