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“Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone rose to his feet. He must say something. He had to begin, at least to show that he was in the battle. He had fought without weapons before, and with stakes as high. The judge would know he was playing for time, so would Harvester, but the jury would not. And Florent was almost a friendly witness. He was obviously disposed to make light of the offense. He had once glanced at Zorah with, if not a smile, a kind of softness.
But what could he ask? Zorah was wrong, and she was the only one who did not accept it.
“Mr. Barberini,” he began, sounding far more confident than he felt. He moved slowly onto the floor, anything to give him a moment’s time—although all the time in the world would not help. “Mr. Barberini, you say that, to your knowledge, no one believed this charge the Countess Rostova made?”
“So far as I know,” Florent said guardedly.
Harvester smiled, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at Gisela encouragingly, but she was staring ahead, seemingly unaware of him.
“What about the Countess herself?” Rathbone asked. “Have you any reason to suppose that she did not believe it to be the truth?”
Florent looked surprised. Obviously, it was not the question he had expected.
“None at all,” he answered. “I have no doubt that she believed it absolutely.”
“Why do you say that?” Rathbone was on very dangerous ground, but he had little to lose. It was always perilous to ask a question to which you did not know the answer. He had told enough juniors never to do it.
“Because I know Zorah—Countess Rostova,” Florent replied. “However absurd it is, she would not say it unless she firmly believed it herself.”
Harvester rose to his feet.
“My lord, belief of a truth of a slander is no defense. There are those who sincerely believe the world to be flat. The depth of their sincerity does not make it so, as I am sure my learned friend is aware.”
“I am also quite sure he is aware of it, Mr. Harvester,” the judge agreed, “although it does go to malice. If he should try to persuade the jury it is so, I shall inform them to the contrary, but he has not yet attempted such a t
hing. Proceed, Sir Oliver, if you have a point to make?”
There was another ripple of amusement in the gallery. Someone giggled.
“Only to establish that the Countess was speaking from conviction, as you have observed, my lord,” Rathbone replied. “And not from mischief or intent to cause damage for its own sake.” He could think of nothing to add to it. He inclined his head and retreated.
Harvester stood up again.
“Mr. Barberini, is this opinion of yours as to the Countess’s sincerity based upon knowledge? Do you know, for example, of some proof she may possess?” The question was sarcastic, but its tone was still just within the realm of politeness.
“If I knew of proof I should not be standing here with it,” Florent replied with a frown. “I should have taken it to the proper authorities immediately. I say only that I am sure she believed it. I don’t know why she did.”
Harvester turned and looked at Zorah, then back to Florent.
“Did you not ask her? Surely, as a friend, either of hers or the Princess’s, it would be the first thing you would do?”
Rathbone winced and went cold inside.
“Of course I asked her,” Florent said angrily. “She told me nothing.”
“Do you mean she told you she had nothing?” Harvester persisted. “Or that she said nothing in reply to you?”
“She said nothing in reply.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barberini. I have no more to ask you.”
The day finished with journalists scrambling to escape with their reports and seize the first hansoms available to race to Fleet Street. Outside, crowds filled the pavements, jostling and elbowing to see the chief protagonists. Cabs and carriages were brought to a halt in the street. Coachmen were shouting. Newsboys’ voices were lost in the general noise. No one wanted to hear news about the war in China, Mr. Gladstone’s financial proposals, or even Mr. Darwin’s blasphemous and heretical notions about the origins of man. There was a passionate human drama playing itself out a few yards away, love and hate, loyalty, sacrifice and an accusation of murder.
Gisela came out of the main entrance, escorted down the steps by Harvester on one side and a large footman on the other. Immediately, a cheer went up from the crowd. Several people threw flowers. Scarves fluttered in the brisk October air, and men waved their hats.
“God bless the Princess!” someone called out, and the cry was taken up by dozens, and then scores.
