by Joan Smith
Maria never failed to roast her father about the tenant, after one of her visits, which the father frowned on. “I don’t like your hobnobbing with that chit,” he said bluntly, but never went the next step to actually forbid it.
“You would prefer to hobnob with her yourself, eh Papa?” she teased.
“Saucy minx! Try if you can curb that bold tongue of yours. Moncrief doesn’t like it. Half a dozen times I have seen him frown when you speak so brazenly.”
“Moncrief may go to the devil. I don’t mean to buckle myself to a stuffy Englishman who will stick me off in the country while he makes merry with the ladies of pleasure in London.”
“Now that is exactly the sort of talk that disgusts him!”
“Good! Then I shall make sure he hears plenty of it,” she laughed, tossing her head and lifting her square, elegant chin. She had no use for a man who went so little out of his way to please her. He was not at all gallant, as the French and Austrians were.
“Don’t think Rechberg will come dancing back to you. He is in debt to his neck. His Papa has all but cut him off for gambling. He looks to make a hasty match with that ale-manufacturer’s daughter, to bring himself about.”
“Because my Papa is too clutch-fisted to give me a decent dowry,” she said saucily, then looked away before she could observe the troubled look in his eyes.
Remorse drove him to anger. “And I want you to see a good deal less of this Monsieur Chabon, too. Who is he? No one has ever heard of his family. Even Talleyrand, his employer, knows nothing of him but that he spouts devotion to the Bourbons. He mistakes his patron if he thinks that cuts any ice with Talleyrand. Bourbon, Bonaparte—it is all one and the same to him. He has been bishop, statesman and prince by turn, depending on the winds of fortune. As for Chabon, his only accomplishments are a handsome face and a smooth line with the heiresses.”
“You underrate him, Papa. It is said amongst the officers that he also has the best-tailored jackets at the Congress,” she answered airily. “He speaks half a dozen languages, and flirts divinely in the four of them I understand.”
“Where was my mistake?" he asked, rolling his eyes ceilingwards. Then he proceeded to converse with the far wall of the room. “She has had the best governesses money can provide; the advantage of travel and a sojourn in a foreign country; presentation at court; the companionship of princesses and duchesses. How does she turn out an ill-mannered hoyden?”
“It must be the malign influence of her Papa, don’t you think?” she asked. “He has neither sense nor manners, and very little morals. The chit takes after him in everything but looks. Thank God she favors her Mama in that.”
“Vain to boot. I will be lucky if we can find a lackey or valet to have you.”
“There you are mistaken, Papa. I have had an offer from the head footman this very afternoon.”
“I wash my hands of you!” he exclaimed, and pelted from the room, to seek surcease in his private abode of jade.
She took a step after him to show him Mademoiselle’s earrings, but thought better of it. It was time to begin her toilette for evening.
* * *
Chapter 11
It had often seemed to Kruger there was no escaping the Countess von Rossner for him. If he carefully neglected to say he would call for her for any party, she would be sure to mention in a casual manner picking up him and Maria. It annoyed him, but lately affairs were tending more and more to confirm in his mind that the alliance was a necessary, if not precisely a good, thing. The Congress—so expensive to keep up appearances! He wore a ready smile when she was announced that evening.
“We’re late, Peter,” she said gaily, when she swept into the saloon, a vision out of a nightmare painting by Fuseli. The woman had an absolute talent for being ugly. “Is Maria ready? I have the carriage standing outside.”
“She will be down presently. We attend Monsieur Chabon.” By a vivid interest in his timepiece, he escaped the rouged cheek held up for greeting.
“That fellow again? Why do you permit it?” she asked, disapproving. “But I see how it is. She hopes to incite Anton to a fit of jealousy. Why is it we women always use Frenchies for the purpose I wonder, when they are really the most unattractive and unromantic of all the nationalities?”
Arriving at the archway, Maria overheard the remark. "Unromantic, the French?” she laughed, coming forward to place a kiss on her aunt’s cheek. “Tch tch, I cannot imagine what Frenchmen you have been speaking to. I find them all enchanting.”
