The Fall of the Russian Empire

Начало книги

The château stood above the village, a cluster of turrets and square pigeonniers. A pair of white doves circled it, brilliant in the sunshine. I drove under the clock tower and stopped the car in the cobbled courtyard. On both sides arched openings in stone barns gave into a darkness where cattle stirred.

As I got out of the car a man descended the stone staircase ahead. He was in his sixties, slightly built. I crossed the courtyard towards him. “Monsieur le Marquis de Nerval?”

“Yes.” He inclined his head with grave politeness.

“I wrote to you to ask if I might come and see you,” I said. “My name is Georges de Nerval.”

We shook hands.

“Georges de Nerval,” he shook his head, smiling now. “Yet you are not French?”

“No,” I said, “I’m Russian. I was born in Moscow during the events of the nineteen eighties. That much I know.”

“And you’ve come here in the hope of discovering more.”

“If possible.”

“Come in and take an apéritif,” he said. “It just may be that I have something for you.”

Читать дальше →