The Snake Stone

98

Palewski reached out from under the bedclothes to take the tea. “Thank you, Marta.”

“Wrong,” Yashim said, settling himself at the foot of the bed. Palewski opened his eyes.

“Good God, it’s you! Really, Yashim, you may as well have a bed here until the wretched Lefevre woman’s gone.”

“Too late.” Yashim pulled a folded paper from his cloak. “I found this note under my door this morning.”

Palewski opened it. Mon cher Monsieur Yashim. Few words can express my gratitude to you. To lose a beloved husband, to find oneself cast adrift in a foreign land, to realize that all one’s highest hopes and fondest dreams are gone irretrievably: these are blows that strike to the depths of a woman’s soul. Without you, cher monsieur, I should have sunk beneath them before now. Your kindness and hospitality gave me the energy to meet such adversity-perhaps, even a sense of hope. But now, I feel, that energy is spent; I feel weary and, but for you, alone. I intend to present myself without further delay to the French ambassador-who will, if he is kind as I believe him to be, ensure my safe return to France. I shall remember you with affection, and wish that you will sometimes think of me, your very humble and obedient friend, Amelie Lefevre.

“A very proper expression of sentiment, Yashim,” Palewski said warmly. “‘Blows that strike to the depths of a woman’s soul.’ Dear me. You’re probably sorry she’s gone. I think I am.”

Yashim wrung his hands. His lips still burned where she had kissed him.

“The embassy was my first suggestion. I must have made her feel unwelcome. She was my guest.”

Palewski looked at him intently. “My dear fellow, this won’t do. Is Marta awake?”

“She made the tea.”

“I was afraid it might be too early.” He flung back the coverlet and went to the door.

“Marta!”

Yashim heard Marta hurrying up the stairs.

“Marta, my dear. Our friend Yashim is feeling a little out of sorts and wants a capital breakfast to set him up. Coffee, eggs, bread. Can we manage? There’s a blueberry jam that’s just arrived from the village, we’ll have some of that. Cheese, olives. What else? Perhaps some of the-ah-diplomatic sausage, too. Lay it out in the salon, will you? Looks like a lovely day, we can eat at the window. Bit of fruit? Thank you, Marta, you’re splendid.”

He turned to his friend and rubbed his hands vigorously. “No more misery, Yashim. The girl’s gone-Lefevre’s girl, I mean-and she’s done the best thing. Can’t have her moping around in a foreign city with no one to talk to but you. France, that’s the place for her. Just let me pull on a few things, and I’ll be down in a moment.”

Yashim was having coffee in the sitting room when Palewski rejoined him.

“She doesn’t know that her husband was Meyer,” Yashim said. “But yesterday she met Millingen.”

He told Palewski what Amelie had said.

“And she was holding something back?” Palewski frowned. “I don’t get it, Yash.”

Yashim sighed. “Neither do I,” he admitted.