Deadly Descent (23 page)

A servant approached the comte with dessert,
blanc-manger à l'orange
, and was waved away. The old man was clearly tiring. His eyes had grown heavy-lidded, and his hands trembled. He excused himself with the promise he would join her later at the theater. “Krishna will stay by you.” A pair of servants helped the comte through a curtain behind the platform.

Anne had expected to find it hard to talk to the unsmiling Indian who now sat beside her. She was delighted to discover that, while serving the comte some thirty years, he had acquired the language and manners of a French gentleman. He took barely concealed pleasure in filling the comte's place. That happened often, she suspected, in Debussy's decline. He clearly trusted his steward more than Pressigny, his stepson.

Krishna had grown accustomed to his privileged position. After a few glasses of wine, he even indulged in witty remarks about the guests and their companions. Henriette Picard was no stranger to him. “A tart should be sweet,” he whispered, nodding toward the woman. “That one sets my teeth on edge.”

Anne sensed him leaning closer to her, felt his arm brush against hers. To distract him, she asked about his family.

“We've been content here,” he said, drawing back in his chair. “The large gate house is our home.” He frowned as if it were painful to continue.

Anne offered silent encouragement.

Krishna stared down at the table in front of him. “We had one child, Nalini, a lovely daughter. Three years ago, she vanished. The police looked everywhere but found no trace of her.” The Indian leaned forward, his brow creased with misery. “Is she dead or alive?” he asked himself. “The uncertainty is torture. My wife can hardly bear it.” He turned slowly toward Anne and glared at her. His voice fell to a whisper. “Can you imagine how she felt altering Nalini's costume for you?”

Anne recoiled aghast, words failing her. After a few moments, Krishna's gaze seemed to turn inward, as if seeking his lost daughter. Anne regained enough composure to ask, “Do you suspect foul play?” Pressigny might have enticed Nalini away from an Amateurs' reception like this one.

Shrugging his shoulders, Krishna fell into heavy silence. He bent forward, facial muscles twitching beneath the dark skin. He slowly scanned the tables, as if one or more Amateurs might have been responsible for his daughter's disappearance.

Poor man, Anne thought, studying the lines of sorrow in his face. She could hardly ask whom he suspected. Nor could she tell him what she knew without betraying herself. Should he discover the culprit some other way, his reaction might be violent. Though a servant, he could not be abused with impunity. She sensed powerful passions roiling beneath his still surface.

When Krishna's glance reached LeCourt, they exchanged signs of recognition, leading Anne to wonder how closely the two men were connected. For LeCourt knew Nalini's name, and that Derennes had killed her. Why had LeCourt not informed Krishna? Possibly because he too feared Krishna might explode, injuring himself and others and compromising LeCourt's efforts to build up the Société des Amateurs. No wonder the financier seemed tense. He was trying to keep the lid on a boiling pot.

Anne used the distracted silence of her companion to search the room for Georges. She glimpsed him disappearing through a service entrance with a loaded tray. When he returned a few minutes later, the empty tray under his arm, she caught his eye. His slight bow reassured her as he set to work clearing the sideboard.

A gong sounded the hour for dancing. The guests pushed their chairs away from the tables. There was a burst of chatter. All eyes turned toward Anne at the table of honor. She rose gracefully and looked out over the crowd, touching the great necklace and then the tiara, calling attention to their rare beauty.

Krishna escorted her back to the main hall, where an orchestra had assembled. For the opening dance, a stately old pavanne, he handed her over to Chevalier de Pressigny. As the Indian backed away, he pierced Anne with a glance, as if to say, he should have had the honor of the dance. A proud man, she thought, aware of his worth. Anger smoldered in his eyes. Might he resent guarding the treasure
he
had found thirty years ago?

While the second dance was being prepared, she noticed Monsieur LeCourt approaching. He shook Krishna's hand with a peculiar grip, then whispered to him, glancing in her direction. As she had suspected, LeCourt was her next partner in a minuet. He appeared to be unruffled. His posture was elegant, his rhythm perfect. But the palms of his hands felt moist and tiny beads of perspiration gathered above his lip. His eyes fixed on one piece of the jewelry after another. He didn't speak; he hardly noticed her. Strange man! She forced a smile on her face, although she felt ill at ease.