“You find him useful, minx, which is not at all the same thing,” the Countess replied, with a knowing look. “But Chabon is a handsome mannequin—he will serve your purpose as well as any.”
“Hush, the mannequin cometh,” Maria warned, as the knocker sounded to admit Monsieur Chabon.
One had to confess he made an unexceptionable appearance. He was tall and dark of complexion, with an exquisitely tailored jacket on his back. His eyes were dark and languorous. The French had that trick of looking dreamy when every sense was alert to self-advancement, the Countess thought, watching him. With a fine flurry of his cape, Chabon managed to contrive a respectful bow to Kruger and the Countess, an approving smile to Maria and an apology, all in one.
The traffic was of the most dense. A chien chose to collide with his legs, and to complete the tragedy, Talleyrand had to consult with him on a most important matter at the very last moment. “I am in disgrace, non?” he asked the party, with a modest, almost fearful look.
Kruger noticed that after a few more sallies of this sort, even the Countess was smiling at him in a doting way. “He is a little more vivacious than Anton, I think,” she allowed in a perfectly audible aside, as he led them to the carriage.
He continued vivacious at the Poronovitch party, charming the old Russian Countess. As though he had been rehearsed in his role, he became attentive and solicitous to Maria when Anton was seen to be in attendance. He found her a seat on a sofa a little apart from the others. “I want to keep you all to myself tonight,” he told her, with a tender smile. “Your Papa dislikes me. I think soon he will hint me away. Will you be a good girl, and do as your father tells you?”
“Certainly I shall, Monsieur,” she answered in mock astonishment. “I always do, providing of course that I agree with him.”
“You are an unconscionable flirt, Mam’selle,” he chided her. “You lead me on, while you look from the crevice of your eye at Count Rechberg. Monsieur le Comte is a fool, and he has very poor taste. The female with him, she has the head like a round ball, placed on the shoulders of a man. She lacks elegance. There is more elegance in your wrist than in all her silks and jewels. Who is she?”
“Her name is Uzell, and she is very rich. Her Papa owns the most elegant brewery in all of Vienna,” Maria replied.
“Ah, that Uzell!” he said, looking more closely at the girl. “Yes, I detect a trace of common ale in her. While you, Mam’selle, have the flavor of champagne, with a soupçon of cognac. A little strength of spirit beneath the froth.”
"I do believe I detect the aroma of Blarney from you, Monsieur. When were you in Ireland, pray?”
“No one goes to Ireland. What is the Blarney?” he asked. “I never tasted Blarney.”
“One does not taste it; one kisses it.”
“It is a woman, the Blarney?”
“No, it is a stone. And a castle. It is the stone one kisses, however.”
“I would rather kiss you,” he said softly, reaching for her hand.
Anton, who had taken frequent peeps in their direction, stared quite angrily as he saw Maria’s hand being kissed by the handsome Frenchman. He took a step towards them then. Chabon arose with the greatest alacrity to greet him and Miss Uzell and give the latter his seat. The four conversed in stilted phrases, such matters as the weather and the state of Herr Kruger’s health being the topics of conversation, with one venture into politics by Chabon. Anton replied stiffly that the ladies would no
t be interested in matters of state.
Countess von Rossner, hopeful to see the erstwhile lovers together, came up to join them, and lend moral support, but it was in vain. Within two minutes she was outflanked by Chabon. She ended up chatting with Rechberg. Maria gave the Countess her seat, and turned to speak to some newcomers. “Whose bag is this?” the Countess asked, reaching behind her on the chair. “It is Maria’s. Careless child. Maria, your reticule. You have left it behind.”
“Oh my goodness!” Maria exclaimed, remembering the parcel it contained. After explaining her errand to Chabon, she excused herself to seek out the Countess Poronovitch.
“I shall find her for you,” he offered. Soon he beckoned from a doorway, and Maria hastened her steps into the hall, to deliver the earrings.
The Countess was a stately dame of sixty-odd years. She had an abrupt manner and a great beak of a nose which dominated her face. Her voice was gruff, like a man’s. “Let’s see them,” she commanded.
