Marianne and the Crown of Fire

CHAPTER ONE The Banks of the Kodyma

The plain stretched endlessly in all directions. Its silvery surface rippled gently in the summer sunshine as the light wind sent it rolling in long waves to the horizon. It was as if some fabulous goddess had let down her floating mane of silken hair after a party. Here and there gleamed the red flower of the wild thistle or the plumed heads of feather-grass.

The heat grew more intense the farther they advanced and by midday was often suffocating, yet Marianne had never been so happy.

In the week or more since she had been travelling with her companions over this vast sea of grass she had experienced a happiness so deep and piercing that it was almost painful. But she knew that this time of grace could not last and that at the end of the long, northward journey was the war that must shatter her present happiness, and so she snatched at it like a starving man, obsessively searching out the smallest crumb and savouring it to the last.

By day, they journeyed across the steppe from one stage to the next. The posting houses lay at intervals some fifteen versts, or roughly ten miles, and thanks to Gracchus's miraculously acquired permits they were able to change horses, and drivers also, without finding themselves fleeced. The drivers thought themselves well paid at two kopecks a verst and sang all day long.

In theory they covered two stages a day, stopping at night to rest, and the posting houses doubled also as inns, which were otherwise non-existent in the great steppes. The travellers found rooms right enough, but for the most part they were unfurnished, except for the inevitable icons on the walls, hence the necessity for the mattresses with which Gracchus had provided them. Sometimes it was possible to obtain food as well but this varied according to the wealth and generosity of the landowner on whose estates the inn was situated.

The inns, in fact, were a charge on the local nobility, who in the Ukraine and the ancient region of Podolia were mostly Polish. These maintained both horses and staff and for the most part got little enough in return, since paying travellers were few, owing to the ease with which the celebrated permits could be procured.

In her character as an English lady, Marianne might easily have claimed the hospitality of the nobles themselves and have found in their houses, though few and far between, a degree of comfort and even luxury unknown to the imperial post roads. But these mansions, situated in the midst of vast cornfields which in the rich black earth of the steppes grew as rampantly as weeds in a wilderness, often lay a long way from the road. Besides, she had grown to like the bare rooms, with their clean-smelling wooden walls, where they put down their mattresses and she passed passionate nights in Jason's arms, nights that would have been impossible in a private house where the 'manservant' would have been relegated to the servants' quarters.

Both of them had suffered too much and had been parted for too long to have a thought to spare for keeping up appearances or for making any sort of pretence to their companions. Jason had laid his cards on the table the very first night, in Count Hanski's posting house. They had no sooner finished their meagre dinner of duck stuffed with mince and sour milk than he had risen to his feet and silently held out his hand to Marianne. With a deep 'goodnight' to the assembled company, he had borne her off to her bedchamber.

There, still without a word, they faced one another and, not touching but with their eyes locked in each other's, they had proceeded methodically to undress. As two hands meet and clasp, they came together and together they remained, as one, oblivious of the world around them, until morning light.

Every night after that the lovers lost themselves in their shared ecstasy. By day they abandoned themselves to the endless rocking of the kibitka as it travelled over the highroad. For the most part they slept, despite the jolting and the heat, which both shortened the journey and left them fresher for the night. Twilight falling and the scent of wormwood rising from the steppe would reawaken their desires and from then on they lived only for the magic moment that would lift them out of time, to become once again the first man and woman, naked together in the first night of the world.

Jason's thirst for this woman was insatiable. With her, he could forget his lost ship, the war that lay ahead and all past bitterness and misunderstanding. While in his arms Marianne forgot the child she had lost, her mysterious husband, the perilous secret she carried and all her past sufferings. Above all, for both of them, came forgetfulness that each day was carrying them deeper into a country rent by invasion, bringing them nearer to the blazing heart of the volcano and to the inevitable moment of parting. For with the feel of the imperial letter moving lightly against her skin under her dress Marianne sensed even then that she would never go with Jason to St Petersburg, that the time would come when she must make the choice that would divide their paths once more, for how long she could not tell.

Her task was to reach the Emperor and speak to him. And after that she must return to Paris to await the Cardinal's messenger and give into his hand the diamond she carried at her breast, in a little wash-leather bag sewn to her chemise. It was not in her power to go straight to America. Later, yes, but for the present there were things she still had to do in Europe. Even if it were only to make one more attempt at a last sight of her baby, Sebastiano.

On the evening of the ninth day, the road came to a river. It lay in a shallow valley lined with bushes and small trees, bent by the wind that blew off the steppes, and planted with a patchwork of crops that ranged from grain to melons, and water melons too. The wide blue stream flowed between reedy banks where fishing boats bobbed lazily at their moorings, along with what appeared to be some kind of ferry boat. This was the Kodyma, a tributary of the Bug. A village had grown up on the bank and it was here the travellers came just as the sun was setting.

It was not a large place, consisting only of a group of whitewashed, reed-thatched houses, each with its vegetable patch and cluster of outbuildings, scattered about an open space facing the church. This too was whitewashed and built in the shape of a cross with equal arms, each with its small pediment, facing to the four cardinal points, so that the priest in charge might look eastward while saying mass. In the centre was a gilded onion dome surmounted by a Greek cross that caught the light of the setting sun. Ducks and chickens wandered at will and rose-coloured kingfishers were swooping low over the river.

The posting house stood at the roadside some little distance from the centre of the village. The kibitka drew up before it, startling a pair of fat bustards into cumbrous flight. The driver, reining in his horses, said something only Gracchus who, far from wasting his time in Odessa, had acquired a fair smattering of the difficult Russian language, was able to understand.

'He says this place is called Velikaia Stanitsa,' he translated now. 'It's a cossack village.'

'Cossack?' exclaimed Jolival, in whom the word had roused a passion for history that was never very far below the surface. 'How can that be? I thought this was the territory of the old Zaporogi, suppressed by Catherine the Great in the last century.'

'Well, she can't have suppressed all of them,' Craig suggested. 'There must have been some left over.'

Gracchus essayed a question or two, to which the driver responded with a lengthy speech that came as something of a surprise from one who had so far done little more than sing.

'What is he saying?' Marianne asked, stunned by this sudden eloquence.

'I couldn't understand it all by a long way, but I think the gist of it, setting aside a good many appeals to the Little Mother of all the Russias, is that a number of survivors gathered into a few villages. The only thing is, they aren't Zaporogi any more but Black Sea Cossacks.'

The driver, in the meantime, had jumped down from his seat and was pointing with his whip to the church square. He called out something and this time Jolival needed no translation.

'He's right,' he cried. 'Look there!'

The sound of a bell had brought men out from the little gardens, leading horses saddled for a journey. The men were armed to the teeth and wore long tunics of black woollen stuff, caught in at the waist, over baggy trousers of some sort, with tall hats of shaggy fur on their heads. Their weapons consisted of a gun barrel slung over their shoulders, a curved sword, pistol and dagger thrust through their belts and a long lance. Their small, wiry horses carried high, sheepskin-covered saddles.

All the men wore long beards and their appearance was so alarming that Marianne asked uneasily: 'What are they doing? Why are they all coming out together?'

'That's not hard to guess," Jolival said gloomily. 'Remember what was happening at Odessa. The cossacks live quietly in their villages, tilling their fields and minding their flocks, until their Ataman sends out his summons over the steppes. Then they put away their ploughs and get out their weapons and set out for the mustering place. That is what these are doing. We've no need to ask what enemy they are going to fight.'

Marianne shivered. It was the first time since leaving Odessa that she had been reminded so clearly of the conflict taking place so far away on the borders of Lithuania that no news of it had yet come to their ears. Sobered by the sight, she would have liked to retreat at once into the posting house but her companions seemed fascinated by the spectacle.

The cossacks were gathering before the church, in the doorway of which now stood a priest in full canonicals. After the men came the women, clothed, or rather bundled up, in a kind of woollen shift, tied at the waist and worn over a long skirt. They were barefoot and their heads were covered with red or blue scarves. Last of all came the old women and children. The whole population formed up in a half circle in front of the church, as though waiting for something.

At that point the last of the warriors appeared. He was clothed and bearded like his fellows but distinguished from them by the expression of brutal rage that disfigured his flat features and by one thing more. Instead of his horse, he was dragging after him, by her long, tangled black hair, a screaming woman clad only in her shift. Behind these again came an old, grey-haired woman of impassive countenance, carrying a large sack made of heavy canvas.

The woman being so roughly used was young and might have been pretty had her face not been distorted by weeping and screaming. She was doing her utmost to wriggle free from the man's ruthless hand that was dragging her in the dust. When he came in front of the church, the man released the handful of hair in his grasp and sent her sprawling in the centre of the circle of villagers.

There was a murmur of appreciation from the men and a chorus of abuse from the women which the priest silenced with a gesture of his hand. Then the man stepped forward and, in a voice that sounded curiously calm in contrast to his recent behaviour, delivered himself of a short speech which the driver did his best to translate for the benefit of his passengers.

'What is he saying?' Jason asked.

'Well, all I can say is that these people here have some peculiar habits,' Gracchus answered. 'As far as I can gather, the man speaking is the husband of the woman on the ground. She has been unfaithful and he is casting her off before he leaves for the war so that she shall not soil his hearth with the fruit of her misdeeds.'

'He need not cast her off so brutally,' Marianne said indignantly.

'That's not the half of it,' Gracchus went on. 'If there's another man in the village willing to take her, she may live. If not, she'll be tied up in that sack that the old woman, her mother-in-law, is carrying and be thrown into the river.'

'But that's scandalous!' Marianne exclaimed fiercely. 'Why, it's nothing more than criminal! Where is the man who was her lover?'

'It seems he was some vagabond, a wandering fellow of the steppes belonging to the woman's own people. She is a gipsy and she'll not have many friends in this village.'

Certainly a deep silence had fallen. The woman still lay on the ground. She tossed her head to throw back a lock of long hair that trailed across her face. Her anguished black eyes searched the faces that stared back at her body, barely hidden by the torn shift, and at the weals and the darkening bruises showing on the brown skin. The husband had folded his arms and he too was staring about him, as though defying his fellows to take up what he had cast off. At his back a group of women clustered about the mother-in-law who, like some avenging fury, was already busying herself shaking out the sack.

'Surely there must be one,' Marianne breathed, aghast, 'a very young one, perhaps, or else an old man for whom such a girl would be a gift…?'

But there was neither old man nor young boy not yet of an age to bear arms who was willing to buy himself endless trouble for the sake of a guilty woman not of his own people. The woman's doom was clear in every glance. The priest, standing like a glittering statue at the entrance to his church, seemed to understand it, for he traced the sign of the cross in the air a number of times with the cross he carried and began intoning a prayer. The husband uttered a short, harsh laugh and turned away while the women advanced with a horrid eagerness. Another moment and the condemned woman, who was howling now like a wolf in pain, would have been seized and tied into the sack and thrown into the river which, for all its beauty, was to be the instrument of her death.

Then it was that Gracchus leapt forward and without a second's thought rushed at the group, crying out 'Stoi! Stoi! Stop! Stop!' with the full force of his lungs.

'Good God!' Marianne gasped with horror. 'He'll get himself lynched! Go after him!'

She had no need to ask. Already Jason, Craig and Jolival were running, dragging with them the driver, more dead than alive, and lurching grotesquely in the American's strong grip.

For a moment the situation was fraught with danger. In their fury at seeing their victim snatched from them, the women fell upon Gracchus, shrieking like hyenas over their prey, and the men, at this unexpected intervention, were on the point of joining in when the priest plunged in to the young man's rescue, brandishing his cross.

This had the effect of instantly arresting the cossacks. The women reluctantly released their hold on Gracchus and his friends gathered round him with the air of men determined not to be browbeaten.

With the priest as mediator, the long, laborious argument began. There were shouts and threatening gestures, especially on the part of the wronged husband, who evidently meant to witness the death of the woman who had betrayed him. Marianne, who had not moved from her place by the coach, wondered what she ought to do. If the danger began to look urgent, the best thing might be to drive the kibitka full tilt into the crowd and try to use its weight and the effects of surprise to snatch the four men from certain death. For not one of them had thought of such weapons as there were inside it.

She had climbed into the driver's seat and was already grasping the reins, preparatory to turning the vehicle, when the hubbub subsided suddenly. The women, the old men and the children, began to drift back to the houses. The men returned to their horses. The only people left in the middle of the square were the condemned woman, whom Gracchus had helped to her feet, the priest and the foreigners. The priest raised his cross again to point the way going down to the river. Gracchus took the woman by the hand and, followed by the three others and the coachman, still more dead than alive, came back to the posting house and their coach.

The generous impulse which had prompted the young man's action had cooled somewhat during the discussion and he approached Marianne with a faintly shamefaced air.

'The priest says that she is now my wife! Her name is Shankala,' he muttered, sounding so downcast that Marianne smiled at him comfortingly.

'Why are you looking so miserable, Gracchus? You could not have stood by and seen the poor creature murdered,' she said gently. 'You acted splendidly and for my part I am proud of you.'

'And so am I! From a humanitarian point of view, at any rate,' Jolival agreed. 'But I am wondering what we are going to do with her?'

'I can't see that the question arises,' the Irishman said cheerfully. 'The woman should go with her husband and since this wild cat is now Madame Gracchus…'

'Oh, as to that, I didn't take the holy man too seriously.' The bridegroom broke in with an air of would-be carelessness. 'I'm not really married, of course. Besides, I'm for liberty. I don't go much for priests and if you want the truth I've more faith in the Goddess of Reason than in God the Father. Not that she wasn't a handsome wench—'

'Well, Gracchus,' Marianne exclaimed in amazement; 'this is certainly a profession of faith! I've always known you for a child of the Revolution but I wonder what the cardinal would say if he could hear you?'

Gracchus hung his head and fidgeted a little.

'Forgive me, Mademoiselle Marianne. I said more than I meant. This business has me in a proper whirl. But after all, surely the girl could always make a maid for you. She'd never be as good as Agathe, of course, but still better than nothing.'

Jason, so far, had said nothing. He was gazing at the rescued woman with a curious expression, as though she were some strange animal. At last he gave a shrug.

'A ladies' maid? That girl? You don't know what you're saying, Gracchus. It seems to me that she'll be more trouble to tame than a she-wolf. Nor do I think she will show us much gratitude for saving her.'

Marianne was inclined to agree with him. Even in her present wretched state, with her torn shift and her bruises and covered in dust, the gipsy girl was not an object for pity. Her black eyes gleamed under their heavy brows with a savage fire that was more than a little disturbing. Seen from close to, she was in fact quite beautiful, in spite of a rather flattened nose and high cheekbones. Her rather slanting eyes betrayed traces of mongol blood. Her skin was smooth and her hair a deep blue-black, but the wide mouth with its full, red lips betrayed a latent sensuality.

She stared insolently from one to another of her rescuers and when Marianne smiled kindly at her and held out her hand, she pretended not to see it and turned away quickly to snatch away the bundle wrapped in red cloth which her mother-in-law had tossed at the driver out of her doorway and which probably contained the girl's belongings.

Craig laughed softly. 'Well now, to be sure, it's a pleasant journey we'll be having with this colleen—'

'Bah!' Jolival said. 'I'll be surprised if she stays with us long. She'll be off at the first opportunity as soon as she's put sufficient distance between herself and her friends in the village here. You heard what Gracchus said? She's a gipsy, a born traveller.'

'Oh, let her do as she likes,' Marianne said with a sigh, nettled by the girl's contemptuous attitude. 'Gracchus is the only one of us who can talk to her. Let him try what he can do.'

She had had more than enough of the business and if she was not precisely sorry they had saved the gipsy girl from drowning, she certainly wanted to put her out of her mind as far as possible. After all, Gracchus was a grown man and old enough to be responsible.

She turned her steps towards the doorway of the inn where the familiar figure of the postmaster stood cap in hand to greet them. Jason followed her but when Gracchus took Shankala by the arm to lead her inside she twisted out of his grasp like a snake and, running after Jason, took his hand and pressed it to her lips with fierce intensity. As she released it she spoke some words in a low, guttural voice.

'What does she say?' Marianne cried with rising irritation.

Gracchus had turned scarlet to the roots of his carroty hair and his blue eyes flashed.

'She says that – that if she must have a master she will choose him for herself. The hussy! I've a good mind to call back her husband and hand her over to the women again.'

'It's too late now,' Jolival said.

Indeed, the cossacks, after a final blessing from their priest, were already beginning to cross the river. Heedless of wetting themselves, they rode into the water at a place known to them which must have been a ford because the horses, guided by their sure hands, were never more than breast deep in the stream. The leaders were already mounting the farther bank. The rest followed in their turn and before very long they were all forming up again in perfect order on the other side. Two by two, the black-clad riders vanished into the gathering darkness.

That night, in the little boarded room beneath the icon of the Virgin and Child, both of them sporting the most atrocious squints, Marianne failed to recover the perfect happiness of earlier nights. She was nervous and irritable and unable to respond wholeheartedly to her lover's caresses. Her mind still dwelled on the woman who was sleeping somewhere beneath their common roof. In vain she told herself that she was little more than a wild animal, a creature of no importance who could never affect her own life; still she could not rid herself of the notion that the gipsy was a danger, a threat that was the more formidable because she could not tell what form it would take.

Tired of clasping an unresponsive body and of kissing lips that did not take fire from his, Jason got up suddenly and, fetching the candle that burned before the icon, brought it close to Marianne's face. In the light her eyes were wide open and shining, with no hint of amorous softness in them.

'What is it?' he murmured, laying a finger softly on her lips. "You look as if you'd seen a ghost. Don't you feel like making love tonight?'

She did not move her head but her eyes, as they looked at him, were full of sadness.

'I'm frightened,' she said.

'Frightened? What of? Are you afraid those village harpies will come and sit down outside our windows to get Shankala back?'

'No. I think it is Shankala I am afraid of.'

Jason laughed. 'What an idea! She's no very friendly look about her, I'll agree, but then she doesn't know us and from what we've seen she's had no cause so far to love the human race. Those old witches would have torn her to pieces if they could. Her beauty can't have helped her there.'

Marianne was conscious of a nasty little tug somewhere in the region of her heart. She did not at all like to hear Jason speak of the woman's beauty.

'Have you forgotten she deceived her husband? She's an adulteress—'

The sudden harshness that came into her voice made her feel as if the words had been a scream. Or perhaps it was the silence that followed them. For a moment Jason studied the sharpened lines of his beloved's face. Then he blew out the candle and drew her hard against him, holding her so close that it was as if he would have crept inside her very skin. He kissed her, a long kiss that sought to warm her cold lips and instil into them something of his own passion, but in vain. His lips moved to her cheek, then nibbled at her ear before he whispered at last: 'But you, too, are an adulteress, my love. Yet no one has suggested drowning you…'

Marianne leapt as if a serpent had stung her and struggled to draw away but he held her firmly and, the better to immobilize her, imprisoned both her legs between his hard thighs, while she cried out: 'You are mad! I, an adulteress? Don't you know that I am free? That my husband is dead?'

She was panic-stricken, seized with a terror she could not control. Guessing that she was on the point of screaming aloud, Jason spoke more tenderly than ever.

'Hush! Be quiet,' he murmured against her lips. 'Don't you think it's time you told me the truth? Don't you know yet that I love you – and that you can safely trust me?'

'But – what do you want me to tell?'

'What I have a right to know. I know I may not have given you much cause to think that I will understand. I have been brutal, cruel, violent and unjust. But I have been sorry for it, Marianne! All through those days when I lay like a corpse in the sunshine at Monemvasia, waiting for the recovery that seemed to elude me, I thought only of you, of us two – and of all that I had so wantonly destroyed. If I had helped and understood you then, we would not be here now. You would have carried out your mission and at this moment we would be sailing back to my country, instead of journeying endlessly over these barbarous steppes. So let us have no more foolishness, no more lies and pretence! Let us cast off everything but ourselves, as we cast off our clothes to love one another. I want to see your naked soul, my love… Tell me the truth. It is more than time if we want to be able ever to build up a true happiness—'

The truth?'

'Yes. I will help you. Where is your child, Marianne?'

Her heart missed a beat. She had always known that, sooner or later, Jason would ask her that question but until that moment she had tried to ward off all the possible answers, perhaps from an unconscious weariness at all the lies she had been forced to tell.

She knew that he was right, that they must make an end, once and for all, of all misunderstandings, and that only then would all things become possible. Yet she still shrank, unaccountably, from uttering the words, like a little girl trembling on the brink of a deep ditch.

'My child…' she began slowly, halting over the words, 'he is…"

'With his father, is he not? Or at least with the man who would be a father to him? He is with Turhan Bey, or rather, with your permission, with the Prince Sant'Anna.'

Once again, there was silence but this time there was a different quality in the air. A sudden relief, a clear note of release rang in Marianne's voice as she asked, almost timidly: 'How did you find out? Who told you?'

'No one – and everyone. He, most of all, I think, a man who could choose slavery by going aboard my ship. He had no reason to bear what he did from me and from others unless it was to protect some other person, and that someone you. To be sure, I did not guess it all at once. But the thick web that was woven so closely about you became amazingly clear one morning at the palace of Humayunabad, when I met the Sant'Annas' faithful servant bearing the last of those princes with such triumphant joy and pride to be presented to a simple merchant, of no very certain nationality, who, in the ordinary way, could not have had so pressing an interest in the child that all else must make way for it. But you, Marianne? When did you learn the truth?'

She told him then. Eager to complete the tale he had already heard from Jolival, she told him everything, emptying her heart and her memory once and for all with an inexpressible feeling of release. She told him all about the nocturnal visit to Rebecca's house, about the Prince's demand and her stay at the Morousi palace, about the bargain she had made with her husband, the peril she had been in from the English ambassador and her installation in the palace by the Bosphorus, culminating in the Prince's sudden departure with the child, believing that its mother had rejected it, at the very moment when she had come to know her own heart. Last of all, she told him of her fears as to his own reactions when he should learn that she had been married to a black.

'We had agreed to part,' she said, 'so what was the good of telling you all this at the risk of making you angry again?'

He uttered a mirthless little laugh.

'Making me angry? So, in your eyes, I am nothing more than some kind of slave trader?' he said bitterly. 'I suppose you'll never understand that I grew up among black people, that I owe some of the best parts of my childhood to them, and that to me it seems quite natural that I should be their master and love them just the same? As for him—'

'Yes, tell me. How do you think of him?'

He thought for a moment and she heard him sigh.

'I don't really know. With liking, certainly, and respect for his courage and his selflessness. But with anger, too – and jealousy. He is altogether too great a man. Too noble, too remote from other men, from common or garden adventurers like me! And a darn sight too good-looking also! What's more, in spite of everything, he is your husband. You bear his name in the sight of God and men. And then he has your child, flesh of your flesh – something of you! So you see, there are times when I think that for all his willing sacrifice, he has the luck…'

All at once there had come into the privateer's voice a sadness so deep and bitter that Marianne was overwhelmed. Instinctively, she clung more closely to him. Never before had she felt herself so close to him, felt how much she loved him. She belonged to him utterly and not for anything in the world, in spite of all the suffering he had caused her, would she have had it any other way, for tears and suffering were the strongest mortar of love.

Pressing her lips against the firm muscles of his neck, she whispered fiercely: 'Don't think of it, not any more, I beg you. Forget all that… I have told you, I shall not remain the Prince's wife. There will be a divorce. He is in full agreement and there is nothing now stands between me and my freedom, thanks to the Emperor's new laws, but a simple formality. When that is done I can be yours entirely and for ever. All this part of my life will be wiped out, like a bad dream—'

'And the child? Will that be wiped out too?'

She jerked away from him as though he had struck her and remained staring. He had a sudden feeling that beneath the soft skin every muscle in the girl's body had tensed. But it was only for a moment. Then, with a sigh that might have been unconscious, she was back in his arms again, hugging him to her with all her might, in a primitive need to assure herself that both of them were really there. At the end of one long kiss and then another, she gave a sigh.

'I think I've always known that there is no true joy or happiness on earth that does not have to be paid for sooner or later. Old Dobbs, the head groom at Selton, taught me that when I was very small.'

'Your head groom was a philosopher, then?'

'Philosopher is too strong a word. He was a strange old man, though, full of wisdom and good sense. He never spoke much and what he said was mostly in proverbs and old sayings he had picked up here and there all over the world, for he had been a sailor in his youth, under Admiral Cornwallis. One day when I was determined to ride Firebird, the finest and most mettlesome of all our horses, and was beginning to throw a tantrum because he would not let me, Dobbs took his pipe out of his mouth – he was always smoking a pipe – and said, quite calmly: "Very well, then, Miss Marianne. If you're set on breaking a leg, or maybe two, let alone your head into the bargain, that's your business. As to that, there's a saying I once heard somewhere comes to my mind. There's God, you see, a-showing man all the pleasures of the world and 'Take all you want,' says He, 'take it and pay!' " '

'And did you ride Firebird?'

'Indeed I did not! But I never forgot what Dobbs had said and I've had cause to test the truth of it more than once. I've even come to think that the child is the price I have to pay for the right to be with you. Because, I can confess it to you, ever since he was born I have been longing to ask the Prince to give him to me. So much that I actually considered taking him back without his permission. But that would be wrong, cruel even, because it was he who wanted him, much more than I. I was rejecting him with all my might. He is the one hope, the one happiness in a life of complete self-sacrifice—'

'And aren't you going to suffer?'