In the last movement of the dance he startled her with a penetrating glance. “May I give you a piece of advice,” he said softly, as he drew near to her. “Lélia Laplante's violent death is none of your business.” He held her eye as they stepped back from one another. At the final pass he pulled her close and murmured, “Take care, lest you meet a similar fate.”

Chapter 24

Farce or Tragedy

From his post at the main door Georges studied the rough cross beams, the high wooden walls of the theater, imagining the ghosts of ancient horses harnessed in this place. A previous owner had cleared several old carriage rooms on the ground floor of the chateau's east wing and built a stage and an auditorium for about eighty spectators. A ramp led to a loge of comfortable chairs reserved for the comte and his favorite guests. The rest of the audience were to sit on upholstered benches.

A door handle rattled behind Georges. A low murmur of voices penetrated the thick oaken door. The guests had arrived and were growing impatient. He surveyed the auditorium: everything was ready. He had helped two ushers arrange the benches under the critical eye of the senior footman in charge while Krishna guarded the jewels. Other servants had lit the wall sconces and the stage lights. They were all waiting now for a signal from Chevalier de Pressigny, who had disappeared behind the stage curtain.

A clock chimed five in the evening. Pressigny reappeared, skipped down the side stairs, barked a command to Georges. He pulled open the doors to the dark, crowded hallway. The Amateurs and their guests streamed into the theater. A few minutes later, Georges stopped the flow for Comte Debussy, carried in a litter by two footmen.

Anne, escorted by Krishna, entered near the last. A stunning sight. During the banquet, Georges had admired her at a distance. But the grandeur of the room, the sunlight pouring through the windows, the noise and clutter of guests and servants had somehow conspired to diminish her brilliance. Now, from the shadow of the hallway, chin high and shoulders back, she stepped into an arc of light. Tall and stately, she wore the feathered turban like an exotic queen. Her body moved with an easy natural grace, her light silk skirt swinging rhythmically with her step. Her purple bodice worked magic in the diamonds of her necklace. Georges recoiled in awe and lowered his eyes, lest he gape like an idiot. He must not distract her. As she moved by, a shiver of delight raced through his body.

***

Walking up the ramp, Anne found Comte Debussy already in his chair, scanning his guests without interest. The old man's face brightened at her approach. He gestured to the seat next to him. For a few moments she posed for the audience, then sat down. The comte edged closer, took her hand, fondled the gold bracelet on her wrist. She resented his touch. Gesturing with her free hand, she drew his attention to the tiara. As she turned her head for him, she furtively glanced over her shoulder, hoping to see Georges. He was standing by the main door, preparing to close it. She felt reassured.

Chevalier de Pressigny walked on stage in front of the curtain, announcing the play they were about to see:
The Cuckolded Clown
, a comedy in one act written by himself.

Anne cringed. It
was
the piece intended for last year's production with Lélia Laplante and Antoine Dubois. Pressigny had not prepared a new play since only a few of his cronies knew what he had written. The sets and costumes had most likely been in storage. She shuddered, recalling the scripts Georges had taken from the office and later returned. That had been risky.

When Pressigny stepped behind the curtain, Comte Debussy cried out with surprising vigor, “Let the play begin.” The light dimmed and the curtain rose. “We are never sure what it's going to be until it starts,” he whispered to Anne.

She mumbled a response, then stared straight ahead, breathing deeply to calm her anger.

The play began. Anne listened carefully for changes in the script. There didn't seem to be any. It was a sex farce, simple and predictable. An Actress and her Lover barely concealed their liaison from her husband, the Clown, now played by Pressigny himself. When the Clown discovered her unfaithfulness, he entered her darkened room and stabbed her in bed. The lovers, however, had anticipated him and were watching from behind the curtains. The figure in bed was a bag of straw. Unaware of the deception and overcome with remorse, the Clown declaimed a confession and leapt from a window. Instead of smashing onto the pavement, he fell into a wagon of manure passing by. As the wagon pulled away, the lovers leaned out the window and waved.

