The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

interruption for some minutes—and then another sip of tea. “Would it be better if I asked questions of you?”
    He smiled—perhaps in spite of himself, she could not tell—and nodded. “As you prefer.”
    But here his coffee arrived and she was forced to hold her tongue as the waiter set down the cup, the pot, the milk, the sugar, and their requisite spoons. When he was gone, she gave the Comte time to sample his drink, and was gratified to see that he consumed it black, minimizing the delay. He set down the cup and nodded to her again.
    “The woman—I suppose for you there are so
many
women,” she said, “but the woman I refer to was from the brothel, one Angelique. I understand from Doctor Svenson that you might have been genuinely troubled—even surprised—at the unfortunate results of your…procedure, with her, at the Royal Institute. I am curious—and it is not an idle curiosity, I promise you, but
professional
—whether you possessed any genuine feeling for the girl, either before or after your work destroyed her.”
    The Comte took another sip of coffee.
    “Would you object if I smoked?” he asked.
    “If you must,” replied Miss Temple. “It is a filthy habit, and I will have no spitting.”
    He nodded to her gravely and fished a silver case from an inner pocket. After a moment spent considering its contents, he removed a small, tightly wrapped, nearly black cheroot and snapped the case shut. He stuck the cheroot in his mouth and the case in his pocket and came back with a box of matches. He lit the cheroot, puffing several times until the tip glowed red, and dropped the spent match on his saucer. He exhaled, took another sip of coffee, and looked into Miss Temple’s eyes.
    “You ask because of Bascombe, of course,” he said.
    “I do?”
    “Certainly. He has dashed your plans. When you ask of Angelique, someone from the lower orders we have taken up to join our work, to whom we have offered
advancement
—social, material,
spiritual
—you also inquire about our feeling for
him,
another, if not from such a dubious social stratum, we have embraced. And equally you speculate, indeed are ferociously hungry to know, what reciprocal feeling our work receives
from
him.”
    Miss Temple’s eyes flashed. “On the contrary, Monsieur le Comte, I ask out of curiosity, as the answer will likely dictate whether your fate is a more perfunctory retribution at the hand of objective justice, or lingering, stinging, relentless
torment
at the hands of vengeance.”
    “Indeed?” he replied mildly.
    “For my own part—well, it matters only that your intrigue fails and you are powerless to further pursue it—which could equally mean the law, a bullet, or fierce persuasion. Roger Bascombe is nothing to me. And yet, as I must feel about your lady friend who has profoundly wronged
me
—this, this
Contessa
—so others feel about
you
—concerning this very Angelique. Because it is rash to assert there are no consequences when a ‘mere’ woman is at stake.”
    “I see.”
    “I do not believe you do.”

    He did not answer, taking a sip of coffee. He set down the cup and spoke with a certain weariness, as if expanding his opinion even this far involved physical effort. “Miss Temple, you
are
an interesting young lady.”
    Miss Temple rolled her eyes. “I’m afraid it means very little to me, coming from a murderous cad.”
    “I have so gathered your opinion. And who is it I have so foully wronged?”
    Miss Temple shrugged. The Comte tapped his ash onto the edge of his saucer and took another puff, the cheroot tip glowing red.
    “Shall I guess, then? It could well be the Macklenburg Doctor, for indeed through my efforts he was to die, but I do not see him as your sort of wild revenger—he is too much the
raisonneur
—or perhaps this other fellow, whom I have never met, the rogue-for-hire? He is most likely too cynical and grim. Or someone else still? Some distant wrong from my past?” He sighed, almost as if in acceptance of his sinful burden, and then inhaled again—Miss Temple’s eyes fixed to the spot of glowing tobacco as it burned—as if to re-embrace the infernal urge that drove him.
    “Why exactly have you come to the St. Royale?” he asked her.
    She took another bite of scone—quite relishing this serious banter—and another sip of tea to wash it down, and then while she was swallowing shook her head, the chestnut-colored curls to either side of her face tossed into motion.