The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars (11 page)

I was so astounded that I very nearly fell out of bed. “What!”

“Come, Gerard, don’t go and catch cold because I tell you that I’m going to be married.… There.… Lie down quietly and let me talk.… And stop fidgeting.… You’ll get your bed all mussed up. What have I said that’s so extraordinary? Don’t you remember what I told you when you warned me that the Russian wanted to spend a night with me? I said, ‘That’s either too much or too little.’ ”

“Marry Varichkine! You must be insane!”

“Why, dear? Do you take me for the type of woman who would sell herself for a few gallons of oil? Gerard, you’re insulting. No, you’re not insulting because way down deep you’re a dear, brave boy whom I love very much. Just to please you, I’m going to tell you what happened after you left me alone with him.”

Lady Diana took one of my hands in both of hers and continued, “As you can well imagine, Varichkine was not long in proposing his bargain. I must admit that he wasn’t in the least brutal about it. We played turn for turn about, if you know what I mean. I employed all my diplomacy first to put my guest under the cold shower-bath of refusal and then on the burning flame of hope. That game lasted more than an hour. The chartreuse and brandy heated our discussion to a fever pitch. Ah, Gerard! That man may be indomitable where
a counter-revolutionary is concerned, but he is a mere baby in the arms of a woman like me. Toward one o’clock in the morning he was in despair. He hadn’t another word to say. I gave him to understand that his proposition was altogether too injurious to merit my consideration, and that, after all, I would give up the idea of exploiting my lands in Telav—‘Unless, of course—’ He bit savagely at the hook of this last remark and repeated:

“ ‘Unless, of course, what?’ ”

“ ‘Unless you marry me, my dear Mr. Varichkine.’ ”

“Ah, Gerard! I would give anything in the world if you could have seen his expression when I said that. I have never in my life seen a sequence of such complex sentiments reflected on a man’s face. Incredulity, satisfaction, anxiety, pride, cupidity came and went on Varichkine’s features. When he was thoroughly convinced that I wasn’t mocking him, guess what he did—I’ll give you a thousand pounds if you can!”

“I have no idea.”

“He got down on his knees—yes, on his knees. He crossed himself, murmured a short prayer, seized my hands and covered them with kisses. You know, Gerard, that I have tried romance in all latitudes and in all attitudes; that, in the course of my travels on Continental railways, I have experienced every thrill that a woman can know and that nothing of a sentimental nature is a stranger to me. Nevertheless, I don’t believe that I have ever had the indefinable sensation which the sight of that Communist, impassioned to the point of remembering the illusions of his childhood, and so happy that he knelt to manifest his joy, gave me. A Soviet delegate at my feet! Gerard, it’s the most glorious feather in my multi-feathered cap!”

She was right. Still I was less astonished at Varichkine’s act than at Lady Diana’s abrupt decision. I could not refrain from expressing my stupefaction once again.

“But, my dear friend, what caused you to make this alarming resolution? Have you thought it over carefully?”

“Yes.”

“Now, listen to me. Let us proceed in systematic order. To begin with, I gather that you find Varichkine quite agreeable.”

“Yes, most attractive.”

“From a physical standpoint? He is anything but handsome.”

“Thank the Lord for that! His peculiar head is a point in his favor. Gerard, my husband was clean-shaven. Most of my lovers have been, too—Varichkine’s black beard is a novelty for me.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “You’re not going to try to persuade me that you’re willing to marry this Russian because he wears a beard?”

“Gerard, I am going to bare my heart and mind to you. I admit frankly that I like Varichkine very much. His conversation interested me prodigiously. His way of speaking, his eyes, which are so gentle even when he is joking about death—all those things not only attract but seduce me. He is more than an ephemeral caprice. So much for the sentimental and strictly personal side of the question. How do you know that, once his desire was realized, he would have kept his word? Men have a way of quickly forgetting easy conquests. By exacting marriage I exercise a double control on him—not only because he wants me passionately, but because it will be to his advantage as well as mine to obtain the concession in Georgia. And that’s not all. There is ‘All London’ which I want to knock completely silly. Imagine it! Lord Wynham’s widow marrying a well-known Russian. What a splash that rock will make in the pond of Snobbism! You know how I scoff at conventions and at the prejudices of the British gentry. If there were no other reason, the thought that the entire London press will, one day soon,
announce my marriage to friend Varichkine fills me with boundless joy. I can already hear the gossip in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair and I can see the scandalized expression on the faces of the members of the Bath Club. I, who adore to throw mud at the mummies, to tear the spider-webs to pieces, to shock the dowagers and smash the old traditions, I tremble with impatience and would like at this very minute to present Mr. Varichkine, my husband, to the horrified duchesses.”

