Encore by Monique Raphel High Page A

by Fabergé—or rather, the oysters made it, and he put it together.”
    He leaned toward her, extending his finely manicured hand in a mock courtly gesture. She shook her head, bewildered and a little frightened, opening wide her brown eyes to encompass the red velvet case he was holding. “Don’t be silly,” he admonished. “Open the damned thing.”
    She took it gingerly. The velvet felt softer than anything she had ever touched, like a rose petal. She moved the little gold button in the center, and the case opened. She was staring at a row of perfect pink pearls held by a ruby clasp. Her lips parted, and her breath stopped on a sudden intake. “I can’t,” she said.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause there is no reason for this. I have never seen anything like this necklace. It is exquisite, and I have done nothing to deserve it. I—” She reddened, swallowed, then plunged in, looking him in the eye: “I am not your mistress.”
    This time he had to grasp the doorknob to keep from falling down with laughter. Natalia rose, holding out the box. He shook his head, no, but her eyes suddenly hardened with determination, and she did not slacken her arm. They had begun to draw the attentive glances of the others in the room. His blue eyes narrowed, became very cold. “Take it,” he ordered, and she shivered slightly. “Take it, little girl, and don’t cause a scene. I can afford such a gift, and if you knew anything at all about me, beyond tawdry gossip, you would have learned that I love all the arts and all good artists. What is the difference between the roses bought with hours of toil by a poor man in the gallery and these pearls purchased by a Kussov? I assume you would accept the former.”
    She remained speechless. He adjusted his cravat, and his expression changed back to one of mirth. “However—consider this, Natalia Dmitrievna: Many men will ask you to bestow your favors upon them. But before you decide to—shall we say—‘become a mistress’ remember me. You owe me first priority.”
    He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. The red velvet case was still in her hand. Natalia could not think. The room began to spin, and she faltered toward the cot, falling upon it blindly. Tears filled her eyes, overflowed, and filled them again. A sob was wrenched from her chest, then a second, a third. Uncontrolled trembling passed over her body in great, tumultuous waves. A woman came to her and touched her hair. Natalia felt as though she were in the very eye of a tornado.
    The pearls slipped from their case onto the floor, where the yellow light captured their myriad hues—blue, green, pink, gray. Natalia did not see them, for she was weeping. She wept as never before and did not know why. But her body seemed to warn her of a cataclysm before which she knew she possessed no power.
    Later that night, Boris sat fingering his mustache. He would have given half of his fortune to have seen Pierre’s portrait.
    August in the Netherlands was not as suffocating as it would have been in Russia, Pierre Riazhin thought. It was such a small country, and so near France—but how different, how self-contained! A tiny paradise of clean, bright charm, with its planned canals, its varieties of tulips in bloom, and its neat redbrick houses with pots of colored flowers in every window. It might be the 1600s—except, of course, that I never lived then, Pierre reminded himself with sudden amusement. I remain solidly anchored in 1907.
    He was strolling with Boris along the quiet streets of The Hague. Now his companion turned to him and, catching the smile, said, “I can see that this trip has done you some good, at least. You seem less bored than the diplomats, I must say.”
    â€œThe countryside is beautiful, Boris Vassilievitch—a place that could spawn the Great Masters and Vincent Van Gogh could hardly