“But Solarin attended the Palace of Young Pioneers,” I interjected.
“Yes,” said Mordecai, giving me his look again. It was becoming too obvious that I’d done my homework, so I shut up. “But in Russia, everyone plays chess with everyone. There is nothing else to do, really. So I sat down to play a game with Alexander Solarin. I was foolish enough to think I might teach him a thing or two. Of course he beat me, and badly. That boy is the finest chess player I’ve ever faced across a board. My dear,” he added to Lily, “it is possible that you or Grand Master Fiske might have won a game of him. But not likely.”
We were all quiet for a moment. The sky outside had turned to black, and except for the three of us, the cafeteria was empty. Mordecai looked at his pocket watch and picked up his cup, finishing off the last of the tea.
“Well, what of it?” he said cheerfully to break the silence. “Have you thought of another motive for someone to wish the deaths of so many people?”
Lily and I both shook our heads in complete befuddlement.
“No solutions?” he said, standing and picking up his hat. “Well, I’m rather late for a dinner engagement, and so are both of you. I shall think through the problem further when I have some free time, but I’d like to suggest what my initial analysis of the situation might be. You can mull it over. I’d like to suggest that the death of Grand Master Fiske had little to do with Solarin, and less to do with chess.”
“But Solarin was the only one who was there, just before each murder was discovered!” Lily cried.
“Not so,” said Mordecai, smiling cryptically. “There was another person who was also present on both occasions. Your friend Cat!”
“Now just a minute,” I began. But Mordecai interrupted me.
“Don’t you find it rather odd that the chess tournament has been postponed for one week ‘in condolence for the unfortunate death of Grand Master Fiske,’ but that no mention has been made in the press that foul play may have been involved? Do you not think it strange that you saw the dead body of Saul two days ago in so public a place as the United Nations building, yet no publicity has appeared whatever in the media? What explanation can you give for these strange circumstances?”
“A cover-up!” cried Lily.
“Perhaps,” Mordecai said, shrugging his shoulders. “But you and your friend Cat have done a little concealing of evidence yourselves. Can you help me understand why you failed to go to the police when bullets were fired into your car? Why Cat failed to report the eyewitness encounter with a dead body that has subsequently vanished into thin air?”
Lily and I both started speaking at once.
“But I told you why I wanted to …” she mumbled.
“I was afraid to …” I stammered.
“Please,” said Mordecai, holding up his hand. “These mutterings would presumably sound weaker to the police than they do to me. And the fact that your friend Cat was present in all instances seems even more suspicious.”
“What are you suggesting?” I asked. I kept hearing Nim whisper, “But perhaps, my dear, someone thinks you do know something.”
“I suggest,” said Mordecai, “that although you may have nothing to do with these events, they have something to do with you.”
With that, he bent down to kiss Lily on the forehead. He turned to me, and as he shook my hand formally, he did the oddest thing. He winked at me! Then he whisked off down the stairs and into the dark night.
A PAWN ADVANCES
Then she brought the chess-board and played with him; but Sharrkan, instead of looking at her moves, kept gazing at her fair mouth, and putting Knight in place of Elephant, and Elephant in place of Knight.
She laughed and said to him, “If thy play be after this fashion, thou knowest naught of the game.”
“This is only our first,” replied he. “Judge not by this bout.”
—The Thousand Nights and One Night
Translated by Sir Richard Burton
PARIS
SEPTEMBER 3, 1792
Only a single flame burned in the small brass candlestick within the foyer of Danton’s house. Just at midnight someone in a long black cape pulled the bell-cord outside. The concierge shuffled through the foyer and peeped through the slot. The man on the steps wore a floppy low-brimmed hat that concealed his face.
“For God’s sake, Louis,” said the man, “open the door. It’s me, Camille.” The bolt shot back, and the concierge drew the door open.
“One cannot be too cautious, monsieur,” the older man apologized.
