completed.”
Gemelli looked at Lombardi. “Sounds like an unpleasant fellow. Who invited him?”
“Renard.” Baranov interjected. “Huxley is on his way back to England from India, and is staying as a guest of Dr. Renard in South France for a few days. Renard asked if he could bring him along.”
“India? What on earth was he doing there?”
Baranov grimaced. “Back from the hunt. Pursuing poor Madame Dubrovsky. God help her.” We heard a commotion in the hall outside, and Renard made his entrance.
Followed by Baranov’s nightmare.
Chapter 21
E veryone turned and stared when Huxley entered the library.
Tall, athletic, and impeccably dressed, he moved with the confidence of someone used to competing and winning. When they shook hands, Huxley towered over Lombardi. It was a dogfight between them right from the beginning. Lombardi was smart, but Huxley was his intellectual match. I later learned Huxley graduated summa cum laude in law from Cambridge where he eviscerated opponents in debates. The English rarely bother to learn any other language but their own – why should they, they run the world – but Huxley was an exception. He spoke impeccable French and Italian, and passable German as well.
Huxley was also a street fighter. He relished a bare-knuckle scrap. He rowed for Cambridge, and once broke an opponent’s nose in the boxing ring. Huxley pursued his investigations with the devotion of a monk. Women threw themselves at him, but he never married. He lived alone in a tiny bachelor’s suite at the Athenaeum Club in London – one small bedroom and a sitting room – but it didn’t matter since he only slept there. His days were spent on the hunt, and he channeled all his energy into his investigations. He had a genius for detecting the mechanics of fraud.
“Professor Baranov tells us you’re just back from India where you were hotly pursuing some woman,” Gemelli said to Huxley. “Perhaps you could entertain us with the story before we begin our formal program tonight.” He looked over at Lombardi. ”That is, if Professor Lombardi here would be gracious enough to delay his presentation a bit longer.”
Baranov glared at Huxley. “As entertaining as Mr. Huxley’s tall tales may be, I believe we have all gathered here tonight to hear Professor Lombardi talk about Alessandra.”
Parenti jumped in. “I don’t know about you, sir, but I’m still young enough to handle two women in one night. Come, Mr. Huxley. Let’s hear a bit about this mysterious
femme fatale
who’s captured your attention.”
Everyone turned to Lombardi. I could see he was annoyed at the request, but he nodded and Huxley took command of the evening.
“A dried up old mummy would be a more accurate description, Professor,” Huxley smiled, “but I found Madame Dubrovsky to be an ingenious – one might even say gifted – impostor.
“Her great grandfather served as a General in the army of Catherine the Great, but she inherited a mystical streak, wasting her childhood in his library reading fairy tales, French grimoires, and the mystic Dostoyevsky. After a brief, failed marriage to the vice-governor of Armenia, she escaped to Constantinople where she met up with a Russian countess and the two traveled arm in arm through Egypt and the Middle East.”
Parenti gave Huxley a wink. “Devotees of Sappho, eh?”
Huxley smiled. “Respectable women are not attracted to mediumship, Professor. I find them invariably odd in terms of their sexual appetites. But they eventually separated, and Madame made her way to the caves and jungles of Hindustan, where she found a little, brown-skinned guru and started receiving messages from spirits who called themselves…” Huxley paused to light his cigar, cleverly holding us in suspense before deadpanning “… the Ascended Masters dwelling in the sixth dimension.” He waited for the laughter to subside. “Curiously, these exalted spiritual beings preach a rather disappointing stew
Gemelli looked at Lombardi. “Sounds like an unpleasant fellow. Who invited him?”
“Renard.” Baranov interjected. “Huxley is on his way back to England from India, and is staying as a guest of Dr. Renard in South France for a few days. Renard asked if he could bring him along.”
“India? What on earth was he doing there?”
Baranov grimaced. “Back from the hunt. Pursuing poor Madame Dubrovsky. God help her.” We heard a commotion in the hall outside, and Renard made his entrance.
Followed by Baranov’s nightmare.
Chapter 21
E veryone turned and stared when Huxley entered the library.
Tall, athletic, and impeccably dressed, he moved with the confidence of someone used to competing and winning. When they shook hands, Huxley towered over Lombardi. It was a dogfight between them right from the beginning. Lombardi was smart, but Huxley was his intellectual match. I later learned Huxley graduated summa cum laude in law from Cambridge where he eviscerated opponents in debates. The English rarely bother to learn any other language but their own – why should they, they run the world – but Huxley was an exception. He spoke impeccable French and Italian, and passable German as well.
Huxley was also a street fighter. He relished a bare-knuckle scrap. He rowed for Cambridge, and once broke an opponent’s nose in the boxing ring. Huxley pursued his investigations with the devotion of a monk. Women threw themselves at him, but he never married. He lived alone in a tiny bachelor’s suite at the Athenaeum Club in London – one small bedroom and a sitting room – but it didn’t matter since he only slept there. His days were spent on the hunt, and he channeled all his energy into his investigations. He had a genius for detecting the mechanics of fraud.
“Professor Baranov tells us you’re just back from India where you were hotly pursuing some woman,” Gemelli said to Huxley. “Perhaps you could entertain us with the story before we begin our formal program tonight.” He looked over at Lombardi. ”That is, if Professor Lombardi here would be gracious enough to delay his presentation a bit longer.”
Baranov glared at Huxley. “As entertaining as Mr. Huxley’s tall tales may be, I believe we have all gathered here tonight to hear Professor Lombardi talk about Alessandra.”
Parenti jumped in. “I don’t know about you, sir, but I’m still young enough to handle two women in one night. Come, Mr. Huxley. Let’s hear a bit about this mysterious
femme fatale
who’s captured your attention.”
Everyone turned to Lombardi. I could see he was annoyed at the request, but he nodded and Huxley took command of the evening.
“A dried up old mummy would be a more accurate description, Professor,” Huxley smiled, “but I found Madame Dubrovsky to be an ingenious – one might even say gifted – impostor.
“Her great grandfather served as a General in the army of Catherine the Great, but she inherited a mystical streak, wasting her childhood in his library reading fairy tales, French grimoires, and the mystic Dostoyevsky. After a brief, failed marriage to the vice-governor of Armenia, she escaped to Constantinople where she met up with a Russian countess and the two traveled arm in arm through Egypt and the Middle East.”
Parenti gave Huxley a wink. “Devotees of Sappho, eh?”
Huxley smiled. “Respectable women are not attracted to mediumship, Professor. I find them invariably odd in terms of their sexual appetites. But they eventually separated, and Madame made her way to the caves and jungles of Hindustan, where she found a little, brown-skinned guru and started receiving messages from spirits who called themselves…” Huxley paused to light his cigar, cleverly holding us in suspense before deadpanning “… the Ascended Masters dwelling in the sixth dimension.” He waited for the laughter to subside. “Curiously, these exalted spiritual beings preach a rather disappointing stew
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