As evidence that her body was still agile and not completely decrepit, Kshesinskaya independently moved from the stroller to one of the armchairs by the fireplace.
Those in the living room watched with satisfaction how stubbornly the former prima of the Tsar's ballet, full of life, stubbornly resists the inexorable years.
Catching a look of delight on herself, Kshesinskaya spoke first, modifying the famous phrase of Mark Twain in her own way.
– As you can see, the rumors about my commemoration are greatly exaggerated.
Marek smiled sourly, but Josephine decided not to give vent to her ward's cynicism and said:
– Mala! Let me introduce you right away to our guest today, North American Review correspondent Robert Jackson.
Kshesinskaya's attention immediately switched to the stranger. She pierced Robert with the eyes of a woman who is obliged to evaluate the merits and demerits of any man.
Robert was embarrassed by the literally exposing the soul and body of the inspection, and he lowered his head.
“And I knew your grandfather, Robert,” Kshesinskaya said, fully enjoying her inexhaustible magic to rule over men, “This talented reporter at one time managed to talk our king in such a way that at the end of the interview he literally stretched out his legs.
Matilda burst out laughing with that universal female laughter, which means genuine joy and sarcasm at the same time, which made Robert even more embarrassed and lost his reporter's gift.
The cunning Josephine, a kind of connoisseur of Matilda's spiritual fibers, decided to smooth the situation.
– The interview has nothing to do with it, Malya. The tsar just overdid it with vodka that day. The man showed off in front of the American guest. The servant then reported that the two of them emptied several bottles of white, only occasionally biting caviar.
Kshesinskaya's face changed, expressing complete disagreement.
– And you're talking to me? I, who personally witnessed how our tsar at the table emptied liters of vodka at a peasant pace, occasionally sniffing with pickles, and after that he went to the stable and unbent the horseshoes with one stroke. Our king was still that drunkard. In this case, he could plug any groom from his stable into the belt. No, my dear, it was not a trifling dose of alcohol that brought down the king that day.