With which he made a pleasant bow to the Countess.
It was perfect. It was exactly what Countess Turova wanted to hear. Like the empress with her subjects, she would decide what was best for the four thousand rational beings she currently owned; and no doubt they would be grateful that their owner should be so enlightened, in this best of all possible worlds.
The little circle burst into applause. He heard the old lady murmur: ‘Ah, my Voltaire.’ The general remained silent.
And did Bobrov believe what he had just said? Yes, pretty much. He wished his serfs well. One day perhaps they would be free. And meanwhile, the enlightened era of Catherine was a fine time to be alive, if you were a noble, in St Petersburg.
At last the moment had come. As always at such gatherings, the main part of the evening, after the gladiatorial debate, had been devoted to cards. He had played for an hour, and played badly. For how could he concentrate? Every few minutes his eyes strayed back to the table where the countess sat, as he waited for a break in the play. As soon as he could, he excused himself and then stood discreetly at the back of the room, watching her. How small and bent her back looked, seen from that angle, how strangely frail. And yet, when at last he saw her rise and turn towards him, all his nervousness of her instantly returned as he stepped forward.
‘Daria Mikhailovna, may I speak with you privately?’ She started to frown. ‘It is a matter of great importance.’
If he had thought his conquest of the general would earn him a good reception now, it seemed he was wrong. Obviously, having served his purpose, he was no longer of interest to her that evening. She gave him a cold little stare, muttered, ‘Oh, very well,’ and started to move towards an ante-room. As he followed just behind her, he noticed that she was beginning to walk with a slight shuffle. Having reached the room, she sat down on a small gilt sofa, very erect, and did not offer him a seat.
‘Well, what is it you wish, Alexander Prokofievich?’
This was the moment. He had prepared himself, of course. But even so, how the devil did one ask an old woman tactfully if one was in her Will? He began cautiously.
‘As you may have heard, Daria Mikhailovna, there have been some negotiations with various parties concerning my possibly marrying again.’ Her face was impassive. ‘As a preliminary to such discussions, some of the parties naturally asked me to make a disclosure of my fortune.’ It was a complete fabrication, but it was the best excuse he could think of. He paused, wondering how she was taking it.
Countess Turova, face quite still, stretched out her hand in her lap and looked at the back of it with, it seemed, some admiration. Then she turned it over and looked at the palm. That, too, appeared to be satisfactory. Then she raised her hand on to the gilt arm of the sofa and drummed out a little tattoo to herself, as though she were becoming bored. Alexander pressed on.
‘The question has arisen,’ he continued delicately, ‘as to whether, besides my present estates, I have any further expectations?’ Again he paused, hoping she might help him.
She looked up with apparent interest.
‘I did not know you had any,’ she remarked sweetly.
Very well. If she wished to play with him he could only defend himself by seeming frank.
‘I expect I haven’t, Daria Mikhailovna. But I dared to hope that perhaps, as my kinswoman, you might have considered some mention of me in your Will. If not, of course, I shall act accordingly.’
The old countess remained expressionless. He had no idea if she believed him, or what she thought.
‘You mean to marry?’
‘I hope so. One day.’ He was careful not to commit himself. He saw the countess frown.
‘Can you tell me the name of at least one of the families with whom you are negotiating?’ Obviously she didn’t believe him. He mentioned the German girl’s family.
‘I congratulate you. A good Baltic family. It could be worse.’ Then she smiled at him. ‘But from what I hear, Alexander Prokofievich, this girl is a considerable heiress. I’m sure you will have no need of more than she already has.’ She glanced at her hand again, as though sympathizing with that limb that it had been forced to endure this boring conversation for so long. ‘Unless of course,’ she said quietly, and without changing her expression, ‘this has nothing to do with your getting married at all. Perhaps you are embarrassed financially in some way.’
‘No, no.’ The witch!
‘You have debts perhaps?’
‘All men have some.’
‘So I hear.’ She sniffed. ‘I have none.’ This, he knew, was an understatement. She ruled her stewards with a rod of iron. God knows what income she had.
For a few moments the countess’s attention seemed to wander and her eyes fixed on something in the middle distance.
‘Well, well. If you marry, I suppose we shall see less of you here.’
He ignored this allusion to Madame de Ronville.
‘Not at all, Daria Mikhailovna,’ he countered evenly. ‘I should bring my wife to see you frequently.’
‘No doubt.’ And now, quite suddenly, she gave him a brilliant smile. ‘Are you entirely ruined?’
‘No,’ he lied, while she watched him thoughtfully. There was a brief pause.
‘Well, Alexander Prokofievich, I should tell you that at present you are not in my Will.’
He bowed his head. Though his face did not flinch, he could feel himself going very pale; but knowing she was observing him, he looked up bravely.
‘However,’ she sniffed, ‘your father was my kinsman and you are obviously in difficulties.’ She said the last word with a kind of placid contempt. ‘I shall therefore include you. Do not expect a great fortune. But there will be, I dare say, enough.’
Dear God, there was hope after all.
‘It is time for my cards.’ Without even waiting for his arm, she abruptly rose to her feet. Then she stopped. ‘On second thoughts, Alexander Prokofievich, I will add one condition.’ She turned back to him. ‘Yes, I think it is time you married. So you will receive your legacy – but only if you marry this Baltic girl.’ She smiled happily. ‘That is all I have to say to you, monsieur.’ And with that she moved away.
He watched her go. How did she know, by what infernal instinct had she guessed, that this was the one answer in all the world he did not want?
‘I bet she really does sleep with her eyes open,’ he muttered bitterly.
The great house was silent; the guests had left. Alexander and his mistress had withdrawn to her apartment in the east wing and now at last they could talk alone. Naturally, they were discussing his marriage.
The wing was easily reached along a passageway from the main house; it also had a private entrance down a little back staircase that gave on to the street. It was perfectly arranged, therefore, for the conduct of a discreet affair. Adelaide de Ronville’s rooms were entirely delightful. They might have been in her native France: Louis XV and XVI furniture; an Aubusson carpet with a garlanded border; thick curtains of flowered silk with heavy valances and tassels; lush draperies on the furniture; tapestries with charming pastoral scenes; soft pinks and blues, gilt, but not too much. These were the elements that she had arranged with a lightness, simplicity and concealed sense of form that had their own special charm.
When Alexander had told her about the countess’s decision, she took his arm affectionately and smiled. ‘You must marry the girl, my friend.’