Free The Keeper of the Walls by Monique Raphel High Page B

They were able to rebuild their financial position by fortifying the French sugar beet. They live on the Avenue de la Muette—quite sumptuously.”
    â€œFor God’s sake!” Claude cried. “Will you get to the point, Marguery?”
    The little man hesitated. “I’ve never asked before—but why do you need this information?”
    Claude said, through tight lips: “It’s a personal matter, Marguery. A family matter.”
    â€œI asked only because, to touch such a high-placed, well-connected man as Prince Mikhail . . .”
    â€œNo one will ever know. You won’t be linked to this.”
    â€œThere’s only one black point I was able to discover. But it took me some time and not a little effort to uncover the facts. Prince Mikhail made a most unexpected marriage.”
    Claude leaned forward, amazed.
    â€œHe got married two years ago, shortly after he came here.” He stopped, seeing the incredulous expression on Claude’s face. Then, licking his thin red lips, he plunged ahead: “She’s known as Jeanne Dalbret, one of the dancers in Mistinguett’s revue, Paris qui Danse. ”
    â€œHe’s still married?”
    â€œI could find no divorce decree on file, Monsieur Claude.”

Chapter 3
    A t the dinner table that night, Claire said brightly: “If we aren’t very hungry, it’s because Lily and I had such a charming guest for a well-furnished tea: Prince Mikhail Brasilov.”
    Paul smiled at her above his double chin, but Claude sat up, suddenly tense. “Well done, my girl,” the father said.
    â€œIn fact, he invited us to attend a performance of the play Romance. The Russians really know how to charm people. But I was surprised to find out how warm he is.”
    â€œThey know how to charm, because they take us all for benighted idiots!” Claude said.
    His father turned to look at him, taken aback. His mother said: “There’s nothing supercilious about Prince Mikhail. You led me to believe—”
    â€œI think it’s splendid my girls are going to go to the theater!” Paul crooned. Lily thought it ironic, and half smiled. She could well remember how she’d begged and pleaded six months ago, and what her father had replied: “All this ridiculous acting is a waste of time and of hard-earned money. I’ll be damned if I let you go, Claire!”
    But suddenly Claude was standing up, trembling. “Lily,” he ordered. “There’s a matter of some delicacy I must discuss at once with Mother and Father. Go to your room.”
    Claire opened her mouth, but Paul glared at her across the table. He spoke up: “Lily, you heard your brother. Some things aren’t for a young girl’s ears.”
    Lily rose, without looking at anyone, and started to walk away. She strode, without hesitation. It didn’t mean anything to her that Claude had dismissed her so curtly. She didn’t wish to waste her time listening to Claude’s dissertations, anyway. At moments like these, she felt more than ever her alienation from her father and brother. She went into the sitting room, and sat, thinking. He wasn’t exactly beautiful, but his large features fit in his wide-boned face, and his legs were so long, so powerful. He’d sat in that chair, talking of this and that, and she’d imagined herself alone with him, in a garden. Imagined his taking her hand, his pulling her toward him. Abruptly she stood up and went to the grand piano in the right-hand corner, and sat on the small stool. Her hands began to hit the keys, and there was a violence unleashed suddenly in the form of music, rich, cascading arias from Bizet. She didn’t even notice when the pins slipped from her Psyche knot and the dark, glossy hair came tumbling down over her shoulders, magnificent and wild. She was angry, excited, oddly exhilarated, alone and apart.
    In the dining room, Claire spoke out: