A Glove Shop In Vienna by Eva Ibbotson

began to quote the lines that the great Cervantes had written about the new world that was South America:’… the refuge of all the poor devils of Spain, the sanctuary of the bankrupt, the safeguard of murderers, the promised land for ladies of easy virtue, a lure and disillusionment for the many… and an incomparable remedy for the few.’
    Nina had closed her eyes. ‘And you?’ she said softly. ‘Have you found it to be that? An incomparable remedy?’
    Paul did not reply. For him there had always been only one ‘incomparable remedy’. This woman to whom he had committed himself wholly at their first meeting and whose absence had left him with a lifelong, ever undiminished sense of loss.
    So now on with the slaughter, for he saw that like himself she had kept faith. He had only to reach out and she would give it all up – the fame and adulation, the homage of the students who had pulled her carriage through the Prater after her first
Boheme
, the bouquets glittering with diamond drops which besotted Habsburg counts threw for her on stage… If he mishandled the next few moments he would doom her to squalor and poverty, waiting for him to come out of prison if the trial went against him, friendless in this vile climate, in danger of every dread disease.
    ‘You gave an incredible performance tonight.’
    She waved a hand. ‘No… no! It was a mistake, Paul. I am —’
    He interrupted her. ‘But I wondered why you wore a
white
rose? One would expect Carmen to wear
red
flowers, don’t you think?’
    There. He had done it. He had also, apparently, crushed the stem of his wine-glass.
    Nina looked down at her plate. Not to make a fuss, that was what mattered. Women lost their only sons in battle. Children starved. Paul had not loved her. Blindly she groped for her fork, speared a dark, unfocused object and conveyed it, with infinite care, to her mouth.
    Even now perhaps she could do it. If she admitted to him that her voice was finished. He was so chivalrous, so kind.
    Oh, God,
no
!
    Paul’s glass had been replaced; the next course brought. His bleeding hand, wrapped in a napkin, was concealed beneath the table. Now to finish it off.
    ‘Have some more wine, Nina. It will give me an excuse to have some. Steffi always fusses when I get drunk.’
    ‘Steffi? Your… wife?’
    He shrugged. ‘We’re not actually married – one doesn’t bother out here. But she’s been with me for a long time.’
    ‘What is she like?’ said Nina. She was speaking with great care now, like a small child reciting poetry.
    Paul’s mind juddered to a halt. What indeed was she like? Had he ever, among the string of girls with whom he had tried to forget Nina, even known a Steffi?
    ‘Well, she’s French… dark curls… a real minx but…’
    He rambled on, creating an ‘ooh-la-la’
soubrette
from a fifth-rate operetta. (‘You cannot believe me, Nina. You
cannot
. Tell me I’m lying; see through this idiot game.’)
    But she believed him. The modesty and selflessness he’d so much loved in her finished the job he had begun. It was over.
    What followed was the worst. Nina lifted her chin and took up, almost visibly, the mantle of prima donna and woman of the world. For exactly the time that politeness demanded she made conversation, speaking amusingly of her travels, telling him bizarre and interesting stories of the stage. Then she rose, gave him her hand to kiss, sent her regards to Steffi.
    ‘Steffi?’ said Paul wildly, nearly ruining it all.
    But the pain was beginning to take over now; she noticed nothing and holding herself very erect she walked down the gangway to where the hansom cab still waited – and was gone.

    The next day, Nina fell ill. Jacob, who knew nothing of what had passed, was convinced that she was dying. He had read about swans who sing gloriously before dying and Nina, lying mute in her hotel room, managing to shiver although the temperature was 95° in the shade, seemed a good candidate for death. He