As the paper fell from Elinore's hand, nine year old Geneviève picked it up and read it carefully over and over again. The familiar world around her had gone as gray as the man who strode by their garden day and night.

      "Papa! How could Papa be gone! He was so brave! Papa was too strong to be hurt.Surely there was some mistake!" cried Geneviève's mind. But it had been no mistake. Geneviève's handsome, laughing father would never again sing lullabies by her small white bed. Serge would never play his balalaika at breathtaking speed while she clasped her mother's hands and whirled round and round the room. The Aratovs had no close friends, but they had been a small group of loving pilgrims in a strange land. They had each other.

      As Geneviève struggled to understand what this news meant, her mother got to her feet and moved from the table. There was a terrible silence about her. Elinore had no tears in her eyes. She smiled at her sad little daughter and walked gracefully to her room and closed the door quietly behind her. It was as if Elinore had left the beautiful gay young wife behind forever. The lady who glided silently past Geneviève seemed no more than a ghostly presence.

      It was then that Geneviève felt a great fear rising in her small body. This fear became a scream that filled the room. "Mama!"

      "Mama, let me in, please!" Try as she might the door would not open. Geneviève clawed at it while screaming her mother's name over and over. As she helplessly beat against the door Geneviève heard a sound behind her. The front door of the lovely flat opened and the elusive man in gray pushed Geneviève aside.

      "Move away!" he shouted as he destroyed the boudoir door with a great crash of splintering wood. Inside lay Geneviève's lovely mother in a pool of blood. Beside Elinore was the great sword that Serge had left behind as a pledge of his return. Elinore's face was gardenia white and from her wrists flowed her life's blood.

      The man in gray tore the sheets trimmed with Venetian lace from the carved canopy bed. He knelt gently beside Elinore and quickly bound her wounds. As he lifted the beautiful Elinore, he motioned for Geneviève to follow him. Below, awaiting his orders, was a jet black carriage that sparkled with silver trim. Four perfectly matched dove gray horses were standing in readiness. At a command from his master the coachman raised his whip and the midnight black carriage began its mad dash through the boulevards of Paris.

      Little Geneviève kept stroking her mother's hair in a desperate attempt to comfort both of them. The child was completely unaware that her screams of "Mama" had become a repeated whisper, more like a prayer than a cry. She was shivering with fear and shock.