“There is no denying that you know what you want and there is no refuting your opinion. If, after your nude dance you still want people to criticize you, my dear, I can think of nothing better than such an unheard-of betrothal. But allow me to dampen your enthusiasm with a few objections.”

“Fire away, Gerard. I can anticipate that horrid logic of yours which inevitably throws the wild horses of imagination with its lasso.”

“In the first place, would it be a legal marriage? It is commonly said that free love holds sway in Soviet Russia and that women being national luxuries, no one man has a right to possess a woman to the exclusion of other men.”

“I asked Varichkine about that. He told me that when Communism was in its infancy certain radicals introduced advanced theories on the subject. Actually, marriage still exists. The formalities are, however, reduced to a minimum. There are no more banns, no more ridiculous certificates. The engaged couple simply take their passports to police headquarters. A stamp, a few rubles, and you have a man and wife. Then, when I want to, we can be officially married in London.”

“All right. But when Varichkine marries a foreign aristocrat won’t he lose favor with his party and won’t he be accused of siding with the counter-revolutionaries?”

“There are two possible eventualities. He will be able to
justify himself in the eyes of his equals by proving that he has married a person of the first rank, also that he is in a better position to keep advised as to the activities of their adversaries in the United Kingdom. You know that the Soviet leaders admit quite frankly that their delegates in foreign countries enjoy all the comforts of upper class life and only howl with the wolves to understand better the degree of their hostility. If, on the contrary, Moscow should throw him out, he would burn his ideals of yesterday and, out of love for me, would consent to an unusually acceptable exile.”

“And then what would happen to the Telav concession? Wouldn’t that be compromised?”

“We have also discussed that problem. We agreed that the marriage would not take place until the concession had been officially granted and the Anglo-American association formed and commissioned to exploit the land. Do you think that Moscow would be liable, under such conditions, to expose itself to diplomatic complications with England and the United States solely for the sake of avenging itself on a renegade comrade?”

“Then Varichkine must wait until all that business is completed before he can take you in his arms?”

“Which means that he will move heaven and earth to hurry it through!”

“You think he is really sincerely in love with you?”

“What better proof could he give me?”

Lady Diana had overruled my every objection. I had only one card left to play. “What about Madam Mouravieff?”

She hesitated. “Varichkine, as a matter of fact, did mention Irina Mouravieff. He was very frank about her. He warned me that we were both laying ourselves open to a frightful enmity. He asked me if I had the courage to face Irina. I answered, ‘Yes, but what about you?’ He impressed on me that I had better
not weigh the woman’s vindictiveness too lightly and that he didn’t want me to be able to reproach him later on for having allowed me to undertake a hazardous adventure. I accepted the risk. Then he begged me to seal the pact solemnly with a kiss. We stood up. He took me in his arms, pushed my head back and contemplated me for what seemed an age, through half-closed eyes. He murmured something in Russian which sounded very sweet to my ears, pressed me close, and gave me one of those kisses which mean something in the life of a woman. And that, Gerard, was the period which concluded a very consequential prologue.… But you are tired; so am I. You must unfasten my dress because it’s too late to call Juliette. After that, I’ll let you go to sleep.”

She raised her left arm so that I could discover a tiny snap in the folds of the silk. She let her dress slip to the floor, and stretching out her delicate hands, so heavily laden with emeralds, she looked at me with true tenderness and said in an unnatural voice:

“Gerard—this doesn’t make you unhappy, does it? You are not jealous of the marriage?”

