“God damn it, Violet.” Lionel springs from the window and tosses his empty glass into the empty fireplace. The shattering crystal makes her jump. He follows the sound to the mantel and curls his hands around the edge, on either side of his bowed head. “I wish to God I were joking.”
A peal of laughter trills through the walls, unnervingly close, perhaps just outside the closed library door. Lionel doesn’t move. The smoke trails delicately from the cigarette in his right hand, winding around his ear.
Violet whispers, “Perhaps you should just leave Berlin altogether.”
“If I could leave, Violet, I would. Believe me.”
Another burst of laughter, which clarifies suddenly as the library door swings open. Violet turns in a jolt. The Comtesse de Saint-Honoré illuminates the room, resplendent in red silk, her chin tilted back to expose her long neck.
“Oh!” she exclaims, looking first at Violet and then at Lionel, who now stands facing the room, one arm still slung on the mantel, one ankle crossed before the other, smiling mysteriously. “There you are! We were looking for you.”
Only then does Violet notice her husband standing next to the comtesse. His necktie has come unraveled, and his elbow forms a convenient nook for her arm.
“Violet, my dear,” he says. “Have you been hiding yourself away all this time?”
“You know I dislike parties.”
“Yes, I wondered why you insisted on coming.” He glances at Lionel and takes a drink from the glass that dangles from his other hand. “But I see you haven’t suffered alone.”
Lionel shrugs his broad shoulders. “We were discussing this wretched tragedy in Sarajevo.”
“Shocking affair,” says Walter.
“Why, what’s happened in Sarajevo?” asks the comtesse.
“Oh, only the assassination of the Austrian heir and his wife,” says Lionel. “Nothing for the ladies to bother themselves about.”
Violet boils over. She opens her mouth to object, but the comtesse’s gravelly laughter already crowds the air.
“Oh, really, Lionel. You’re impossible. But poor Sophie. I really am upset. I met her in Vienna last year. She was charming, not a snob at all, as these Austrian aristocrats usually are. What happened?”
“Shot in their motorcar on a state visit. Some damned Serbian nationalist, I’m sure. Not that the Hapsburgs are fit to govern a village sheep run any longer, but what the devil good does regicide do? Only provokes Austria to kick them with booted heel.” Lionel tosses the end of his cigarette into the fireplace, amid the shards of his whiskey.
“No doubt the diplomats will sort it all out,” says Walter blandly.
The silence in the room contrasts with the merriment outside, as if the four of them are attending some secret rite in the middle of a wedding feast. Lionel drums his fingers against the mantel and trades inscrutable glances with the comtesse.
She turns to Violet. “My dear, do come along with me. I’ve got so many people to introduce you to. You don’t know what a divine novelty you are.”
Violet protests, but the Comtesse de Saint-Honoré takes her arm. “It’s not that hard, really. They’re all good and tight. Quite harmless. Just put one word in front of the other.”
Later, after Violet has made the rounds with the comtesse, has met a thousand cosmopolitan drunks and become silly herself with champagne and ragtime and male admiration, she lies sprawled on the sofa in the library while Jane strokes her hair. Neither Walter nor Lionel can be found.
“You’ve got to sleep here tonight, I guess,” says Jane. “There’s nobody respectable to see you home.”
“There was nobody respectable here to begin with.” The gentle stroke of Jane’s fingers, the rustle of red silk as she moves her arm, is lulling Violet to sleep.
“What a bad influence I am. But I can’t help it, you know. It’s how I’m made; I’ve given up trying to reform. I just like it.”
“Like what? Having parties? Having affairs?”
“Yes, all of it. There’s nothing more exciting than a new lover, or the chance of one. I’m addicted to it. You should try it yourself. Or I suppose you already have, when you started with Walter.” She giggles softly. She’s matched champagne with Violet that evening, glass for glass. “So try it again.”
“No, I won’t.” Violet yawns. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Why not? Lionel’s dotty for you.”
“I’m married.”
Jane laughs outright and gives Violet a squeeze with her other arm. “What does that mean anymore? I’ve been married three times already.”
“I don’t know how you managed all that. Where did you find the time?”
“I started early, of course. That’s the trick, start early. I ran away with my first husband when I was only fifteen. He was twenty-seven and a beast, but he was rich enough, the richest man in Rapid City, and I had to get away. Out of the house.” Her fingers find a few stray ends of Violet’s hair and rub them together.
“I don’t suppose I can argue with that.”
“I divorced him the year after that. That nice old judge awarded me plenty of money, once he saw the photographs. Always get evidence, Violet, that’s my advice.”