She gave a sad little laugh. 'I'm suffering already. But I shall try and think that I have lost him, that he did not live. And besides,' she added with a sudden warmth, filled with all the intensity of her secret hopes, 'besides, I shall have other children, your children. They will be both yours and mine and I know that the first time I bear you a son my pain will be eased. Love me, now. We have talked and thought too much. Let us forget everything but ourselves… I love you… You will never know how much I love you.'

'Marianne! My love! My brave, foolish darling!' The words died as their lips joined and after that the only sounds in the small room were the plaintive sighs and moans of a woman in the throes of love.

Next morning, as Jason, Craig and Gracchus helped the innkeeper and the driver to manoeuvre the kibitka on to the ferry boat for the crossing of the Kodyma, everyone could see that Gracchus seemed to be in a remarkably bad temper and that he bore the marks of fresh scratches on his cheek.

'I wonder,' Jolival whispered in Marianne's ear, 'whether our friend did not, after all, take the village priest a lot more seriously than he made out'

She could not help smiling. 'You think—?'

'That he tried to assert his marital rights and got short shrift? I'd go bail he did. And I can't say I'm surprised. She's a fine-looking wench.'

'You think so?' Marianne remarked primly.

'Good Lord, yes! To anyone who has a fancy for that type of noble savage. Though she's no very accommodating air about her, to be sure.'

Dressed once more in her proper clothes which consisted of a full skirt and a red bodice with barbaric stripes, with a voluminous black shawl draped over all, Shankala presented an even wilder and more enigmatic figure than she had done in her torn shift the day before. Enveloped in quantities of funereal black woollen stuff as in a Roman toga, with her hair falling in thick braids on either side of her face, she stood apart from the rest at the forward end of the boat, her small bundle wrapped in red cloth lying by her bare feet, watching the farther shore as it approached.

Her refusal to cast even one single glance backwards at the village she was leaving, probably for ever, was a thing almost palpable in its intensity. Nor was it, all in all, in any way hard to understand, especially since her last action before embarking had been to spit savagely on the ground, like a wild cat, and then, thrusting out her hand with first and fourth fingers extended towards the little cluster of cottages lying white and peaceful under the rising sun, she had hurled some imprecation in a harsh, fierce voice so full of hate that it could only have contained a curse.

Marianne reflected that she for one would be only too pleased if Jolival's prediction came true and their new companion were to take the first opportunity of parting from them.

Once across the river, Jolival paid off the ferryman and they all resumed their places in the kibitka. But when Gracchus took Shankala by the arm to help her up into the seat between himself and the driver the girl tore herself free, with the same fierce, angry gesture as on the night before, and springing lightly up under the hood settled herself on the boards at Jason's feet, looking up at him with a smile that was an open invitation.

'Is there no way,' Marianne said in a voice throbbing with anger, 'of making that woman understand that she is not mistress here?'

'I'm with you there, Ma—milady,' Gracchus agreed. 'I've a good mind to toss her into the river after all and be rid of her. I'm beginning to see her husband's point, and her mother-in-law's.'

'Not so loud,' Jason said. 'You only have to know how to deal with her.'

He bent down and, taking the woman's arm, calmly but firmly obliged her to take her seat on the box, taking no notice at all of the poisonous look she darted at Marianne.

'There,' he said. 'Now that we are all settled, you may tell the driver to drive on, Gracchus.'

The man gave vent to a guttural cry to set his horses in motion and the vehicle resumed its northward journey over the same road the cossack horsemen had taken the night before.

Day after day, week after week, the occupants of the kibitka pursued their way from one posting house to the next, never departing from the main road which would bring them, by way of Uman, Kiev, Bryansk and Moscow, to St Petersburg.

They could in fact have shortened their journey considerably by going by way of Smolensk, but when they reached the venerable and ancient princely city of Kiev, generally regarded by the Russians as the cradle of their country, the travellers found the place in something like a ferment. The packed churches were reverberating to the sound of public prayers and a perfect forest of candles blazed in front of every glittering iconostasis.

The reason for it was the grave news brought to the holy city by exhausted messengers galloping weary horses. A few days earlier General Barclay de Tolly and his army had been beaten at Smolensk and had abandoned the city after setting fire to it. The chief city of the Borysthenes, one of the greatest of the Tsar's empire, had been virtually destroyed and was now in the hands of Napoleon's Grande Armée, that vast horde of four hundred thousand armed men, speaking several languages, in which Wurtembergers, Bavarians and Danes fought side by side with Schwartzenberg's Austrians, the troops belonging to the Confederation of the Rhine and the Italians under Prince Eugene. And Kiev, the holy city of St Vladimir, mourned for its dead and prayed to heaven to punish the barbarian who had dared to set foot on the sacred soil.

This news brought about the beginnings of an argument between Jason and Marianne. She was filled with joy at Napoleon's capture of Smolensk and saw no reason, now, to continue her journey to Moscow.

'If the French hold Smolensk,' she pointed out, 'we can save time and make directly for St Petersburg. We can even beg assistance—'

Jason's reply was curt and to the point.

'Assistance? For Lady Selton? Unlikely, surely? Unless you mean to make your presence known to Napoleon? Well, I mean to have nothing to do with him. We had decided to go by way of Moscow and by Moscow we shall go.'

'But he may be in Moscow before us!' Marianne cried, suddenly defensive. 'At the rate his army is advancing, it is more than likely. What is the distance from Smolensk to Moscow?' she demanded, turning to Gracchus.

'About a hundred versts,' he told her, after a rapid consultation with the driver. 'Whereas for us it is about three hundred.'

'You see?' Marianne concluded triumphantly. 'It's no use deceiving yourself. Short of making an enormous detour, by the Volga, perhaps, we can't avoid Napoleon's army. Besides, how do we know Napoleon himself won't take the road to St Petersburg?'

'You'd like that, wouldn't you, eh? Go on, admit you're longing to set eyes on your beloved emperor again!'

'He's not my beloved emperor,' Marianne retorted sharply. 'But he is my emperor and Jolival's and Gracchus's too! Whether you like it or not, we are all French and we've no cause to be ashamed of it'

'Indeed? That's not what's written on your podaroshna, my lady! You had better make up your mind. For my part, it's the Russians I need and I've no intention of making enemies of them by falling into the arms of their invaders. From now on, we travel twice or even three times as fast. I want to get to Moscow before Napoleon.'

'You want, you want! What right have you to dictate what we do? But for us you would still be held a prisoner by your dear friends the Russians! You seem very ready to forget that they are even more closely allied to England and that your own country is just now at war with your friends' friends. How do you know that these Krilovs you put such faith in are going to befriend you? You are expecting them to help you? Give you a ship? What if they slam the door in your face and will have nothing to say to you? What will you do then?'

He cast her a fulminating glance, annoyed that she should cast doubts on what seemed to him so certain.

'I don't know. But it will never happen.'

'But suppose it did?'

'Oh, you make me lose all patience. We shall see. There are always ways of finding a ship. If the worst comes to the worst—'

'You can always steal one? It's becoming a habit with you. Well, it's not always possible, let me tell you. Not even for such an intrepid seaman as yourself. Be sensible for once, Jason, and listen to me. We have nothing to fear from Napoleon and everything to gain. Let us go straight to meet him. I promise you I've no ulterior motive in suggesting it. And indeed,' she gave a bitter little laugh, 'indeed I thought that we had finished once for all with all that, that it was old history—'

'It won't be old history until you have rid yourself of this overriding obsession to go to him at any cost.'

Marianne sighed distressfully. 'But I have no obsession, except to get away and go with you, as soon as possible! The only thing is that I have it in my power to do the Emperor a service, a very great service in return for which he will gladly provide me with the best and fastest ship in Danzig – not just a passage, or even a loan, but as a gift! You see—'

There was no holding her now. In spite of all Jolival's anxious glances, warning her not to show all her hand, Marianne was carried away by her own anger, and by an almost physical need to convince Jason. She was beyond stopping and by the time she saw that she had given too much away it was too late. The inevitable question had been asked.

'A service?' Jason demanded suspiciously. 'What kind of service?'

It was said to hurt and she was on the point of snapping back that it was none of his business but she controlled herself and merely reminded him that the question might have been more courteously phrased. 'However, I will answer it all the same, as politely as I can,' she said. 'Naturally, considering the state of your feelings towards the Emperor, I cannot tell you the precise nature of the information I am carrying. I will only tell you that I learned by chance of a grave danger threatening not just the Emperor himself but his whole army and—' She broke off, for Jason had begun to laugh but it was a laughter with no trace of amusement in it.

'I will follow you to Siberia if you will, you said! And all the time your one object was to reach Napoleon! And I believed you!'

'And you should believe me still, for I meant what I said, and so I do still. But that does not mean that when fate puts into my hand the means of warning my friends of a danger threatening them that I should do nothing and maybe let them walk into a trap.'

Jason's brow was set in obstinate lines and he was clearly about to make a sharp rejoinder when Jolival came to his friend's aid.

'Don't be a fool, Beaufort,' he cried impatiently. 'And don't start behaving again in a way you will be sorry for afterwards! None of us forgets that you have little to be grateful for in the Emperor's treatment of you but you will not remember that Napoleon is not a private person to be dealt with as an equal by us or by you.'

'I'd have expected you to agree with Marianne,' the American remarked.

'I see no cause to disagree with her. Far from it. And, if I may say so, this seems to me to be a singularly pointless argument. You want to reach St Petersburg and our way there, whether you like it or not, is almost bound to bring us into contact with Napoleon's army. That being so, Marianne would be betraying her country if she failed to deliver the information she has. In any case, to put your mind at rest, I can tell you, if it will satisfy you, that she will not see Napoleon. I will go to him myself when the time comes. I shall leave you and we will meet again later. If you are willing to wait for me, I may even be able to bring you an order for a vessel, in which case there will be no further problem. Does that satisfy you?'

Jason made no answer. He was standing with folded arms staring down with a grim expression into the blue waters of the Dnieper, which the Greeks had called Boysthenes, as it flowed southwards in a broad, majestic stream at his feet. The travellers had descended from their vehicle and strolled a little way along the river, past the painted wooden houses of the lower town, newly rebuilt after the disastrous fire which had destroyed the commercial district of Podil, with its church and warehouses, in the preceding year. Above them, on a kind of cliff overhanging the river harbour, which occupied the narrow strip of land between it and the stream, was the old town, enclosed within its medieval walls, with its blue and gold onion domes, its rich religious houses and old-fashioned, brightly-painted wooden palaces.

Outside the inn built of undressed logs which did duty as a posting house, the driver was unhitching the horses.

Still Jason said nothing and in the end it was Craig O'Flaherty who lost patience and answered for him. Clapping his captain on the back with a force sufficient to have knocked him into the river, he beamed at Jolival with cheerful approval.

'He'll be a churl if he's not satisfied. Sure, you talk like a book, Vicomte. And you've a knack of hitting on a solution that suits everyone. And now, if you please, let's be making for that henhouse they call an inn and see if they can find us some dinner. I could eat ahorse.'

Jason followed the others without a word but Marianne had a feeling he was still not convinced. She was sure of it when, after what was certainly the best meal they had eaten since setting out, consisting as it did of a vegetable bortsch to start with, followed by a thick, twisted sausage called kolbassa and vareniki, light, sugared tarts, the privateer got up from the table and announced curtly that they had better get to bed since they would be leaving the city at four the next morning. This was tantamount to a declaration that he intended to do his utmost to beat Napoleon's army to it, and no one made any mistake about it.

Marianne least of all, for that night she waited in vain for her lover beneath the inevitable icon which, this time, depicted, no less inevitably, St Vladimir. The door of the tiny room with its lingering odours of cooking fat and cabbage never opened to admit Jason.

In the end, tired of turning over and over on her mattress like St Lawrence on his gridiron, she got up but remained undecided what to do next. She hated the idea of letting a fresh misunderstanding grow between them. This quarrel was a stupid one, like so many lovers' tiffs in which both parties seemed determined to vie with one another in selfishness and unfairness. But with a man as stubborn as Jason, who could carry obstinacy to the point of blind stupidity, it could become protracted. And that, too, was something Marianne could not endure. Their journey was painful enough as it was.

For a minute or two she prowled to and fro between the door of her room and its small window, set wide open because of the heat which, even at this time of night, was stifling. She was consumed with longing to go to Jason. After all, it was her idea of going straight on to Smolensk which had started the argument and it might be for her to make the first move towards a reconciliation. But to do that she would have to overcome her pride which revolted at the picture of herself going humbly to seek out her lover in the room which he was no doubt sharing with Jolival (which would not be too bad) or, much more awkward, with Craig, and dragging him from his bed to her own, like a she-cat on heat come looking for a torn.

Still struggling with herself, she lingered at her window which framed a view of the river and the low, flat outline of its eastern shore. The Dnieper ran like a stream of quicksilver in the moonlight and the reeds upon its banks stood out like fine, black strokes brushed in Indian ink. The big freight barges slumbered side by side, waiting for their next voyage and dreaming perhaps of fabulous, distant seas that they would never see, even as Marianne herself dreamed of America which at that moment seemed to her to be retreating farther and farther into the mists of the unattainable.

She was making up her mind to go down to the water's edge in search of a little freshness to cool the fever that burned in her and had actually begun to reach for her clothes, although still without taking her eyes from the river, when she saw walking by the very man who filled her thoughts.

Jason was strolling down towards the gleaming water, his hands clasped behind his back in that familiar attitude of his as he paced his quarterdeck. And Marianne smiled suddenly, relieved to know that he too had been unable to sleep. It filled her with tenderness to think that he had been fighting the same battle with his pride as she had with hers. Jason had never found it easy to extricate himself from a situation of this kind. She had only to humble herself a very little and she would have no trouble in bringing him back to her.

She was on the point of rushing from the room when, all at once, she saw Shankala.

The gipsy girl was evidently following Jason. Making no more sound than a cat in her bare feet, she was running as lightly as a ghost after the man who drew her and who had clearly no suspicion of her presence there.

Marianne, in the darkness of her room, felt her cheeks flush with sudden anger. She had had more than enough of this woman. She had not yet exchanged a single word with her and yet her silent presence oppressed her like a nightmare. Through all the long miles they had travelled together in the enforced proximity of the kibitka, the gipsy's black eyes had remained fixed on one of two points: on the white ribbon of the road ahead, at which she would gaze tirelessly for hours on end as though searching for something, or on Jason to whom she would turn from time to time with a smile lurking in her eyes. The look on her face as she moistened her red lips with the tip of a pointed tongue made Marianne long to hit her.

Jason strolled on slowly until he was hidden behind one of the piles of logs which lined the waterside beyond the narrow strip of quay. At Kiev, the steppes came to a sudden end and gave way to the great forests whose produce was piled beside the waterway that would carry it south.

Shankala, however, instead of following Jason, had turned aside and was taking a parallel path on the nearer side of the heaped-up logs. Marianne, observing her eagerly, saw her set off at a run towards the rising ground which marked the end of the river harbour. The gipsy's intention was clear. She meant to meet Jason coming the other way.

Unable to stay where she was a moment longer and impelled by a curiosity she could not control, Marianne left the inn in her turn and hurried down to the river. Jealousy, a primitive instinct, drove her after Jason, a jealousy she could not have justified or explained. She only knew that she wanted to see what Jason would do when he came face to face alone with the woman who had made no secret of her intentions towards him.

Rounding the first log pile and coming to the river she saw nothing at all, for a curve in its course hid everything beyond. Her feet made no sound on the close-packed sand and she began to run. But when she reached the bend she clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle an exclamation and shrank back into the deep shadows between two piles of logs.

Jason was there, a few yards away from her. He had his back to her and standing facing him was Shankala. She had let fall her dress and was standing naked before him in the moonlight.

Marianne's throat felt dry. The witch was beautiful beyond a doubt. With the moon's rays silvering her brown skin she looked like a water sprite emerging from the shining river and born of its substance. Her arms hung loose at her slender sides, palms outward, her head was flung slightly backward, the eyes half-closed, and she stood quite still, allowing a sensuality so powerful as to be an almost palpable thing to work its own magic. Only the slight quickening of her breath, the rhythmic heaving of her heavy, round yet perfect breasts, betrayed her desire for the man before her. Her attitude was precisely that of the statue of Dona Lucinda in the temple at the Villa Sant'Anna and Marianne almost cried out at the resemblance.

Jason, too, seemed turned to stone. From her hiding place, Marianne could not see the expression on his face but the total stillness of his body clearly betrayed a kind of fascination. Marianne felt weak and red lights danced before her eyes. She was forced to lean back against the rough tree trunks, incapable of taking her eyes from the scene that held them yet longing desperately to sink into the water if Jason yielded to temptation. The silence and the stillness seemed to last for ever.

Suddenly Shankala moved. She took a step towards Jason, then another. Her eyes were gleaming and Marianne, in torment, dug her nails into the palms of her hands. The woman's panting breath filled her ears like a rushing wind. She was moving closer to the man who even now had not moved. One step… and one more. She was about to touch him, to cling to him with that form whose very walk was vibrant with desire. Her lips were slightly parted, showing the small, sharp, carnivorous teeth. Marianne wanted to cry out in terror but no sound came from her throat, she was paralysed with shock. In another instant the love of her life would crumble at her feet, like a god with feet of day.

But Jason had stepped back. His outstretched arm touched the woman's shoulder and held her at a distance.

'No,' he said.

Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he turned away and strode swiftly in the direction of the inn, unaware of Marianne still clinging to the piled logs in her shadowed corner, weak and spent, yet filled with a relief so shattering that she almost swooned with it. For a long moment she stayed where she was, her forehead drenched with sweat, her eyes closed, listening to the frantic drumming of her heart return to normal.

When she opened her eyes again the river bank was deserted so that for a moment she wondered if she had not dreamed it all, but when she looked more closely she could just make out a running figure moving away towards the point where the bank became a cliff. Then she too turned back towards the inn. Her legs were trembling so that she could barely climb the steep wooden stair that led up to the bedrooms and at the top she had to pause for a moment to get back her breath before she dragged herself to her own door and pushed it open.

'Where have you been?' Jason's voice said curtly.

He was there, standing in the broad, white swathe of moonlight. She thought that he looked huge and reassuring, like a lighthouse in a storm. Never had she needed him so much and giving a little moan she threw herself into his arms, shaken by a paroxysm of sobbing that swept away all the dreadful fear that had overwhelmed her.

He let her cry for a little without speaking, only petting her like a child and stroking her tumbled hair with a gentle hand. Then, as the violence abated, he put his hand under her chin and tilted up her tear-stained face.

'Idiot,' was all he said. 'As if I could want any woman but you.'

An hour later Marianne was asleep, tired out and lulled by the happy thought that Shankala, having failed, would give up the attempt and must already have made up her mind to part from her travelling companions. She had seen her running off towards the cliff… Perhaps she meant never to return…

But when, at daybreak, they all gathered by the kibitka, into the shafts of which their new driver was engaged in putting fresh horses, the gipsy was there, as cool and distant as if nothing at all had happened. Without a word she took her place by Gracchus on the box and Marianne, smothering a sigh of disappointment, could only comfort herself with the thought that Shankala had not so much as glanced at Jason as she passed him.

This was such slender consolation that when they drew up that evening at Darnitsa, in the midst of resin-scented pinewoods, she could not resist taking Gracchus aside. His relations with the gipsy had not notably improved since the village on the Kodyma but at least the extraordinary girl had condescended to exchange a few words with her so-called husband.

'How long are we to be forced to endure this Shankala?' Marianne asked him. 'Why does she stay with us? It's clear she doesn't do it because she likes us. So why does she persist in staying?'

'She is not staying with us, Mademoiselle Marianne, or not in the way you mean.'

'No? Then what is she doing?'

'She's hunting!'

'Hunting?'

'I can't imagine what kind of game – apart from Monsieur Beaufort, of course.' Marianne could not resist that jibe at least.

She had expected him to agree with her in that, but Gracchus shook his head, frowning.

'I thought so too, at first, but it's not that. Oh, she'd have got him if she could, of course, combining pleasure with business—'

'Business? I understand less and less.'

'You'll soon see. What Shankala is after is revenge. She's not coming with us, she's following the man who cast her off and delivered her up to the hatred of the village women. She has sworn to kill him and I think she hoped, by seducing Captain Beaufort, to make him the instrument of her revenge by persuading him to kill her former husband.'

Marianne shrugged impatiently. "This is madness. How does she hope to find the man again in a country this size?'

'That may not be as difficult as you might think. The cossack, whose name, by the way, is Nikita, has gone off to fight the French. We are going the same way, and so she knows. Don't worry, she asks about the cossack troop at every posting house. Not only that, but she knows precisely what her Nikita is after.'

"And what is he after?'

'To win the prize. Become rich and famous, noble and powerful—'

'Gracchus,' Marianne interrupted him with a good deal of impatience, 'if you can't bring yourself to talk more clearly you and I are going to fall out. What is all this nonsense?'

Then Gracchus embarked on what sounded like the wildest fairytale. He explained how, a short time before, a fantastic story had blazed through steppes and forests like wildfire. Count Platov, the almost legendary Ataman of the Don Cossacks and now the acknowledged leader of all the companies, or sotnias, of other regions, had promised, just as in the chivalrous tales of old, to give his daughter's hand in marriage to any cossack, whoever he might be, who should bring him Napoleon's head.

At that the fever had mounted in every cossack village, or stanitsa, and every man who did not own a wife had risen up in answer to the great chief's call, and in the hope of winning the fabulous prize. They had polished up their weapons, saddled their horses with the high wooden saddles covered with sheepskins, and pulled on their boots. Some of them in their frenzy had even contrived, more or less discreetly, to do away with wives who had suddenly become an embarrassment.

'Shankala's husband was one of those,' Gracchus concluded. 'He claims to be certain of winning the Ataman's daughter, but where he gets his certainty, don't ask me. Even Shankala doesn't know.'

'Out of an even greater conceit than the rest of his fellows!' Marianne exclaimed indignantly. 'These savages have no idea! The Emperor's head indeed! I ask you!' Then, with an abrupt change of tone, she added: 'But Gracchus, does this mean the woman was innocent when they tried to drown her? I must say I find it hard to believe.'

Evidently Gracchus did too. He pushed back his cap and scratched his red thatch, shifting from foot to foot, then letting his fingers stray to the still visible marks of the gipsy's fingernails.

'That,' he said, 'is a matter we did not touch on. With a woman like that you never know. All she told me was that once his first passion died down Nikita had neglected her and relegated her to the position of a servant to his mother. All things considered, if that's true and she did deceive him, he'd no one but himself to blame. It seems to me he was a poor enough fellow.'

'Indeed? Well, that's no reason to go and find out. And if you want us to remain friends, Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche, I'd advise you not to let Shankala use you to obtain her revenge either. Supposing you were to come out of it alive, I wonder how your grandmother, the laundress in the rue de la Revoke, would welcome such a daughter-in-law?'

'I know well enough. She'd stick out two fingers in the sign against the evil eye and then she'd be off to the cure to sprinkle her with holy water. Then she'd show both of us the door. Don't worry, Mademoiselle Marianne, I've no wish to reduce still further what little chance we have of ever seeing the rue Montorgueil and your house in the rue de Lille again.'

He touched his cap and was moving away to help the driver unhitch the horses when Marianne, struck by the cynicism of his last words, called him back.

'Gracchus! Do you really think that in trying to reach the Emperor we are running into serious danger?'

'It's not so much because we are trying to reach him, it's just that when the Little Corporal goes to war he doesn't do things by halves and we're likely to find ourselves, as they say, caught between the hammer and the anvil. And random shots aren't always as random as all that! But we'll do the best we can, won't we?'

And, whistling his favourite marching song more furiously out of tune than ever, Gracchus went off cheerfully to attend to his everyday duties as groom, leaving Marianne to her thoughts.

CHAPTER TWO The Duel

On the eleventh of September they came to the outskirts of Moscow. It was a fine, bright day and the earth basked in the sunshine of late summer. But the warm light and the beauty of the countryside could not dispel the sense of tragedy that loomed in the air.

The road passed through the pretty, picturesque village of Kolomenskoy, with its old, brightly painted wooden cottages, large pond with several families of ducks upon it and clumps of trees in which the pale trunks of birches mingled with slender, fragrant pines and rowans borne down with great bunches of crimson fruit.

But farther west the guns were firing and there was an endless procession of vehicles of every kind, from tradesmen's carts to gentlemen's carriages, driven by rigid, sleepwalking figures with set faces and haunted eyes. Plants and buildings alike had their freshness smothered in a choking pall of dust.

In this crowd of refugees the kibitka's progress was like that of a swimmer struggling against the current of a mighty river. For three days they had been unable to obtain a change of horses. All those that could be found were already between the shafts. The stables were empty.

Jason might fret and fume in his impatience to travel day and night until they had put Moscow behind them but they were still obliged to halt every day at nightfall to rest the horses, although the men took turns to stand guard to prevent them being stolen.

