I opened my eyes and immediately squeezed them shut again to keep out the brilliant sunlight thatmust have reached my face at just that second.
The final peals of my chimerical rapture slowly gave way to fright: the bright disc was so high in the sky that the hour had to be late. In any case, breakfast time must certainly be over.
I jumped to my feet with a gasp, then remembered that I had been excused from all domestic duties – Somov was performing them for the time being. Then I listened and realised how quiet the house was.
Well, naturally. Everyone had gone to bed so late that probably no one had got up yet.
I took awash and freshened up my clothes, thenwalked round all the places where work should be going on to make sure that the servants at least were not sleeping and the table had already been laid for breakfast.
I went out into the yard to see if the carriages were ready for driving out and then turned into the garden to pick some tulips for Xenia Georgievna and pansies for Mademoiselle Declique.
I ran into Mr Fandorin on the lawn. Or rather, I saw him first and instinctively ducked behind a tree.
Erast Petrovich took off his white shirt and performed some complicated gymnastic movements. Then suddenly he leapt up and hung from the lowest branch of a spreading maple tree. First he swung to and fro and then he started doing something completely fantastic, flying from branch to branch with deft, confident movements of his arms and hands. He made a complete circuit round the maple tree in this way, and then repeated the procedure.
I could not tear my eyes away from his lean, well-muscled body, and I felt a quite untypical feeling of burning hatred seething helplessly inside me. Oh, if only I were a magician, I would have turned that man into some kind of monkey, then he could gambol around in the trees as much as he liked.
Turning away with an effort, I sawthe curtainwas drawn back at one of the windows on the ground floor – I thought it was Mr Carr’s room. Then I saw the Englishman himself. He was following Fandorin’s gymnastic routine with a fixed stare: his lower lip was gripped between his teeth, his fingers were gently stroking the window pane and there was a dreamy expression on his face.
The day that had started so late dragged on at an agonising, leisurely pace. I tried to occupy myself with work around the house and preparations for the imminent receptions, routs and ceremonies, but very soon abandoned all important matters, because they needed to be tackled seriously, with total concentration, and my thoughts were infinitely far removed from discussing a menu, polishing silver tableware and airing ceremonial uniforms and dresses.
I did not even have a chance to exchange a few words with Mademoiselle, because Karnovich was with her all the time. He kept on trying to get her to understand something about the next meeting with the kidnappers until at two o’clock the governess was put into a carriage and driven away – I only saw her from behind as she walked down the steps of the porch with her head held high. She was carrying a handbag which, I presumed, contained the Lesser Diamond Bouquet, that beautiful creation of the court jeweller Pfister.
After Mademoiselle left, I sat on a bench in the company of Mr Freyby. Only a little earlier, I had come out consumed by anxiety to walk round the palace and had spotted the English butler on the lawn. On this occasion he was without his book, simply sitting there with his eyes closed, luxuriating in the sunshine. Mr Freyby looked so calm and peaceful that I stopped, overcome by a sudden envy. There is the only person in this entire insane house who radiates normality and common sense, I thought. And I suddenly felt an overwhelming desire simply to enjoy the fine day with the same appetite for it as he had, to sit for a while on a bench warmed by the sun, turn my face to catch the light breeze, and not think about anything at all.
In some mysterious way the Briton must have guessed my desire. He opened his eyes, raised his bowler hat politely and gestured to me, as if to say: ‘Would you care to join me?’ And why not? I thought to myself. At least it will calm my nerves.
I thanked him (‘Tenk yoo’) and sat down. It was really wonderful there on the bench. Mr Freyby nodded to me, I nodded to him, and this ritual made a perfect substitute for conversation, which in my exhausted state would probably have been beyond my powers.
After the carriage took Mademoiselle Declique away to the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour on Volkhonka Street, I became agitated again and began squirming about on the bench, but the butler took a flat leather-bound flask out of his voluminous pocket, unscrewed its silver top, poured some amber liquid into it and held it out to me. He himself made ready to drink directly from the mouth of the flask.
‘Whisky,’ he exclaimed, noticing my indecision.
I had heard a lot about this British beverage, but I had never had occasion to sample it. I should tell you that I never take strong spirits, and only use less-strong drink – a glass of Malvasen – twice a year, at Easter and on Georgii Alexandrovich’s name day.
However, Freyby sipped his drink with such evident enjoyment that I decided to try it. I threw my head back and drank it down, in the way that Lieutenant Endlung deals with his rum.
My throat felt as if it had been stripped raw by a file, tears sprang to my eyes and I was completely unable to breathe. I looked round in horror at the perfidious Englishman, and he winked approvingly at me, as if he were delighted with his cruel trick. Why on earth do people drink horrid things like that?
But on the inside I began to feel a warm, sweet sensation, my anxiety disappeared and was replaced by a quiet sadness – not for myself but for people who turned their lives into an absurd confusion and then suffered torment as a result.
We enjoyed a glorious silence. Here is the personwho can give me some advice about Xenia Georgievna, I suddenly thought. It is obvious that he is a level-headed individual who is never at a loss in any situation. No one would envy him the master that he has, and yet he maintains such an air of dignity. However, it was absolutely impossible for me to talk to the Englishman about such a ticklish subject. I heaved a sigh.
And then Freyby turned his head slightly towards me, opened one eye and said: ‘Live your own life.’ He took out the dictionary and translated: ‘Zhit’ . . . svoy . . . sobstvenniy . . . zhizn’.’
After that he leaned back contentedly, as if the subject were exhausted, and closed his eyes again.
These strangewordswere spoken in the tone of voice in which good advice is given. I started wondering what living one’s own life might mean. ‘Live your own life.’ In what sense?
But then my gaze fell on the flower clock and I saw it was already three, and I shuddered.
May the Lord Almighty preserve Mademoiselle Declique.