The Great Game by Michael Kurland Page B

properly arrange the construction of papier-mâché and gauze that he thinks is appropriate costume for a water-nymph." She stood up. "And what are you planning to do today?"
     
                  Paul considered for a moment. "I plan to wander about the city disconsolately searching for truth and beauty, knowing I will find neither until I see you this evening."
     
                  Giselle smiled down at him. "Keep that thought," she said, kissing him on the forehead. "I'll be home around four, but I want to work on my dolls for a few hours. You may take me out to dinner."
     
                  "Thank you, you are so kind," Paul said. "I kiss your hand." And he did so, following the old Viennese custom with perhaps a shade more ardor than was absolutely correct.
     
                  "You certainly do!" Giselle agreed. And she walked off down Verdegasse toward Klapmann's studio a few blocks away. There was, perhaps, a shade more sway in her walk than there would have been if she hadn't known that Paul was watching.
     
                  Charles Summerdane looked out through Paul's eyes and wondered how Giselle would react when he proposed marriage to her; when he confided to her that he was actually an English gentleman. The fact that he was immensely rich, he knew, would not bother her in the least. He would have to give up the great game, but perhaps it was time he stopped playing games, even for the good of the Empire. There were other ways he could be useful. Besides, he was already pushing his luck. There were signs that some of Paul's associates were getting suspicious of the perhaps-too-carefree composer. Paul was half convinced that the young man in the fur-trimmed greatcoat who had entered the café shortly after they had was the same young man he had seen loitering across the street from their apartment building when they had come out this morning.
     
                  Not for the first time he found he was glad that he was the younger son of a duke. If he were heir to the title and estates, it would be impossible to consider marrying a Viennese artist's model. The crowd, as the aristocracy called themselves for some reason, would never allow it. Even as it was it would be difficult.
     
                  He could, of course, marry someone else and keep his artist's model discreetly in a flat in London. But he didn't want to marry someone else. And Giselle would not easily consent to being kept in a flat in London. Well, he would marry her—if she'd have him—and the crowd could just make what they would of it. If they became too oppressive, he and Giselle could just buy a house in Paris. Perhaps they should do that anyway. Giselle would love living in Paris.
     
                  Paul sighed and sipped at his coffee. A few minutes later he rose and entered the cafe, and headed straight back toward the lavatory. When he left he paused at an empty table to tie his shoe. "I think I'm being followed," he said in an undertone to a placid-looking, balding gentleman one table over, who seemed totally absorbed in the morning edition of the Neue Freie Presse and his half-eaten napoleon. "You don't know me."
     
                  The man frowned slightly and kept reading. Paul dropped a thick white envelope containing his latest tone poem onto the chair next to him, shielding the action with his overcoat, and then returned to his table, threw a few coins on it, and headed off down the street.
     

CHAPTER SEVEN — CHANCE
     
    Kingdoms are but cares.
    State is devoid of stay;
    Riches are ready snares,
    And hasten to decay.
    —Henry VI
     
                  Age, Barnett reflected, was creeping up on him. Or perhaps it was merely his sedentary habits. Four days of playing tennis with the Bulefortes was taking an unfamiliar toll on muscles he had forgotten he had. Two sets of tennis each day was proving to be much harder