Boris Akunin - The Winter Queen

The butler (for a butler is what he was, since he was an Englishman) ran the impassive gaze of his small, sharp eyes over the prisoner, handed the Judas a silver fifty-kopeck piece, and moved aside slightly to make way.

"Really, this is all nothing but a misunderstanding!" said Fandorin, still struggling to collect his wits. He switched into English: "It's ridiculous, a complete misunderstanding!"

"Oh, no, please do go in, sir, please do," the yardkeeper droned from behind him, and to make quite sure he grabbed hold of Fandorin's other sleeve and shoved him in through the door.

Erast Fandorin found himself in a rather wide hallway opposite a stuffed bear holding a silver tray for receiving visiting cards. The shaggy beast's small glass eyes contemplated the collegiate registrar's predicament without the slightest trace of sympathy.

"Who? What for?" the butler asked succinctly in strongly accented Russian, entirely ignoring Fandorin's perfectly good English.

Erast Fandorin said nothing, under no circumstances wishing to reveal the secret of his identity.

"What's the matter, John?" Fandorin heard a clear voice that was already familiar to him ask in English. Standing on the carpeted stairs that must lead to the mezzanine was the mistress of the house, who had already removed her hat and veil.

"Aha, the young brunet!" she exclaimed in a mocking tone, turning toward Fandorin, who was devouring her with his eyes. "I spotted you back there on Kamergersky Lane. One really should not glare at strange ladies in that way! Clever, though I must say, you managed to follow me! Are you a student or just another idle ne'er-do-well?"

"Fandorin, Erast Petrovich," he introduced himself, uncertain what else to add, but Cleopatra had apparently already found a satisfactory explanation for his appearance.

"I do like the bold ones," she said with a laugh, "especially when they're so good-looking. But it's not nice to spy on people. If you find my person so very interesting, then come this evening — all sorts of people come visiting here. You will be quite able to satisfy your curiosity then. But wear tails. The manners in my house are free, but men who are not in the military must wear tails — that's the law."

WHEN EVENING ARRIVED it found Erast Fandorin fully equipped. It was true, certainly, that his father's tailcoat had proved to be a little broad for him in the shoulders, but the splendid Agrafena Kondratievna, the provincial secretary's wife from whom Fandorin rented his little room, had pinned it in along the seams and it had really turned out quite respectable, especially if he did not button it. An extensive wardrobe, containing five pairs of white gloves alone, was the only property that the failed bank investor had bequeathed to his son. The items that looked best on him were the silk waistcoat from Burgess and the patent leather shoes from Pironet. The almost new top hat from Blanc was not too bad either, except that it tended to creep down over his eyes. But that was all right — hand it to the servant at the door and the problem was solved. Erast Fandorin decided not to take a cane; he felt that would be in rather bad taste. He rotated in front of the chipped mirror in the dark hallway and was pleased by what he saw, above all by the waistline that was maintained so ideally by the strict Lord Byron. In his waistcoat pocket lay a silver ruble, provided by Xavier Grushin for a bouquet ("a decent one, but nothing too fancy"). What kind of fancy bouquet would a ruble get you ? Erast Fandorin sighed to himself, and he decided to add fifty kopecks of his own — then he could afford Parma violets.

The bouquet meant that he had to go without a cab, and Erast Fandorin did not arrive at the palace of Cleopatra (the sobriquet which suited Amalia Kazimirovna Bezhetskaya best of all) until a quarter past eight.

The guests were already assembled. While he was still in the front hall after being admitted by the maid, Fandorin heard the droning of a large number of men's voices, punctuated every now and again by that voice, with its magical, silver-and-crystal tones. Lingering for a second at the threshold, Erast Fandorin gathered his courage and strode in with a distinct nonchalance, hoping to produce the impression of an experienced man of the world. He need not have bothered — no one even turned to look at the new arrival.

Fandorin's gaze encountered a hall furnished with comfortable morocco leather divans, velvet chairs, and elegant little tables — it was all very stylish and modern. At the center, her feet planted on a tiger-skin rug, stood the mistress of the house, dressed in Spanish costume — a scarlet dress with a corsage and a crimson camellia set in her hair. She looked so lovely that Fandorin caught his breath. He did not immediately examine the guests, merely registering the fact that they were all men and that Akhtyrtsev was there, sitting somewhat apart from the others and looking terribly pale.

"Ah, here is the new admirer," Bezhetskaya announced, glancing with an ironic smile in Fandorin's direction. "That makes it a perfect baker's dozen. I shan't introduce everybody — it would take too long. You must tell us your name. I recall that you are a student, but I'm afraid I've forgotten your name."

"Fandorin," Erast Fandorin squeaked in a voice that trembled treacherously, then repeated the name again, more firmly, "Fandorin."

Everybody glanced across at him but only cursorily; it was evident that the newly arrived young fellow did not really interest them. It quite soon became clear that in this company there was only one center of interest. The guests scarcely spoke to one another at all, addressing themselves predominantly to their hostess. Each of them, even a grave-looking old man wearing a diamond star, vied with the others to achieve a single goal — to attract her attention and eclipse the others, if only for an instant. There were only two who behaved differently — the taciturn Akhtyrtsev, who swigged incessantly from a bottle of champagne, and an officer of the hussars, a well-set-up young fellow with a slight slant to his eyes and a smile that was all white teeth and black mustache. He gave the appearance of being rather bored and hardly even looked at Amalia Bezhetskaya, contemplating the other guests with a wry grin of contempt. Cleopatra clearly favored this rascal, calling him simply "Hippolyte," and on a couple of occasions she cast him a glance that sent a melancholy pang through Erast Fandorin's heart.

Suddenly he roused himself. A certain plump gentleman with a white cross hanging around his neck had just taken advantage of a pause to interpose his word. "Amalia Kazimirovna, you recently forbade us to gossip about Kokorin, but I have learned something rather curious."

He stopped for a moment, pleased by the effect this had produced, and everyone turned to look at him.

"Don't be so tiresome, Anton Ivanovich, tell us," said a fat man with a high forehead who looked like a prosperous lawyer.

"Yes, don't be tiresome." The others took up the refrain.

"He didn't simply shoot himself, it was a case of American roulette, or so the governor-general whispered to me today in the chancellery," the plump gentleman informed them in a meaningful tone of voice. "Do you know what that is?"

"It's common knowledge," said Hippolyte, shrugging his shoulders.

"You take a revolver and put in one cartridge. It's stupid but exciting. A shame the Americans thought of it before we did."

"But what has that to do with roulette, Count?" the old man with the diamond star asked, mystified.

"Odds or evens, red or black, anything but zero!" Akhtyrtsev cried out and burst into loud, unnatural laughter, gazing challengingly at Amalia Bezhetskaya (or at least so it seemed to Fandorin).

"I warned you that I would throw out anyone who mentioned that," said their hostess, now angry in earnest, "and banish them from my house forever! A fine subject for gossip!"