They were handed over to be unwrapped and examined. “Curiously wrought things,” she decided, dangling them up before the lamp. “The setting is gothic. If I were to wear them, I would have them remounted.”
“Eynard mentioned he would be happy to do it,” Maria said. “He claims the stones are excellent.”
“They don’t sparkle much,” Chabon remarked in a critical way, as he observed them from the sidelines.
“The light here is abominable,” the Countess replied, breathing on the diamonds and polishing them against her sleeve, to hold them once more to the light. “You’re right, Chabon. They don’t throw off much radiance. An odd cut to ‘em. Still, one would throw away I don’t know how many carats to have them redone. Well, they are an investment, and Eynard tells me they are a good one. I expect I must give you a receipt for the girl, Maria. You won't want to carry around cash. Odd she did not bring them to me herself.”
“She could not find a cab.”
“There must be some paper and pen here somewhere,” the Countess said, putting down the earrings. Chabon picked them up and held them before the light, frowning.
After a moment, he spoke, reluctantly. “Do you not think you should have them authenticated before taking delivery, Countess?” he asked.
“Eynard did so, just before I left,” Maria told him.
“Eynard called these diamonds?” he asked, in a voice that was tinged with incredulity.
“What do you mean? What are you saying?” the Countess asked, her pen halting in its progress.
“I regret to tell you, Madame, these baubles look very much like zircon to me,” he said, then tossed his shoulders in a Gaelic way, to indicate his objectivity in the affair.
“Nonsense! Eynard would not make such a mistake,” she challenged, snatching them back for further examination. “Well, they give off damned few sparks for diamonds, to be sure,” she admitted after a moment.
“They must be!” Maria exclaimed. “Chabon, get Papa. He will know.”
“Aye, Kruger is as good as a jeweler,” the Countess agreed. After Chabon had darted from the room, she turned to Maria. “That fellow has a sharp eye, has he not? I would not have recognized them for fakes in this light.”
“They are not fakes. Eynard would have spotted it,” Maria insisted.
Before many minutes, Kruger came pelting into the room. “What is this? What are you up to, Maria?” he asked angrily.
She explained her errand for Mademoiselle Feydeau, and he rounded on her, furious. “You should be spanked! Running errands for that chit, as though you were her servant. Let me see these alleged diamonds,” he ordered.
He examined them closely in silence for a moment, then turned to the Countess. “I can’t be sure, in this poor light, and without a glass to examine them. They feel light—do seem to lack brilliance as well. I suggest you have Eynard come and give you an opinion, Countess,” he decided at length.
“Papa, Eynard has already given an opinion,” Maria pointed out.
From a corner, Chabon spoke quietly. “Eynard gave an opinion on a pair of earrings, Mam’selle. Who is to say it was this pair?”
“What do you mean, Sir? What are you implying?” Kruger demanded, high on his dignity.
“I must agree with you, Sir, that your daughter was ill advised to deliver this parcel for her friend. Is it not possible Mademoiselle Feydeau substituted a second pair of earrings—copies of the diamonds in other words—after Eynard’s visit?”
“No, it’s not possible. I was there the whole time,” Maria told him.
“Let us hear Eynard’s opinion before we jump to conclusions,” Kruger said. “Lock these up tight, Countess. Send for Eynard. You will not have time to see him before dinner. Well, here is a fine appetizer I must say.”
He was irate throughout his meal. His wrath was raised higher to have such a fine meal ruined. Larded plover, and his very favorite treat, ortolan, used to garnish the pheasant. Practically no one but Carême and the Countess Poronovitch’s chef served this cherished, tiny bird. Down the board, Chabon was trying to console Maria. “It is my fault. I should have warned you. The fact is, we at the French headquarters have been ordered to keep a watch on Mademoiselle Feydeau. I do not know what she is up to precisely, but it seems she is a lady with a past. An adventuress, Miss Kruger. It is most unfortunate your father took her in. We suspect her of being a Bonapartist agent. Pretty hard to prove anything, of course. This may be the very act that will put her behind bars, where she belongs."
“No, she did not change the earrings. If a switch was made, it was made after I left her,” Maria said firmly. This had been confirmed in her own mind by a meticulous recall, several times repeated, of the interlude. “In fact, she even suggested I have Papa take a look at them before leaving, in case Eynard had fooled her.”
