Stained Glass by William F. Buckley

her drawing room and rose to greet him, a warm but formal smile on her high-boned face. Did he mind if she spoke to him in German? It had been so long since she had practiced the English she had learned as a girl, and in any case she had reports that Mr. Oakes’s German was—she raised her hand, thumb and forefinger touching—“perfect.” Blackford smiled, and replied in a German that paid tribute to what he called the sadistic Huns who had taught him the language—after the first grueling day he had looked the two words up in his dictionary, and ever after so referred to the he-she German team retained by the agency to torment him five hours a day for five months in Boston. “My Axel will be here presently,” she said, lifting her hand to signal the butler to bring in the tea. “Dear Axel, he is so busy these days. But he attaches such a high priority to the rebuilding of our little church. Do you have churches in America, Mr. Oakes? I mean, Mr. Oakes, do you have beautiful churches in America? I mean, Mr. Oakes, do you have …”
    â€œDo we have any churches in America built during the thirteenth century? No, Countess, we don’t. But we do have the Grand Canyon, and that was built even earlier.” He smiled.
    â€œAh, yes, I have heard about it. Master craftsmen, those Indians. Tell me, Mr. Oakes—my, but you are handsome. What did you do during the war?”
    â€œI fought on the same side as your son, Countess,” he replied cautiously.
    â€œYes, of course, how silly. I mean, what did you do in the war? Really, it is so ironic. It would be ironic perfection if it happened that you were the artillery officer who fired on our chapel! But I suppose that would be just too much? But really, talking about the war is so depressing. And now some of my friends tell me there will be another war if Axel has his way, but I don’t believe it, not for a minute. I tell them all the same thing: Axel is a peaceful young man. Even as a child he did not like to quarrel. But he does know his mind. Always did. When he was eleven he told us—came right to our bedroom, and told the count and me—that he could not put up one more day with his governess, Mlle. Lachaise, that we would be forced ”—she laughed with evident pleasure at the recollection—“he told us that we would be forced to choose between him , our son, and her , his governess! Caspar told him to go to bed, to say his prayers, and to wait another ten years or so before undertaking to superintend his own education.
    â€œWell, Mr. Oakes, the next morning at breakfast-time Mlle. Lachaise reported that Axel was gone. No trace of him! Not even the groom knew where he was! It was two days before the police stopped him, all the way south at Eisenfeld. His father dealt most severely with him. But after Axel’s tears had dried, he returned to his father—would you believe it, Mr. Oakes?—and said to him: ‘Father, unless you get rid of Mlle. Lachaise, I shall have to run away again tomorrow.’ That night the count and I conferred, and the next morning we dispatched Mlle. Lachaise. The alternative was to put Axel in the palace dungeon.
    â€œDo you suppose, Mr. Oakes, that the Russians will deal that way with Axel? Will they decide they might as well let Axel have East Germany?”
    Blackford reflected that nobody in Washington had trained him to deal with such as Countess Wintergrin. He mobilized himself to attempt a reply to her impossible question, then decided to sidestep it. Instead, he asked:
    â€œTell me, Countess. What was wrong with Mlle. Lachaise? She must have been a brute.”
    â€œMlle. Lachaise? Now let me see. Which one was that? She was not Mlle. Bouchex. No. And she wasn’t Mlle. Longueville. No. Mlle. Lachaise … I can’t really remember. When Axel comes, we must ask him.”
    Blackford very nearly panicked. “No no, thank you very