The audience was amused. Witty innuendo, exaggerated gesture and speech occasionally lifted the production to the level of genuine comedy, and the actors put energy into their roles. Even the comte seemed pleased. Anne, however, felt stricken. The farce mocked the horror of Antoine's death. When she heard Pressigny speak the Clown's melodramatic “confession,” she grew rigid. “Callous bastard!” she groaned soundlessly. “May you burn in hell!”

Sensing something amiss, Debussy glanced at her quizzically. She forced a smile until the comedy engaged him again.

At the interlude in the evening's entertainment, the comte caught Krishna's eye. It was time to go. “You will come later with Krishna,” he said to Anne. Footmen helped him shuffle down the ramp to a litter and carried him away. Georges opened the door, then stood at attention as they passed through.

A few moments later, Krishna approached Anne. “Let us promenade through the theater.” She soon sensed a subtle change taking place in the silent man at her side. Previously, he had seemed to enjoy walking about in his exotic Indian costume and displaying her and the jewels to the Amateurs. Now he appeared preoccupied, as if anticipating trouble ahead. His back stiffened. Thin lines of tension creased his brow.

Unable to account for his shifting mood, Anne grew apprehensive. She had earlier assumed she would return the jewels, change into simpler clothes, then speak with the domestic servants about Krishna's daughter. Now she felt unsure of what lay ahead.

While Georges held the door open, Krishna led her out into the hallway. With a wave of his hand, he beckoned two tall footmen and whispered a few words. They fell in line behind him. He nodded to Anne, and they set off at a brisk pace. She glanced at the Indian's dark, unsmiling countenance, at his hand clutching the large curved dagger. Fingering her necklace nervously, she recalled his sensual touch as he had fastened it. Oddly, his erotic interest had vanished. Something other than a woman's charm preoccupied him now. The thought failed to comfort her. Georges was no longer in sight. She was on her own. Peals of laughter echoed faintly in the dim hallway, then faded away.

***

As Anne left the theater, Georges followed her out of the corner of his eye. Then he moved a few steps forward and overheard Krishna tell a pair of footmen, “The comte wants a last look at her.” A worried undertone in the steward's voice triggered alarm in Georges' mind. They must be going to the comte's apartment. Following them in the main hall might arouse suspicion, so he hastened to the theater's rear exit.

“Where are you going?” a stern voice asked. “Mind the entrance assigned to you!” The senior footman shook his finger at Georges. He grimaced, clutching his stomach as if in pain, and assured his superior he needed to leave, lest he grow most disagreeably ill and interrupt the performance. The footman drew back, scrutinized Georges sharply, then waved him off with an irritated sigh.

He ran across the courtyard, climbed the service stairway two steps at a time to the main floor, and rushed to the servants' antechamber next to the comte's apartment. “The senior footman ordered me here,” he announced to the comte's valet and a pair of upstairs footmen sitting at a plain table. The valet shrugged his shoulders with a look of surprise. “There's nothing to do. The comte has just sent us out.” He exchanged knowing glances with the footmen. “He's enjoying the company of the actress wearing his jewels. No telling how long that'll be.”

Georges felt his chest tighten. “Is anyone attending the comte?”

“Only Krishna,” replied the valet. “He's to keep the actress from running off with the precious trinkets.” The footmen snickered. One of them threw a deck of cards on the table. A game got underway among the three.

Georges moved from the table to a chair by the door to the comte's apartment, telling himself Miss Cartier could cope with the invalid nobleman and his cool, dark steward. Through the door he heard a faint, broken murmur of voices. At the table, the card players discussed Monsieur Tétu's recent ascent in a balloon from the Luxembourg Gardens. They inclined to the view that, if God meant men to fly, he would have given them wings.

Suddenly, from within the apartment came the sound of loud voices raised in anger. The men around the table glanced toward the comte's door, then toward one another. They pushed back their chairs, as if about to rise. A hushed silence filled the room. Georges sat on the edge of his seat, ready to spring. Time seemed to stand still. Then the bell rang.

***

Anne's apprehension mounted as she and Krishna entered the comte's apartment. Drapes were drawn over the windows of the high vaulted salon. A small table was set for two, decorated with a vase of intensely fragrant damask roses. Large lighted candelabra had been placed to the left and right. Two servants stood against the wall. She looked vainly for Georges.