“Yes, Diana. Because the day that Russian finds a wife, I shall have lost a friend.”

Lady Diana closed her eyes. Her hands dropped to her sides. Under the slip which outlined in mauve the perfect rounding of her figure, she trembled slightly. Then she half-opened her eyes and scrutinized me silently, through the soft screen of her long lashes as though caught in a labyrinth of indecision. Then she arose brusquely, picked up her dress and started for the door. I was going to call after her when she turned and remarked:

“By the way, my dear—I count on you to be a witness at my wedding.”

I HAD JUST FINISHED MY EIGHTH BREAKFAST IN my room at the Adlon. Varichkine had told us the night before that the deed of concession would be signed within forty-eight hours. We were all impatient. Lady Diana was bored with Berlin. Time was dragging heavily on my hands and Varichkine made no attempt to conceal his ardent desire to accelerate the passage of events.

At ten o’clock, the valet brought me an urgent message. The fine, close writing made my heart beat rapidly:

Sir, I shall expect you at three o’clock this afternoon at No. 44 Belle Alliance Platz, second floor on the left. I wish to have a private conversation with you. In your own interest, mention this to no one. Salutations and Fraternity
. I
RINA
M
OURAVIEFF

All the rest of the morning was consecrated to the game of drawing deductions. Should I make an excuse for not appearing? Would it be better to postpone the meeting? Should I pretend to ignore Madam Mouravieff? Ought I to warn Varichkine in spite of the request for secrecy? I concluded that the best thing to do was to keep the engagement and not to intimate in any way that I was frightened.

At 44 Belle Alliance Platz, I found an ordinary painted brick house like thousands of others in Berlin. On the first
floor I read on the left:
Dr. Otto Kupfer, Zahnart
, and on the right:
Fraulein Erna Dickerhoff, Gesangunterricht
.

Certainly Madam Mouravieff’s neighbors seemed to be peaceful enough people and Miss Dickerhoff’s music lessons would not scare away any anxious visitors.

I rang the bell on the left on the second floor. An unshaven, shabbily dressed man greeted me in a pronounced Slavic accent and stared at me from under bushy, black brows. I made the mental reservation that I would not care to trust him with a signed check.

“I have an engagement with Madam Mouravieff,” I began politely.

He corrected me. “You have an engagement with Comrade Mouravieff.”

“Yes, Comrade.”

He looked me up and down from the tips of my patent leather shoes to the pearl in my cravat and grumbled, “I am not your comrade.”

I asked his forgiveness for the impertinent assumption. But he had already disappeared through a doorway. I had an opportunity to examine the place. This huge anteroom was furnished with a few battered chairs and a table strewn with Russian reviews and German gazettes. I could hear a baby
mitrailleuse
somewhere beyond—undoubtedly a stenographer at work.

“This way,” commanded the man who was so meticulous about the matter of comradeship.

I followed him. I found myself in the presence of Madam Mouravieff. Her private office was anything but luxurious. A large oak table strewn with papers, a worn armchair for visitors, a white bookcase full of imposing volumes—and that was all.

Madam Mouravieff was standing in front of the fireplace.
She wore the same gray tailored suit. No hat. Her thick, short hair made a black line across the pallor of her forehead and her blue eyes examined me without any expression either of hostility or friendliness. I felt like a rare insect being studied by an entomologist.

I bowed. She nodded. I thought it wise to begin the conversation with some frivolous remark and, as the Russian spoke perfect English, I opened fire this way:

“You sent for me, madam. I came post haste. Russia has no time to lose.”

My gayety overshot its mark. I was still unaware that one does not joke with the Valkyries of Moscow. Madam Mouravieff, her hands thrust deep in her pockets, took two steps forward, and scrutinized me more closely. I thought she was going to tickle my ears with a pen-holder to learn my reaction to the treatment. Finally, a trifle annoyed at being silently inspected by this tiny lady, I remarked:

“Yes, madam—I breathe through my nostrils and I shave every morning like other civilized men. Do you want any more details?”

She took a cigarette case from her pocket, offered it to me, gave me a light and waved me into the tottering armchair.