“What is Eynard’s reputation? Is this possible?” Chabon asked.
“No, he is the most trusted jeweler in town. Why should he do such a thing?”
The harrowing meal seemed to last for hours. The roasts followed the fowl, platters of sweet soufflés, of fruits and finally the elaborate spun sugar concoction, half-ornament, half-edible, was served. Eventually it was over, and Maria and her father went into the study, while the gentlemen sat down to port. “You won’t want me in your way,” Chabon said, with becoming modesty.
Eynard awaited them. The Countess got the parcel and brought two lamps to a table to permit an examination. Eynard fixed a loupe in his eye, handing Kruger another. Each took up one of the earrings and subjected it to a close scrutiny, turning it this way and that.
“Not even colorless sapphire,” Kruger said at length.
“Good God! Don’t tell me I have got a pair of strass glass ear buckles,” the Countess exclaimed.
“No, Madame, you have got a pair of very clear zircons,” Eynard told her. “You know the trick, Kruger. Gently roast them in the oven, to get rid of the traces of yellow. They do better than colorless sapphires at a superficial glance. Give more brilliance,” he explained to the Countess.
“Aye. Pity,” Kruger said tersely. “You are quite certain these are not the ones you examined this afternoon, Eynard?”
“There is no room for doubt. Definitely these are the replicas. I made them myself.”
“Who commissioned them?” the Countess asked at once.
“A French woman calling herself Madame Clairmont. An alias, I expect,” Eynard replied.
“A young Frenchwoman?” Kruger asked, in a significant tone.
“No, not the Feydeau woman, if that is your meaning,” Eynard replied. “Feydeau claimed to be selling them for a friend. I did not inquire of the name, but presumed it to be Madame Clairmont.”
“We must get to the bottom of this at once,” Kruger said, scooping up the pieces of jewelry. “It is clear my daughter has been used to perpetrate a hoax. A good thing Chabon noticed it. I must get to know that fellow better. He has a good eye. I could not have been sure myself in the
poor light. . . . Pray accept my apologies, Countess. We shall leave at once, and speak to Mademoiselle Feydeau.”
“It was not her doing, Papa,” Maria insisted.
“Hush, foolish child. She arranged it. How else should it be possible?” her father scolded. They left at once, leaving Chabon to escort the Countess von Rossner home later.
It was not at all late when the Krugers knocked at the small door of Mademoiselle Feydeau’s apartment, but already she was prepared for bed. The housekeeper took the message, and in a moment the mistress came to greet them, wearing a dressing gown, with her black hair hanging in loose curls over her shoulders. She looked about twelve years old, and utterly innocent. She listened with wide, horrified eyes to their story, wringing her hands, making low sounds of dismay. “But it is not possible! Miss Kruger—did you not show them to your father before leaving, as I asked?”
“I forgot. Oh but I know it is not your doing, Mademoiselle,” Maria assured her.
“How is this thing possible? Who else had the opportunity?” she asked.
“They never left my reticule,” Maria replied, in deep confusion.
“Did you leave your bag sitting about?” her father asked.
“No. That is—only for a moment, at the party. I left it on a chair, and Countess von Rossner handed it to me.”
“Who else was there?” Kruger asked, brushing aside the name of von Rossner as above suspicion.
“Monsieur Chabon of course. Anton—Miss Uzell. That’s all.”
“Chabon—he was with you the whole time,” Miss Feydeau said, in a significant tone.
“It was he who noticed the switch,” Kruger reminded her. “He would hardly have called attention to it if he were responsible. The answer lies in the business of the replicas, the ones Eynard made. You possessed the originals, Mademoiselle. From whom did you get them?”
“From a friend, Madame Lalonde, who had them from her husband. She has not been to Vienna, Herr Kruger. She had no copies made. I believe Eynard lies. He took advantage of my leaving them with him to show to customers to make a copy, and switch them on me. There was only your daughter and myself here. Neither of us is knowledgeable in these matters. He lied to us, gave us the copies.”