“I would like the pleasure of these jewels for one last time,” the comte said wistfully, as he gestured to Krishna, who held a chair for her.

A servant came with a bottle of wine. Krishna poured and stepped back. The comte contemplated the jewels silently for a short while, then looked at Anne and raised his glass. She met his eye and raised her glass. He did not drink, so she merely wet her lips. By this time, she had become cautious. Silly, she thought, but this could be drugged.

After a desultory conversation, the comte lapsed into silence. His mood seemed to change. He signalled for the servants to clear the table and leave.

“Krishna, it's time to remove the jewels from Mademoiselle Cartier.” He looked at Anne with mounting lust. She sat upright, her back stiffening.

Krishna placed the burnished wooden box on the table, opened it, approached her. When she tried to rise, he put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her down. “Remain seated,” he said, a curious edginess in his voice. “I can manage better.” He removed the turban from her head and slipped the bracelets off her arms, wrists, and ankles. As he bent forward to unclasp the necklace and remove the pendants, he stared into her eyes as if trying to read her mind.

What the comte wanted was becoming clear. Her anger toward him grew apace. His eyes opened wide and darkened. His lips parted in a cruel smile, like a cat facing its prey. He clasped his hands and leaned forward.

The box clicked shut.

She jumped to her feet.

“Leaving so soon, Mademoiselle Cartier?” asked the comte playfully. “I'd like to see more of you.” He turned to Krishna. “Remove the bodice.”

The steward frowned and glanced toward Anne, inviting her to speak.

“That's not in our agreement, Monsieur le Comte,” she said emphatically. “I'll deal with the costume myself.” Her eyes shifted grimly from one man to the other.

“What a remarkable reaction,” murmured the comte through tight lips. “Most actresses would have enjoyed our little sport.” He glared at her spitefully. “I would have thought that, having
entertained
one of my servants last night, you might be more
aimable
toward me.”

“What happened last night is none of your business and nothing that I need be ashamed of.”

Anne's response stung the comte. “Impertinent woman! Will you defy me?” He glared at Krishna. “Do as I told you!”

The steward shook his head, raised a warning hand. “Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin is nearby at Chateau Beaumont. Should any harm come to Mademoiselle Cartier, he would be here with his troopers within the hour.”

“I'm a dying man! What do I care about the police!” The comte wagged a bony yellowed finger at his steward. “You miserable black mongrel! You haven't objected to playing with other women. I ought to send you back to India.”

“They were willing, Sir.” The steward's back had stiffened. His voice was low, his words carefully measured.

The comte weakened. The corners of his mouth twitched nervously. His breathing labored.

Meanwhile, Anne had said nothing. When he now turned to her, she met his eye and he flinched.

“Krishna,” he mumbled to his steward, “tell the stablemaster to prepare a carriage for Mademoiselle Cartier. She will be leaving the chateau in an hour.” Shifting again to Anne, he added, “Return the costume to the dressmaker before you go. She will have your stipend. Good evening.” He pulled a bellrope.

The comte's valet entered the room, his eyes wide with apprehension. “Show her out,” ordered Debussy icily, then beckoned the two footmen standing in the doorway. They carried him to his bedroom, Krishna following behind. The valet moved hesitantly toward Anne, who stood still, her anger only beginning to slacken.

“Let me be!” she snapped.

Georges appeared in the doorway. “I'll deal with her,” he said to the trembling valet, who scurried gratefully to the comte's bedroom. Georges rushed to her side. “Are you all right?”

“No lasting damage,” she replied, then told him briefly what had happened.

He reached for her hand, his eyes tender with concern.

She stepped back, hugging herself. “Please don't touch me—I feel soiled.” She attempted a smile. “I'll be better shortly. But I resent the way the comte treated me. He's disgusting if not dangerous.” She paused for a long moment reflecting. Something was nagging at the back of her mind.

“Yes? What is it?” Georges asked.

“I'm puzzled by Krishna's behavior. He never threatened me, he blocked the comte's attempt to harm me. Still, I sense he wasn't personally concerned for my health or my virtue.”

Georges nodded thoughtfully. “He had a hidden motive for defying his master.”