Encore by Monique Raphel High Page A

man suddenly shivered. The count’s face was distorted into a mask of Greek tragedy, tight and ugly. He jabbed the young man in the chest with an extended forefinger that seared like a talon. “You, my friend, are going to pay for this,” he whispered. “And may God damn you straight to hell.”
    The coachman was now stopping in front of the shabby building where Pierre rented a small apartment. Before the horses had fully halted, the young artist pulled open the door and jumped out. Boris watched as he ran into the building without looking back. The points of fire in his stomach refused to subside.

Chapter 3
    P rincess Marguerite Tumarkina sat very quietly next to Boris. She was a small, thin girl with a bust too large for her petite build. Her face was plain, with pale ‘blue eyes, a small upturned and rather pleasant nose, and very slight, bloodless lips. Her hair was a dull blond, and too thin, so that the elaborate pompadour that dominated her head was always threatening to come tumbling down. Tendrils curled around her forehead, and she looked uncomfortable with herself, as if her natural state beneath her finery was one of shy simplicity and dull predilections. Or so Boris thought, speaking with her.
    â€œYou do not like Italian opera, Marguerite Stepanovna?” he now asked.
    â€œI—I do not know enough about it for discussion,” she replied and bit her lower lip. She was embroidering a cushion in petit point and now averted her eyes to look intently at her work.
    â€œThat is fine artistry,” he commented, taking a corner of the material and examining it. “Marguerite Stepanovna, you must see the jewel that is our Mikhailovsky Theatre—all orange velvet and silver. I shall take you there to hear La Traviata. Our singers are magnificent—Battistini, the baritone, and the Swedish soprano, Arnoldson. You will be enchanted.”
    She looked at him then, the color gone from her thin little face. I’ll be damned, he thought. She resembles a scared rabbit cornered by a hunting dog! He enjoyed his own analogy. But
    she smiled, and tiny green and gold flecks shone in her eyes, and a spot of pink jumped into her skin where it was tightly drawn over her cheekbones.
    â€œIf you would like to go, of course I shall be glad to accompany you, Boris Vassilievitch. You—are so attentive. But you do not have to feel obligated to take me. The Brianskys have been most kind to me, and I am not bored. You—mustn’t worry.”
    Good God, he thought; but he inclined his head and smiled. “It is my pleasure,” he murmured. “I never forgot our encounter in Kiev years ago.” Indeed no, he added wryly to himself.
    She blushed to the very roots of her hair, and did not answer. Presently he took out his gold watch and exclaimed: “Dear Marguerite Stepanovna, you must forgive me! I am late for a meeting.”
    â€œBut of course. An artistic meeting, Boris Vassilievitch?”
    He appeared surprised. “Why, yes. Had I mentioned it?”
    She shook her head, which was top heavy and garnished with a thick comb of mother-of-pearl. “Count Briansky told me that you are a great patron of the arts. He says that you have helped painters, and that you love the Imperial Ballet. I have done some water colors, and play the piano, of course—but I do not know any artists.” She looked wistfully at him, and he thought, Now she will want to play me a sonata, to please my artistic tastes…. Damn Briansky!
    â€œI truly must leave you,” he stated, and bowed over her frail hand. His senses were rebelling against his rational mind, which argued that she was not, after all, such a bad sort. But reason could do little to dispel the revulsion he was feeling toward Marguerite.
    She was drab, timid, not as cultured as a girl of her station should have been—but perhaps that was due more to a deficiency in taste and intellect rather than