“I quite understand,” said Camille Desmoulins gravely as he stepped across the threshold, removing his broad-brimmed hat and running his hands through his thick curly hair. “I’ve just returned from La Force Prison. You know what has happened—” Desmoulins stopped with a jolt as he noticed a flicker of movement in the dark shadows of the foyer. “I say, who’s there?” he said in fright.
The figure rose in silence, tall, pale, and elegantly attired despite the intense heat. He stepped out of the shadows and extended a hand to Desmoulins.
“My dear Camille,” said Talleyrand, “I hope I’ve not alarmed you. I’m waiting for Danton to return from committee.”
“Maurice!” said Desmoulins, taking his hand as the concierge withdrew. “What brings you to our home so late?” As Danton’s secretary, Desmoulins had shared these quarters with his employer’s family for years.
“Danton has kindly agreed to secure me a pass to leave France,” Talleyrand explained calmly. “So that I may return to England and resume my negotiations. As you know, the Britons have refused to recognize our new government.”
“I shouldn’t bother to wait for him here tonight,” said Camille. “You’ve heard what’s happened in Paris today?”
Talleyrand shook his head slowly and said, “I’ve heard the Prussians were turned away and are in retreat. I understand they’re returning to their homeland because they’ve all come down with the dysentery.” He laughed. “There’s not an army that can march three days drinking the wines of Champagne!”
“It’s true the Prussians have been routed,” agreed Desmoulins, not joining in the laughter. “But what I speak of is the massacre.” From Talleyrand’s expression, he realized he had not heard the news. “It began this afternoon at l’Abbaye Prison. Now it’s moved to La Force and La Conciergerie. Already over five hundred people are dead, as near as we can count. There’s been mass butchery, even cannibalism, and the Assembly cannot stop it—”
“I’ve heard nothing of this!” Talleyrand exclaimed. “But what is being done?”
“Danton is at La Force even now. The committee has set up extemporaneous trials at every prison, to try to slow the tide. They’ve agreed to pay the judges and executioners six francs a day and meals. It was the only hope they had to appear to be in control. Maurice, Paris is in a state of anarchy. People are calling it the Terror.”
“Impossible!” cried Talleyrand. “When news of this gets out, all hope of a rapprochement with England may be abandoned. We’ll be fortunate if they do not join the Prussians in declaring war. All the more reason for me to depart at once.”
“You may do nothing without a pass,” Desmoulins said, taking him by the arm. “Only this afternoon Madame de Staël was arrested for attempting to leave the country under diplomatic immunity. She was fortunate I was at hand to save her neck from the guillotine. They had taken her to the Paris Commune.” Talleyrand’s face showed he understood the gravity of the situation. Desmoulins went on.
“Have no fear, she is safe at the embassy tonight. And you should be safely at home as well. This is no night for a member of the nobility or the clergy to be abroad. You are in double jeopardy, my friend.”
“I see,” said Talleyrand quietly. “Yes, I quite see.”
It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when Talleyrand returned to his house on foot, crossing the darkened quarters of Paris without a carriage to reduce the chance his movements might be observed. As
he made his weary way through the ill-lighted streets, he saw some groups of theatergoers returning home and the last stragglers from the casinos. Their laughter echoed back to him as the open carriages meandered past, filled with revelers and champagne.
They were dancing at the edge of the abyss, thought Maurice. It was only a matter of time. Already he could see the dark chaos into which his country was slipping. He had to get away, and quickly.
He was alarmed, approaching the front gates of his gardens, to see a light flickering across the inner court. He’d given strict orders that all the shutters be closed and draperies drawn, that no light show to suggest he was at home. It was dangerous to be at home these days. But when he went to insert his key, the massive iron gate opened a crack. Courtiade the valet was standing there, and the light was from a small candle in his hand.
“For God’s sake, Courtiade,” Talleyrand whispered, “I told you there must be no light. You nearly frightened me to death.”
“Excuse, Monseigneur,” said Courtiade, who always called his master by his religious designation, “I hope I have not overstepped my bounds by disobeying yet another instruction.”
“What have you done?” Talleyrand asked as he slipped through the gate and the valet locked it behind him.
