Exile

Odoyevsky—once Georgiy, like the noble armour-clad saint slaying the dragon on Moscow's coat of arms, now simply George, pronounced nasally, in the French manner—was striding through Paris on a March evening in 1927. Chilly rain washed over the darkening city, turning his footsteps watery and indecisive, imbuing the crowded cafes he passed on busier streets with a charmed warmth of steaming drinks, intimate conversations, an almost tangible happiness, plunging the deserted alleys of shuttered shop fronts into which he now turned into a sloshing, soggy gloom.