Part 21 (1/2)
The judge adjourned the court for luncheon, and Rathbone strode past Harvester and went immediately to the private room where he could speak to Zorah alone, almost dragging her with him, leaving the ugly mutters or grumbles of the crowd as the gallery was cleared.
”Gisela did not kill Friedrich,” he said the moment the door was closed. ”I have no evidence to make your charge even seem reasonable, let alone true! For heaven's sake, withdraw now. Admit you spoke out of emotion and were mistaken-”
”I was not mistaken,” she said flatly, her green eyes calm and perfectly level. ”I will not abandon the truth simply because it has become uncomfortable. I am surprised that you think I might. Is this the courage in the face of fire which earned you an empire?”
”Charging into the enemy's guns may make you a name in history,” he said acidly. ”But it is an idiotic sacrifice of life. It's all very poetic, but the reality is death, agony, crippled bodies and widows weeping at home, mothers who never see their sons again. It is more than time you stopped dreaming and looked at life as it is.” He heard his voice growing higher and louder and he could not help it. He was clenching his fists until his muscles ached, and without being aware of it, he chopped his hand up and down in the air. ”Did you not hear that letter? Didn't you look at the jurors' faces? Gisela is a heroine, the ideal of their romantic imagination! You have attacked her with a charge you cannot prove, and that makes you a villain. Nothing I can say is going to change that. If I counterattack it will make it worse.”
She stood quite still, her face pale, her shoulders squared, her voice low and a little shaky.
”You give up too easily. We have barely begun. No sensible person makes a decision when he has heard only one side of a story. And sensible or not, the jury is obliged to wait and hear us as well. Is that not what the law is for, to allow both sides to put forward their case?”
”You have no case!” he shouted, then instantly regretted losing his self-control. It was undignified and served no purpose whatever. He should never have allowed himself to become so uncontrolled. ”You have no case,” he repeated in a calmer voice. 'The very best we can do is present evidence indicating that Friedrich was murdered by someone, but we cannot possibly prove it was Gisela! You will have to withdraw and apologize sooner or later, or suffer the full punishment the law may decide, and it may be very high indeed. You will lose your reputation...”
”Reputation.” She laughed a little nervously. ”Do you not think I have lost that already, Sir Oliver? All I have left now is what little money my family settled on me, and if she takes that, she is welcome. She cannot take my integrity or wit, or my beliefs.”
Rathbone opened his mouth to argue, and then conceded the total pointlessness of it. She was not listening. Maybe she had never really listened to him.
”Then...” he began, and realized that what he was about to suggest was futile also.
”Yes?” she inquired.
He had been going to advise her to keep her bearing modest, but that would no doubt be a wasted request. It was not in her nature.
The first witness of the afternoon was Florent Barberini. Rathbone was curious to see him. He was extremely handsome in a Latin fas.h.i.+on, somewhat melodramatic for Rathbone's taste. He was inclined not to like the man.
”Were you at Wellborough Hall at the time of Prince Friedrich's death, Mr. Barberini?” Harvester began quite casually. He chose to use an English form of address, rather than the Italian or German forms.
”Yes, I was,” Florent replied.
”Did you remain in England afterwards for some time?”
”No, I returned to Venice for Prince Friedrich's memorial service. I did not come back to England for about six months.”
”You were devoted to Prince Friedrich?”
”I am Venetian. It is my home,” he corrected.
Harvester was unruffled.
”But you did return to England?”
”Yes.”
”Why, if Venice is your home?”
”Because I had heard word that the Countess Rostova had made an accusation of murder against Princess Gisela. I wished to know if that were so, and if it was, to persuade her to withdraw it immediately.”
”I see.” Harvester folded his hands behind his back. ”And when you arrived in London, what did you hear?”
Florent looked down, his brow furrowed. He must have expected the question, but obviously it made him unhappy.
”That apparently the Countess Rostova had quite openly made the charge of which I had heard,” he answered.
”Once?” Harvester pressed, moving a step or two to face the witness from a slightly different direction. ”Several times? Did you hear her make it yourself, or only hear of it from others?”
”I heard her myself,” Florent admitted. He looked up, his eyes wide and dark. ”But I did not meet anyone who believed it.”
”How do you know that, Mr. Barberini?” Harvester raised his eyebrows.
”They said so.”
”And you are sure that was the truth?” Harvester sounded incredulous but still polite, if only just. ”They disclaimed in public, as is only civil, perhaps only to be expected. But are you as sure they still thought the same in private? Did not the vaguest of doubts enter their minds?”
”I know only what they said,” Florent replied.
Rathbone rose to his feet.
”Yes, yes,” the judge agreed before he spoke. ”Mr. Harvester, your questions are rhetorical, and this is not the place for them. You contradict yourself, as you know perfectly well. Mr. Barberini has no possible way of knowing what people thought other than as they expressed it. He has said all those whom he knew spoke their disbelief. If you wish us to suppose they thought otherwise, then you will have to demonstrate that for us.”
”My lord, I am about to do so.” Harvester was not in the least disconcerted. Neither would Rathbone have been in his place. He had every card in the game, and he knew it.
Harvester turned with a smile to Florent.
”Mr. Barberini, do you have any knowledge of injury this accusation may have caused the Princess Gisela, apart from emotional distress?”
Florent hesitated.
”Mr. Barberini?” Harvester prompted.
Florent raised his head.
”When I returned to Venice I heard the rumors repeated there-” He stopped again.
”And were they equally disbelieved in Venice, Mr. Barberini?” Harvester said softly.
Again Florent hesitated.
The judge leaned forward. ”You must answer, sir, to the best of your knowledge. Say only what you know. You are not required to guess-indeed, you must not speculate.”
”No,” Florent said very quietly, so the jurors were obliged to lean forward a little and every sound ceased in the gallery.
”I beg your pardon?” Harvester said clearly.
”No,” Florent repeated. ”There were those in Venice who openly wondered if it could be true. But they were very few, perhaps two or three. In any society there are the credulous and the spiteful. The Princess Gisela has lived there for some years. Naturally, as a woman leading in society she has made enemies as well as friends. I doubt anyone truly believed it, but they took the opportunity to repeat it to her discredit.”
”It did her harm, Mr. Barberini?”
”It was unpleasant.”
”It did her harm?” Suddenly Harvester's voice rose sharply. He was a lean figure, leaning a little backwards to stare up at the witness, but there was no mistaking the authority in him. ”Do not be evasive, sir! Did she cease to be invited to certain houses?” He spread his hands. ”Were people rude to her? Were they slighting or offensive? Was she insulted? Did she find it embarra.s.sing in certain public places or among her social equals?”