William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

description as brief as possible, Countess Rostova. Pray continue.”
    Zorah was quite obviously as confused as everyone else.
    “The carpet was French, at least in design, of a variety of shades of wine and pink, as were the curtains. There were several seats, I do not recall how many, all upholstered in matching fabric. There was a small walnut table in the center of the floor, and a sort of bureau over by the farther wall. I don’t remember anything else.”
    “Flowers?” Rathbone asked.
    Harvester let out a very clearly audible snort of disgust.
    “Yes,” Zorah replied with a frown. “Lily of the valley. They were Gisela’s favorite. She always had them when they were in season. In Venice she had them forced, so she could have them even in late winter.”
    “Lily of the valley,” Rathbone repeated. “A bunch of lily of the valley? In a vase? A vase full of water?”
    “Of course. If they were not in water they would very quickly have died. They were not in a pot, if that is what you mean. They were cut from the conservatory, and the gardener had them sent up for her.”
    “Thank you, Countess Rostova, that is sufficient description.”
    There was a gasp of amazement around the room, like the backwash of a tide after a great wave has broken. People looked at each other in disbelief.
    The jurors looked at Zorah, then at the judge, then at Harvester.
    “That is supposed to be relevant?” Harvester said, his voice rising sharply.
    Rathbone smiled and turned back to Zorah.
    “Countess, it has been suggested that you were jealous of the Princess because she replaced you twelve years ago in Prince Friedrich’s affections, and you have chosen this bizarre way of seeking your revenge. Are you jealous of her because it was she who married him and not you?”
    A succession of emotions crossed Zorah’s face—denial, contempt, a bleak and bitter amusement; then suddenly and startlingly, pity.
    “No,” she said very softly. “There is nothing in heaven or earth that would persuade me to change places with her. She was suffocated by him, trapped forever in the legend she had created. To the world they were great lovers, magical people who had achieved what so many of us dream of and long for. She was the reality. It was Antony and Cleopatra without the asp. That was what gave her her fame, her status. It defined who she was, without it she was no one, a sham. No matter how he depended upon her, or clung to her, or drained the life from her, she could never leave him, never even seem to lose her temper with him. She had built an image for herself and shewas imprisoned within it forever, being sucked dry, having to smile, to act all the time. I didn’t understand that look on her face at the top of the stairs at the time. I knew she hated him, but I did not understand why.
    “Then yesterday evening I was speaking with someone, and quite suddenly I saw Gisela trapped forever playing the role she had created so brilliantly, and I knew why she broke out of it the way only she could. She was a cold, ambitious woman, prepared to use a man’s love in any way she could, but I could not have wished that living incarceration on anyone. At least … I don’t think I could…. After all, the accident crippled him. He would never again be active, a companion to her. It was the last window of her cell in a final and utter imprisonment with him.”
    There was silence in the room. No one spoke. Nothing moved.
    “Thank you, Countess,” Rathbone said softly. “I have no more to ask you.”
    Then the spell broke, and there was a low rumble of dismay turning to rage, almost a violence of confusion, the pain of breaking dreams.
    Harvester spoke to Gisela, who did not answer. Then he rose. “Countess Rostova, has anyone at all—other than yourself, so you say—noticed this profound terror and despair in one of the world’s most beloved and fortunate women? Or are you utterly alone in your extraordinary perception?”
    “I have no idea,” Zorah replied, keeping her voice level and her eyes steady on his face.
    “But no one has ever, at any time, given you the slightest indication that he or she saw through the constant, twelve-yearlong, day-and-night, fair-weather-and-foul, public and private happiness and love to this tragedy you say was beneath it?” His tone was heavily sarcastic. He did not sink to melodrama, but his voice would have cut flesh.
    “No …” she admitted.
    “So we have only your word for