“There is a visitor, Monseigneur. I took it upon myself to permit the person inside to wait for you.”
“But this is serious.” Talleyrand stopped and took the valet by the arm. “Madame de Staël was stopped by a mob this morning and taken to the Paris Commune. She nearly lost her life! No one must know that I am planning to leave Paris. You must tell me who it is you’ve let inside.”
“It is Mademoiselle Mireille, Monseigneur,” said the valet. “She came alone, only a short time ago.”
“Mireille? Alone at this hour of the night?” Talleyrand hastened across the courtyard with Courtiade.
“Monseigneur, she arrived with a portmanteau. Her gown is badly damaged. She could barely speak. And I could not fail to note that there seemed to be—what looks like blood upon the garment. A good deal of blood.”
“My God,” murmured Talleyrand, limping as quickly as he could through the garden and entering the wide, darkened foyer. Courtiade motioned to the study, and Talleyrand hurried down the hall and through the broad doors. Everywhere were half-packed crates of books in preparation for his departure. At center, Mireille lay on the peach velvet settee, her face pale in the dim light of the candle that Courtiade had placed beside her.
Talleyrand knelt with some difficulty and took her limp hand in both of his, rubbing her fingers vigorously.
“Shall I bring the salts, sire?” asked Courtiade with a concerned face. “The servants have all been dismissed, as we were to leave in the morning.…”
“Yes, yes,” said the master, never taking his eyes from Mireille. His heart was cold with fear. “But Danton did not come with the passes. And now this …”
He glanced up at Courtiade, who still held a candle aloft. “Well, get the salts, Courtiade. Once we rouse her, you’ll have to go round to David’s. We must get to the bottom of this, and quickly.”
Talleyrand sat silently beside the settee looking down at Mireille, his mind trembling with a hundred dreadful thoughts. Picking up the candle from the table, he held it closer to her still form. Blood was matted in her strawberry hair, her face was streaked with dirt and blood. Gently he smoothed her hair away from her face and bent to place a kiss upon her forehead. As he looked down at her, something stirred within him. It was odd, he thought. She’d always been the serious one, the sober one.
Courtiade returned with the salts, handing the little crystal vial to his master. Lifting Mireille’s head carefully, Talleyrand waved the uncorked bottle beneath her nose until she began to cough.
Her eyes opened, and she stared at the two men in horror. Suddenly she sat up as she realized where she was. She clutched wildly at Talleyrand’s sleeve in a frenzy of panic. “How long have I been unconscious?” she cried. “You have not told anyone that I was here?” Her face was absolutely white, and she gripped his arm with the strength of ten.
“No, no, my dear,” said Talleyrand in a soothing voice. “You have not been here long. As soon as you’re feeling a bit better, Courtiade will make you a hot brandy to calm your nerves, and then we’ll send round for your uncle.”
“No!” Mireille nearly screamed. “No one must know that I am here! You must tell no one, least of all my uncle! That is the very first place they would think to look for me. My life is in terrible danger. Swear to me that you will tell no one!” She tried to leap to her feet, but Talleyrand and Courtiade restrained her in alarm.
“Where is my portmanteau?” she cried.
“It is just here,” said Talleyrand, patting the leather bag. “Just beside your couch. My dear, you must calm yourself and lie back. Please rest until you are well enough to speak. It is so late at night. Wouldn’t you want us at least to send for Valentine, to let her know you’re safe?”
At the mention of Valentine’s name, Mireille’s face took on such an expression of horror and grief that Talleyrand drew away in fear.
“No,” he said softly. “It cannot be. Not Valentine. Tell me that nothing has happened to Valentine. Tell me!”
He had grasped Mireille by the shoulders and was shaking her. Slowly she focused her eyes upon him. What he read in their depths jarred him to the very roots of his being. He wrenched her shoulders forcefully, his voice hoarse.
“Please,” he said, “please say that nothing has happened to her. You must tell me that nothing has happened to her!” Mireille’s eyes were completely dry as Talleyrand continued to shake her. He seemed not to know what he was doing. Slowly Courtiade reached forward and placed his hand gently upon his master’s shoulder.
