The Blue Diamond Page 12

  “Papa, we have been robbed!” she told him, as soon as he was in the saloon. “My diamonds, my earrings, my bracelet—they are only zircon and glass.”

  “How did you discover it?” he asked, displeased, but not, she observed, at all surprised.

  “I took them to Binder—one can always trust Binder. He tells me the stones are not genuine."

  “Genuine? Of course they are not,” he said gruffly. “I had those diamonds pried out and replaced years ago.”

  “Why?” she asked, stunned into a sort of emotional numbness.

  “Why do you think? For money, ma mie. That is why people do all foolish things."

  “But we are rich!” was all she could think of to say.

  “Ho, rich! Soon we will be rich. For the moment, we suffer a little temporary cash problem. Not to worry your head about it. Pity you went to Binder. No one knew but Eynard. Now I suppose word will get out. . . .”

  “Why did you not tell me, Papa? I have spent such a shocking sum these past months. You should have told me if we are poor.”

  “I did not wish for you to know. People have the idea poverty is some kind of crime. If you had known, you would not have walked with your head high, and been my ar­rogant little chou. You would have been humble, ashamed, hung back at parties to hide your strass glass ornaments. No one ever suspected. When Herr Kruger’s daughter and Countess von Rossner’s niece goes into society wearing sparkling stones, one does not look too closely at them. It is assumed they are authentic jewels. And soon they will be, my dear. That I promise you.”

  “Where will you get the money?” she asked, foreseeing an engagement to her Aunt Hermione.

  “I am negotiating a business deal,” he answered vaguely.

  “A match with Hermione?” she asked.

  “Hermione?” he asked, and laughed. “That fate may be spared me,” he said.

  “I thought you liked her.”

  “I do like her, but alas! she loves me. It is no marriage of convenience the lady has in mind. All that has changed now, however,” he finished. “Best go and change, my dear. Chabon will soon be here.”

  “Papa,” she asked, with a pensive look in her eyes. “Is this why Anton . . ."

  “He is in the same boat as ourselves. He needs to get hold of some money fast. He has been gambling with the Russian officers, and such debts must be paid promptly. The Russians are hot-blooded. He must marry the Uzell girl, I suppose.”

  “I see,” she answered, and felt suddenly at peace in some little corner of her heart, despite her troubles. An­ton’s rejection had nothing to do with herself then. Her piqued pride could recover, but still she did not feel much like going out to a party. To discover in one afternoon that she could not repay Miss Feydeau her money, that Papa was broke, and worse, had some scheme afoot to recoup his fortunes . . . What could it be? Had Chabon inveigled him into some scheme having to do with Talleyrand and the diamonds? Why would they need Papa’s help? Or was it marriage he referred to—a marriage between herself and Chabon? Chabon to get money, as Miss Feydeau men­tioned, and Papa to get some of it for making him re­spectable. And if that was it, how could she refuse Mon­sieur Chabon’s offer? She realized then, suddenly, how very much she did not wish to marry him. Oddly enough, the English gentleman, Moncrief, flashed into her mind. If one had to marry for money . . . She had always liked England. She rather liked the sober, serious English gentlemen too.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  There was no opportunity to go to Mademoiselle Feydeau that day, nor was there any real reason, without the money to pay her. Maria went instead that evening to the Countess’s party, with Chabon and her father, to be en­tertained by the unhappy sight of Hermione shooting sparks of anger when Chabon entered her saloon, unin­vited by herself, and holding Maria’s arm as though he owned her, and to watch the father smile on this as a matter of satisfaction to him. What had got into Peter’s head to encourage this foreign rattle? Hermione never held her tongue with Peter. Before many minutes, she got him aside for a lambasting.

  “What are you about, bringing Chabon amongst decent people, and letting him dangle after Maria? If her heart needs comforting from Anton’s shocking desertion, let it by all means be Moncrief. Unexceptionable, even if not an Austrian. I disapprove of this whole business, mon ami.”