They had lost their driver. The last man had refused to proceed beyond the posting house at Toula and had run away, helped on by Jason's belt laid about his shoulders for trying to take the horses with him. That night they had been forced to quit the posting house in a hurry and seek refuge in the near-by forest because the man had gone for help to the estate of Prince Volkonski and had returned to his erstwhile employers reinforced by a gang of men armed with staves. The firearms with which Gracchus had prudently provided them had sufficed to hold them off for long enough for the party to make good its escape but they had supped that day off whortleberries and spring water only.

The crowds they passed were strangely silent, showing no sign of panic. The crested broughams and barouches of the nobility, built in London or Paris, waited patiently among the assortment of Russian conveyances, from the travelling telega to the urban droshky with its driver in his long robe with a brass plate on his back, including kibitkas of every size and even common-or-garden tree trunks slung on four wheels.

In the midst of all these, old men, women and children trudged uncomplainingly through the dust, their bundles on their backs and their eyes on the road ahead. The only sounds were the shuffle of feet and the creaking of wheels and this silence was the most impressive thing of all for it was heavy with resignation.

Now and then a priest appeared, accompanied by a deacon or two and sheltering some precious relic under the folds of his black robe, before which the peasants would kneel piously. The gates of the big estates were guarded by karaoulny, old soldiers with white hair who had lost an arm or a leg in Catherine the Great's wars. And all the time, like a knell, the distant menace of the guns.

No one took any notice of the dusty, travel-worn kibitka forcing its way against the current of refugees. Once or twice someone would glance up indifferently for a moment, too preoccupied with their own troubles to betray much curiosity.

But when they came to the end of the village, Jason, who had taken over the reins from Gracchus, brought the vehicle to a standstill beside the impressive entrance to a large monastery whose dull blue domes rose close beside an ancient wooden mansion.

'It's madness to go on,' he said with conviction. "We'll turn back and make a detour round the city to join the road to St Petersburg.'

Marianne had been dozing against Jolival's shoulder but she sat up at once.

'Why should we avoid the city? It's not easy, I grant you, but we are making progress. There's no reason to change direction now and risk losing ourselves.'

'And I'm telling you it's madness,' Jason repeated. 'Can't you see what's happening, all these people running away?'

'What they are running from holds no terrors for me. The very fact that we can hear the guns means that the French are not far off, especially if the exodus from Moscow has already begun.'

'Marianne,' he said wearily, 'we are not going over all that again. I've told you time and again that I don't want to meet Napoleon. I thought we had agreed that if we came within reach of the invading army Jolival should take charge of this mysterious warning you want to send to your Emperor and then catch up with us later on the road.'

'And you thought I'd agree to that?' Marianne cried indignantly. "You talk of sending Jolival to Napoleon as if it were no more than going to post a letter. Well, let me tell you something. Look at all these people round us. The roads must be packed like this in all directions and we have absolutely no idea where to look for the army, or for the Russian army either. If we separate we're lost. Jolival would never find us again. And you know it.'

Arcadius, alarmed at the angry turn the argument was taking, made an effort to intervene but Marianne silenced him with an imperious gesture. Then, as Jason still sat hunched in his seat, remaining obstinately silent, she snatched up her valise and sprang down into the road.

'Come, Arcadius,' she said imperatively to her old friend. 'Captain Beaufort would rather part from us than involve himself in any way with the army of a man he so dislikes. He has done with France.'

'After what I suffered there it would be stranger still if I hadn't. I think I have good cause,' the American said sulkily.

'Oh yes, most certainly. Very well, then, go and join your good friends the Russians, and your old friends the English – but when all this is over, for all wars have an end, you had better forget all about Madame Veuve Clicquot-Ponsardin and her champagne, and about the bordeaux wines and chambertins in which you once drove such a thriving contraband trade. And you can forget me, too, while you are at it! Because all these things are France!'

With that Marianne put up her little chin in a gesture of superb defiance and contempt and, still shaking with anger, picked up her valise and tramped off up the dusty road, which here took a slight turn uphill, without looking back. She had thought, after the quarrel at Kiev, that Jason had been finally convinced and she was seething with rage at finding him still fixed in his stubborn resentment. He was nothing but a deceiver, a hypocrite without a heart.

'Let him go to the Devil!' she muttered through clenched teeth.

She heard him behind her, swearing and cursing in the approved manner of the coachman whose role he had adopted. But there was another sound too, the creaking of the kibitka getting under way. For an instant she was horribly tempted to look round and see if he were turning back but that would have been an admission of weakness amounting almost to giving in and she would not allow herself even to slacken her pace. A moment later he had caught up with her.

Tossing the reins to Gracchus, he sprang to the ground and went after her. He caught her by the arm and forced her to stop and face him.

'Not only are we in a scrape you don't appear to have the least idea of,' he raged, 'but now we have to put up with your tantrums as well!'

'My tantrums?' she threw back at him indignantly. 'And what about yours? Who is it who won't listen to a word anyone says? Who won't hear of anything but his own selfish obsessions? I won't let Arcadius sacrifice himself, do you hear? I will not! Is that clear?'

'No one is asking him to sacrifice himself. You have a talent for twisting people's words.'

'Have I indeed? Well, listen to this, Jason Beaufort. One evening at Humayunabad, when I reproached you for wanting to leave me and go back to your own country to fight, you said to me: "I come of a free people and I must fight with them", or something of the kind. Well, I wish you would remember sometimes that I belong to the French people who have done more than any for the sake of freedom, beginning with the freedom of some others I could name.'

'That's not true. You're half English.'

'I can't think why that seems to give you so much pleasure. You must be out of your mind. Whose are the guns that at this very moment may be sending to the bottom any number of ships like your Sea Witch – flying the same flag, at least?'

He glared at her as if he could have struck her. Then, abruptly, he shrugged and turned away, striving to repress a grin of apology.

'Touché!' he growled. 'Very well. You win. We'll go on.'

In an instant all her anger was forgotten. Like a schoolgirl she flung her arms round the American's neck, regardless of what the refugees might think, seeing a woman dressed in such a comparatively ladylike fashion eagerly embracing a bearded moujik. He returned her kiss and they might have remained lost to the world around them if Craig O'Flaherty's jovial voice had not come to their ears.

'Come and see!' he called. 'It's well worth looking at!'

All the others had climbed down from the wagon and walked over to a terrace terminating in a balustraded wall. Marianne and Jason joined them, hand in hand, and saw Moscow lying at their feet.

The view which met their eyes was both grand and romantic, and with something fascinating about it also. It took in the whole extent of the great city, enclosed within its red walls, twelve leagues in extent and very ancient. At their feet the Moskva looped itself in snakelike coils round islands studded with palaces and gardens. Most of the houses were built of wood plastered over. Only the public buildings and the huge mansions of the nobility were constructed of brick of a dark, velvety softness. Numerous parks and gardens could be seen, their greenery forming a harmonious background to the buildings.

The sun shone on a thousand and one church steeples and was reflected brilliantly from their gilded or sky blue domes and from rooftops of metal painted black or green. And in the midst of the city, set upon a raised hillock and ringed about by lofty walls and battlemented towers was a vast citadel, a veritable bouquet of palaces and churches: the Kremlin, the proud symbol of the ancient glory of Holy Russia. While all around it Europe and Asia met and mingled like the warp and weft of some fabulous material.

'It's beautiful!' Marianne breathed. 'I never saw anything like it!'

'Nor I,' said Jolival, adding, as he turned to his companions: 'It was certainly worth the journey.'

Clearly he spoke for all of them, even Shankala who, since Kiev, had seemed to lose all interest in her companions. Occasionally, at the staging posts or when the kibitka slowed down on the road, she would speak to a passing peasant or to a stable lad, always asking the same question. The man would wave his arm and answer her briefly and then the gipsy would return to her place without a word and resume her scrutiny of the road ahead.

But now she was leaning on the balustrade, gazing down with blazing eyes upon the fabulous city spread out at her feet, while her nostrils quivered as though seeking out one single scent from all the many odours that rose to meet her. For the trail of the man she followed must end here, before this city over whose beauty war hung like a menacing cloud.

For the war was a presence to be breathed and felt. The wind carried a smell of burnt powder and, except for an occasional outburst of noise here and there, the silence in the city seemed to grow more disquietingly complete with every moment that passed. None of the ordinary, everyday sounds could be heard, no bells, no cheerful bustle of men at work, no music hovering about the smokeless rooftops. It was as though the harsh voices of the distant guns had silenced every other.

Jolival was the first to break the spell which seemed to hold them all enthralled. He sighed and turning from the balustrade remarked: 'If we want to be inside the city by nightfall, I think it's time that we were on our way. We can try and get news of what's happening down there. All the people of the better sort speak French and there always used to be a large French colony in Moscow.'

Enchantment gave way to something more like horror as they descended the hill and approached the city gates. The confusion here was unbelievable. The tide of refugees came up against a solid mass of women and old men, all kneeling in the dust before the doors of the Danilovski monastery, staring up with clasped hands at the great cross on the principal dome as though expecting some miraculous apparition. The sound of their prayers was a ceaseless murmur.

At the same time a large convoy of wounded men emerging from a side street was endeavouring to enter by the gates which were already jammed with the press of vehicles. The people in the crowd did their best to make way for it and indeed showed to the wounded men a pious awe almost as great as that with which they gazed upon the monastery cross. Some of the women even fell on their knees and attempted to kiss the bloodstained rags binding an arm or leg.

These wounded soldiers, filthy and ragged, were a sight both pathetic and terrible, an army of spectres with hollow eyes burning in faces parched by the sun.

People ran out from those few shops which had remained open and from the houses near the gate with offerings of fruit and wine and food of all sorts, while some of those who were leaving actually turned back to give up their carriages to them, or to offer the use of houses left empty in the care of a few servants. Indeed, it all seemed so natural that it did not occur to Marianne and her companions to protest when a pair of tall fellows wearing aprons, who could have been in charge of the wounded, requisitioned their kibitka.

'We'll probably be torn to pieces if we refuse,' Jolival whispered. 'It'll be a poor look-out if in all this confusion we can't find a vehicle of some sort to continue our journey! Besides, I must confess these people have surprised me. They show a remarkable example of unity in the face of disaster.'

'Unity?' Craig muttered. 'Yet it seems to me that there is one great difference between those leaving and those staying. For the most part the carriages we've met have been smart and well-upholstered. The rich are going, the poor are left behind.'

'Well, naturally, only those who have some property to go to outside the city can go away. What's more, I think it's chiefly their property that they are trying to protect. The others have nowhere to go. Besides, the Russian soul is essentially fatalistic. They believe that everything happens by God's will.'

'I'm coming to very much the same view of things myself,' Jason said grimly. 'The exercise of free will seems to have become increasingly difficult for some time past.'

However, after some delay and considerable effort on their part, they did manage to pass through the gate and found themselves in a long street, equally jammed with traffic, leading towards the centre of the city. But as they went on they passed the entrances to broad, deserted boulevards and empty streets that showed no sign of life, in vivid contrast to the one they were following. Many of the houses had their shutters up and presented blind faces to the world.

Before long they came to the Moskva and saw men in barges busy sinking casks and boxes in the river. The Kremlin walls towered redder than ever in the setting sun. But the travellers' eyes were already growing accustomed to the almost asiatic splendours of the Holy City and they spared no more than a passing glance for the ancient citadel of the Tsars. What was taking place outside its walls was far more interesting.

There were still crowds of people all along the river and on the bridges across it, and in the huge square outside the Kremlin wall. But these crowds were of a different kind from those outside the city. Young gentlemen in frock coats, armed with swords, were hurrying to meet the convoys of wounded, which seemed to be arriving from all directions, and greeting them with eager cries. Their youth, the elegance of their dress and, in many cases, their extreme good looks formed a striking contrast to the dirt and suffering among which they moved and attempted in a clumsy and often ill-judged fashion to relieve.

Trapped in the bottle-neck of one of the bridges, Marianne and her friends were caught up and carried along almost in spite of themselves in an irresistible tide, so that they had crossed the river almost without noticing and found themselves deposited, with more or less freedom of movement, in the vast square in front of an enormous, glittering church whose vivid colours made it look like some gigantic jewel.

On its eastern side, the square was bounded by a line of large and splendid private palaces which, with their elegant, white stuccoed classical facades and green, spreading gardens formed a barrier between it and Kitaigorod, the chief commercial district of Moscow. And outside of these palaces a crowd had gathered and was roaring with excitement at what, Marianne soon realized with horror, could only be a public execution.

A ladder had been placed upon a platform built against the palace wall and bound to it by his wrists dragged up above his head was a man, naked to the waist, and being beaten with the knout.

The whip, which was made of fine thongs of plaited white leather which it was the habit to steep in milk the night before an execution in order to stiffen them, left a bloody weal across the victim's back at every stroke and drew a groan of agony from him.

Standing on the dais a step or two away from the ladder, observing the proceedings, was a giant of a man with a nagaika, or horsewhip, thrust through his belt. His arms were folded on his chest and he was dressed in a coat of military cut, blue and high-collared, with gilt epaulets. His strong, arrogant features showed traces of Turcoman blood, but it was nevertheless an expressive face, animated by a pair of very large eyes of some indeterminate colour, although at the moment it reflected nothing but a cold cruelty.

The crowd had fallen silent, manifesting neither pleasure nor any other emotion at the torture of a fellow being. Yet as she mingled with them, Marianne was struck by the look on the people's faces. All, without exception, expressed a total, absolute and, as it were, concentrated hatred. The sight of it appalled her.

'What are these people made of?' she muttered under her breath. 'The enemy is at their gates and they stand here watching a poor devil being flogged to death.'

A sharp jab from an elbow in her side silenced her abruptly. Looking round, she saw that it had come, not from one of her companions, but from an elderly man of pleasant and distinguished appearance, dressed in old-fashioned style but with a simplicity that did not preclude a certain elegance. Far from it, for while he wore his hair long, no trace of powder marred the gleaming surface of the black satin ribbon that confined it and showed off its fine, silvery hue.

Seeing Marianne gazing at him in astonishment, he smiled faintly.

'You should be more careful, Madame,' he murmured. 'French is not an unfamiliar language in these parts.'

'I speak no Russian, but if you would rather we conversed in some other tongue – English, for instance, or German—'

This time the old gentleman, for such he clearly was, smiled openly, an action which detracted somewhat from his charm by revealing some regrettable deficiencies in his teeth.

'As to English, it is rare enough to arouse some curiosity. German, on the other hand, is known and, ever since the time of Peter III, cordially detested.'

'Very well then,' Marianne said. 'Let us continue in French. That is, Monsieur, if you will be kind enough to satisfy my curiosity. What has the wretched man done?'

Her new friend shrugged his shoulders.

'His crime is twofold. He is a Frenchman and he dared to rejoice openly at the approach of Bonaparte's armies. Before this he was a man much valued and even respected for his culinary talents, but that was enough to ruin him.'

'Culinary?'

'Yes indeed. His name is Tournais and he was head cook to the Governor of Moscow, Count Rostopchin whom you see there, personally overseeing his punishment. Unfortunately for his back, Tournais allowed his tongue to run away with him.'

Marianne clenched her fists, feeling herself overcome with helpless rage. Must she stand there in the sunset watching a fellow-countryman flayed alive for nothing more than loyalty to his emperor? Fortunately, she had not long to wonder for the beating was coming to an end.

At an order from Rostopchin, the unfortunate chef was cut down, unconscious and covered in blood, and carried inside the palace.

"What will become of him?' asked Jolival, who had joined Marianne and overheard her conversation.

'The governor has given out that tomorrow he is to be sent to Orenburg to work in the mines.'

'But he has no right to do that!' Marianne burst out, once more forgetting all caution. 'The man is not a Russian. It's horrible to treat him like a guilty moujik!'

'So he is also being treated as a spy. Ultimately, poor Tournais, for whom I am sincerely sorry, for he is a true artist, is merely a scapegoat. Now that the great battle is over, Rostopchin is not sorry to show the people that he means to have no mercy on all who have the slightest connection with Bonaparte.'

It was the second time the old gentleman had used that name and it gave Marianne the clue she needed. Evidently he was one of those unyielding émigrés who were sworn never to return to France as long as the scourge of God, Napoleon, reigned there. A little circumspection would therefore be wise. Nevertheless, Marianne could not resist her thirst for information.

'A great battle, did you say?'

The old gentleman stared and, reaching for the lorgnettes suspended on a velvet ribbon round his neck, set them on his nose and considered the young woman with astonishment.

'Well, well! My dear young lady, where have you been, if I may make so bold?'

'In the south, Monsieur, more precisely at Odessa, where I had the privilege of meeting his grace the Duc de Richelieu.' She added a few more vague words of explanation but her new friend was no longer listening. The name of Richelieu had quite won him to her and now that he felt sure that this young woman was one of his own kind he heartily approved of her. From then on there was no stopping him and once Jolival also had been introduced, the others being relegated to the obscurity of servants, he seemed prepared to hold forth endlessly.

And so it was in the pleasant, educated tones of the man they learned to call Monsieur de Beauchamp that the travellers heard of what had taken place five days earlier on the plain of Borodino, on the right bank of the river Kologha, a tributary of the Moskva, and some thirty-five leagues from Moscow itself. The Russian army, which up to that point had seemed to melt into the landscape as the French advanced had decided to make a stand and attempt to bar the way to the capital. The fighting for the redoubts on the road was fierce and the casualties on both sides appalling,[1] if the reports of the wounded who were even now being brought into the city were to be believed.

'But who won?' Jolival demanded, beside himself with impatience.

The old gentleman gave a sad little smile.

'We were told it was the Russians. The Tsar had replaced Barclay de Tolly with old Kutuzov, the darling child of victory, and no one ever imagined it could be otherwise. There was even a Te Deum sung in this very place. But the wounded tell a different story. They say that the army is retreating hard on their heels and that Bonaparte is marching on Moscow. Tomorrow or the day after, he will be here. As soon as that became known, all those who could began to leave Moscow. Hence the dreadful confusion throughout the city. Even Rostopchin is going, he has just said so, but for the present he is staying to await Kutuzov whose army must pass through the city to fall back on Kazan.'

With Jason's stern eye upon her, Marianne succeeded in maintaining her supposed character and remained calm in the face of news which filled her with joy. Jolival, meanwhile, was thanking the old gentleman with exquisite, courtly politeness for his recital and begging him to set the seal on his kindness by recommending an inn, that was, if there were any left open, which would provide them with a roof. This request produced an immediate protest from Jason.

"There's no call for us to stay here, least of all if Bonaparte is coming! We'd better be gone before nightfall and find ourselves a hostelry of some kind on the road to Petersburg.'

Monsieur de Beauchamp directed his lorgnette at him and stared for a moment with a mixture of outrage and astonishment at this bearded moujik, evidently a servant, who had the impertinence not merely to venture an opinion but actually to do so in French. Then, apparently considering it beneath his dignity to give the fellow a set-down, the old gentleman merely shrugged his shoulders and, turning his back on him, addressed himself to Jolival.

'You will never get out of the city tonight. Every street is packed solid with carts and carriages, with the exception of those leading westwards. But there is a chance that you will still find a lodging in Kitaigorod, the walls of which you see before you over there, even if only with—'

But Marianne was fated never to hear the name of the innkeeper who might have offered them a bed because at that moment something like a huge tidal wave swept into the square and drove like a bullet from a gun straight for the dais on which the governor was still standing, engaged in giving orders to a number of underlings. Several thousand men and women armed with picks and axes and pitchforks and shrieking like famished wolves bore down on the Rostopchin palace. The massive wave broke against its walls with a shuddering impact that swept apart the little group gathered round the old gentleman.

In an instant Marianne found herself torn from her friends, half submerged in a welter of waving arms, and borne irresistibly back towards the river. Convinced that she had been caught up in a revolt and believing that her last hour had come, she uttered a shrill scream: 'Jason! Help!'

He heard her. Kicking and righting his way he managed to get to her and grabbed her wrist and together they tried to fight their way against the fierce, undisciplined tide. But it was impossible. Better to let themselves be carried along if they did not want to be thrown down and trampled underfoot, which would have been certain death.

Without knowing how it happened, the two of them found themselves swept back across the Kremlin bridge and into a small square where a few houses and a church, painted like a theatre backdrop, huddled up against the high walls of a large building with a bright green leaded roof that occupied the river frontage and turned out to be the Foundling Hospital.

Here there were far fewer people than on the bridge, for the overflow had been diverted along the quays beside the Moskva, and Marianne, gasping and half-suffocated, sank down on a convenient mounting block to get her breath. It was only then that she realized that she was alone with Jason and Shankala. One of the girl's hands, still clutching the privateer's belt, showed clearly how it was that she had been able to keep up with them.

'Where are the others?' Marianne asked.

Jason shrugged and waved his arm to take in the square, which was like the crater of a volcano on the point of eruption.

'In there somewhere!'

'But we must try and find them—'

Tired as she was, she was already struggling to her feet ready to launch herself again into the seething mass had he not held her back by main force.

'Don't be insane! You'd only get yourself killed to no purpose. Think yourself lucky to have got out of that in one piece.' Seeing her eyes begin to fill with tears, he added more gently: 'Craig and Gracchus are well able to look after themselves. As for Jolival, he's no fool. I'd be very much surprised if he came to grief in there.'

'But what are we going to do? How shall we ever find them?'

'The best thing is to simply hang around this damned square and wait for them. This little spot of trouble won't last for ever. These people will either leave the city like the rest or go back to their homes. Then all we have to do is to head back to the place where we were separated. The others are certain to do the same. It'd be crazy to go wandering about a strange city at random.'

What he said made sense, as Marianne readily admitted. She would even have enjoyed the fact of being alone with him, in whatever hysterical circumstances, had it not been for Shankala who was still clinging tightly to Jason and staring fixedly at her without saying a word and with an enigmatic expression in her black eyes. It was as if she had abandoned her own personality and turned herself into a kind of familiar animal, silent but persistent, sticking close to her master's heels.

'You are quite right,' Marianne said with a sigh. 'We will stay here, then, and wait for things to clear, if they ever do.'

Certainly, although the crowd in Red Square seemed to be growing calmer and thinning out, access to the bridge was still practically impossible on account of the packed convoys of wounded which had emerged simultaneously from three different side streets. If they had all been on foot the bridge could have absorbed them easily but those able to walk were far outnumbered by the ones being carried on improvised stretchers and there were also a fair number of carts moving along amid the pitiful train from which came a continual groaning intermingled with cries of pain as the injured were jostled by the crowd.

Here and there a house which happened to be still inhabited opened its door to the wounded but the majority went on towards the military hospital and the two private hospitals on the other side of the river, not far from the Kremlin.

'We'll never get through,' Marianne said impatiently. 'The riverside is black with people.'

'Especially since the people in question are soldiers. Look! I can see horsemen over there. Cossacks!'

His seaman's eyes, accustomed to peering through the worst weather at sea, had picked out the soldiers while Marianne's could still perceive nothing more than a kind of red haze beyond the distant head of the convoy.

'The Russians must be in full retreat,' Jason went on. "They must be falling back to defend the city. We can't stay here. We're in danger of being trampled underfoot by the horses.'

"Well, where do you want to go? I'm not leaving here until we've found the others.'

'I caught sight of an inn in that little square over there. Let's try and get to it. You still have some money on you?'

Marianne nodded. She had lost her valise, of course. It had been torn from her in the rush. But she had got into the habit of carrying her money and the invaluable podaroshna in an inner pocket of her dress. Even so, she felt reluctant to leave her perch. The inn did not look particularly easy to reach. A man and two aproned women were standing at the door, washing a filthy wound here and offering a cup of wine there to men who paused briefly and went on. The man and his womenfolk were labouring unsparingly, with a warmth and generosity that compelled admiration. Anyone could see that they were ready to give the poor soldiers everything in their house, but Marianne wondered whether their welcome would extend equally to foreign travellers.

A flung stone, narrowly missing her and breaking a window at her back, made up her mind for her. She jumped up with a cry, but not quickly enough to avoid a splinter of glass which cut her on the forehead just below the hairline. Jason caught her to him and took out his handkerchief to staunch the little trickle of blood.

'Damned savages!' he fumed. 'Have they nothing better to do than go about breaking their own windows?'

Marianne had turned round to observe the damage and she pointed wordlessly to the gaily painted signboard, depicting a magnificent cream cake, which announced that at the sign of the Puits d'Amour the brothers Lalonde could be relied upon to supply their clients with the finest pastries in all Moscow, as well as every kind of French sweetmeat from bêtises of Cambrai to bergamotes of Nancy, not forgetting the marzipans of Aix and Agen plums.

'The surprising thing is that the house is still standing at all,' Marianne said. 'You are right. We'll try the inn. Another minute and it will be too late.'

They set off again, Shankala still at their heels, and endeavoured to force a passage through to the doorway. A lucky thinning of the stream moving towards the bridge at last allowed them to reach the three outside the inn, whose white aprons were stained by now with wine and blood.

Marianne spoke to the man.

'We are travellers from the south. We have come a long way. Can you give us lodging?' she asked, speaking in French but with an attempt to recover her former English accent.

For an innkeeper, the man did not appear to be very partial to strangers, because he regarded her suspiciously.

'Where have you come from?' he asked in the same language but with an accent so thick as to be almost incomprehensible.

'From Odessa.'

'That's a fair way. What are you? Italian? French?'

