The Death of Achilles

EIGHT

In the restaurant at the hotel Dusseaux all the tables were taken, but Achimas’s domesticated porter had kept his word and saved the most convenient one for his newspaperman — in the corner, with a view of the entire hall. At twenty minutes to nine, three officers entered with a jangling of spurs, followed by the general himself and then another four officers. The other diners, who had been strictly cautioned by the maitre d’hotel not to pester the general with any unwanted expressions of esteem, behaved with appropriate tact and pretended they had simply come to the restaurant for dinner, not to gawk at the great man.

Sobolev took the wine list, failed to discover Chateau d’Yquem on it, and ordered some to be brought from Levet’s shop. His retinue elected to drink champagne and cognac.

The military gentlemen talked among themselves in low voices, with several outbursts of general merriment, in which the general’s lilting baritone could be clearly distinguished. The overall impression was that the conspirators were in excellent spirits, which suited Achimas very well.

At five minutes past nine, when the Chateau d’Yquem had been delivered and duly uncorked, the doors of the restaurant swung inward as though wafted open by some gust of magical wind and Wanda appeared on the threshold, poised picturesquely, her entire lithe figure leaning forward. Her face was flushed and her huge eyes glowed like midnight stars. The entire hall turned around at the sound and froze, entranced by the miraculous spectacle. The glorious general seemed to have turned to stone, the pickled mushroom on his fork suspended halfway to his mouth.

Wanda paused for just a moment — long enough for her audience to admire the effect, but too brief for them to stick their faces back in their plates.

“There he is, our hero!” the miraculous vision declared resoundingly.

And with a loud clattering of heels, she rushed impetuously into the hall.

The claret silk rustled and the ostrich feather on her wide-brimmed hat swayed. The maitre d’hotel fluttered his hands in horror, recalling the prohibition on any public displays of feeling, but he need not have been alarmed: Sobolev was not in the least bit indignant. He wiped his glistening lips with a napkin and rose gallantly to his feet.

“Why do you remain seated, gentlemen, and not pay tribute to the glory of the Russian land?” the ecstatic patriot cried, appealing to the hall, determined not to allow the initiative to slip from her grasp even for a moment. “Hurrah for Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev!”

It was as if this was what the diners had all been waiting for. They jumped up from their chairs and began applauding, and the thunderous enthusiasm of their ‘hurrah’ set the crystal chandelier swaying beneath the ceiling.

Reddening most fetchingly, the general bowed to all sides. Despite being famous throughout the whole of Europe and loved throughout all Russia, he still seemed unaccustomed to public displays of enthusiastic admiration.

The vision of beauty dashed up to the hero and flung her slim arms open wide.

“Permit me to embrace you on behalf of all the women of Moscow!”

She cried and, clasping him firmly around the neck, she kissed him three times in the old Moscow manner — full on the lips.

Sobolev turned an even deeper shade of crimson.

“Gukmasov, move over,” he said, tapping the Cossack captain on the shoulder and pointing to an empty chair. “Please do me the honor, madam.”

“No, no, what are you saying?” the delightful blonde exclaimed in fright. “How could I possibly? But if you will permit me, I would be glad to sing my favorite song for you.”

And with the same impetuous abandon, she launched herself toward the small grand piano standing in the middle of the hall.

In Achimas’s view, Wanda’s approach was too direct, even a little coarse, but he could see that she was quite sure of herself and knew perfectly well what she was doing. It was a pleasure to work with a true professional. He was finally persuaded when the first notes of that deep, slightly hoarse voice set every heart in the hall quivering:

Why do you stand so weary, My slender rowanberry, With murmurs sad and dreary Bowing down your head?

Achimas stood up and walked out quietly. Nobody took any notice of him — they were all listening to the song.

Now he could sneak into Wanda’s suite and switch the bottles of Chateau d’Yquem.