The Keeper of the Walls by Monique Raphel High Read Free Book Online

middle-aged man in nondescript black clothes appeared.
    â€œYour Excellency rang?”
    â€œYes, Rochefort. I’m stumped on the factory in Ribécourt. None of our usual suppliers will do. Any ideas?”
    The secretary scratched his chin thoughtfully. Finally he said: “We don’t deal with them usually, but perhaps this time ... I was thinking of Bruisson et Fils.”
    Misha looked up, alert. “Bruisson? I’ve heard the name recently. Tell me about the firm.”
    The secretary cast his eyes to the side, embarrassed. “They aren’t so well thought of. Before the war, they were hardly known. The son—Claude, I believe his name is—he was very young then—served as a pilot during the war, and speaks fluent German. They’ve made a pile of money from war damages. I quite believe they’d be the ones for us to send to Germany. They have . . . few . . . scruples.”
    Misha laughed. “Well, business is business. We don’t have to invite them to dinner. Claude, you say? Young, fairly attractive? A social climber of the worst pretension?”
    Rochefort half smiled. “Quite so, your Excellency. Though naturally Madame Rochefort and I do not associate with them personally.”
    â€œI’m sure you don’t. Not to worry. No one will force you to be seen in his company—Claude’s. Nevertheless, get me the number. I shall ask him to come to the office. He’ll be here within the hour.”
    Rochefort executed a small bow, and departed. Misha shook his head, and chuckled. Then he laced his fingers together and laid his chin over the lacing, remembering. A beautiful, surprisingly beautiful young innocent—the sister. It had been a long time since he’d encountered that type. He’d thought he’d forgotten her, but now the memory returned.
    Rochefort knocked on the door, and came in. He was holding a piece of paper. “The telephone number, your Excellency.”
    â€œThank you infinitely. It was a brilliant suggestion.”
    Rochefort regarded him skeptically. “Brilliant, sir?”
    Misha sighed. “A good idea. Send a memorandum to my father. . . .”

    P aul Bruisson was of average size, but his embonpoint filled out every crease of his elegantly tailored navy blue suit. His double chin pressed out over his stiff collar, and his stomach strained the buttons of his white silk shirt. So, Misha thought, our contractor is the image of the prosperous French bourgeois. He didn’t stand up, but motioned with a flip of his hand for the two men to sit in the large Louis XIII armchairs facing his oversize mahogany desk with its piles of neatly stacked documents.
    Paul Bruisson was all smiles. He had a double chin and a fleshy mouth. Claude, however, was serious, almost somber. Dressed in a dark gray suit with vest, he appeared tall and brooding. His dark eyes were like his sister’s, Misha thought, but without the kindness, the compassion. This man was hard.
    Misha was fighting a strong desire to give in to the revulsion he was feeling. As a child, of the oldest Kiev nobility, he had been arrogant, and his mother had reprimanded him gently, but not too severely. “Let the boy know his place,” Prince Ivan had cautioned her. Later he had trained himself to overcome his antipathy for the lower classes. One had to work with them. One had also to work with the greedy old Jews from the Pale of Settlement, who would gladly have sold their mothers for a hundred rubles. Misha liked the cleanness and directness of his father, who smiled only when something pleased him, and who seldom made pretenses of anything. He was honest to the last kopek, to the last sou. But when he was angry, a towering, burning fury erupted from him. He wasn’t a man of compromises. Prince Ivan was his son’s best friend, and his exemplar.
    On the other side of the human scale was Paul Bruisson. Misha was not a Frenchman, but he hated