"No, no, English!' she told him quickly, smarting at the necessity for the lie, and also at her lack of success so far. 'I am Lady Selton and these – these people are my servants.'

The man's attitude relaxed. He was clearly convinced, perhaps less by the title she claimed than by the note of authority in her voice. As an Englishwoman she was entitled to a consideration he would not have granted to a member of any other nation, although he could not find it in him to approve of the passion for travel which seemed to afflict the females of that country. He even managed an apologetic smile as he explained that such few rooms as he had were all taken up with wounded but that if she would be satisfied with a corner of his coffee room he would be delighted to provide her with a fitting meal.

'Tomorrow,' he said, 'I'll see what I can do to find a more suitable lodging for milady but at least you'll be out of the cold for tonight, and out of the way of the troops coming back into Moscow, who won't be at all fit company for a young lady of quality.'

'Are they falling back to defend the city?'

'Why, to be sure they are, milady! Who could ever imagine our little father the Tsar allowing Antichrist to lay his wicked hands on our holy city? I, Ivan Borisovitch, I tell you that great things are going to be happening here and your ladyship will soon see what Russians can do in defence of their sacred soil.' And he added on a note of happy confidence that he had had it from a chasseur that Kutuzov, old Marshal 'Forwards' as they called him, would be in the city before nightfall.

'But then what was the cause of the uprising in the square just now?'

'Uprising? What uprising?'

'I saw it with my own eyes. Just about sunset I was standing outside the governor's palace where a man was being flogged when all at once a crowd of people waving weapons and screaming came rushing this way.'

Ivan Borisovitch laughed. 'That was no uprising, milady. Simply, news came this morning that the accursed French had reached the monastery of Mojaisk, some twenty leagues from here—'

Marianne lifted an eyebrow. "Yet another holy place?' she inquired sardonically. But the good man was equally impervious to French irony and to the English sense of humour. He merely crossed himself earnestly several times.

'Extremely holy, your ladyship! Our good people wanted to go out and meet the enemy and began assembling this morning at the Dorogomilov gate, waiting for the governor to lead them. But they waited all day in vain and then came back to see what could be keeping him. In any case, the arrival of the army would have forced them to turn back.'

Marianne was careful not to give expression to her thoughts, which were that Count Rostopchin had other fish to fry, his unfortunate chef amongst them, than to put himself at the head of a wild, undisciplined band and ride out with it to meet Napoleon's army.

Without further comment she allowed him to lead her to a corner of a large, low room without very much light in it. Ivan Borisovitch piled the settles in a corner between two windows with all the pillows and eiderdowns that he could spare and announced that supper would be served immediately.

The meal, washed down by a wine from the Crimea, was respectable but the night seemed to Marianne the longest she had ever lived through for, despite the cushions, she was unable to get a wink of sleep. Only Shankala, accustomed to lying on the bare ground, slept soundly. Even Jason managed to doze for an hour or two. But Marianne, seated at the window, spent the whole night watching what was happening outside. If she had been in a feather bed she would probably have slept no more because the noise was almost unbearable. All night long, the Russian armies marched past.

They came in two columns, on either side of the river, the uniforms of chasseurs, grenadiers, hussars and troops of the line alternating with the red and blue tunics of the cossacks and the goatskin caps of the Kalmuks, all advancing in the light of torches. Mounted regiments followed those on foot without undue confusion and the rumble of the guns echoed throughout the city.

In the smoky light of the torches that flickered over everything, even over the summit of the red walls of the Kremlin, the men's faces looked haggard and weary. Marianne found herself wondering if they had really come to take up a position in the city or whether they would pass fight through, for they all went on along the river as though making for the eastern gates, the very ones by which the enemy would not come.

All night long, too, Ivan Borisovitch, with his sister and his wife, stood at the door of their house tirelessly offering flasks of wine and mugs of kvass, only as the time went on the fine confidence and eagerness that he had displayed earlier in the evening seemed to crumble and melt away. From time to time he would ask some question of the soldier he was serving and each time the answer left him looking more anxious, with his head sunk a little lower between his shoulders.

At about four o'clock in the morning, just as the sky was growing light, there was a tremendous explosion somewhere down the river, and a flash so bright that it was as if the rising sun itself had blown up. But it was only the great bridge at the south-eastern corner of the Kremlin exploding in a blinding shower of sparks. It was then that Ivan Borisovitch, his face now grey and drawn, came over and shook Jason where he slept, then spoke to Marianne.

'I'm very sorry, milady, I am indeed,' he said awkwardly, 'but I'm afraid you'll have to go.'

'Go?' Jason echoed, once again forgetting his part as the respectable serving man. But the unhappy innkeeper was past the stage of noticing such niceties. He only nodded wretchedly and Marianne could see that there were tears in his eyes.

'Yes, you must go,' he repeated heavily. 'You must quit Moscow within the hour, milady. You are English and the Corsican ogre is coming. You will be in peril if you stay. Go! Go at once! Such a pretty lady as you are, you must not fall into their filthy hands.'

'But – but I thought the soldiers were coming to defend Moscow?'

'No – they are only marching through. They are running away… one of the soldiers told me they are going towards Riazan—' His voice choked suddenly. 'Our army is beaten – beaten! Our city is lost. We are all going, all of us! But you should be gone! We will only put a few things together and be gone also. I've a brother at Kaluga. I shall go to him.'

'You are abandoning your house?' Jason said. 'But what about the wounded men in your bedchambers?'

'They will have to trust in God. It will not help them much if I get myself killed defending them. I've a family to consider.'

It was no use arguing. The three travellers left and found themselves walking along the riverside, where a state of indescribable confusion reigned. The troops were still passing but now, in amongst them, were all those Muscovites who had stayed at home until that moment but were now leaving precipitately. As they passed the doorway to the foundling hospital they caught sight of a group of children about ten years of age, wearing some kind of green uniform, gathered in the porch about a tall fair man dressed like a superior officer but whose round, pleasant face was running with tears and his fists clenched in helpless rage.

The anguish of all these people was so real and poignant that Marianne could not help but be touched by it. However you looked at it and whichever side you were on, war was a dreadful thing, a calamity that people might endure but never really wanted, for even such enthusiasm as patriotism engendered was snuffed out like a light at the first real hardship.

To her awareness of taking part in a tragedy which was not her own was added the anxiety she felt at the thought of her lost friends. If she and Jason went on allowing themselves to be borne along on this flood of humanity they would find themselves outside Moscow, having lost all hope of ever finding Jolival, O'Flaherty and Gracchus again. Possessed by the idea of reaching Red Square and the Rostopchin palace at all costs, they infiltrated a stream of people making for the first bridge across the Moskva in order to be at least on the right side of the river.

'It must be possible to get to the square by cutting down a side street and going round a little way,' Jason said. 'The first thing is to get free of this mass of soldiers.'

But the chaos on the other side of the river was even worse and Marianne and Beaufort found themselves suddenly trapped at the corner of another bridge, or rather in the angle between two bridges, because a tributary, the Yaouza, ran into the Moskva at this point and there were bridges across both. The struggling mass of people was equally thick on each. The first rays of the morning sun shining on the Yaouza bridge showed them the figure of Count Rostopchin. Wearing a military greatcoat with huge gilt epaulettes, he was standing with his horsewhip in his hand flailing indiscriminately at all who came within his reach and shouting at them like one possessed to move along. He was doing his best to clear the way and Marianne soon saw why. Coming towards her, surrounded by the cheers and acclamations of the crowd, was a group of generals mounted on magnificent horses.

Dressed in white or dark green uniform coats and enormous black cocked hats adorned with nodding white plumes or black cocks' feathers, they were grouped about a very stout old gentleman on a little grey horse and might almost have been guarding him like some precious relic, or like a prisoner. The old man had a kindly face, although it looked very sad, and he was modestly attired in an old black military coat, quite free of decorations, with a long scarf wound round his neck and a laced cap on his grey hair. All around the excited crowds were shouting frantically: 'Kutuzov! Kutuzov!'

Then Marianne knew that she was looking at the famous field-marshal, ancient enemy of the young Bonaparte and the man whom the Tsar Alexander, who did not like him, had recalled from his provincial exile a bare two weeks before but in whom all Russia saw a man of destiny and their last hope.

All Russia? Perhaps not, for as the headquarters staff drew near to the narrow bridge on which Rostopchin stood the Count charged like a bull and began hurling a stream of abuse at the marshal, in spite of all that two of the plumed generals could do to restrain him. He had to be hustled away by main force, still roaring that Kutuzov was nothing but a traitor, running like a coward and abandoning the city he had sworn to defend. Kutuzov himself merely shrugged his heavy shoulders, mouthed a brief command and then went on his way, surrounded by his glittering staff.

Jason, whose great height gave him a partial view over the heads of the crowd, caught sight of an empty space behind them and grasping Marianne by the wrist drew her after him.

'Come on,' he cried. 'Now is the time to cross! We'll be able to reach the street just over there.'

They ran for it, still dragging the gipsy after them. The gap turned out to be caused by a troop of cossacks who had drawn rein at the door of a large monastery, where an officer had dismounted and was talking to an old, bearded priest in crow-black, funereal robes.

As ill-luck would have it, just as they reached the other side a sudden movement in the crowd, which was still coming on, jostled the cossacks and Marianne, jerked forward by Jason to avoid being crushed beneath their hooves, crashed hard against the priest and trod on his foot.

He uttered a squawk of shock and displeasure and, seeing that his assailant was a woman, pushed her away sharply but not before the officer had grabbed her roughly by the arm and, shouting at her in words she did not understand, was evidently trying to force her to her knees in order to beg trie man's pardon. Jason would have sprung to her assistance but two of the cossacks forcibly restrained him, while Marianne, still struggling furiously in the officer's grip, found herself suddenly staring into his face. It was no more than an instant, but they knew one another.

'Chernychev!' Marianne gasped.

It was none other. As blond and handsome as ever, and as exquisite also, in spite of the blood and dust that marred the dark green dolman, from which the Legion of Honour had disappeared, and in spite of the lines of fatigue on his pale face. His eyes, too, were the same, the same cruel, cat-like gaze, the green eyes slanting slightly upwards and the high cheekbones hinting at mongol blood. Oh yes, he was the same man, the same attractive, disturbing Count Alexander Chernychev, the Tsar's spy and the lover of half the ladies in Paris, although it was not easy to recognize the nonchalant seducer, so skilled at gathering the secrets of the Empire from the Princess Borghese's arms, in this hard-bitten warrior. But the recollection of their last meeting was enough to make Marianne try desperately to wrench herself from his grasp and escape.

She was wasting her time. She knew already that the slim, white fingers clenched about her arm could be as hard as steel. Besides, he too had leaped at once to the name that went with that passionate face and the huge eyes just then dilated with terror.

'Why, it's my princess!' he cried in French. 'The most precious of all my possessions. The fabulous emerald of the poor camel-driver on the road to Samarkand. By Our Lady of Kazan, this meeting was the very thing I needed to make me believe that God is still a Russian!'

Before Marianne could recover from the shock of this unexpected encounter, he had swept her into his arms and was kissing her in a way that drew a roar of approval from his own men and a shout of fury from Jason.

'Let her go!' he bellowed, casting prudence to the winds. 'Damn you, you filthy cossack! How dare you lay a hand on her!'

Against all expectation, Chernychev released Marianne and turned towards the other man still struggling in the grip of his cossacks.

'I think I have the right to handle my own property,' he said arrogantly. 'As for you, moujik, how dare you even speak to me? Are you jealous? Are you her lover also? Then here is something to make you change your tone!'

He raised the whip he held in his hand and slashed it viciously across Jason's face, so that the trace of the lash stood out in a red weal. The American strained frantically to break free of his captors but only succeeded in provoking their mirth.

'Coward!' he roared. 'You're nothing but a coward, Count Chernychev, who strikes only when he can do so with impunity and bandies insults in the same way! You don't hesitate to defame a woman who is a defenceless stranger here!'

'Defame the Princess Sant'Anna? How do I do that by speaking the truth? In the name of my patron St Alexander, may I die if I lied when I said that she is mine! As for you, I've a good mind to make you pay for your insolence under the knout. It's the only proper treatment for your kind.'

'Look closer! I'm not one of your moujiks. I'm a man who already has one account to settle with you. Have you forgotten the night they played Britannicus at the Comédie Française?'

The Russian's arm, already raised to strike again, fell slowly. He took another step towards Jason and scrutinized him closely. Then he broke into a shout of laughter.

'By God, it's true! The American! Captain – Captain Lefort, is it not?'

'Beaufort, if you please. Now that you know who I am, I am waiting for an explanation, not to say an apology, for what you have just said.'

'So be it! You have my apology – but only for mispronouncing your name.' He favoured Jason with a mocking grin. 'I've always had the greatest difficulty with foreign names. As for this lady—'

Unable to bear any more, Marianne ran to Jason.

'Don't listen to him! He's nothing but a mischief-maker. A spy – a wretch who uses friendship and love alike to serve his own interests—'

'My master's interests, madame! And Russia's!'

He snapped out an order to the men who were still holding Jason and they loosed their grip immediately. The American found his arms free once more and promptly used them gently to put aside Marianne who was trying to cling to him.

'Let be. I want to hear what he has to say for himself. And I must ask you not to interfere. This is a matter between gentlemen. Now, Monsieur,' he went on, turning to Chernychev. 'I am still waiting. Are you going to admit that you lied?'

The Count gave a shrug. 'If I were not afraid of shocking your sensibilities and exhibiting the worst of bad taste, I would have my men strip her clothes off here and now and you would then see that she bears a small scar on her side – my crest imprinted on her flesh after a night of love.'

'A night of love?' Marianne cried, beside herself. "You dare to call it a night of love? The barbarous way you treated me? He got into my bedchamber, Jason, by breaking the window. He knocked me half-unconscious and tied me to my bed with the cords from the curtains and then raped me! Do you hear? He raped me as if he were putting a city to the sack! And as if that were not enough, he wanted to leave some permanent mark upon me and so – and so he – he heated up the seal ring that he wears and pressed it, red hot, into my flesh. That is what he calls a night of love!'

With a cry of wrath, Jason sprang at the Russian with clenched fists raised to strike but Chernychev sidestepped quickly and, drawing his sword, pressed its point against his attacker's chest.

'Not so fast…! I may have been a trifle hasty that night and I acknowledge that "night of love" was a slight exaggeration – at least where I was concerned. It would have been better applied to the man who came after me – the one with whom I fought a duel, my charmer, in your garden…'

Marianne shut her eyes. She felt sick with anger and despair. She seemed to be caught in a web of half-truths more damaging than any insults. Jason's face had taken on a grey tinge. Even his eyes, strangely emptied of expression, seemed to have lost their colour and become as grey as steel.

'Chernychev,' she murmured faintly, 'you are a villain!'

'I don't see why. You can scarcely accuse me of lying, my sweet. Unhappily I'd not have very far to go to call the man himself to be my witness. He can't be more than a day's march away at this moment. He is with Marshal Victor's corps which is pursuing Wittgenstein. But with your permission, we will finish this interesting conversation at another time. My men are blocking the way for those coming up behind. I'll order up mounts for you and—'

'Indeed you will not,' Jason interrupted him with ominous coolness. 'I am not going one step in your company, nor have I any reason to do so.'

The Russian half-closed his eyes so that they gleamed like bright green slits. Still smiling, he slowly lowered his sword.

'You think not? I can think of an excellent reason, and that is that you have no choice! Either you come with me and we settle our differences when we make camp tonight, or I have you shot as a spy. Because I am sure there are other reasons for your presence here than simply to bring my fair conquest to me. As to the lady herself, I have only to say the word – tell this crowd of people here precisely who she is – and she would be torn to pieces in five minutes. So choose – but choose fast.'

'Then say the word!' Marianne cried. 'Say it and be done, for no power on earth will induce me to go with you. You are the most despicable person of my acquaintance. Make them kill me! I hate you—'

'Be quiet!' Jason ordered her roughly. 'I've already told you this is a matter between men. And you, sir, I'll have you know that I propose a third course. We will fight here and now. You seem very ready to forget that you left Paris within a few hours of calling me out and that I have every right to call you a coward.'

'When the Tsar commands, I obey. I am a soldier first and foremost. I was obliged to leave, much to my regret, but I repeat, sir, you shall have your satisfaction tonight.'

'No, I will have it now. Damnation, Count Chernychev, it's no easy task to get you to fight. But perhaps this will do it.' And with that Jason struck the Russian two swift, glancing blows across the face. Chernychev went very pale.

'Now,' Jason asked, almost pleasantly, 'will you fight?'

The Count's face was waxen white against the dark green of his uniform. His nostrils were pinched and he seemed to have difficulty with his breathing. He looked as if he were about to be sick.

'Yes,' he hissed at last through clenched teeth. 'Give me time to get my troop on its way and then we'll fight!'

In another moment the road was cleared and the cossacks had ridden off, with thunderous cries of encouragement, leaving only a dozen of their number and a youthful, beardless captain remaining. Chernychev turned to take his leave of the priest with whom he had been talking when Marianne bumped into him but he had already gone inside, shocked either by the violent turn events seemed to be taking or by his fellow-countryman's behaviour towards the unknown woman, and the monastery doors had closed silently behind him. The Count shrugged with an air of annoyance and muttered something under his breath. Then he turned back to his adversary.

'Come,' he said. 'At the end of that side street you see there is a small square in between the monastery wall and the gardens of two large private houses. It is very quiet and will serve our purpose admirably. Prince Aksakov will see to the lady.' The youthful captain thus indicated lapsed momentarily from the military rigidity of his stance and hurriedly offered his arm to the half-fainting Marianne.

'If you please, Madame,' he said in fluent, virtually accentless French, bowing with unexpected grace. This drew a bark of laughter from Chernychev.

'You may address the lady as Serene Highness, my dear Boris,' he said sardonically. 'It is no less than her due.' Then, indicating Shankala who was still standing silently by. 'And who is this? She appears to belong to you also.'

'The Princess's maid,' Jason put in quickly, before Marianne had time to find her voice.

'She looks more like a gipsy than a respectable servant but then your tastes were always a trifle bizarre, Marianne my dear. Well then, I think we may make a move.'

They set off, the two parties to the projected duel leading, followed by Marianne leaning heavily on the young officer's arm and cudgelling her brains desperately for some way of stopping this duel which could only end in tragedy. For if Jason did manage to save his own life running the Russian through, who could say what the cossacks would do to them in their rage at the loss of their leader? At the moment they were pressing close on all sides and indeed serving a useful purpose in keeping back the press of armed men which had once more overtaken them.

But in another second or two they had reached the shady square and found it as silent and deserted as if it had been the middle of the night. With its blind walls and closely shuttered windows it was like something from a dead world and at its entrance the clamour of the near-by street fell oddly silent. The long, leafy branches of a gigantic sycamore, dark green on one side, soft and silvery beneath, stretched over the gilded railings of a garden wall and the ground below them was quite flat.

'This seems a good enough place,' Jason observed. 'I trust that your – er – kindness will extend to the loan of a weapon?'

But the captain was already freeing his sword from its silken knot and tossing it over to him. Jason caught it and drew it from the sheath and, after testing the blade against his thumb, tried a few passes with it. The sun glittered on the flashing steel.

Chernychev, meanwhile, had thrown off his cloak and unbuttoned his jacket, which he threw to one of his men. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he ripped off his shirt of fine lawn. Jason smiled grimly and did the same with his blouse.

Stripped to the waist, the two men looked about equally matched for strength but they might indeed have belonged to two different races so great was the contrast between the white skin of the one and the reddish hair on his chest, with the body of the other, deeply tanned by long exposure to the sea air. Without so much as a glance at the woman for whose sake they were about to fight, the pair took up their stations facing one another underneath the sycamore where the shadow was thickest and where the sun was least likely to bother them.

Chernychev, having tested the edge of his own sword, saluted his opponent with a sardonic smile.

'I regret that I have no better weapon to offer you. I fear you may not be familiar with the sabre.'

Jason grinned back at him wolfishly.

'I'm touched by your solicitude but have no fear. I shall do very well with this. A naval cutlass is far heavier.' He returned the salute with an ironical swish of his blade.

Chernychev glanced briefly at the girl clinging, pale as death, to his junior officer's arm and murmured softly: 'Do you not desire to say farewell to the Princess? It is unlikely that both of us will emerge from this encounter alive.'

'No, for I expect to live. But I have a word to say to you before we engage. If I should die, will you give me your word to let her go? I want her taken to within reach of the French lines. No doubt once there she will be able to claim the protection of the man with whom you fought that night in the garden.'

A hideous stab of pain shot through Marianne, for Jason's tone left no doubt as to his feelings towards her at that moment. Jealousy, reawakened, had brought with it scorn and contempt. At that moment she even feared that in his revulsion he might court death deliberately.

'It's not true! I swear to you by my father's honour, by my mother's memory that General Fournier – for he is the man in question – is nothing more to me than a friend who came to my rescue at a moment when I stood in dire need of help. He loves my dearest friend, Fortunée Hamelin and for her sake defended me! He called on me that night to thank me for interceding for him to get him restored to his command. May I drop dead this instant if that is not the whole truth! It was his generosity which enabled this dastard here, who had done nothing to deserve it, to make good his escape when the law officers discovered them, while Fournier himself left the house under armed escort. Dare you deny it, Chernychev?'

'How can I, after all I was not there to see! But you may well be right. It – it was certainly the arrival of the officers which prompted my own flight.'

'Ah! There you are!'

Marianne felt suddenly weak with relief, so that she was obliged to sink down on to the low wall at the base of the railings, giving thanks with all her heart that the Russian had shrunk at that moment, when he might be about to meet his Maker, from adding one more lie to the burden on his soul.

Jason threw a quick glance at her and within the forest of his beard his teeth flashed in a suggestion of a smile.

'We can discuss that later. En garde, sir!'

The two blades engaged with a violence born of the hatred that burned in each man's breast, while Marianne, leaning heavily on Aksakov, could only put her trust in God and embark on a long, tremulous prayer. Chernychev fought like a man with no time to lose, tight-lipped, his face a mask of fury. He was constantly on the attack and his curved blake hissed through the air as fiercely as if he were mowing an invisible field of corn.

Jason, on his side, was content at first merely to parry his strokes without taking the initiative. He had spoken confidently enough but even so the strange weapon took some getting used to, for although somewhat lighter than the seaman's cutlass it was also without a guard. Moreover, he was studying his opponent's swordplay. Feet planted firmly on the ground, the upper part of his body almost motionless and the sword blade whistling about him, he looked like nothing so much as one of those Hindu idols with a multiplicity of arms.

But then, as Chernychev pressed home his attack with renewed vigour, he fell back a pace and in doing so caught his foot against a stone. Marianne cried out sharply and the Russian, taking instant advantage of the momentary mishap, followed up with a lunge that would have pierced the American right through if he had not made a lightning recover and parried the thrust. As it was the sabre merely glanced across his chest leaving a few bright drops of blood in its wake.

This narrow escape roused afresh all the anger which had seemed momentarily to have deserted Jason. Now it was he who began pressing his adversary who gave ground but not quickly enough to avoid a stab in the fleshy part of the arm. Jason pressed home his advantage and a second, more determined stroke wounded Chernychev in the shoulder. He cursed softly and despite the pain attempted a riposte but the American's sword flashed out a third time and caught him in the chest.

He staggered and dropped to his knees as Jason sprang back. His lips writhed in a brave attempt to smile.

'I have it, I think…" he whispered and fainted.

There was a moment's shocked silence. The cossacks stared down at the tall white figure lying on the ground as if they could not believe their eyes. But it lasted no more than a second. As Marianne sped to Jason with a sobbing moan of relief and he let fall the weapon he had just used with such deadly effect, Aksakov ran to his superior officer.

'Come away,' Marianne gasped breathlessly. 'Come away quickly! It was a fair fight and you won but you must not stay here—'

The young captain finished his examination of the wound and turned to look up at them with a combination of anger and relief.

'He is not dead,' he said. 'And it's as well for you he's not, for I would have had you shot without delay.'

Jason was putting on his blouse but at these words he stiffened and, turning slowly, subjected the officer to a haughty stare.

'Is that your conception of honour in an affair between gentlemen? I was the victor, therefore I am free.'

'The laws governing the duel do not hold in time of war. I shall not kill you because you have not killed him but I am taking you with me. You are my prisoner. The Ataman must decide what is to be done with you. Only the lady may go free.'

'But I don't want to!' Marianne protested. 'Either you free us both or you take us both. I will not leave him.'

She clung round Jason's neck but at a word from the Prince two men stepped forward and detached her forcibly while others overpowered Jason and tied him by the wrists to one of their saddlebows.

When she realized that she was being left alone in the panic-stricken city while Jason was led away to an unknown fate, perhaps even to his death, Marianne burst into uncontrollable weeping. She forgot everything, her reason for being in that place, her desire to reach the Emperor and warn him, even the need to find Arcadius and the others. All she knew was that these wild-looking men, hardly one of whom understood a word she said, were like an unyielding wall about to divide her for ever from the man she loved.

When the men restraining her released their hold to mount their horses again, she ran to Aksakov, who was supervising the removal of his captain, and cast herself at his feet.

'I implore you, take me too! What harm can it do? You will have two prisoners instead of one and I demand to share my friend's fate!'

