“Why, your moustaches.”
The Count had not much cause to interact with children, but he had been raised well enough to know that a child should not idly approach a stranger, should not interrupt him in the middle of a meal, and certainly should not ask him questions about his personal appearance. Was the minding of one’s own business no longer a subject taught in schools?
“Like swallows,” the Count answered, “they traveled elsewhere for the summer.”
Then he fluttered a hand from the table into the air in order to both mimic the flight of the swallows and suggest how a child might follow suit.
She nodded to express her satisfaction with his response.
“I too will be traveling elsewhere for part of the summer.”
The Count inclined his head to indicate his congratulations.
“To the Black Sea,” she added.
Then she pulled back the empty chair and sat.
“Would you like to join me?” he asked.
By way of response, she wiggled back and forth to make herself comfortable then rested her elbows on the table. Around her neck hung a small pendant on a golden chain, some lucky charm or locket. The Count looked toward the young lady’s governess with the hopes of catching her attention, but she had obviously learned from experience to keep her nose in her book.
The girl gave another canine tilt to her head.
“Is it true that you are a count?”
“’Tis true.”
Her eyes widened.
“Have you ever known a princess?”
“I have known many princesses.”
Her eyes widened further, then narrowed.
“Was it terribly hard to be a princess?”
“Terribly.”
At that moment, despite the fact that half of the okroshka remained in its bowl, the Bishop appeared with the Count’s filet of sole and swapped one for the other.
“Thank you,” said the Count, his spoon still in hand.
“Of course.”
The Count opened his mouth to inquire as to the whereabouts of the Baudelaire, but the Bishop had already vanished. When the Count turned back to his guest, she was staring at his fish.
“What is that?” she wanted to know.
“This? It is filet of sole.”
“Is it good?”
“Didn’t you have a lunch of your own?”
“I didn’t like it.”
The Count transferred a taste of his fish to a side plate and passed it across the table. “With my compliments.”
She forked the whole thing in her mouth.
“It’s yummy,” she said, which if not the most elegant expression was at least factually correct. Then she smiled a little sadly and let out a sigh as she directed her bright blue gaze upon the rest of his lunch.
“Hmm,” said the Count.
Retrieving the side plate, he transferred half his sole along with an equal share of spinach and baby carrots, and returned it. She wiggled back and forth once more, presumably to settle in for the duration. Then, having carefully pushed the vegetables to the edge of the plate, she cut her fish into four equal portions, put the right upper quadrant in her mouth, and resumed her line of inquiry.
“How would a princess spend her day?”
“Like any young lady,” answered the Count.
With a nod of the head, the girl encouraged him to continue.
“In the morning, she would have lessons in French, history, music. After her lessons, she might visit with friends or walk in the park. And at lunch she would eat her vegetables.”
“My father says that princesses personify the decadence of a vanquished era.”
The Count was taken aback.
“Perhaps a few,” he conceded. “But not all, I assure you.”
She waved her fork.
“Don’t worry. Papa is wonderful and he knows everything there is to know about the workings of tractors. But he knows absolutely nothing about the workings of princesses.”
The Count offered an expression of relief.
“Have you ever been to a ball?” she continued after a moment of thought.
“Certainly.”
“Did you dance?”
“I have been known to scuff the parquet.” The Count said this with the renowned glint in his eye—that little spark that had defused heated conversations and caught the eyes of beauties in every salon in St. Petersburg.
“Scuff the parquet?”
“Ahem,” said the Count. “Yes, I have danced at balls.”
“And have you lived in a castle?”
“Castles are not as common in our country as they are in fairy tales,” the Count explained. “But I have dined in a castle. . . .”
Accepting this response as sufficient, if not ideal, the girl now furrowed her brow. She put another quadrant of fish in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Then she suddenly leaned forward.
“Have you ever been in a duel?”
“An affaire d’honneur?” The Count hesitated. “I suppose I have been in a duel of sorts. . . .”
“With pistols at thirty-two paces?”
“In my case, it was more of a duel in the figurative sense.”
When the Count’s guest expressed her disappointment at this unfortunate clarification, he found himself offering a consolation: “My godfather was a second on more than one occasion.”
“A second?”
“When a gentleman has been offended and demands satisfaction on the field of honor, he and his counterpart each appoint seconds—in essence, their lieutenants. It is the seconds who settle upon the rules of engagement.”
“What sort of rules of engagement?”
“The time and place of the duel. What weapons will be used. If it is to be pistols, then how many paces will be taken and whether there will be more than one exchange of shots.”
“Your godfather, you say. Where did he live?”
“Here in Moscow.”
“Were his duels in Moscow?”
“One of them was. In fact, it sprang from a dispute that occurred in this hotel—between an admiral and a prince. They had been at odds for quite some time, I gather, but things came to a head one night when their paths collided in the lobby, and the gauntlet was thrown down on that very spot.”
“Which very spot?”
“By the concierge’s desk.”
“Right where I sit!”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Were they in love with the same woman?”
“I don’t think a woman was involved.”
The girl looked at the Count with an expression of incredulity.
“A woman is always involved,” she said.
“Yes. Well. Whatever the cause, an offense was taken followed by a demand for an apology, a refusal to provide one, and a slap of the glove. At the time, the hotel was managed by a German fellow named Keffler, who was reputedly a baron in his own right. And it was generally known that he kept a pair of pistols hidden behind a panel in his office, so that when an incident occurred, seconds could confer in privacy, carriages could be summoned, and the feuding parties could be whisked away with weapons in hand.”
“In the hours before dawn . . .”
“In the hours before dawn.”
“To some remote spot . . .”
“To some remote spot.”
She leaned forward.
“Lensky was killed by Onegin in a duel.”
She said this in a hushed voice, as if quoting the events of Pushkin’s poem required discretion.
“Yes,” whispered back the Count. “And so was Pushkin.”
She nodded in grave agreement.
“In St. Petersburg,” she said. “On the banks of the Black Rivulet.”
“On the banks of the Black Rivulet.”
The young lady’s fish was now gone. Placing her napkin on her plate and nodding her head once to suggest how perfectly acceptable the Count had proven as a luncheon companion, she rose from her chair. But before turning to go, she paused.
“I prefer you without your moustaches,” she said. “Their absence improves your . . . countenance.”
Then she performed an off-kilter curtsey and disappeared behind the fountain.
An affaire d’honneur . . .