AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Ordinary values of life or death can be set aside,” Stephan went on. “Almost as they can in war. You say to yourself, ’This is for my country, for my people. I commit a lesser evil that a greater good may be obtained.’ ” He was still watching Monk closely. “All through history people have done that, and depending on the outcome, they are either crowned or hanged. And history afterwards will call them hero one day and traitor another. Success is the common judge. It takes a rare man to set his values on other standards.”
Monk was caught by surprise. He had thought Stephan shallower, less thoughtful of the motives of those he seemed to treat with such casual friendship. His eye was keener than Monk had supposed. Again, he should not have been so quick to judge.
“Then I had better learn a great deal more,” Monk replied. “But a political murder does not help the Countess Rostova’s case. Or is her motive more subtly political than I imagined?”
Stephan drew in his breath to make an instant reply, then changed his mind. He laughed slightly, spearing a piece of fish and putting it into his mouth. “I was going to answer that with absolute certainty,” he replied. “Then the fact that you asked the question made me think about it. Perhaps I was mistaken. I would have denied it. She hated Gisela for entirely personal reasons and thought the Princess behaved from immediate, personal motives: pride, ambition, love of glamour, attention, luxury, status among her peers, envy, revenge for love wasted or betrayed, all the things that have nothing to do with patriotism or matters of state, simply humanity. But perhaps I was wrong. I don’t think I knew Zorah as well as I had assumed.”
His face became very serious, his eyes steady on Monk’s. “But I would lay my life that she is no hypocrite. Whatever her cause, there is no lie in it.”
Monk believed him. He was less sure that Zorah had not been used, but he had as yet no idea by whom. It was one of the things he might learn in Venice.
The next day Stephan took him to explore a little of the city, drifting gently down one waterway after another until they found themselves on the Grand Canal, and Stephan pointed out the palaces one after another, telling Monk of their history and sometimes of the present occupants. He pointed to the magnificent Gothic Palazzo Cavalli.
“Henry the Fifth of France lives there,” Stephan said with a smile.
Monk was lost. “Henry the Fifth of France?” He thought he knew there was no king of France, never had been for well over half a century.
“Monsieur le Comte de Chambord,” Stephan said with a laugh, leaning back on one elbow in an oddly graceful gesture of comfort. “Grandson of Charles the Tenth, and king if there were a throne in France, a fact many people here prefer to overlook. His mother, the Duchesse de Berry, married a penniless Italian nobleman and lives in good style in the Palazzo Vendramin-Calergi. She bought it in 1844, practically for a song: pictures, furniture and everything. Venice used to be terribly cheap then. You know, in ’51 John Ruskin paid only twenty-six pounds a year for an apartment here on the Grand Canal, and for years before that Robert and Elizabeth Browning paid only twenty-six pounds a year for a suite at the Casa Guidi in Florence. But Mr. James, the British consul here, is paying one hundred sixty pounds a year for one floor in the Palazzo Foscolo. Everything is terribly expensive now.”
They rocked slightly in the wake of a larger barge, and the sound of laughter drifted across the water from a closed gondola a hundred feet away.
“The Comte de Montmoulin lives here too,” Stephan went on. “In the Palazzo Loredan, at San Vio.”
“And what is he king of?” Monk asked, catching the flavor but far more interested in the mention of poets and critics such as Ruskin.
“Spain,” Stephan replied. “Or so he would believe. There are all sorts of artists and poets and invalids, social and political exiles, some of marvelous color, others of utter tediousness.”
It seemed eminently the right place for Friedrich and Gisela, and those who chose to follow them, for whatever reason.
An hour later they sat in a small piazza eating luncheon. Passersby strolled across the square, talking idly. Monk heard the chatter of half a dozen different languages. Here and there soldiers in Austrian uniform lounged around, guns hanging, half ready if there should be any resistance or unpleasantness. It was a startling reminder that this was an occupied city. The native Venetians were not in control. They must obey or suffer the consequences.
The streets and canals were quieter than he had expected. He was used to the noise and ebullience of London, the constant bustle of life. The contrast between the teeming capital of an empire, with its opulence and squalor, the bursting confidence of its trade and the tide of wealth and expansion, its poor and its oppressed in ever-growing slums, had an utterly different air from this glorious ruin sinking into a gentle despair under foreign domination. The past was all around as an aching memory filled with beauty that crumbled. Visitors like Monk and Stephan sat in the autumn sunlight on marble pavements and watched over wanderers and expatriates talking in hushed tones, while Venetians went about their daily business, outwardly docile, seemingly apathetic. Austrians strolled with casual arrogance around the streets and squares of a city they did not love.
“Did Zorah come here often?” Monk asked. He needed to know more of the accuser in order to understand the charge. He had neglected her until now.
“Yes, at least once a year,” Stephan answered, stabbing his fork into a stuffed tomato. “Why do you ask? She did know Friedrich and Gisela well, over many years, if that is what you are wondering.”
“Why? She was not in exile, was she?”
“No, of course not.”
“Was it because of Friedrich?” Had he asked too bluntly to get an honest answer?
A Greek and a Levantine strolled past, and the breeze carried a perfume of spikenard and bay leaves. They were engaged in heated conversation in some language Monk did not recognize.
Stephan laughed. “Was she in love with him? You don’t know much about Zorah if you can even ask that. She might have been, a long time ago, but she would never waste her passion or her pride on a man whom she couldn’t win.” He leaned back a little in his chair, the sunlight on his face.
“She’s had many lovers over the years. I think Friedrich was probably one of them, before Gisela, but there have been several since, I assure you. There was a Turkish brigand, whom she loved for over two years, and there was a musician in Paris, but I don’t think that lasted long. He was too devoted to his music to be much fun. There was someone in Rome, but I don’t know who, and there was an American. He lasted quite a while, but she wouldn’t marry him.” He was still smiling. He had to raise his voice a little to be heard above the rising sound of chatter around him. “She loved to explore frontiers, but she didn’t want to live on one. And there was an Englishman. He entertained her hugely, and I think she really cared for him a great deal. And, of course, there was a Venetian, hence many of her visits here. I think he lasted rather a long time, and perhaps she returned here to see him.”
“Is he still here?”
“No, I’m afraid he died. I think he was older than she.”
“Who is it at the moment?”
“I don’t know. I rather think it may be Florent Barberini, but then again, it may not.”
“He spoke warmly of Gisela.”