"That may be so, Madame. But it was expressly stated as a condition of the fight that you, and you alone, should be set free. My duty demands it.'

'And what is freedom to me? You make great play with your duty, sir, yet by arresting the victor in an affair of honour you are contravening its first rule! Oh, I beg of you – you cannot know how much this means to me—'

Jason's voice, sounding strangely cold and distant, interrupted her.

'Be quiet, Marianne! I will not have you humble yourself for my sake. I forbid you to entreat him further. If this officer insists on behaving dishonourably I am not going to make one move to prevent him. Nor will I permit you to do so.'

'But don't you understand, he means to separate us? We are going to be parted, here and now, and they may be taking you to face a firing squad.'

The corner of his mouth lifted a little in his familiar, mocking smile. Then he shrugged.

'That is in God's hands. Think of yourself. You know quite well that you'll come through. You won't be friendless in the city for very long.'

'But I don't want to! I don't want to! I want to stay with you, to share your fate whatever it may be.'

She was striving desperately to reach him and cling to him, even at the risk of being trampled by the horses, but already the squad of mounted men had closed in on him. She uttered a piercing cry, like a wounded animal: 'Jason! Don't leave me!'

Aksakov, too, was lifting himself into the saddle as she turned to him.

'Don't you understand that I love him?'

It was his turn to shrug and he made her a derisory little bow.

'I dare say. But we must abide by the conditions. Your Serene Highness is free – free even to follow us if you wish, although at the risk of being trampled by the crowd and lost without trace.'

With that, paying no further attention to her, the little troop formed up about the wounded man who had been hoisted as comfortably as possible on to his own horse until a conveyance could be found for him and, with the prisoner in their midst, rode off down a side street which, in due course, would bring them up with the body of the retreating army.

Marianne watched them go. In her wretchedness it was even some time before the significance of Aksakov's last words sunk in. Not until the last horse had vanished round the corner of the street did her brain grasp the fact that nothing, as the captain had said, prevented her from following, whatever the dangers involved. As he had just told her, she was free.

The thought of her friends whom she was abandoning with little hope of ever seeing them again crossed her mind briefly but she dismissed it. Her fate was bound to Jason's. She could not and would not have it otherwise. She had to follow him to the last moment, even if that last moment were very close now. After all that she had been through to find and keep him, anything else would be senseless desertion and a betrayal of herself.

She threw back her head and took a deep breath, then set off in her turn along the same way that the cossacks had taken. She had crossed the square and was just entering the street when she saw Shankala.

The gipsy was standing in the middle of the narrow thoroughfare with her arms spread wide as though to bar the way. All through the fight Marianne had not thought of her once, for the girl had an incomparable talent for vanishing into the tiniest patch of shadow and remaining there unseen and unheard. But now she had shown herself and Marianne knew by the grin of hatred and triumph that distorted her brown features that if she wanted to go after her lover it would not be without a fight. Too late, she understood that by pretending, against all probability, to be pursuing the man who had cast her off, the half-wild gipsy girl had all the time been aiming at nothing but the conquest of the master she had chosen for herself and taking him from the woman who might consider him her own rightful property.

Marianne stepped out boldly towards the other woman who, in her blood-red garments, looked like nothing so much as one of those crosses that were once drawn on the doors of houses where the plague had struck. Throwing out her arm in a commanding gesture, Marianne ordered her to let her pass.

'Begone!' she said sternly.

The other gave a shrill, high laugh and then, before Marianne could lay a hand on her to put her out of the way, she had drawn a dagger from her belt. The short blade gleamed for a moment in the sun and then she struck.

With a sound like a groan, Marianne collapsed on to the earth, already trampled by the horses' hooves. Shankala was bending over her, her weapon already lifted again to deliver one final stroke, when a sudden outcry made her look quickly back towards the farther end of the square. Instantly she abandoned her intention and instead ran swiftly after the cossacks.

CHAPTER THREE The Player Queen

Pain bit sharply through the cocoon of thick mist which for Marianne had replaced the world of reality. It was like a persistent burning sensation and she tried to shake it off but her invisible tormentor refused to be dismissed.

A voice was speaking, a feminine voice with a lilting Italian accent.

'It's better than I feared. Madre mia, but she was lucky! I quite thought she was dead.'

'I too,' agreed a second voice, this time without an accent. 'But her assailant did not. She was just about to strike again when you shouted out and banged the shutters, Vania dear. Luckily we frightened her.'

The voices belonged definitely to the real world. Marianne opened her eyes and nearly closed them again at once at the strange picture made by the two women bending over her in the light of a candle. She who held the light was a handsome woman, no longer in her first youth, with red hair, a pale complexion and golden-brown eyes, dressed in the velvet farthingale, starched ruff and peaked head-dress of a renaissance princess, while the other, who was clad in the dark red draperies of a Roman matron, bent over the injured girl energetically sponging the wound, with such an expression of concentration on her fine, regular features below the piled-up hair and Roman diadem adorned with flame-coloured plumes that her black brows met in a frown above her dark eyes and the tip of a pointed tongue protruded from between shapely red lips.

She was dressing Marianne's wound with the aid of a bottle of brandy and a wad of lint with a thoroughness that drew a moan of protest from her patient.

'You're hurting me,' she protested.

The wearer of the plumes paused in her work and addressed a beaming smile to her companion.

'She speaks French! And without a trace of accent,' she cried, giving full range to a magnificent contralto voice. 'How strange that we do not know her!'

'I am French,' Marianne said. 'And I gather that you are also. But, please, you are hurting me.'

The other lady laughed, revealing small, pointed teeth, irregular but of a flawless whiteness.

'Be glad that you can still feel pain,' she observed. 'In any case, we cannot help it. The girl's knife may have been dirty. The wound must be cleaned.'

'Besides, it is finished,' the Roman lady said cheerfully. 'The wound is not very deep. I've probed it and by good fortune I have with me a quite miraculous ointment. I am going to bandage you up and, with a little rest, I think you will do very well.'

She was doing so as she spoke, anointing the wound with a kind of thick cream that smelled agreeably of balsam and concocting a makeshift bandage out of a pad and a long strip which the renaissance princess had ripped from the bottom of what had once been a white petticoat. This done, she reached for the brandy bottle again, poured a little into a glass and, placing two or three cushions under Marianne's head, obliged her to drink it.

Now that she was sitting up, Marianne could see that she was lying on a large sofa in a fair-sized room but the shutters, drawn tightly across the windows, made it too dark for her to make out many details. However, the candle in the princess's hand enabled her to make out strange shapes of stacked-up and dilapidated furniture.

She felt stronger after the brandy and made an effort to smile at the two women who were regarding her with some anxiety.

'Thank you,' she said. 'I think I owe you a great deal. But how did you find me?'

The Roman lady stood up, displaying a queenly yet graceful form, and moved to a window, her dark red robes swishing dramatically around her.

'We saw it all from this window. Not very clearly, of course, because you were at the far end of the square.'

'You saw it all?'

'Everything. The cossacks and that splendid duel… not that we understood much of what it was about, or of what happened afterwards. It was quite thrilling, and most mysterious. But we should never have interfered if it had not been for the last moment when that woman went for you with the knife. Then we threw back the shutters and shouted so that she ran away and we went down and fetched you up here. And that is all about it.'

"Not quite. Won't you tell me where I am?'

The woman in the ruff burst out laughing.

'That is the first thing you should have asked. Where am I? What's happening? What is that noise? That is the sort of thing heroines always say in plays when they come round after a faint. There is some excuse for you, though, because we must have looked very strange to you, so I will put your mind at rest. You are in a room over the stables in the Dolgorouki Palace. The place is left empty for the best part of the time and the porter, who is a friend of ours, let us in. I might go on to puzzle you still further by introducing myself as Mary Stuart and this lady as Dido, but I will rather tell you that I am Madame Bursay, director of the Théàtre Français in Moscow. And I daresay you will feel more honoured by the attentions of your temporary doctor when I tell you that she is none other than that celebrated singer Vania di Lorenzo, of La Scala, Milan—'

'And of the Théâtre des Italiens in Paris! Admirer and personal friend of our great Emperor Napoleon himself!' Dido concluded with a triumphant air.

In spite of the pain in her shoulder and the misery which had returned with the return of consciousness, Marianne could not help smiling.

'You too?' she said. 'I have heard much praise of your voice and talents, Signora. I myself am Princess Sant'Anna and I—'

Before she could finish, Vania di Lorenzo had snatched the candle impetuously out of her friend's hand and was holding it so that its light fell on her face.

'Sant'Anna?' she exclaimed. 'I knew I had seen you somewhere! Princess Sant'Anna you may be but to me you are the singer, Maria Stella, the Emperor's nightingale and the woman who preferred a titled husband to a brilliant career. I know, for I was at the Théàtre Feydeau on the night of your debut. What a voice! What a talent! And what a crime to let it all go!'

The effect of this outburst was almost magical because, notwithstanding Vania's genuine disapproval, it completely broke the ice between the three women by reason of that amazing sense of fellowship which exists between all theatre people under any circumstances, however bizarre.

To Madame Bursay, as to Signora di Lorenzo, Marianne had ceased to be a great lady, or even a lady of quality, she was simply one of their own kind, no more – and certainly no less.

While they made a meal of smoked pork and dried apricots washed down with beer – the diet of the refugees in the Dolgorouki Palace was distinctly unorthodox, being derived almost exclusively from the contents of the palace cellars – the actress and the prima donna explained to their new friend how they came to be there.

Madame Bursay and her company had been holding a dress rehearsal of Schiller's Maria Stuart in the city's Grand Theatre the previous evening and Vania had been trying on the costume in which she was to sing Dido in a few days' time, when the theatre had been invaded by a furious mob. The arrival of the first of the wounded from Borodino and the disastrous news they brought with them had driven the people of Moscow wild with rage. A wave of hatred against the French had arisen and spread like wildfire. The people had turned on everything in the city that had any connection with the hated nation. Shops had been broken into and plundered, private dwellings ravaged and even some French émigrés with no love for Napoleon had suffered.

"We were the best known,' Madame Bursay sighed, 'and the best loved also, until this unhappy day.'

'Unhappy!' Marianne cried. 'When the Emperor is victorious and will soon be in Moscow?'

'I too am a loyal subject of His Majesty,' the tragedienne said, smiling a little, 'but if you had lived through what we did yesterday—It was horrible! At one time we thought we were going to be burned to death in our own theatre. We had barely time to escape by way of the cellars, just as we were, and then we had to wait for nightfall before we could leave our underground refuge. It was impossible to reach our hotel. Lekain, one of our company who was not rehearsing, did manage to get there unobserved and saw our rooms ransacked and all our belongings thrown into the street and burned. And what was worse, while we women were escaping, our stage manager, Domergue, was caught by the mob and nearly torn to pieces. Fortunately, a company of police coming to prevent the theatre from being burned down was able to intervene and he was taken into custody. It seems that Count Rostopchin has announced his intention of sending him to Siberia!'

'Along with his own cook,' Marianne said, sighing. 'It seems to be a passion with him. But what became of the rest of your company?'

Vania made a helpless gesture. 'We don't know. Apart from Louise Fusil and Madame Anthony who are here with us, living across the courtyard, and young Lekain, who has gone out to try and get news, we know nothing of the others' whereabouts. It seemed wiser to separate – being in costume we looked strange enough on our own, but all together! Well, imagine Mary Queen of Scots and all her followers, her guards and ladies in waiting and so forth all walking about the streets of Moscow! We can only hope that they have been as lucky as we are and have found somewhere where they can hide in comparative safety until the Emperor enters Moscow.'

'You took a very great risk in coming out to rescue me,' Marianne said quietly. 'God knows what might have happened to you if you had been seen.'

Vania laughed. 'What was happening in the square was so exciting that we never thought of that,' she said. 'It was like a scene from a play! And we had been so bored. So of course we never hesitated. But in any case I don't believe that there is anyone still living in this part of the city.'

Inevitably, after hearing from the other two, Marianne had to tell something of her own story. She did it as briefly as possible because she was beginning to feel extraordinarily sleepy, as well as slightly feverish from her wound. She dwelt especially on her fears for Jason and her sorrow at having failed to find her friends again. Then, overcome by emotion, she broke down and cried and Vania came and sat on the edge of the sofa and, throwing back the folds of her robe, laid a cool hand on her new friend's brow.

'That's enough of that kind of talk. You are feverish and should rest. When the porter comes up this evening, we will try and persuade him to let us have a better room so that you may have a bed at least. Until then, you must try to forget about your friends because there is nothing you can do to help them. When the French have entered the city – then I expect all those who are in hiding will come out again—'

'If there is still a city at all,' said a cavernous voice from the depths of the room. The two women turned towards it.

'Ah, Lekain! Here you are at last,' Madame Bursay exclaimed. 'What is the news?'

A young man of about thirty, fair-haired with a weak but not unattractive face and graceful in a rather effeminate fashion, stepped out of the shadows. His clothes would have been fashionably elegant but for the dust which covered them and he seemed on the point of exhaustion. His blue eyes rested on the faces of all three women in turn and he summoned up a grin.

'The longer I live abroad, the more I love my own country,' he declaimed, adding in a more ordinary tone: 'Things are going from bad to worse. I don't know if the Emperor will reach Moscow in time to save us. My compliments, Madame,' he went on, turning to Marianne. 'I've no idea who you are but you look as pale as you are beautiful.'

'This is a friend I came upon by chance,' Vania announced. 'Signoria Maria Stella of the Theatre Feydeau. But tell us quickly, young man, what is the latest threat?'

'Give me a drink first. My tongue feels like a dry sponge. It's too big for my mouth.'

'It will be bigger still after a good soaking then,' Madame Bursay retorted but she poured him a full mug of beer which he swallowed down with eyes half-closed and an expression of utter bliss upon his face. Disdaining such trifling matters as good manners, he smacked his lips and bolted down a slice of ham, helping it on its way with a second draught of beer, then threw himself down bodily upon a decrepit armchair which groaned under his weight, and fetched a deep, lugubrious sigh.

'Even when one's body may be doomed to extinction at any minute,' he remarked, 'there is still a great deal of comfort to be found in feeding it.'

'Well, you're a cheerful one, I must say,' Vania scolded him. 'What makes you think we may be doomed to imminent extinction, as you call it?'

The things that are happening in the city. The rumour is spreading that Murat's cavalry is hard on Kutuzov's heels. The civilian population is in full flight.'

'That's no news. They've been fleeing for three days.'

'Maybe, but this is somewhat different. Yesterday it was the rich, the nobility and gentry. Today, it's anyone who has anything to lose. Only beggars, the bedridden and the dying will be left. And by this time all of them are in despair because they are taking away the sacred images from all the churches and monasteries to keep them from falling into the hands of Antichrist and his marauding hordes. Near the church of Peter and Paul I saw the people escorting the wounded to the Lefort Hospital, throw themselves down in the dust at the feet of the priests, stretching out their arms to the icons and pleading for them to remain, crying that the wounded would surely die, and then move on before the priests so much as lifted a hand to ask them, such is the habit of submission among these people. But there is worse to come—'

"What now?' Madame Bursay said irritably. 'Why must you always save everything for dramatic effect, Lekain?'

'It's you I'm trying to save! Before leaving Moscow, that damned Rostopchin threw open all the prisons, letting all the rogues and thieves and murderers they contained loose upon the city. And they'll not leave it without filling their pockets. I saw a gang of them getting into the Kremlin by the Saviour's Gate – and I can tell you, none of them were stopping to bow to the icon there, nor was there anyone to remind them of the law! I think they'll probably break into every house of any size.'

'And you stand there moralizing!' Vania cried indignantly. 'We must warn the caretaker, tell him to barricade the doors and windows and – and – I don't know what else!'

Lekain laughed grimly. 'The caretaker? He's a long way off by now and probably still running. I saw him going off with a cartload of stuff as I came back. If we have to put up a fight, there'll be none but ourselves to do it. Besides, I shouldn't think we'd much to fear up here—'

Marianne had been following her new friends' conversation in silence, but now she voiced her own opinion.

'But this store room is near the main gate, isn't it? And surely they'll try to break the first doors and windows they come to? We'd be more likely to escape them in the servants' quarters.'

The young actor had been gazing at her with evident pleasure but now he smiled with evident intent to captivate.

'I said a moment ago that you were as pale as you were beautiful, Madame, and now I say that you are as wise as you are both. The servants' rooms in the attics seem to me an admirable refuge – unless the mob should see fit to fire the house, in which case we shall undoubtedly be roasted, or if—'

'If, if, if,' Vania broke in impatiently. 'You can prove anything with if!For myself,' she added nobly, tossing the folds of her antique robe over one shoulder, 'I'd rather be roasted than ravished!'

'You have the oddest tastes, then,' Lekain said with a grimace. "That's what comes of singing Dido. It gives you a fancy for a funeral pyre. At all events, I think the lady is right. We had better move. Since the caretaker has absconded, we should be able to break into the palace itself and get upstairs. We may not be troubled at all. Moscow is very large and there are many palaces. But in any case we shall be safer there, and it may enable us to hold out until the French enter Moscow. I'd better go and fetch the others.'

Suiting the action to the words, he left the store room and made his way across the courtyard to knock on the door of the little chamber where the other two actresses had taken up residence. Meanwhile, Vania crossed over to where Marianne was pushing back her cushions and struggling to rise and bent over her.

'How are you feeling? Do you think that you can walk – enough to climb up three flights of stairs? We will help you all we can.'

The younger woman looked up at the Italian with a washed-out smile.

'I must. I do feel a little faint still, but I think I can manage. Have I lost a great deal of blood?'

'A certain amount. But you must have an excellent constitution for it stopped flowing quite quickly. Come, I will support you.'

Slipping an arm under Marianne's sound shoulder, she gripped her round the waist and helped her to stand. There followed a bad moment for the sufferer who felt as if the walls were revolving round her and all the blood she had left had drained into her feet.

'Have a little more brandy,' Madame Bursay suggested, surveying her blanched cheeks with some anxiety.

'It will make me drunk—'

'As if that mattered! Once we are upstairs you can be put to bed and sleep. The thing is to get there.'

Marianne meekly swallowed a thimbleful of the aromatic spirit. A trace of colour came into her cheeks but it was at Vania that she smiled gratefully.

'Very well then,' she said simply.

While Madame Bursay made a bundle of their provisions in the remains of the torn-up petticoat and added as many cushions as she could carry, Marianne and Vania made their way with slow, cautious steps towards the door. The Florentine singer's arm was firm and steady and with her help Marianne was able to walk better than she had feared. However, she found that she had an odd, instinctive confidence in her new friend, and with it a feeling of having known her all her life. It may have been something to do with the scent of roses that clung about the dark red robe, reminding her of Fortunée Hamelin.

In the courtyard they found Lekain struggling, with the assistance of two young women, one dressed as an ingenue, the other in a page's costume, to lift into place the heavy iron bar which secured the palace against intruders at night. By the time they had finished, they were all three very red and out of breath but this did not prevent them throwing themselves enthusiastically at the main doorway of the palace itself, consisting of an imposing pair of oak leaves framed by a colonnade. Lekain got the better of it without much difficulty with the aid of some tools he had picked up in the store room and, without pausing for introductions, the little band of fugitives swept inside. Their voices rang through the huge and splendid vestibule as though in a cathedral.

Impressed, despite herself, by the grandeur of the place, Madame Bursay chuckled and said softly: 'We must look a weird sight in our stage finery against all this marble and gilt.'

'Indeed?' Vania took her up at once. Tor myself, I feel perfectly at home here. One has only to know the right way to go about it.' And she proceeded to demonstrate how perfectly at ease she found herself in her surroundings by embarking on a spirited rendering of Don Alfonso's aria from Cost fan Tutte:

'Fortunato I'uom che prende

Ogni cosa per buon verso...'

all the while continuing to support Marianne up the length of the monumental staircase.

Louise Fusil, the girl dressed as a page, who had been nicknamed Rossignolette, or Little Nightingale, by her companions, joined her sweet voice to the Italian's for the fun of it and in a moment all the others had been carried away by one of those moods of collective hilarity which beset theatre people sometimes at the gravest moments, almost like a need for reassurance, and were playing away at imaginary instruments to accompany them. Marianne tried to join in but her injured shoulder hurt her too badly and she was forced to give up.

All the same, it was on the whole a gay little procession which made its way up to the attics and the servants' bedrooms. These, naturally, did not compare with the splendour of the rooms below and they found only plain deal furniture, straw mattresses and common earthenware ewers and basins. Even so it was a relief to Marianne to be able to stretch herself on a bed which, although unmade, was at least clean, which was not the case with all of those they found.

Vania remained with her and the others took possession of rooms near by, while Lekain went downstairs again and took it upon himself to explore the cellars of the palace, which he had been unable to do while the caretaker remained in residence, and procure food for the uninvited guests.

He came back bowed down with the weight of two enormous baskets, one of which contained the wherewithal to make a fire and an assortment of kitchen utensils, and the other a supply of food. From this second basket protruded the necks of a number of venerable, dusty bottles boasting some noble waxen seals.

'I have found marvels,' he proclaimed triumphantly. 'Look here! Champagne, caviar, smoked fish, sugar – and coffee!'

The word and its associations were enough to rouse Marianne who, overcome with pain and weariness, had been on the point of falling asleep.

'Coffee?' she cried, raising herself on one elbow. 'Is it true?'

'True? Only smell this, fair dame,' Lekain told her, waving the little canvas bag he had been opening under her nose. 'And I've brought everything we need to roast it and make enough for everyone. You shall have a cup of it upon the instant. Only trust me and you'll see that when it comes to coffee I am something of a genius.'

Marianne smiled, in amusement and gratitude.

'You are certainly a wonderful man. I don't know if this will be my last night on earth but at least I shall have you to thank for being able to face it with a cup of coffee inside me. There's nothing I like better.'

She drank, indeed, a second and even a third cup, for Lekain had not exaggerated his skill, disregarding Vania's not unreasonable warnings that it would keep her from closing her eyes all night. But Marianne had already passed one sleepless night in Ivan Borisovitch's inn and she fell asleep almost as soon as the third cup was empty.

She woke to a sustained noise and a strong sense of danger in the blackest part of the night, with the feeling of terror that comes of waking in a strange place. She could not remember in the least where she was, but then she made out Vania di Lorenzo's figure etched, with its diadem and plumes, against the lighter square of the window.

'What's happening?' she asked, instinctively keeping her voice low.

"We have visitors. It was only to be expected. This is one of the richest and most beautiful houses in the city.'

'What time is it?'

'One o'clock, or a little after.'

Marianne slipped out of bed, finding it less painful than she had feared, and joined the singer at the window but there was little to be seen beyond lights from below shining out over the trees in the garden. The noise, however, was growing louder all the time: shouts, laughter, a good deal of drunken singing and now and then the crash of breaking glass or a heavier thud announcing that some large piece of furniture had been overturned.

'How did they get in?' Marianne asked, for their window looked out over the garden and not towards the main courtyard and she had no means of telling.

'Over the stable roof,' came Lekain's voice from behind her. He sounded worried. 'I saw how they did it. There were two of them with ropes and grapnels and once inside they lifted the bar and let in the rest.'

'What are we going to do?' This from Louise Fusil who had followed him into the room. 'I wonder if we were wise to hide up here. How do we know they won't come up to look at the servants' quarters when they've finished plundering downstairs? We might have done better to hide in the garden—'

'In the garden? Look—'

A fresh mob had appeared on the lawn which lay below the terrace giving on to the main salons. In the light of the torches they carried, the watchers above could make out men with fierce, bearded faces clad in ragged blouses and bits of blankets tied with string. They were armed with pitchforks, knives and guns and they were advancing silently, like hunting cats, upon the palace which must have been shining like a vast lantern in the night.

'They must have climbed over the railings or over a wall somewhere,' Lekain said gloomily. 'That's cut off our retreat.'

"Not necessarily,' Vania answered him. 'There are two sets of back stairs, one at each end of this passage. I will stand by one and you by the other and if either of us hears anyone coming up we will try to escape by the other and out into the garden.'

'Very well. We can only hope that if they do come it won't occur to them to do it by both stairs at once.'

'Always the optimist, I see,' Vania retorted, and she swept off, as regally imperturbable as ever, to take up the post she had assigned to herself.

The four women who were left separated also. Madame Bursay and Mademoiselle Anthony went into one of the rooms facing the front of the building while Marianne and Louise Fusil stayed where they were, listening with thudding hearts.

Before long, the uproar had swelled to infernal proportions. The yells and screams reached fever pitch and were punctuated by loud, rumbling crashes that shook the whole solidly built edifice as though the earth had moved beneath it.

'Anyone would think they were tearing down the walls,' Marianne said faintly.

'Perhaps they are. But I think they have started fighting amongst themselves,' Louise Fusil answered quietly.

It was true that the cries from below had altered. The drunken bellowing and the yells of joy and triumph were mingled now with groans and shrieks of pain. Apparently the robbers who had entered by way of the park were endeavouring to persuade their fellows inside to part with a share of the plunder. To the listeners, suspended, as it were, above the tumult, the murderous orgy had something horrible about it, for it told them all too clearly that the moment when these human fiends in their blind fury should discover their refuge, would be their last.