  “I shall see he does not come to disturb you again,” Peter answered, with a mocking smile. His meaning, though it was not yet clear to his hostess, was that she would be spared his own presence as well.

  Some inkling of his intention was borne in on the Countess as the evening progressed. Kruger, her usual boon companion, declined to sit down to cards, electing instead to make a cake of himself over a dashing anglaise, Lady Palgrave. But Peter always danced at the heels of every new femme fatale for a week or two, till a new one came along.

  “I shall stop by tomorrow,” Hermione said to Kruger later in the evening. “I am taking the old Duchess Schwarzenberg for a drive in the Wienerwald. A dreary enough occupation for a winter’s afternoon, but she tells me she has not been this year, and I have agreed to take her. I have bought an old book I want you to have a look at for me. I have not paid for it yet. Kreighoff tells me it is fifteenth century, worth I don’t know how much. You will know what it is worth.”

  Peter was always jollied into smiles by having his knowledge of old, beautiful and valuable items appealed to. “Afraid I’m busy all day tomorrow, Hermione,” he an­swered crisply. “Leave the book off if you like, and I’ll assess it for you. I’ll send it back with a footboy and a note, giving my opinion.”

  This was Turkish treatment of a sort not indulged in since the Season, two years ago, when Hermione had al­lowed a handsome Austrian colonel to make advances to her, to incite Kruger to jealousy. She knew a brush-off when she was given one, but she could not for the life of her figure out why she was being so mistreated on this occasion.

  "Perhaps I will,” she answered, but her words, delivered in an indifferent tone, were meant to convey that she was miffed, and would do nothing of the sort.

  Chabon hovered at Maria’s shoulder in a way to set her nerves on edge. His conversation too was taking on an intimate tinge she could not like. In vexation, she turned sharply away when he rushed over to her after a dance.

  “You are angry with me,” he said, in offended accents. “What have I done to displease you?”

  “Nothing. I am not angry with you,” she told him, her tone belying the words.

  “You cannot fool me, a Frenchman, in affairs of pas­sion,” he answered. “I know when I have failed to please a lady. The flouncing shoulders, the sparkling eye, the lifted chin. Yes, you are angry with me, Maria. Please tell me why.”

  “I am not angry. I have the headache,” she said, to silence him.

  “It is the noise of music and chattering, in all languages. So many languages, and so little of sense or wit spoken in any of them. ‘There is no good speech save in Paris.’ That is a quotation from a French poet, Villon. You will judge the truth of it one day.”

  “Perhaps, if I ever go to Paris.”

  A knowing, intimate glance suggested she would not only go, but go with him. “Everyone goes to Paris, sooner or later,” was all he said.

  “I wish I might go home.”

  “I’ll take you,” he offered at once, which improved her headache in a remarkable hurry. She soon detached her­self from her unwanted company. An intime of Countess Poronovitch wanted Chabon to take a look at a piece of jewelry she had bought, and give her an objective evalu­ation of it. She was impressed with his talent and help on Poronovitch’s account. When at last the party was over and her father took her home, she found a real migraine had descended on her, to rob her of much-needed sleep.

  During the wakeful hours of the night, she wondered how she was to repay Miss Feydeau, how to discover what her father was up to, and how to extricate him from his toil. She awoke in the morning, groggy and ill tempered to face the day.
She resolved to borrow the money from her godmother, and to confess to Hermione her worries. She found the Countess stretched out on a chaise longue in her bedchamber, her scanty hair uncovered, a peach-colored, velvet dressing gown, trimmed with swansdown wrapped around her gaunt frame, and a cup holding coffee topped with whipped cream resting on a table beside her.

  “Maria, my dear, come in,” she called in a deep voice. “Just the gel I want to see. What’s that Papa of yours up to, eh?”

  “Oh Tante Hermione, I don’t know, and I am so wor­ried.” The whole story came pouring out. The jewels that were no longer real jewels, the business of some scheme to make money, the pushing forward of Chabon.