“Sire,” he said softly. “Sire …” But Talleyrand was staring at Mireille like a man who has lost his senses.
“It is not true,” he whispered, biting off each word like a bitter taste in his mouth. Mireille only looked at him. Slowly he relaxed his grasp upon her shoulders. His arms fell to his sides as he looked into her eyes. His face was completely blank. He was numb from the pain of what he could not bring himself to believe.
Drawing away from her, he stood up and walked to the fireplace, his back to the room. Opening the face of his rare ormolu clock that sat upon the mantel, he inserted the gold key. Slowly, carefully, he began to wind the clock. Mireille could hear it ticking in the darkness.
The sun had not yet risen, but the first pale light filtered through the sheer silk draperies of Talleyrand’s boudoir.
He had been up half the night, and it had been a night of horror. He could not bring himself to admit that Valentine was dead. He felt as if his heart had been torn out, and he knew no way to come to terms with such a feeling. He was a man with no family, a man who had never felt need for another human being. Maybe it was better so, he thought bitterly. If you never feel love, you never feel loss.
He could still see Valentine’s pale blond hair glowing in the firelight as she bent to kiss his foot, as she stroked his face with her slender fingers. He thought of the funny things she had said, how she loved to shock him with her naughtiness. How could she be dead? How could she?
Mireille had been totally incapable of speaking of the circumstances of her cousin’s death. Courtiade had made a hot bath for her, made her drink a hot spiced brandy into which he had slipped some laudanum, so she might sleep. And Talleyrand had given her the massive bed in his own boudoir, its arcaded canopy hung with pale blue silks. The color of Valentine’s eyes.
He himself had stayed up half the night, reclining on a nearby chaise of blue watered silk. Many times Mireille had nearly succumbed to the stupor of sleep but awakened in chills, her eyes vacant, crying Valentine’s name aloud. At these times he’d comforted her, and when she sank into sleep again, he’d returned to his improvised bed beneath the shawls Courtiade had provided him.
But there was no one to
comfort him, and as the dawn turned rosy through the French windows overlooking the garden, Talleyrand still tossed sleeplessly on his sofa, his golden ringlets disheveled, his blue eyes cloudy from lack of sleep.
Once during the night, Mireille had cried out, “I will go with you to l’Abbaye, my cousin. I will never let you go into the Cordeliers alone.” And he had felt the hard, cold chill pierce his spine as he heard those words. My God, was it possible she had died at l’Abbaye? He could not even contemplate the rest. He resolved to get the truth from Mireille once she was rested—regardless the pain it cost them both.
As he lay there on the chaise, he heard a sound, a light footstep.
“Mireille?” he whispered, but there was no response. Reaching over, he pulled aside the bed hangings. She was gone.
Drawing his silk dressing gown about him, Talleyrand limped toward his dressing room. But as he passed the French windows, he saw through the opaque silk curtains a figure outlined against the rosy light. He pulled back the draperies to the terrace. Then he froze.
Mireille was standing, her back to him, looking out over his gardens and the small orchard beyond the stone wall. She was completely nude, and her creamy skin shimmered with a silken glow in the morning light. Just as he remembered from the first morning he’d seen them standing on the scaffolding of David’s studio. Valentine and Mireille. The shock of this memory was so immediate and so painful that it seemed like a spear running him through. But at the same time there was something else. Something slowly surfacing from the dull, throbbing red pain of his consciousness. And as it surfaced, it seemed to him more horrible than anything he could imagine. What he felt at that precise moment was lust. Passion. He wanted to grasp Mireille there on the terrace, in the first wet dawn of the morning, to plunge his flesh into hers, to throw her to the ground, to bite her lips and bruise her body, to expend his pain into the dark, fathomless well of her being. And as this idea dawned on him, Mireille, sensing his presence, turned to face him. She blushed deeply. He was horribly humiliated and tried to cover his embarrassment.
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