Marianne's heart thudded in her chest. Her hands felt icy cold and she had forgotten the pain in her shoulder. She slipped out quietly into the passage which ran down the centre of the house, illumined at either end by a round window above the stairhead. Vania and Lekain stood motionless beside the stairways, straining their ears to catch the sounds from below.

'Still nothing?' Marianne whispered.

Both shook their heads silently. Then, all at once, there came a sound of running footsteps and the clamour rose and swept outside as though the house had suddenly burst its bounds.

'I think they're going!' It was Mademoiselle Anthony who spoke, struggling to contain the joy that leaped in her voice. 'I can see a crowd of men pouring out into the street.'

'There's no one in the garden that I can see,' echoed Madame Fusil. "They won't bother to climb out by the same way. Come and see.'

The two sentries came running back and everyone crowded into the room where Marianne had slept. The palace was spewing out the ragged, hairy groups of gesticulating demons, dyed red with the wine they had been wallowing in, and probably with blood also, as a draining ulcer casts out pus. But the actors' rejoicings as they watched this dangerous rabble departing were short-lived. Louise Fusil brought them to an end a moment later with a strangled cry:

'Fire! They have set fire to the house!'

It was true. A ruddy glow was spreading out from the downstairs rooms and the clamour of seconds before had given place to an ominous roaring. The last of the looters could even be seen turning as they left and hurling the torches they carried back inside the palace, uttering savage cries.

'Back!' Lekain cried. 'Downstairs, quickly! We must get to the garden—'

They sped towards the staircase which seemed to be farthest from the principal seat of the fire. Vania would have supported Marianne as before but the girl would not have it.

'The coffee and the sleep have done me good. Only give me your arm. But we must hurry—'

They groped their way down the dark stairway, built in the thickness of the wall, bumping against the sides and terrified as they felt the heat increasing moment by moment. By the time they reached the first floor the narrow space was so suffocatingly hot that it was like entering an oven.

'The fire must be very close,' Vania said, coughing. 'Lucky for us – this place – built of stone. If it were wood – like so many of them – we'd be cooked by now—'

'It's only a matter of time,' Lekain answered, swearing like a trooper. 'The stairs are beginning to burn.'

Even as he spoke, there was a red glow in the darkness and they rounded the last corner to see that the bottom steps were already well alight and a dense pall of smoke, almost as deadly, billowing up to meet them.

'We – we'll never get through,' Louise wailed. 'We'll all be killed—'

'Not on your life,' Vania shrieked. 'Hold your dress tight round you and run! We've a second or two yet. If your clothes catch, roll yourselves on the grass or on the gravel as soon as you get outside. Come on! Follow me!'

Giving Marianne no time to think, she caught her round the waist with one arm and clutching her robe around her with the other launched them both at the flames.

Marianne shut her eyes. She felt for a moment as if her lungs were on fire and held her breath. But Vania was half-carrying her forward in an irresistible rush and she scarcely felt the lick of the flames, even when her skirt caught alight. The scream that broke from her was caused more by the pain of her injured shoulder when her companion ran with her down the terrace steps and rolled with her on the grass to extinguish the fire in their clothes.

Seconds later they were joined by the others. Their clothes, too, were smouldering and they flung themselves down on the grass in turn, uttering shrieks of pain but fortunately without suffering any very serious injury. When they realized that they were all there, scorched, breathless and almost overcome by smoke but alive, they sat for a minute or two, staring at one another with a kind of incredulity, unable to believe their luck.

'Well,' Madame Bursay gasped, 'that was a narrow escape! We are all here and in one piece, so it seems.'

'Then let's see if we can stay that way,' Lekain said. 'Which we won't if we stay here. We must move away before the building falls in.'

Prince Dolgorouki's handsome mansion was blazing, now, from top to bottom in a great sheet of flame. The heat was unbearable. The building was like a fierce, roaring cascade of fire and the blinding light of it illumined every corner of the garden.

'Madona!' Vania groaned. 'Are there no fire engines in the city? If nothing is done to stop it, it will set the whole district on fire.'

Her words might have been a signal. Almost as she finished speaking, the heavens opened. Volumes of water poured down on Moscow with an apocalyptic roar, drenching in an instant the Dolgorouki gardens and those within them who fled precipitately to escape the clouds of boiling steam that rose from the burning building. In a short time the blaze had been transformed under the pelting rain to something more resembling a gigantic steam boiler.

Soaked to the skin, Marianne and the actors tried to find somewhere to shelter but the gardens contained none of the small summer-houses often found in other places and trees saturated with water, soon ceased to offer any protection at all.

'We must get out of here,' Mademoiselle Anthony called out, 'before we catch our deaths of cold!'

'Never mind that,' Vania complained. 'But I could be in danger of losing my voice. I'm a creature of the sun and I hate damp like the plague. If I take cold I cannot sing!'

'I'm amazed that you can think of singing at all at this moment,'

Lekain said with a chuckle. 'But I agree with you when you say that we ought to quit this inhospitable place forthwith. The question is, how?'

It proved, indeed, to be easier said than done. The garden was surrounded by walls and railings, except for one small door, bolted and barred as heavily as a strong room, which it was clearly impossible to open.

'Well, the looters got in somewhere,' Louise Fusil said. 'Why can't we get out?'

"They got in over the wall,' Lekain answered. 'I'm very willing to make a back for you to climb up if you will only help me up after you. Although I confess I don't see how.'

Vania had been tugging off her diadem and the snapped and sodden plumes which draggled over her face. Now, in answer, she unwound the length of red silk which constituted her Roman robe and held it out to him, sublimely disregarding the appearance she presented in her sleeveless petticoat.

'We'll drop this down to you once we are up. It's very strong. Then we can use it to climb down the other side.'

Thus armed, they proceeded almost gaily to the assault of the wall. Vania, as the supplier of the idea and the means, went first. She settled herself firmly astride the wall and leaned down to catch Marianne as the other women assisted her to climb painfully on to Lekain's back. From there, Vania's grip on her good arm was enough to hoist her up to the top. The rest followed and pulled Lekain up after them.

The descent was effected in the same order, using Dido's robe twisted into a rope. But once safely on the other side Marianne's small strength was exhausted and she found herself close to fainting. While Vania helped the others to scramble down, she was obliged to lean against the wall, her heart thudding violently and her head swimming, scarcely even aware of the rain which was still pelting down.

'Not feeling quite the thing, eh?' Vania said sympathetically, seeing her wan looks.

'Not quite. Where are we going now?'

'I don't honestly know. We had so many friends but there can be none left now.'

'No,' Madame Bursay said, 'but we should be able to find an empty house to shelter in. There are plenty of those.'

'Empty houses can contain unpleasant surprises,' Lekain said without enthusiasm, trying to put up his coat collar to keep some of the rain off his neck.

'Why not try to find the rest of the company?' Louise Fusil suggested. 'I've been thinking of them ever since we parted company and wondering whether they might not have sought refuge in the Naryshkin Palace. The Prince was being very particular to little Lamiral—'

'It's one thing to make up to a dancer and another to take in a whole company,' Lekain expostulated. 'But I suppose it's possible. The good prince seemed very much taken with her. We could always go and see.'

'Santa Madona! Think for a moment,' Vania broke in. 'The Naryshkin Palace is on the other side of the city, and this poor child could never walk so far! I have a better idea. The priest of St Louis-des-Français—'

'The Abbé Surugue?' Lekain spoke with evident distaste. 'What a notion!'

'Why not? He is a Frenchman and a man of God. He will take us in. I know him. He is generosity itself.'

'Maybe, but he is still a priest and I do not care for priests. Relations between the Church and the stage may not be as bad as they were in Molière's time, but they are not so good even now. I'm not going.'

"Nor I,' said Madame Bursay. 'I don't know whether—'

'Well I am,' Vania interrupted her, slipping an arm round Marianne's waist. 'You go where you like. You'll know where to find me. Besides, you may be right. Not to distrust the Abbé Surugue, but to spare him an invasion. He may be overwhelmed with refugees already.'

'But I don't want to be the cause of separating you,' Marianne exclaimed miserably. 'Take me to this priest's house and then go with your friends. It's stupid to break up your party for the sake of a stranger.'

"You're not a stranger. You're a singer like myself. And what is more you are a princess of Tuscany and I am a Tuscan myself. So let us have no more words but be on our way. God keep you all until we meet again.'

"We may as well go with you as far as St Louis,' Madame Bursay said. We can go on from there. It's not far and we can take shelter in the church until the rain stops.'

This being agreed upon, they made their way through the empty streets as far as the chapel which had been dignified with the name of St Louis-des-Français, in imitation of that in Rome. It stood on the outskirts of Kitaigorod and adjoining it was a house of modest size, built of wood like nearly all those in the neighbourhood, but with a small garden bounded by a brick wall on its leftward side. The front door was up two steps and above it, well protected from the weather, a thick glass lantern illumined a small Roman cross carved in the stone. This was the presbytery.

With Lekain's help, Vania got Marianne up the two steps and, lifting the brass knocker, rained a series of loud bangs upon the door. The others, meanwhile, had discovered that the church door was locked and drifted off.

The door was opened by a little man dressed in black like a sacristan, with a skull cap over his grey hair. He carried a candle.

'You must be the verger,' Vania said in French, with her colourful Italian accent. 'This lady is hurt and we came to ask the Abbé Surugue if she and I might—'

The sight of a woman clad in a soaking wet petticoat did not appear to cause the verger of St Louis any particular surprise. He held the door open wide.

'Come in quickly, Madame,' was all he said. 'I will inform Monsieur the Cure.'

Marianne's head had drooped, exhausted, on to her companion's shoulder but at the sound of that voice she lifted it at once and their eyes met, not without amazement on both sides. For the verger of St Louis was Gauthier de Chazay.

CHAPTER FOUR The Fire

The glance held for no more than an instant. Marianne's mouth opened. She was on the point of saying something, making some exclamation, but the strange verger had turned away quickly, murmuring something about fetching the Abbé, and vanished with his candle, leaving the two women in almost total darkness in a narrow entrance hall smelling of incense and yesterday's cabbage soup.

Marianne pulled herself together. Her godfather, she realized, did not want to be recognized, either because of Vania's presence there or for some other reason. There was never any shortage of mysterious reasons where he was concerned, as befitted the head of a religious order which, although underground, was none the less powerful for that. Clearly, he was here incognito, perhaps in hiding – but from whom? Or what?

Exhausted as she was, Marianne's persistent, insatiable curiosity was wide awake now and, in some curious way, seemed to revive her. What object could a cardinal of the Roman Church, and General of the Jesuits no less, which was to say the most powerful man in the Church after the pope, and possibly even before him, since Napoleon had been holding him a prisoner, what object could such a man possibly have for disguising himself in the modest garb of a verger of a parish church?

It was true that, ever since she had known him, Gauthier de Chazay had always shown a superb disregard for splendid attire. It was clad in a simple suit of black that his goddaughter would always remember him. The magnificent red robe which he had worn that epoch-making day at the Tuileries had struck her as some fantastic disguise. But on this occasion, the black garments were not simply modest but not even very clean.

'God forgive me,' Marianne thought, 'but I don't believe my godfather has shaved for days! He looks like a real moujik!'

She had no opportunity to verify this because it was not he who came back to them but a middle-aged priest wearing a soutane whose kindly face was surmounted by a few grey locks of hair shielding a balding crown. He flung up his arms to heaven at the sight of the two women sitting in their wet clothes on the bench in his hall.

'My poor children!' he cried, and the touch of the south in his voice brought a hint of sunshine into the dank passage. 'Have you, too, come to seek refuge here? But my house is full. Half the French residents of Moscow are here already. Where can I put you?'

'We don't need much room, padre,' Vania pleaded. 'Just a tiny corner in the church, perhaps?'

'It is packed to bursting. I was forced to shut the door into the street to keep more people from entering. One more and they will suffocate!'

'Here, then. If it were for myself alone, I should do very well on this bench, but my friend is hurt and exhausted… Only a simple mattress…'

The priest spread out his hands despairingly.

'I should not have said what I have if I had a mattress to offer you. But I have just given that belonging to Guillaume, my sacristan, to Madame Aubert's chief vendeuse, who is expecting a baby, and my own—'

'I understand. That was gone long ago,' Marianne said, trying to smile. 'If you had only a little straw we might lie down on, that would be more than enough. We belong to the stage and do not look for comfort—'

'To be sure! At all events I cannot turn you from my door on such a night – and in such a storm. Come with me.'

They followed him along the passage. From behind the closed doors on either side came a variety of sounds, whisperings, muttered prayers and snores, all telling how the priest's house was fulfilling its role of sanctuary that night. At the very far end the priest opened a small door beside the kitchen.

'There is a cupboard here where we keep tools and things. But I will fetch you some straw and I think there may be just room for the two of you to lie down. Then I'll bring you some means to dry yourselves and a warm drink.'

In a few minutes, Vania and Marianne found themselves installed in comparative luxury among the brooms and buckets and garden tools, with a truss of straw spread on the floor, a towel to dry themselves, tablecloths to wrap round them while they hung their wet clothes over the heads of the rakes to dry, and a steaming jug of hot spiced wine which they drank with infinite enjoyment by candlelight after their host had bidden them good night.

Before putting out the light, Vania made a careful examination of Marianne's bandaged shoulder. It was very wet but the thick layer of ointment she had spread on the wound had protected it from the rain. A strip torn from the towel made a fresh bandage. Then the singer laid her hand on her patient's brow.

'You will heal fast,' she said, with satisfaction. 'You have no sign of fever, even after all you have been through. Santa Madona, you must have a wonderfully sound constitution!'

'What's more, I'm very lucky – most of all in meeting you.'

'Bah!' Vania sang softly under her breath: "Luck is a woman…" And I might say the same. I have long wanted to meet you.'

Neither woman was long in falling asleep but Marianne's was restless and uneasy. The day had been a long and trying one for her: the panic-stricken streets, the meeting with Chernychev, the duel, Jason's arrest, then the gipsy's murderous attack and her own wound, ah culminating in their escape from the blazing building and the flight through the pouring rain, had given her a terrible battering. While her body slept, her mind, freed from its control, beat about like a frantic bird, finding no rest. She was still a prey to all the terrors which had assailed her but had been temporarily set at a distance by a warm-hearted, picturesque angel in a fiery robe and an absurd head-dress of feathers.

Strangely enough, she found herself caught up once more in the old dream which had so often haunted her. The sea – the sea rising in angry waves and making a foam-flecked barrier between her and the ship that was sailing away from her with all sails set. Despite the fury of the waves, she was fighting desperately to reach it, struggling with every ounce of strength and willpower until, just as she was about to sink, a vast hand came out over the sea and descended to pluck her from the abyss. But tonight the sea was red and no hand appeared. What came was something else, something that touched and shook her lightly. Marianne started awake to see her godfather bending over her and gently shaking her.

'Come,' he whispered. 'Out into the passage. I must speak to you.'

Marianne glanced quickly at her companion but Vania, curled up in the Abbé Surugue's tablecloth, was sleeping like a child and showed no signs of waking when her friend rustled the straw in rising.

The passage was in darkness. Only the lamp burning at the street door lightened the gloom a little, enough at least to show that the place was deserted. Even so, Marianne and the cardinal stayed in the archway of the door.

'I'm sorry I had to wake you,' the cardinal said. 'I see that you are hurt?'

'It's nothing. I was hit – in the crowd,' Marianne lied, feeling herself unequal to the business of a long explanation.

'Good, because you must be gone from this house first thing in the morning, and from Moscow as well. From Moscow most of all. I can't understand how you come to be here at all. I thought you at sea, on your way to France.'

He spoke shortly, as though he had been running, and his breath smelled sour and feverish, nor was there the least tenderness in his tone, but rather a kind of querulous irritation.

'I might say the same to you,' Marianne retorted. "What is Cardinal San Lorenzo doing in Moscow, disguised as a verger, just when the Emperor is about to enter the city?'

In that dim light, she caught the flash of anger in the churchman's eyes.

That is no concern of yours. And I have no time now for explanations. Go, I tell you. Fly this city, for it is doomed.'

'By whom? And to what fate? Do you think Napoleon is mad enough to destroy it? That is not his way. He hates plunder and destruction. If he takes Moscow, Moscow has nothing to fear.'

'Ask me no questions, Marianne. Do as I tell you. Your safety, your very life depends on it. Who is this woman with you?'

'Vania di Lorenzo. She is a famous singer – and a very good-hearted person.'

'I know of the singer, but nothing of her heart. Never mind. She must know something of the city and I am glad that you are not alone. You will leave here in the morning – almost at once, indeed, for it will soon be light. Ask her to show you the road taken by those travelling to Siberia. At Kuskovo, you will find the house of Count Sheremetiev. It is not far, not more than a league and a half. The Count is a friend. Tell him you are my goddaughter. He will give you a welcome and you may wait there until I come to you.'

'Should I tell him also that I am Princess Sant'Anna, the friend of the Emperor? I think that might serve to cool his welcome somewhat,' Marianne said ironically. Then, speaking very firmly, she went on: 'No, Godfather. I am not going to Kuskovo. I am sorry to go against your wishes. It is the first time in my life that I have ever done so intentionally. But I have no business there and I mean to stay in Moscow.'

She felt the cardinal's cold, dry hand clasp hers suddenly in the darkness.

'How stubborn you are,' he said crossly. 'Why do you insist on staying? It is to see him, is it not? Admit that you are waiting for Bonaparte!'

'There is no reason for me not to admit it, if you must put it so. Yes, I am waiting for the Emperor. I wish to speak to him.'

'What about?'

Marianne recognized that she was on slippery ground. In another moment she would forget that Gauthier de Chazay was one of the Corsican's most deadly enemies and allow him to guess something of the information she carried. She caught herself just in time and answered, after only the slightest hesitation: 'About my friends who are lost. I came here with Jolival and Jason Beaufort and his lieutenant, an Irishman named O'Flaherty, but I have lost them all. Jolival and O'Flaherty yesterday, in the crowd in Red Square, while Jason was made prisoner by the Russians after wounding Count Chernychev in a duel.'

She thought the cardinal would burst with rage at that.

'Fool! Three times fool! A duel! In a city in a state of total uproar and with one of the Tsar's favourites into the bargain! And what was this duel all about?'

'About me,' Marianne snapped back at him, no longer troubling to keep her voice down. 'It's about time you stopped regarding all my friends as rogues and vagabonds and your own as saints. I'm not likely to find Jolival or Craig O'Flaherty at Count Sheremetiev's house. Nor even my poor Jason. Heaven knows what the cossacks will have done with him! He may not even be still alive!'

The cardinal heard the break in her voice and his own softened perceptibly.

'Of course he is – unless his opponent has died, in which case… well, Sheremetiev may still be able to help you find him. He has a great deal of influence and any number of friends with the army. Go to him, I beg you.'

But after a short struggle with herself, she shook her head. "Not until I have found Jolival. After that, yes, I may do so. There is not much else I can do. In return – you seem to have such powerful connections, to have so much influence yourself, please, won't you try to find out what has become of Jason? If you will do that, then I will go to Kuskovo.'

What she did not say was that she needed Jolival to help her carry out her self-imposed mission to Napoleon, without which she would not sail for America.

Now it was the cardinal's turn to hesitate. At last he shrugged.

'Tell me how and where this idiotic duel took place. Where do you think the cossacks were taking this American of yours?'

'I don't know. They only said the Ataman should decide what was to be done with him. As to the duel…' She described it briefly, mentioning the part played by Prince Aksakov, and waited for what her godfather should say.

He was silent for a moment, then he muttered: 'I think I know where Ataman Platov is to be found. I will see what I can do. But you must do as I tell you. Try to find your friends if you must, but be sure you are out of Moscow by tomorrow evening. Your life depends on it.'

'But won't you tell me why?'

'That I cannot do. It is out of my power. But I implore you to listen to me. By the evening of tomorrow, the fifteenth of September, you must be at Kuskovo. I will see you there.'

Without another word, Gauthier de Chazay turned and left her, his small, dark shape seeming to melt into the shadows of the passage.

Marianne went back to her cupboard where Vania was still sleeping soundly. She lay down beside her and, feeling somewhat comforted by the thought that she had entrusted the search for Jason to someone qualified to undertake it, did her best to forget the mysterious danger hanging over her. In any case, she had nearly thirty-six hours before her. And so, this time, when she fell asleep she did not dream.

She was woken by a sound of trumpet calls and, opening her eyes, saw in the light of the candle, for no daylight penetrated their retreat, Vania struggling into a black dress which, although a trifle tight for her, was nevertheless more suitable to the occasion, and certainly less conspicuous than Dido's flowing robes. She was, however, experiencing a good deal of difficulty, having omitted to undo the sash, and was swearing freely in several languages at once.

Marianne made haste to extricate her by unfastening the knot and pulling the dress down over her head.

'Thank you!' Vania gasped, emerging red-faced and dishevelled, from the suffocating folds of cloth. 'I have our host's generosity to thank for this elegant garment. He brought it a minute ago. I suppose he had it as a donation from some charitable lady – but I could wish her charity had gone so far as to make it a new one,' she added, with a grimace. 'I don't care for her scent at all – or for the smell it's meant to cover up!'

Sleep and Vania's ointment had worked wonders. Marianne's shoulder was stiff but much less painful and she was sure she had no fever at all.

'What time is it?' she asked.

'Goodness, I don't know. I left my watch at the theatre and there is no way of telling the time in this cubby hole. And I never thought to ask the abbé.'

He reappeared at that moment, bringing a tray with two steaming cups of milkless tea, some sour cream and slices of dark brown bread.

'It's close on noon,' he said, 'and this, I fear, is all I have to offer to you. You must excuse me.'

'With all our hearts, padre. Even the prettiest girl can't give more than she has,' Vania said boldly.

But the abbé gave no sign of being shocked by the comparison and the singer said no more but instead changed the subject by asking the reason for the trumpet calls that had been making themselves heard for some minutes.

'What do you think?' the abbé sighed, shrugging his shoulders. 'Bonaparte's army is entering Moscow.'

That one word Bonaparte told Marianne more than a long speech could have done. Here was yet another who had no love for Napoleon. Indeed, since that indefatigable conspirator, Gauthier de Chazay, was staying in the house—Even so, she smiled at him gratefully.

"We shan't trouble you for much longer, Monsieur le Curé,' she said. 'If the French are here, we will no longer be in danger.'

They made haste to swallow their breakfast and, after thanking the abbé for his hospitality, left the presbytery. Nor did he show much inclination to detain them. Without quite knowing why, Marianne was in a hurry to be gone now from what, in spite of everything, she could not help seeing as a nest of conspirators.

They saw no one else on their way out and she concluded that none of the refugees within had any desire to witness the arrival of their countrymen. Vania had much the same idea.

"The Abbé Surugue is a fine man,' she observed, 'but I suspect him of having a hand in politics. I should like to have got a sight of the people in his house. I didn't fancy his verger's looks at all.'

Marianne was obliged to laugh.

'Nor I,' she said sincerely. 'I'm sure I never saw a verger like him before.'

When they emerged into the street, bright sunshine had replaced the downpour of the night before, traces of which still showed in broken branches and shattered flower pots and the large puddles of water that lay everywhere. But in the region of the church there was not a soul to be seen.

'Let's go towards Red Square,' Vania proposed. 'That is the heart of Moscow and the place the troops will make for. I should think the Emperor will want to take up his quarters in the Kremlin.'

With the exception of an occasional figure glimpsed in a doorway or at a window, the streets were all equally deserted as the two women made their way to the river Moskva and then along its embankment towards the square. There they saw that only two bridges remained. Eight others must have been destroyed during the night and the bed of the river was littered with the debris.

It was strange to be walking through the abandoned city, so drained of all signs of activity as to be almost dead. The only sounds were the trumpet calls, growing nearer all the time, and the distant rumble of cannon and drums. The effect was both painful and oppressive and although the two friends were glad to be in the open air again, and Marianne, especially, relieved to be able to walk again without too much discomfort, it was not long before they ceased to exchange any comments and lapsed into silence.

The expanse of Red Square opened before them, empty but for a couple of stragglers from the Russian army kneeling before the amazing red, blue and gold pile of St Basil's Cathedral, and some cattle from the slaughterhouse roaming about at random, still unaccustomed to their unexpected freedom.

But on the battlements of the Kremlin there were figures to be seen which reminded Marianne unpleasantly of those she had seen the night before.

'I can't see much evidence of the French as yet,' she murmured. "Where are they? We can hear them but not see them.'

'Why yes!' exclaimed the singer, who had moved closer to the river. 'Look! They are fording the river.'

At a point near the western corner of the Kremlin, a regiment of cavalry was indeed engaged in quietly crossing the Moskva, which at that place appeared to be no deeper than the horses' withers.

Marianne leaned over the parapet and stared.

'French? Are you sure? I can't tell.'

Vania laughed merrily. 'Not French, no! But part of the Grande Armée, most certainly! Lord, don't tell me you can't recognize the Emperor's soldiers! Why, I know all their uniforms and every division! The army is a passion with me. I've never seen a more handsome set of men!'

Marianne, greatly entertained by her eagerness, reflected privately that Vania and her dear Fortunée appeared to have a good deal more in common than a fondness for attar of roses. Evidently they shared a passion for soldiers.