  It was the last item that brought the Countess to wrath. Maria suspected that the former matters were no surprise to her aunt. “His head is full of scrambled eggs. Monsieur Chabon indeed! I told him I will not have it, and if he tries to force your hand, my dear, you must pack up your bag and come at once to me. Not that he will make you have anyone you dislike. He ain’t that Gothic. If Peter is in financial difficulties, he might have told me. He knows I would be happy to help. He knows well enough that what I have will be yours one day. All in the family. Tell him so, as he is sulking with me for some reason. Has he got a new woman in his eye?” she asked eagerly.

  “I don’t think so. Oh he is rolling his eyes at Lady Palgrave, but all the men are doing that. This is more serious. Auntie, I am so dreadfully afraid he is doing some­thing—well, illegal. It even occurred to me, at about three o’clock this morning, that he might have had something to do with Eynard’s murder.”

  “Nonsense! Peter’s a fool; he ain’t a murderer. If anyone we know had Eynard killed, it was more likely Chabon himself, or that French filly tucked away under the eaves of your father’s house.’’

  “I cannot really believe Papa would do such a thing, but he said—mentioned you know, that it was a pity I had gone to Binder, for with Eynard dead, no one would know we are broke. That Eynard had made copies of the jewelry, he meant.”

  “It was not necessary to kill Eynard to keep it a secret, goose! It was done ages ago, and Eynard never said any­thing. It was his discretion as much as his skill that made him so popular. Peter has been having copies made of the family jewelry one piece at a time for more than two years now. I offered to buy them from him, to be bought back as he could manage it, but he was too proud. Didn’t want to be beholden to a woman. Now about Feydeau, here’s what we shall do. She may be honest, or she may not. We’ll give her half what she expected for the earrings. Let us make it three thousand pounds. It will be enough for her to get away, and good riddance say I! When the busi­ness is cleared up, we’ll give her the rest, if she is as innocent as she says. How does that strike you?”

  “Very fair, except I don’t know how I shall ever repay you."

  “We’ll worry about that later. Now, what foolishness has Peter got planned for you tonight?”

  “We go to the Hofburg. The King of Prussia’s ball is on tonight. A large do.”

  “Does Chabon go with you?”

  “Very likely.”

  “In that case, you shall come with me. It is clear as well water Peter don’t plan to take me, and I do not wish to go alone; I have not made other plans. My friends take for granted Peter will accompany me. Perhaps that is what vexes him. Anton will be there, and Moncrief. How do you like the English milord, eh?”

  “He is very English.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I admire him, trust him, but am afraid he is too stiff to suit me.”

  “Aye, they are all stiff as ramrods, the Englishmen, but it is a great act, you must know. Get them out of the eyes of society and they unbend amazingly. I never had such a jolly week in my life as I had in England last year at a country house party. They are eager for a little romp, all of them, but afraid to look undignified in the eyes of the world. Even Wellington—especially Wellington. He is a regular rascal. All of them but Castlereagh. They were saying last evening that Wellington is to replace Castle­reagh here at the Congress. Did you hear it?”

  “Yes, it is rumored Castlereagh is needed at home.”

  “Hah, by which is meant the Government and the Prince feel the Iron Duke can manage affairs better. I hope they might be right.”

  “I shall come early. Do you have company for dinner?”

  “No, you can eat with me. It will be a pleasant change to have a simple meal. And if Chabon tries to make up to you later on, I shall give him a sharp setdown.”

  Maria got the money for Mademoiselle Feydeau, and took it to her that same afternoon. The girl sat alone, such a dreary time as she had, writing letters. She looked up and smiled to see her caller enter. On every meeting, Maria was more certain the girl was innocent, being tra­duced by Chabon. Her artless smile, her simple dark gown, her innocent occupations—these were surely not the hall­marks of a conniving adventuress.

  “I was just making my excuses to Madame Lalonde regarding the earrings,” she explained. “Were you able to get any money?”

  “Half what I owe you. After this business is settled, I shall repay the rest. Be sure to let me know your address when you move.”

