The terrible scene in Villa Markov, and then the news of Püppi’s death—she had not been in her right mind the day before. She had not been herself at all.
How was she supposed to explain to Friedrich something that was unexplainable even to herself? What did she hope a confession would bring? That the burden on her heart would ease? That Friedrich would forgive her? What kind of man would ever forgive something like that? And if she were not mistaken, adultery carried a prison sentence, didn’t it? Ha! She could have asked the judge about that just now. People would point their fingers at her, and would ostracize her as they had Marie-Eluise, the wife of the hotelier that Friedrich had told her about.
Flora walked stiffly alongside the river. She breathed deeply, wiped the tears and snot away, swept the hair out of her face.
She could never, ever breathe a word to anyone about what had happened the day before. She had to blot it from her memory forever. Deep inside, deep in her heart, she would carry this sin with her. And the memory . . .
Konstantin whistled over one of the carriages for hire waiting for passengers at the Baden-Baden train station, and a minute later he leaned back in the plush upholstery. Now that he had returned, he would do all he could to stay in Baden-Baden until the end of the season.
Karlsruhe had been an impressive city, but he found all the hustle and bustle of the place too strenuous. He was obviously not used to that kind of turmoil anymore.
He patted the leather bag on the seat beside him. At least the journey had been worth it. The jeweler had paid well for Püppi’s strings of pearls, sapphire rings, and emerald necklaces. His mouth had watered at the sight of several of the pieces, and small bubbles of spittle had appeared at the corners of his mouth. Konstantin knew such signs of greed well and had pushed the price higher accordingly.
The money that he had gotten for the baubles would make his remaining weeks in the summer capital of Europe particularly comfortable. He did not need to worry about the ensuing months, either. Monte Carlo? Paris? Or perhaps a cruise across to America? He could go wherever he pleased.
He had never in his life had so much money at his disposal. Perhaps he should try his luck at the racetrack in Iffezheim? And he would certainly do his best to increase his pot at card tables—he was a good player, after all.
The carriage turned in the direction of the Europ?ischer Hof hotel, and for a moment Konstantin felt a pang of regret that the drive would soon be over. It had been so nice just to sit and think such delicious thoughts.
Püppi’s funeral would take place in two days. She had no close relatives, so Konstantin had managed all the arrangements. Nadeshda Stropolski—like so many other Russians—would be laid to rest in Baden-Baden, the place she had spent so many happy hours on earth. After the funeral, there would be a small reception. Irina and Count Popo had both nodded their agreement when he told them of his plans.
Two more days and he would finally be free!
Today, he would leave the Europ?ischer Hof. He had had enough of that gilded cage. A cheap hotel would meet his needs—life was far too exciting to spend it in a room.
The move would proceed quickly. He had packed most of his things the evening before in Püppi’s luggage. Of her things he would take the valuable furs and the box of hand-painted fans. The silver cutlery was also too valuable to leave to the chambermaid. He would pack the gold toiletries kit away with the furs—for a rainy day, so to speak. A rainy day he hoped would never come.
He did not care who would take care of the rest of her things.
Konstantin tipped the driver well. For the rest of his life, the poor man would be dependent on passengers, good weather, and healthy horses. But from that day forward, he, Konstantin Sokerov, would no longer depend on anyone.
He had dismissed Püppi’s staff the previous day. She had made no provisions for them in case of her death, so why should they concern him? Still, he had given each of them a little money and wished them luck. He had also given Püppi’s maid all the bright-pink, lurid-green, and too-youthful-looking dresses, all of which smelled of Püppi.
He shuddered. He still had the smell in his nose—the odor of fear and loneliness, of age and decay.
She had a will, Popo informed him. Püppi had been a rich woman with extensive lands not far from Saint Petersburg. The count had promised to take care of those, and had added that it would probably take quite a while. Konstantin was indifferent to Püppi’s will. As far as he knew, Püppi had not seen a lawyer in the last one and a half years, so how was his name supposed to appear in her will?
No, for him, the last Püppi chapter would come to an end with her funeral.
No more dependency. No more flaccid skin, no more sagging breasts, no more sniveling old affections.
From today, he could pick and choose women to suit his personal taste, and not because of how well supplied they were with money. And for the weeks and months ahead, all he had in mind was to enjoy himself.
Of course, at some point, he would have to seek out a new benefactress. Why should he spend his own money if there was always a woman to be found who was willing to pay his bills for him? But that could wait—he would not let himself get tied down to another old widow right away.
The flower girl, however, was a nice change, and he saw significance in the fact that he had taken her on the day of Püppi’s death. Hadn’t Püppi been the one to introduce them? If he looked at it like that, Flora was a “bequest” from Püppi in death . . .
And how willingly she had given herself up to him! He had stopped believing that he would ever reach his goal with her, and he could not adequately explain to himself why he continued to visit Flora in her flower shop almost every day. It probably had to do with how very few young people he knew in Baden-Baden, and Flora not only was young and pretty, but had spirit, courage, and imagination. It was fun to talk to her! That, and Konstantin also envied her a little for how she threw herself into her work. After talking to her, he always felt full of energy, as if her own drive rubbed off on him.
The eager little bouquet binder . . . he would never have guessed the passion she had in her. Konstantin smiled to himself.
He would visit her later that day; he had to order flowers for Püppi’s funeral.
Should he arrange another tryst? Why not? Once he was settled in his new hotel that afternoon, he would have time for a little love.
Chapter Fifty
“I was thinking of brightly colored flowers, many different kinds. Püppi loved variety.”
“I know.” From the corner of her eye, Flora glanced toward the back door of the shop. Everything was quiet. Ernestine was taking a midday nap with Alexander, and Sabine and the kitchen maid were making strawberry marmalade.
With trembling hands, she opened her order book and noted Konstantin’s request. As if she would have forgotten a single one of his words. But occupying herself with pencil and book gave her the moment she needed to gather herself.
So far, Konstantin had not breathed a word about their encounter the previous day. Was he an honorable man, or did it simply show that he attached far less significance to it than she did?
She cleared her throat, counted to three, and spoke aloud the sentence she had spent the entire morning practicing in her mind.