'Look!' Vania cried. 'Here come the first of them! It's the Polish hussars, the Tenth, Colonel Uminski's! And after them I can see the Prussians, Major von Werther's Uhlans, and then – I think it's Wurtemberg's chasseurs and behind them several regiments of French hussars! Yes, it's them! I can tell by their plumes. Oh, it's so wonderful to see them again! I know that they have put us all in an impossible situation by coming but, truly, it was worth it and I, for one, can't be sorry…'

Caught up in her companion's infectious enthusiasm, Marianne watched with equal fascination as the mounted columns forded the river in good order. Vania, at her side, leaning over and clutching at the parapet, was almost shaking with excitement. Her eyes were wide and her nostrils quivering. Suddenly, she uttered a cry and threw out an arm.

'Oh, look! Look there! The man riding up the column and crossing the river at full gallop!'

'The one in green with the white plumes almost as tall as himself?'

'Yes! Oh, I'd know him in a thousand! It's the King of Naples! It's Murat – the finest horseman in the Empire!'

Vania's excitement had reached fever pitch and Marianne suppressed a smile. She had long known of Napoleon's brother-in-law's penchant for exotic, not to say fantastic costumes, but this time he seemed to have gone his length. Only he could have had the effrontery to appear in his present extravagant dress of dark green velvet polonaise with massive gold frogs, worn with a sash of gold threadwork and bonnet of the same colour surmounted by a white ostrich plume not less than three feet high. And, strangest of all, was the way he managed not to appear ridiculous in such an outfit.

Vania was suddenly so flushed with happiness that Marianne shot her a glance half-envious, half-amused.

'You seem to have a great admiration for the King of Naples?' she said with a smile.

The singer turned and looked her straight in the eyes, then, with a pride that was not without its greatness, she said simply: 'He is my lover. I would go through fire for him.'

'It would be a pity if you did. No man, however brilliant, deserves to have such a woman as you destroy herself for his sake. Live and if your love is returned, enjoy your happiness.'

'Oh, I do believe he loves me! But there are so many women running after him—'

'Beginning with his wife. Are you not afraid of the formidable Caroline?'

'Why should I be? She is all very well, but had her brother not been an emperor she would never have been a queen and no one would have paid very much attention to her at all. She cannot even sing. Besides, even as wives go, she's not the most faithful.'

Evidently this, to the prima donna, was a fatal flaw, and her argument was not without its logic. Marianne preferred to leave Caroline Murat to her own fate, which was a matter of some indifference to her, for she had never held Napoleon's youngest sister in affection. She had known her for too long for a devious and ill-natured woman.

Consequently, she was able to look on indulgently at Vania's meeting with her royal lover. As the King's white horse burst into the square, the Italian sprang forward almost under its hooves and might easily have been trampled but for Murat's presence of mind. He leaned down with a yell of delight and, grasping her round the waist, swept her up into the saddle. Whereupon, regardless of who might be looking on, the King and the singer embraced passionately, spoke briefly and then embraced once more. Then, as easily as he had caught her up, Murat lowered his mistress to the ground.

'Until tomorrow!' he cried. 'Go to the Kremlin and ask for General Durosnel. He will tell you where my headquarters are.'

He was about to ride on when Marianne ran forward.

'Sire!' she called. 'Can you tell me if the Emperor is coming?'

Murat reined in his mount and stared at her with some astonishment. Then he burst out laughing.

'What? Are you here too? Here's a pleasant surprise for the Emperor! I hope he appreciates it as he should!'

'But will I see him, Sire? Is he following you? I have to speak to him.'

'I hope, for his sake, that you'll do no more than speak. He is at a place called Bird Hill at this moment but I don't expect him to enter Moscow tonight. I must take a look at the city before he comes and gives chase to that old fox, Kutusov. Has he much of a start, do you know?'

'He went through yesterday morning, but his army was passing all night, going towards Riazan. There are some stragglers left even now.'

'Good. Forward, gentlemen! It's for us to catch them up. As for you, Madame, do not try to reach the Emperor today. Tomorrow, he will be in the Kremlin, for they will be making his quarters ready for him tonight. Be patient a little longer. He will be delighted to see you.'

Pulling off his magnificent, if ridiculous hat, Murat swept them a low bow and, handling his horse with consummate skill, set off at a gallop along the Moskva, followed by several troops of horse and Vania's eyes, which were shining like twin stars.

'Tomorrow,' she sighed. 'How long it seems! What shall we do until then? I don't suppose you want to go back to St Louis-des-Français?'

'By no means! I mean to try to find my friends. Would you mind if we went over to the governor's palace? It was there we became separated, two days since.'

As they strolled slowly, arm in arm, in the direction of Rostopchin's mansion, the two women were able to watch Napoleon's troops gradually taking possession of Red Square. Not a moment was wasted as the artillery and the foot batteries moved in and established a park. A few shots were fired from the Kremlin ramparts, whereupon guns were trained on the massive Saviour's Gate while a group of officers, accompanied by a platoon of Polish lancers shouting orders in Russian, set about effecting an entry.

'They'll not have much trouble,' Vania remarked. "There's only a rabble inside. They won't make it a regular siege. They couldn't.'

Temporarily losing interest in the matter, she drew her companion off in the direction of the governor's palace, where a few people had gathered to watch the entry of the invaders. A smartly-dressed female, accompanied by a number of much younger ladies attired in a much simpler style, detached herself from them and began hurrying towards a group of horsemen, seen by their plumes to be senior officers of some kind, who were dismounting before the doors of St Basil's cathedral.

'Come, Mesdemoiselles!' she called. 'Do not be afraid. These are our own people. They will surely be able to restore my poor husband whom these savages have taken away!'

'It seems to me that the Russians took more hostages than we thought,' Vania remarked. 'That is Madame Aubert, the celebrated French dressmaker. She has been too careless recently and made no effort to conceal her joy at the news of the war. Rostopchin must have paid her by taking her husband.'

But Marianne was no longer listening. Among the people outside the palace, she had just caught sight of Craig O'Flaherty. He was strolling slowly up and down, with head bent, hands clasped behind his back and a dejected expression, like a man waiting for something but who had almost given up hope.

Uttering a joyful cry, Marianne literally threw herself into his arms, quite forgetting her wound. She was reminded of it brutally enough and her cry of joy ended in a squeak of anguish which O'Flaherty scarcely seemed to notice.

'Here you are at last!' he cried, lifting her at arms' length as if she had been a doll. 'By St Patrick, I was beginning to think that you were gone for good. Where's Beaufort?'

Marianne gave him a rapid account of her adventures since they had last seen one another and presented Vania, who seemed to make a considerable impression on the Irishman. Then, without pausing for breath, she went on: 'Now you know as much as I do. I hope to get news of Jason very soon. But do you know anything of Gracchus and Jolival?'

'Gracchus is scouring the town for you. As to Jolival, he's in there.' He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Rostopchin house behind him. 'After the mob had passed the other day, some of those young fellows practising their swordplay here recognized him for a Frenchman and gave chase. In running from them he had the ill-luck to fall and break his leg.'

'Is he – oh, my God! They did not kill him?'

'No. I managed to disarm one of them and get his weapon and so brought our friend off safe enough. Sure, he was a trifle under the weather but the luck was ours in that we fell in with a medical man, another Frenchman and the governor's personal physician, which gave him the more reason for making himself scarce, for fear of what might be coming to him from that quarter. He saw Jolival fall and by the mercy of God his Hippocratic oath proved stronger than his fears. He came to our assistance and we carried the poor fellow into the palace stables where he had been hiding. The horses had all gone by that time. Then, when Rostopchin and his people departed some hours later, we were able to move quietly into the house itself.' He laughed. 'At this very moment our dear Vicomte is probably lolling in the governor's own bed. Come in and see him. The sight of you will be the best medicine he can possibly have.'

They found Arcadius ensconced like a king in a vast wing armchair full of cushions, set in the window of a large, luxuriously appointed bedchamber, with his splinted leg propped up before him on a stool, supported by a pillow. There was gilding everywhere but the fact that the decorations consisted almost exclusively of battle scenes and military trophies, together with a complete absence of carpets, combined to make the place about as cosy as a throne room.

Clearly, it had been getting the Vicomte down. That much was evident from the way he welcomed them, hailing Marianne's arrival with cries of joy and treating Vania to an almost princely courtesy. As a result of his instructions and the more practical endeavours of Dr Davrigny, now left sole master of the house, the two women found themselves in possession of a fine apartment adjoining his which had formerly belonged to the Countess Rostopchin.

After that Vania departed with Davrigny in search of news, tactfully announcing that she wished to try and locate her companions from the theatre, and Marianne was left alone with Craig and Jolival.

Seated on either side of the Vicomte's chair, they held a council of war. The time for secrecy was past and in any case the Irishman had given sufficient proof of his friendship and loyalty to be trusted with anything that concerned his friends.

Marianne described in detail all that had befallen her and Jason and went on to tell of the night she had spent in the Abbé Surugue's house and her strange encounter there.

'I still cannot understand this danger which is supposed to threaten us and which made the cardinal insist on my promising to leave Moscow before tomorrow night,' she finished with a sigh. 'On the contrary, it seems to me that once the Emperor is here we should have nothing more to fear.'

It was clear, however, that Jolival did not share her optimism.

Indeed, the more Marianne said, the deeper grew the frown between his brows.

'The cardinal is better informed than any man of my acquaintance,' he said darkly. 'And with good reason. If he tells you to go, then go you should. Moreover, Dr Davrigny has heard some strange rumours also, although it's fair to say that he paid scant attention to them, knowing the Russian love of high drama. But added to what you have just told us…"

'What are these rumours?'

'They say that the chief men of the city, including, of course, the governor, have determined, in their patriotic fervour, to sacrifice Moscow for the sake of the Empire.'

'Sacrifice Moscow?'

'Yes. In the biblical meaning of the word. Moscow is to be the pyre on which Napoleon's army will be offered up as a holocaust to the Tsar's injured pride. People are saying that for several weeks past a kind of arsenal has been set up on Prince Repnin's estate at Vorontsovo, some six versts from Moscow, where they are manufacturing rockets and bombs and such to be placed in an enormous balloon, like that of the Montgolfier brothers, which is to be exploded over the city.'

'But that is madness!' Marianne exclaimed impatiently. 'Only a few days ago, the Russians believed they had won the battle at Borodino, and even yesterday, when they knew they were beaten, they were still insisting that Kutuzov was falling back on the city to defend it.'

'I know. That is why Davrigny paid no heed to the rumours – nor I, either. But a warning from the cardinal is something we must take seriously. It would be best if you were to go tonight, my dear.'

'Absolutely not. Your leg changes everything. You cannot be moved, so I will stay with you and, if there should be any danger – well, we will face it together. Besides, you are forgetting the Emperor. I understand that he is to make his entry into the city tomorrow and at all costs I must speak to him.'

'Can't you trust that confounded letter to O'Flaherty? He can hand it over just as well as yourself.'

'Sure,' put in the Irishman. 'It's entirely at your service I am.'

But Marianne would not hear of it.

"Thank you, Craig, but I cannot accept your offer. You would never get near Napoleon, whereas I can go straight to him, and if there really is some grave danger threatening the city tomorrow night, then I must warn him. That is a much more serious trap than the one I came to tell him about, because if the Russians truly mean to burn Moscow it may be that neither Napoleon nor his troops will ever see France again.'

Jolival was not the man to admit defeat without a struggle, especially where Marianne's safety was concerned. He was getting ready to defend his viewpoint energetically when O'Flaherty put an end to the argument by remarking that since there were still twenty-four hours to elapse before the danger, if danger there was, was due to make itself felt, Marianne had plenty of time to see the Emperor and then set out with her friends for Count Sheremetiev's country house.

'I'll drum up some sort of a carriage for you to travel in, Vicomte,' he asserted with his usual optimism, 'and if there are no more horses to be had in Moscow, then Gracchus and I will pull you ourselves! Now, suppose we all settle down to a pleasant evening listening to the gentle music of the King of Naples' trumpeters. After that, a good night's sleep will do us all the good in the world.'

The others had barely time to agree to this sensible proposal when the aforesaid gentle music of the cavalry's trumpeters was drowned by the tramp of marching feet, the roar of commands and the clatter of men standing at ease.

'Now what are we in for?' Jolival said testily, leaning forward as far as he could to try and catch a glimpse of what was happening below.

'Nothing much,' Craig answered him. 'Just an entire regiment, no less! Grenadiers, I think. I can see a whole lot of bearskins. We are about to be subjected to an army of occupation.'

A moment later, a tall, fair, blue-eyed young man, smartly turned out in a well-brushed uniform, carrying his hat under his arm, made his way up to Jolival's bedchamber. He saluted smartly and then, realizing that there was a lady in the room, favoured her with a beaming smile and a flash of firm, white teeth under a reddish-brown moustache.

'Adrien Jean-Baptiste-François Bourgogne,' he introduced himself in ringing tones, 'formerly of Condé-sur-Escaut, now grenadier-sergeant of the Guard. Good evening, everyone.'

'The Guard!' Marianne cried. 'Does that mean Napoleon is in Moscow?'

"No, Madame. It means only that we are here, to take possession of the district surrounding the old castle. The Emperor is still outside the walls. I did hear that he was waiting to receive a delegation of boyars.'

'Boyars?' Jolival laughed. 'We're not living in the Middle Ages, you know! There aren't any boyars any more. What's more, I think His Majesty will wait a long time before he sees any delegation at all. The city is as empty as my pockets.'

Sergeant Bourgogne shrugged philosophically. 'So we saw,' he agreed. 'All we met was a handful of sorry-looking ragamuffins who fired a few shots at us. Anyone would think these Russians were afraid of us! Yet we mean them no harm. We're full of goodwill. Besides, we have strict orders…'

'Setting that aside for a moment,' Jolival inquired, 'what brings you here, sergeant? Are you going to billet yourselves here?'

'Yes, if that's all right with you. This is the Governor's palace.'

'Yes, but I'm not the Governor. We are merely French people who have sought refuge here.'

'I guessed as much. Well, Messieurs and Madame, we don't mean to trouble you. We'll be camping downstairs and in the courtyard and we'll try not to keep you awake. I'll wish you goodnight, then. And you may sleep sound because we're here to protect you, so you've nothing more to fear from the rabble still left in the city.'

But the night was by no means as restful as the worthy sergeant had hoped. Not only did Vania not return, which made Marianne uneasy, but a number of explosions were heard, all of them very close.

They learned from Gracchus, who reappeared at daybreak, having spent part of the night on patrol with the sergeant's men, for the two had struck up an immediate friendship, that a house in the Yaouza quarter had been blown up, that fire had broken out in a part of the bazaar of Kitaigorod and a large brandy warehouse near the Stone Bridge, which was one of the few that remained standing, the property of the crown, had burned to the ground but that nothing could be done to put out the flames because, as Gracchus said: 'there was not a single working fire engine left in the city. The only two there were completely useless.'

This last piece of information did nothing to allay the fears of the occupants of the Rostopchin palace. The disappearance of the fire engines seemed to fit in ominously with the rumours overheard by Dr Davrigny (who had also failed to return) and with the cardinal's warning.

'I don't like it,' Jolival said. We must be out of Moscow before tonight. See what you can do to find a conveyance, Craig, there's a good fellow. And you, Marianne, try to see the Emperor as soon as he arrives.'

'According to the sergeant, that will be quite early,' Gracchus put in. 'Six or seven o'clock, perhaps.'

'All the better. Your task will be over all the sooner, my dear, and Napoleon can make whatever dispositions he thinks fit. When you have done, come back here as quickly as you can. Gracchus will go with you. There's no saying what might happen to a young and personable female going unprotected amongst this mass of troops.'

At six o'clock, Marianne crossed the courtyard with Gracchus at her side and received a cheerful but not unrespectful greeting from the sergeant who was in his shirtsleeves supervising the cooking of the men's breakfast over the campfires. He pointed proudly to a corner where four men lay sulkily, bound hand and foot, upon the ground.

'We've done a good night's work, M'dame. Caught those four beauties setting fire to a house back there. There were ladies there and we were able to save them, though we lost one of our own men, I'm sorry to say.'

'What will you do with them?' Gracchus asked.

'Why, shoot them, to be sure! Would you believe it, from all we can discover, these lads belong to the police—'

'Sergeant,' Marianne interrupted him, 'you would do well to make sure there are no more of their kind still at liberty. There is a rumour that the governor has left orders for the burning of Moscow.'

'We know that. They've even begun to try and carry it out. But we soon dealt with that. Never you trouble your pretty head for that, M'dame. Our Father of Victories knows what he's about.'

'Ah, have you any news? Is he here yet?'

'The Emperor? Not yet. But he won't be long now. Listen! I can hear them playing "Victory is Ours". That tune means he's not far off.'

Marianne picked up her skirts and ran.

The square outside the palace presented a remarkable sight. The troops bivouacked there might have been preparing for a masquerade, for most of them seemed to be engaged in trying on a variety of strange and exotic costumes. There were men so covered in furs that they could have been mistaken for bears, and others dressed as Kalmuks, Tartars, Chinamen, Turks, Persians and even as gentlemen of the time of Catherine the Great. Heaped all about them was such an assortment of every kind of foodstuff, sausages, hams, broached casks, fish, flour and sugar, that the scene resembled nothing so much as a vast, unlikely carnival. Like children, the soldiers were trying to compensate themselves in this way for the weeks of misery and wretchedness that they had endured on the interminable march. It was like the market place of Samarkand after the passing of Genghis Khan.

Then, all at once, everything stopped. The roll of drums and bellowed commands rose at last above the din. Slowly, the men began tugging off their finery and assumed a more military demeanour, lining up in such a way as to conceal the litter of supplies cluttering the square. The marching tune of the guards could still be heard for a moment or two longer, then that, too, died away and once again there was the deathly silence that had hung over Moscow twenty-four hours before. There was the clash of arms, a brief command or two, then, suddenly, a loud burst of cheering. The Emperor had arrived.

In spite of herself, Marianne held her breath and raised herself on tiptoe to get a better view. He was riding slowly, walking the Emir, one of his favourite mounts, dressed as he often was in the uniform of the chasseurs, with a thoughtful expression on his face and one hand thrust into the front of his waistcoat. He had eyes for nothing but the great red fortress he was about to enter and which glowed redder than ever in the light of the rising sun. Only now and then he let his gaze flicker for an instant towards the Bazaar, from which a black column of smoke was still rising.

'He's put on weight,' Gracchus whispered. 'He doesn't look well.'

He was right. Napoleon's face had a bilious yellow tinge and his figure had undoubtedly thickened. Curvetting around him were Berthier, Caulaincourt, Duroc, the Mameluke, Ali, and others whose identity Marianne was unable to make out. He lifted his hand in acknowledgement of the men's frenzied cheers and then the whole cavalcade, with a company of the 1st Chasseurs bringing up the rear, swept through the Saviour's Gate, where the Chasseurs instantly took up guard duties.

'Do you think they will let us in, Mademoiselle Marianne?' Gracchus asked uneasily. 'We don't look very respectable, with our clothes all dirty and everything.'

'There's no reason why they shouldn't. I saw the Grand Marshal there. I shall go and ask for him. Come on.'

Without more ado, she made her own way up to the great tower which housed the Saviour's Gate. But as Gracchus had predicted, the sentries refused to let her pass, although she stated her name and titles clearly.

'We've had no orders as yet,' she was told by a young lieutenant who could barely have dismounted from his horse. 'Wait a minute.'

'But I am only asking you to let Grand Marshal Duroc know that I am here. He is a friend of mine.'

'I daresay. But you must give him time to find his way about, and us to get our orders.'

Marianne waited patiently for a minute or two and then, as the officer seemed to have forgotten all about her, she returned to the attack. But with no more success than at first. The argument was threatening to become protracted when, by good fortune, a figure smothered in a good deal of gold lace appeared in the huge archway.

Marianne recognized him at once.

'There is Captain de Trobriant,' she said. 'Bring him to me.'

'You are out of date, Madame. He is a major now and our commanding officer. But I do not see—Here, you! Come back!'

But Marianne was tired of arguing and she had slipped under his arm, outstretched to bar her way, and was running towards his superior officer. Trobriant was, in fact, an old acquaintance. She had met him first on that memorable evening at Malmaison when she and Jason had succeeded in warning Napoleon of the attempt on his life planned by the Chevalier de Bruslart. Since then, the handsome officer of chasseurs had been a frequent visitor in the drawing-rooms of the Hotel d'Asselnat and it did not take him a second to know the pale, quietly dressed woman who came running towards him.

'You? But what are you doing here? On my oath, I'd no idea you were in Russia and I do not think the Emperor himself—'

'It is the Emperor I am here to see. Please, Trobriant, get me inside. You know me. I am not mad or hysterical but I must speak to His Majesty at once. What I have to tell him is of the greatest importance. It concerns the safety of all—'

He stared into her eyes for a moment and what he saw there must have convinced him for he drew her arm through his without another word.

'Come,' he said.

Then, turning to the subaltern, he added: 'Let in the young man with the Princess Sant'Anna, Breguet. He is her coachman.'

'How was I to guess that?' Breguet muttered. 'How can a man tell a coachman without coach or horses – any more than a princess dressed like a chambermaid.'

'No one expects it of you.' Trobriant smiled at Marianne. 'I trust I shall be able to find my way about this barracks of a palace. Perhaps you know it better than I do?'

'By no means. I have only just come here myself.'

In the officer's company, she passed through courts and gardens dotted with churches and palace buildings, making for the largest of them all, an amazing mixture of gothic and modern styles the bulk of which had been erected by the Tsarina Elizabeth. Soldiers were settling in all around them and the Emperor's servants were already making themselves at home in their new quarters.

'Is the Emperor pleased?' Marianne asked as they climbed a broad marble staircase.

"You mean is he in a good temper?' the officer said, laughing. "Yes, I think so. As he rode into the courtyard just now, I heard him exclaim: "So at last I am in Moscow, in the Kremlin, the ancient palace of the Tsars!" I'm glad he took it like that because when we entered the city and saw it so deserted we feared the disappointment would be too great. But no – the Emperor thinks the people are afraid and will come out of hiding when they see that he means them no harm.'

Marianne shook her head sadly. 'They are not going to come out, my friend. This whole city is one enormous trap.'

She said no more because just then they came into a huge gallery in the midst of which the Master of Ceremonies, the Comte de Ségur, and the Prefect of the Palace, the Marquis de Bausset, both of whom had arrived the previous evening to prepare quarters for the staff, were busy explaining the billeting arrangements to the people crowding the room.

All of them were far too busy to take any notice of the new arrivals and Trobriant, catching sight of the impassive figure of the Mameluke, Ali, standing with folded arms before a great inlaid door, steered a course towards him.

'Is the Emperor within?'

Ali nodded, indicating that Napoleon was in his bedchamber in the company of his valet.

'Constant?' Marianne cried. 'He is just the man I need! Go and fetch him, for the love of heaven! Tell him the Princess Sant'Anna is here and wishes to see His Majesty upon the instant.'

A minute later, Napoleon's Flemish valet came hurrying through the door and literally fell upon Marianne, for whom he had always had a particularly soft spot. He was almost in tears.

'Mademoi—Princess, I should say! Your Serene Highness! This is an unexpected pleasure! But by what happy chance—?'

'Later, my dear Constant, later. I want to see the Emperor. Is it possible?'

'But of course! There has been no time yet to establish protocol. And he will be so happy. Come! Come quickly!'

Several doors, a succession of rooms, another door and Marianne found herself precipitated into a large chamber, littered with an assortment of baggage, with Constant's voice announcing her in ringing tones, as if she had been another victory. Beside the great tented bed, surmounted by the double-headed eagle and an imperial crown, Napoleon was engaged, with Duroc's assistance, in hanging up the portrait of a fair-haired child.

Both men turned and Marianne dropped into her curtsy.

There was a moment's astonished silence, so profound that Marianne, almost on her knees, could not even bring herself to raise her head. Then she heard Napoleon's voice.

'What? Is it you?'

'Yes, Sire, it is I! Forgive me for bursting in on you like this, but I have travelled a long road to come to you.'

Once again there was silence, but this time she gathered the courage to look up. And as she looked at him she was suddenly conscious of a wave of disappointment, and even of a vague disquiet. After what Murat had told her, after Trobriant's warm welcome and Constant's ecstatic one, she had expected him to show pleasure, to be really glad to see her. But that seemed to be very far from the case. The Emperor's face had set in its most forbidding expression. He was frowning at her grimly, kneading his hands behind his back, and since he showed no disposition to give her leave to rise she repeated softly: 'I ventured to tell Your Majesty that I had travelled a long road. I am very weary, Sire.'

"You are – oh, yes, very well. You may get up. Off with you, Duroc. Leave us, and see that I am not disturbed.'

The smile which the Grand Marshal of the Palace bestowed on her in passing was some comfort to Marianne as she rose, not without effort for it was some time since she had been obliged to perform a full court curtsy.

Meanwhile Napoleon, falling naturally, in this strange palace, into his old habits of Saint-Cloud and the Tuileries, had begun pacing up and down the thickly carpeted floor, glancing now and then out of the windows which commanded a view of the Moskva and of the whole of the southern part of the city beyond. Not until the soft click of the latch told him that he was alone with Marianne did he pause for a moment in his pacing and look at her.

