left Russia. His own tale was much akin to hers, although far more dangerous when he crossed the border.
“Are you staying here?” He glanced at her hotel as he started the car, and headed toward the address she had given him of the jeweler in the rue Cambon.
“Yes, for the moment. But Zoya and I must look for an apartment.”
“She's here with you then. She must be hardly more than a child. And Natalya?” He had always thought Konstantin's wife extremely beautiful, although nervous to be sure, and he had obviously not heard of her death when the revolutionaries stormed the Fontanka Palace.
“She was killed … only days after Konstantin … and Nicolai.” Her voice was low as she spoke. It was still difficult to say their names, particularly to him, because he had known them. He nodded sadly from the front seat. He had lost both his sons too, and he had come to Paris with his unmarried daughter.
“I'm sorry.”
“We are all sorry, Vladimir. And sorriest of all for Nicholas and Alexandra. Have you had any news of them?”
“Nothing. Only that they are still under house arrest at Tsarskoe Selo, God only knows how long they will keep them there. At least they're comfortable, if not safe.” No one was safe anymore, anywhere in Russia. At least not the people they knew. “Will you stay in Paris?” They had nowhere else to go, any of them, and other Russians were filtering in day by day, with amazing tales of escape, and their terrible losses. To an already burdened city they were adding ever growing numbers.
“I think so. It seemed better to come here than anywhere else. At least here we're safe, and it's a decent place for Zoya.”
He nodded in agreement and darted the taxi in and out of the traffic. “Shall I wait for you, Evgenia Peterovna?” It made her heart sing just to speak Russian again, and to speak to someone who knew her name. He had just pulled up in front of the jeweler's.
“Would you mind terribly?” It would be comforting to know he was there, and to return home again with him, particularly if the jeweler gave her a great deal of money.
“Of course not. Ill wait here.” He helped her out of the car carefully and escorted her to the door of the jewelry store. It was easy to imagine what she was going to do there. It was the same thing all of them were doing, selling everything they could, all the same treasures they had smuggled out with them, which only weeks before were baubles they took for granted.
The Countess emerged half an hour later with a dignified air and Prince Markovsky asked her no questions as he drove her back to the hotel. She seemed more subdued, though, as he helped her out of the cab on the rue Marbeuf and he hoped that she had gotten what she needed. She was very old to be forced to survive by her wits and selling her jewelry in a strange country, with no one to care for her, and a very young girl to take care of. He wasn't sure how old Zoya was, but he was certain that she was considerably younger than his own daughter, who was almost thirty.
“Is everything all right?” He was worried as he escorted her to the door, and she turned to him with wounded eyes.
“I suppose so. These are not easy times.” She glanced back at the waiting taxi and then into his eyes. He had been a handsome man in his youth and he still was, but like her, there was suddenly something different about him. It had changed all of them. The very face of the world was no longer the same since the revolution. “It's not easy for any of us, is it, Vladimir?” And when there was no jewelry left to sell, she wondered to herself, then what will we do? Neither she nor Zoya was able to drive a taxi, and Feodor spoke no English at all and wasn't likely to learn. He was almost more of a burden than a help, but he had been so faithful, and so loyal in helping them escape, she could not let him down. She had to be responsible for him, just as she was for Zoya. But two hotel rooms were twice as expensive as one, and with the insignificant amount of money she had gotten for her ruby necklace and earrings,