  “I shall not be leaving right away. First I must find somewhere to go.”

  “Perhaps Madame Lalonde . . ." Maria mentioned.

  “I am asking her in my note if she will have me. Please sit down and stay awhile. I am so much alone, I look forward to your visits. Will you have some tea?”

  Maria was too full of pity to decline, and too worried her father would discover her whereabouts and disapprove to enjoy the interlude. It was not her custom to disobey her father.

  “Do you see much of Chabon?” Miss Feydeau asked, after a little polite chitchat.

  “Yes, we see him frequently.”

  “Don’t forget what I told you. Be wary of him. I suppose he tries to make love to you?” the girl asked.

  “He is gallant, in the French style.”

  “Yes, but does he make love to you?” her hostess insist­ed. Her demeanor tried to convey no more than polite interest, but her eyes gave her away. She was keenly cu­rious for the answer.

  “Does he tell you you are beautiful, does he try to em­brace you?”

  “Yes and no, to your two questions,” Maria said briefly.

  “He has the reputation of a flirt. I expect he is gallant with all the ladies at the Congress?”

  “He is one of the acknowledged flirts, Cécile. Why are you curious about him?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I worry for you. That’s all. It would be easy to be taken in by such a one.”

  Her self-conscious manner caused an intuitive thought to leap into Maria’s head. Mademoiselle herself had been taken in! There had been some romance between the two of them. She was about to ask if it were so, when a more important question came to mind, having to do with the girl’s knowledge of Eynard’s death before she was told of it. “How did you know about it?” Maria asked her.

  There was a denial in the girl’s face, then after a scru­tinizing of her guest, she changed her mind. “I did know. How quick you are to have noticed it. The fact is, a friend had already told me of the death, shortly after it hap­pened.”

  “Who was this friend?”

  “You would not know him. His name is Alphonse Be­langer. He is in the employ of Baron Hager, the head of police. Every second footboy and clerk is acting as a spy, at this time. Alphonse was at Talleyrand’s palais, working in the kitchen. He was enlisted by Hager to discover what he could—he is paid for every rumor he carried, or in­vented. Talleyrand was not long in discovering it, and fired him. He went to Hager to seek work with him in some other capacity. He is used to follow people Hager suspects of something or other—insignificant work really. He was following Eynard that day—he didn’t tell me why, but he saw the whole thing, the murder. It was he who called Hager, and immediately afterwards, he told me, for he knew I had had dealings with Ey
nard. I knew Alphonse long ago, in France, and met him again in Vienna. He used to work at Army headquarters, where my Papa was stationed. He told me of the murder as a posthumous act of friendship to my father. Everyone loved Papa—he was so kind, so loyal and generous.” She stopped suddenly and drew a long sigh. Her eyes were not moist, but they were sad. “There is no mystery in the story. It is exactly as I tell you,” she finished simply.

  “I see,” Maria answered, finding the story to have that implausible air that might well be true. Certainly people of all nationalities worked for Hager. And if this Alphonse person had known the army life, it was more than likely he still devoted himself to the Napoleonic cause, and it was by this means he came into contact with Miss Fey­deau. Her curiosity satisfied, she arose to leave.

  “I wish you would come back and visit me from time to time. The days are tedious here, alone.”

  “I’ll come—tomorrow if I can.”

  “You are very kind. The only friend I have in Vienna,” Miss Feydeau answered, trying to strike a smile, but she looked very sad, almost pitiful, with her slight shoulders sagging. Really it was too bad of Papa to speak harshly of her.

  Maria dined with her Aunt Hermione, the two of them alone, wondering the whole time what Peter was involved in. “Did he object to your coming here to dine with me?” the aunt asked. She was got up in a gown of rainbow hues, and wearing with it a rope of pearls nearly to her hips that were worth a fortune, and looked frightful, even cheap. It was an unstated complaint of Kruger that Hermione could make a hundred thousand pounds of gems look cheap.