'You seem to be got up very oddly for a court lady,' he observed drily. 'Upon my word, your dress is full of holes. And dirty into the bargain. And if your hair is not too bad, no one could say that you were looking your best. What do you want?'

Stung by the harshness of this address, Marianne felt the blood rush to her face.

'My dress is like myself, Sire! It has travelled three-quarters of the way across Russia, all the way from Odessa, to reach you! There may be holes in it, but it has served at least to keep this safe!'

From its inner pocket, she drew out the letter and the Tsar's note which she had managed to preserve unharmed through so many vicissitudes, as she had also the diamond still sewn inside her chemise.

'What's this?' Napoleon asked gruffly.

'A letter from the Swedish crown prince to his good friend the Tsar,' Marianne said, speaking very clearly so that he could not possibly seem to misunderstand her. 'For a one-time general of the Republic, Your Majesty will see that he has some strange counsel to give. You will see also, Sire, a note from the same source, making clear the prince's ambitions and the price he is willing to pay for their fulfilment.'

He almost snatched the letter from her hand and, after a sharp glance at her, began to read it. As he read, Marianne saw his nostrils tighten and a little vein swelled in his forehead. Knowing his temper, she expected him to give vent to an angry outburst, but he did nothing of the kind. Instead, he tossed both papers on to the bed, as if unwilling to soil his hands with them. 'Where did you get these?' was all he asked.

'From the Duc de Richelieu's desk, Sire – after seeing him suitably drugged, and shortly before setting fire to a number of vessels in the port of Odessa.'

Now he was looking at her in frank amazement, an eyebrow lifted alarmingly.

'Drugged?' he said faintly. 'Setting fire to—' Then, without warning, he gave a shout of laughter and held out his hand to her. 'Come and sit here by me, Princess, and tell me all about it. Truly, you are the most astonishing woman I have ever met! I send you off on one mission in which you fail magnificently and then you carry off another on your own initiative and make an unbelievable success of it.'

He was just sitting down beside her when a timid knock at the door made him start up again.

'I said I did not wish to be disturbed,' he shouted.

Constant's head peered cautiously round the door.

'It's General Durosnel, Sire. He insists that you must see him. He says it is a matter of the utmost importance.'

'Another of 'em! Everything seems to be vitally important this morning. Very well, send him in.'

The general entered and saluted. Then, remaining stiffly at attention, he said: 'Sire, I ask your forgiveness. But it is right that your Majesty should know at once that I have insufficient men to keep order in a city of this size. Fires have broken out during the night and everywhere we find desperate-looking fellows with weapons who fire upon my men—'

'Well, what do you suggest?'

'Appoint a governor at once, Sire. The Gendarmerie is not enough. With your Majesty's permission, I should advise giving the post to the Duc de Trévise—'

'Marshal Mortier?'

'Yes, Sire. The Young Guard under his command have already taken up positions in and around the Kremlin. It is vital that he should be given overall control of Moscow.'

Napoleon thought for a moment, then: 'Very well. Send Berthier to me. I will instruct him accordingly. You may go.' The Emperor turned back to Marianne. 'To come back to you, my dear. Tell me the story of your adventures. I shall enjoy hearing it.'

'Sire,' Marianne cried, beseechingly, 'I beg you, let that wait, for I have something much more serious to tell you.'

'More serious? Good Lord, what's that?'

'You are in danger in this city, Sire – in very great danger. Believe me, you should not stay another hour in this palace – or in Moscow! For by tomorrow there may be nothing left of Moscow, or of your army either—'

Napoleon rose so abruptly that he almost toppled the sofa, and Marianne with it.

'What is this nonsense? Upon my word, you must be out of your mind!'

'I wish I were, Sire. Alas, I fear that I am all too sane.'

Then, since he made no answer, she went on hurriedly to tell him all that she had learned in the Rostopchin palace, of the arsenal at Vorontsovo, the balloon, the emptying of the prisons and the dangerous felons at large and of the abandoned city.

They will not return, Sire. Already, last night, fires have broken out. It will happen again tonight, at any moment, perhaps, and since there is not a single fire engine left in Moscow you are in deadly danger. Listen to me, Sire, I implore you! Leave this place! Leave before it is too late! I know that all those who value their lives must have left the city before tonight.'

'You know, you say? How do you know?'

She did not answer immediately and when at last she spoke it was slowly, choosing her words carefully so as not to risk involving her godfather.

'The night before last, I was obliged to seek shelter in the house of a catholic priest. There were refugees there – émigrés, I suppose, for I overheard one of them pressing his companions to quit Moscow before tonight at all costs.'

'The names of these people?'

'I do not know, Sire. I have only been here for three days. I know no one.'

He was silent for a moment, evidently thinking, then he turned back to her and sat down again with a shrug.

'Don't take what you overheard too seriously. It came, as you quite rightly thought, from émigrés, I am sure of that. They hate me but they have always taken the wish for the fact. The Russians have more sense than to burn their holy city on my account. Besides, I shall be writing to the Tsar tonight with an offer of peace. Yet, if it will make you happier, I will give orders for Moscow to be searched with a fine toothcomb. But I am not alarmed. To burn this fine city would be more than a crime, it would be a mistake, as your friend Talleyrand might say. And now, tell me your story. I long to hear it.'

'It may take some time.'

'Never mind. I have earned a little rest. Constant! Bring us some coffee! A great deal of coffee and some cakes if you can find them.'

As clearly and concisely as she could, Marianne described the incredible sequence of events which had happened to her since Florence. She suppressed nothing, not even those details most painful to her modesty. To her the man who listened so attentively had ceased to be the Emperor, or even her former lover. He was only a man whom she had once loved with all her heart and for whom, in spite of all his faults, his temper and the set-downs he could deliver so freely, she still retained a very deep affection, respect, admiration and a real trust. She knew that he could be cruel and even ruthless, but she knew, too, that inside this small man of genius, on whose shoulders rested the weight of an empire, there beat the heart of a true gentleman, whatever his inveterate enemies might say of him.

And so it was that she had no hesitation in revealing Prince Sant'Anna's secret and the reason why that great aristocrat had desired the blood of an emperor for his son. Yet, for all that, as she told him she did experience a momentary fear of what Napoleon might say. She need not have worried.

She was on the point of taking up her narrative again after a brief pause when she felt the Emperor's hand on her arm.

'I was angry with you once for marrying without my consent, Marianne,' he said, with the rare but very real tenderness which belonged to him alone. 'Now, I ask you to forgive me. I could never have found you such a husband.'

'What? You are not shocked? Do you really think—'

'That you have married a most exceptional man, and one of rare quality. You realize that, I hope?'

'Certainly. I could hardly fail to do so. But—'

He got up then and, putting one knee on the sofa, took her chin in his hand so that she was obliged to meet his eyes.

'But what?' he said, and there was that steely note in his voice which boded no good. 'Are you, by any chance, going to talk to me again about that American of yours? Take care, Marianne. I have always believed that you, too, were no ordinary woman. I should not like to have to change my opinion.'

'Sire!' she exclaimed in some alarm. 'I beg of you! I – I have not finished yet.'

He let her go and walked away from her.

'Go on then. I am listening.'

There had been a subtle change in the atmosphere which, for a moment, had become what it had been in earlier days. Napoleon had resumed his pacing of the room but he was walking very slowly, his head sunk on his chest, listening and pondering at once. And when at last Marianne fell silent he turned towards her slowly and his grey eyes looked consideringly at her for a long time, and once again the anger had gone from them.

'What do you mean to do now?' he asked her gravely.

She hesitated a little. She had, naturally enough, omitted all reference to Cardinal de Chazay's presence in Moscow and it was therefore impossible to declare her intention of proceeding to Count Sheremetiev's country estate. Moreover, if she had done so, Napoleon might very well have taken exception to this trafficking with the enemy.

Dropping her head to avoid his searching eyes, she said in a low voice: 'I thought – I thought to leave Moscow tonight. My friend Jolival is lying in the Rostopchin Palace with a broken leg and if there should be trouble it would be difficult for him to escape.'

'Where will you go?'

'I – I don't know.'

'You're lying.'

'Sire!' she protested indignantly, furious to feel herself blushing.

'No protests. I tell you you are lying, as you very well know. What you want is to go running after the cossacks, isn't it? Come hell or high water, you want to find this Beaufort because you are so besotted about him that it has addled your wits. Don't you see that he is destroying you?'

'That's not true! I love him—'

'What has that to say to anything? I loved Josephine but I divorced her because I wanted an heir. I loved you – oh, yes, you may smile, but I loved you truly and perhaps I love you still. Yet I married another because she was the daughter of an emperor and the foundation of a dynasty demanded it.'

'It's not the same—'

'Why not? Because you think you have invented love? Because you think that he is the one love of your life? Come now, Marianne – not to me! When you married him, did you not love the man I sent to the guillotine at Vincennes?'

'He killed my love. Besides, I was a child, infatuated—'

'Come, come! If he had not been the wretch he was but the man that you had pictured him, you would have adored him your whole life through and never looked at another. Yet you had already met Monsieur Beaufort—And myself?'

'You?'

"Yes, me. Did you love me, yes or no? Or were you playing with me at the Trianon? And at the Tuileries?'

She gazed at him in terror, knowing that in the face of this remorseless logic she was lost.

'I hope,' she murmured softly, 'that you don't believe that. Yes, I loved you – loved you so much that I was mad with jealousy on your wedding day.'

'And if I had married you, I should have had no more faithful empress. And yet you knew Jason Beaufort then! Tell me, Marianne, can you recall the precise moment when you knew you loved him?'

'I don't know. It's all so vague… These things don't happen all at once. But I think that when I really knew it was – at the Austrian ambassador's ball.'

The Emperor nodded. 'When you saw him with another woman. When you learned that he was married and so lost to you. Just as I thought.'

'What do you mean?'

He smiled at her fleetingly, with that smile that brought back all his vanished youth, and very tenderly he put his arm round her and drew her to him.

'You are like a child, Marianne. Children always want what they cannot have, and the more it eludes them, the more they want it. They will spurn the prettiest toys, the greatest treasures even, for the sake of a thing of no value at all that lies beyond their reach. They are even capable of dying in the effort to grasp a star that glitters in the darkness of a well. You are like that. You would throw away the world for a reflection in the water – for something you will never reach and which will destroy you.'

She protested again, but with less conviction.

'He loves me too.'

'You do not say it quite so loudly – because you are not really sure. And you are right. What he loves is, above all, the image of himself which he sees in your eyes. Oh, to be sure, he may love you in his fashion. You are lovely enough. But admit that he has done little enough to prove it. Believe me, Marianne, and give up this idea. Relinquish this love for no good will come of it. You must not go on living a life that is not for you, living for another and through another—'

'I cannot! I cannot!'

He moved away without answering and left her to her tears. Going quickly to the wall, he took down the portrait which he had hung there so carefully a little while before, and put it in her hands.

'See! That is my son. The portrait is by Gerard. Bausset brought it to me from Paris on the eve of the Moskva. It is my most precious possession. See how beautiful he is.'

'Very beautiful, Sire.'

Filled with a despair she could not comprehend, she stared down through her tears at the picture of a fine, fair-haired baby boy who looked back gravely, in spite of the muslins and the garlands of flowers which were his scanty clothing. The Emperor's voice had dropped to a confidential murmur, yet there was an urgency in his words:

"You too have a son. You told me what a fine boy he was. You say you cannot help loving Beaufort, but what of your son, Marianne? Is it so easy to cease loving him? You know it is not. If you persist in this mad quest for an impossible happiness, in running after a man who already has a wife – for the Señora Beaufort still exists, you know, however much you may seek to forget her – so, if you persist, the day will come when the longing to see your child again will be more than you can bear, even, indeed especially, if you have other children by then, for he will be the one whose love you have never known.'

Marianne could bear no more. She let go of the portrait and threw herself at full length on the sofa, torn by shattering sobs that made her whole body tremble. She scarcely heard the Emperor when he murmured: 'Weep! It will do you good. Stay here. I will come back soon.'

And weep she did, for how long she did not know, nor was she even very sure what she was weeping for. For the life of her, she could not have said who was the cause of the despair that racked her, whether it was the man she so persistently adored or the child so suddenly recalled to her mind.

At last she felt herself being lifted up and a gentle hand wiping her face with a cloth drenched in eau de Cologne, which made her sneeze.

She opened her eyes and saw Constant bending over her with such an anxious expression that, for all her wretchedness, she had to smile.

'It's a long time since you last had to take care of me, Constant, my friend.'

'It is indeed, Princess. I have often thought so with regret. Do you feel better now? I have made some more coffee.'

She took the scalding cup and drank the contents almost at a gulp, conscious only that she felt better almost at once. Then, realizing that the room was empty but for the faithful valet, she asked: 'Where is the Emperor?'

'In the next room which he has made his office. It appears that fresh fires have broken out along a smaller river which is called the Yaouza, in the vicinity of a mansion of the name of Balachov where the King of Naples has established his headquarters.'

Marianne was on her feet at once and running to the windows, but these did not look in the right direction and she saw nothing beyond a slight haze of smoke to the east.

'I told him there would be more,' she said tensely. 'Perhaps this new outbreak will make him decide to pull out.'

'I hardly think so,' Constant observed. 'Withdraw is not a word known to His Majesty. Any more than the word retreat. He does not know the meaning of it. And that in spite of any danger. See,' he added, showing her a fat, green portfolio which he had just extracted from a travelling trunk, 'look at this folder. Do you see the laurel crown that is stamped on it in gold leaf?'

Marianne nodded. Constant sighed and his finger traced, almost tenderly, the design stamped on the leather.

'That crown is the same as the one he placed on his own head in Notre Dame on the day of his coronation. Look at the design of the leaves. They are pointed like the arrows of our old archers and, like them, go straight for their goal.'

'But they may be destroyed. What will become of your laurels in the midst of the fire, my poor Constant?'

'A halo, your Highness, and shining all the brighter in time of trouble. A flaming crown, as you might say.'

He broke off as the Emperor's quick footsteps sounded outside and withdrew, with a deep bow, to the far end of the room, just as Napoleon came in. His face was clouded now and his frowning brows were drawn down like a bar above his steely-grey eyes.

Thinking that she must be in the way, Marianne sketched a curtsy.

'With your permission, your Majesty—'

He glared at her frostily.

'Save your curtsy, Princess. There is no question of your leaving. I wish you to stay. You have a recent wound, let me remind you, and I've no intention of letting you go running off to be a prey to all the hazards of war.'

'But Sire – I can't!'

'Why not? Because of your – forebodings? Are you afraid?'

She shrugged her shoulders faintly, more from weariness than disrespect.

'Your Majesty must know that I am not. But I left my young coachman outside and there are old friends waiting for me at the Rostopchin Palace who may be anxious—'

'Then they need not be. You are in no danger with me, so far as I know. As to the Rostopchin Palace, Trévise's grenadiers are billeted there, so your friends are not without protection. Never mind. I won't have you worrying, or making some foolhardy attempt to escape. Who brought you here?'

'Major Trobriant.'

'Another old friend,' the Emperor commented sardonically. 'There seems to be no end of them. Well, I will have him sent for to go and pick up your Jolival and the – Irishman, I think you said he was? They should be brought here. There's room in this place to lodge an army, thank God! Constant will see to you and tonight we will sup together. That is not an invitation, Madame,' he added, seeing Marianne about to beg him to excuse her. 'It is an order.'

There was nothing for it but to obey. Marianne swept a low curtsy and then followed the valet who, with the confidence of a man long used to finding his way about the most extensive palaces, led her by way of two corridors and a small staircase to a comfortable room with windows almost directly above the Emperor's, only rather more dusty.

'We'll see what we can do by way of chambermaids tomorrow,' he told her with a reassuring smile. 'For tonight, if your Highness would kindly make allowances…'

Left to herself, Marianne did her best to calm her agitated spirits and to shake off the misery that oppressed her. She felt lost and abandoned, in spite of the undoubted concern Napoleon had shown for her, and that at a time when he must have had other things to do than trouble himself with a woman's private emotions. What was it he had said? That perhaps he still loved her? No, that must be impossible. He had said it only to comfort her. The one he loved was his little blonde Austrian. Besides, what did it matter now? What was more serious, and more disturbing also, was that bold, categorical declaration of his. With what remorseless logic he had demonstrated that she was not a woman dedicated to a single love, that she might be susceptible to the attractions of other men besides Jason. How could he fail to see that that was false, that she loved him, had never loved anyone else but him, not even after Corfu when—

She clasped her hands together tightly and a shiver ran down her spine. Corfu! Why had that name come to her mind just then? Was it because, unconsciously, something in her mind was trying to prove the Emperor right? Corfu – the cave – and the fisherman, that mysterious lover whom she had never seen but in whose arms she had experienced total fulfilment, an intoxication such as no other man had ever given her, not even Jason. That night she had behaved like a wanton, and yet she had not regretted it, not once. Far from it. The memory of that invisible lover, whom she privately thought of as Zeus, remained to charm and trouble her.

'I must be mad!' she exclaimed wildly, clutching her head in her hands as though she would tear out such sacrilegious thoughts. But that she could not do. Everything Napoleon had said went on going round and round in her head, driving agonizing furrows through her brain and raising a thousand questions which she knew she could not answer, yet which resolved themselves at last into one single question: could she really know herself so little?

Confronted with the most difficult problem she had ever had to face, Marianne lost all consciousness of time. Hours must have passed while she sat deep in thought, for the sun was long past its zenith when there was a tap at the door and Constant reappeared. Finding her still seated bolt upright on a low, straight-backed chair, he exclaimed: 'There, I don't believe your Highness has rested at all, and you looked so tired…'

Marianne tried to smile at him and, failing, drew an ice-cold hand across her brow.

'Yes, I am tired. What time is it?'

'Gone six o'clock, Madame. And the Emperor is asking for you.'

'Good God! And I've not even combed my hair—'

'That is of no account. His Majesty has something he wishes you to see – something very serious.'

Her heart missed a beat.

'Serious? My friends—'

'Have arrived – quite safely, never fear. But come quickly.'

This time he took her to a kind of antechamber where an extraordinary scene met her eyes. A number of men were grouped about a stretcher on which lay a figure draped in red. The Emperor was standing beside the stretcher and next to him was a distinguished-looking man whom Marianne had never seen before. Reclining on a bench a little way off, enveloped in a dressing-gown several sizes too big for him, was Jolival, a pale-faced Gracchus at his side.

Marianne felt a wave of relief at the sight of them.

'Thank God, you are here—' she was beginning, when Napoleon beckoned her to him.

'They tell me you know this woman. That it was she who tried to kill you. Is this true?'

Marianne's eyes widened. The figure wrapped in red cloth was Shankala, but a Shankala so changed that Marianne could not help feeling a rush of pity. The gipsy's face was very white and there was a trickle of blood at one corner of her mouth. She seemed to have great difficulty in breathing.

'Her chest is crushed,' the Emperor said. 'She will not last an hour, and well for her. It will spare her a hanging. Do you want to hear what she had to say?'

Marianne stared in stunned amazement from Napoleon's stem face to the waxen features of the dying girl.

'Yes, of course… But how does she come to be here?'

Gracchus spoke up timidly from his corner.

'It was Monsieur Craig who found her when he was coming back with a carriage, along by the Yaouza, just as the fire was taking hold. She was still living, so he brought her with him in the hope of learning something about Monsieur Beaufort. He arrived just as the major and I came to fetch them and Monsieur le Vicomte said that we should bring her to you because – because it seemed to be important.'

Understanding came to Marianne and she uttered a strangled cry and clapped her hand to her mouth.

'Jason! Oh, my God! They've killed him—'

'Unfortunately not,' Napoleon said irritably. 'He is alive. Now stop tormenting yourself about him and listen to what they have to tell you. This is my interpreter, Baron d'Ideville. He managed to speak with the woman and make out rather more than this young man here was able to catch. Well, Baron.'

'No, Sire!' Jolival spoke up on a note of entreaty. 'I beg you will let me tell her. It will be less painful. I am most grateful to the baron for his help, but we are strangers to him.'

Baron d'Ideville bowed, indicating that he perfectly understood, and moved away a little. Napoleon went with him and took his arm.

Marianne turned to her old friend.

Well, Jolival? What is it you have to tell me that is so terrible?'

'Oh, nothing tragic after all,' he said, with a little shrug. 'It is not so very terrible – except for you, alas!'

'Explain, please! What is this all about? They said that Jason has not been shot?'

"No. He is in perfect health and at this moment is no doubt travelling serenely on his way to Petersburg. The cossacks took him to Kutuzov's camp outside Moscow and there he was brought before an officer of the staff – a Colonel Krilov.'

'Krilov? But that was the name of the friends he was trying to reach!'

'He was undoubtedly a member of that family. Shankala could not tell us very much about him but she remembered the name and she saw Jason come out arm in arm with a Russian officer. The two seemed on the best of good terms. At that, thinking the danger was past, the gipsy went to Jason. He would have driven her away at first but then he changed his mind and called her back and had this Krilov question her. He asked where you were and why you were not with her.'

'What did she say?'

'That she did not know. That she had lost sight of you. That you had vanished round the corner of the street.'

'And he believed her?' Marianne cried, stunned.

'So it seems. He asked no more questions. He simply shrugged and went off with his new friend, after telling Shankala that he had had enough of her, or words to that effect. But she's a stubborn creature. She stayed in the camp, which was not difficult because there were other women with the army. No one took any notice of her and she was able to learn a little more because the affair naturally caused something of a stir in the camp – an American dressed as a moujik dropping, as it were, out of the blue. Well, she discovered that Colonel Krilov had obtained permission to escort him to St Petersburg himself to introduce him to his family and she hoped to be able to follow them. But when Kutuzov resumed his march, he got rid of all the women and sent them back to the city. Shankala was caught up in the crowd and obliged to return here, willy nilly. There, that's the sum of it.'

'But it's not possible!' Marianne cried, unable to believe her ears. 'Jason will try to find me. He can't have gone already—'

'Shankala saw him mounted before she left the camp. By this time he must be well on his way.'

'It's not true. It can't be. The woman is lying—'

A groan from the stretcher made her turn and she saw that the gipsy's eyes were open. There was even, she thought, a faint trace of a smile on the pallid lips.

'I tell you she is lying!' she cried.

'Those as close to death as she is do not lie,' Jolival said gravely, while Gracchus bent quickly over the woman who was evidently trying to say something.

They heard a murmur ending in a low groan. The bloodless hand which Gracchus clasped in his relaxed suddenly. The face turned to stone.

'She's dead,' Gracchus whispered.

'What did she say? Did you catch any of it?'

He nodded, then looked away.

'She said: "Forgive me, Mademoiselle Marianne." Then she said: "Mad – as mad as I!'"

A few minutes later, when Marianne, with a heavy heart and mind a blank, had allowed the Emperor to lead her out on to the terrace and was sitting down to dine with him, Duroc came to say that fires had broken out again in various quarters of the city. Napoleon threw down the napkin he had been on the point of unfolding, got up from the table and made his way to the steps, along with all those present at the meal. What he saw brought an oath to his lips.

Clouds of black smoke, carrying a horrible reek of sulphur and pitch, were being driven before the wind. Eastwards, a long street was spouting flames, while down by the Moskva a huge warehouse was beginning to burn.

Someone said: 'That's the reserves of grain, and there's another outbreak over towards the Bazaar. I think that's where the shops are that sell oil and cooking fat. It's as well there's not much wind, or I doubt whether we could have got them under control.'

'Damned idiocy!' the Emperor growled. 'I see a whole regiment down there running about with buckets and casks. There may be no fire engines left but there's still plenty of water in the river—' He bellowed out some orders and then made his way to where Marianne was standing a little way apart, hugging her arms across her chest and staring unseeingly at the ominous spectacle.

'I'm beginning to think you may have been right – at least in part. These fools are trying to cut off our food supplies.'

She turned sightless eyes to him and shook her head.

'They won't be satisfied with that, Sire, you may be sure. But it doesn't matter about me. It's you we have to think of.'

'Little fool,' he murmured through clenched teeth. 'Do you think I'd leave you to perish? You're a good little soldier, Marianne, even when you talk nonsense, and I love my soldiers like my own children. Either we die here together, both of us, or we both come out of it alive. But we're not going to die just yet.' He saw that she was looking at him with a smile too sad for tears and added, more softly still: 'Trust me. Your life is not over yet. It is only just beginning. A long and happy life. I know you are unhappy now. I know you think I'm rambling, but the time will come when you will know that I was right. Forget about this Beaufort. He does not deserve you. Think of your child, waking to life without you. He can give you so much happiness. And think, too, of the man whose name you bear. He is worthy of you… and he loves you very much.'

'Are you a magician, Sire? Who can have told you that?'

'No one – unless it is my own knowledge of men. All that he has done, he can only have done for love. Stop trying to catch the star in the bottom of the well. There are roses close beside you. Do not let them fade. Promise me—'

He drew away, but still without taking his eyes from her. Then, with a brief glance at the city, he rejoined the rest. The flames seemed to be dying down now and the smoke was thinning. This had been no more than a warning.

The Emperor paused and turned.

'Well,' he said. 'I'm waiting!'

Marianne sank slowly into a deep curtsy.

'I will try, Sire. You have my word.'