Marianne and the Lords of the East

Chapter 8 The Woman with the Diamond

THE woman who descended on a morning in July onto the wooden jetty at Odessa bore only the very faintest resemblance to the one who four months earlier had settled down to an endless wait in a gilded cage suspended over the waters of the Bosporus. Enforced rest, coupled with the admirable nourishment which Osman, Turhan Bey's steward, had provided for a guest concerning whom he had received the strictest orders, had worked wonders. In addition, as she grew stronger there had been the beneficial effects of daily walks in the gardens of Humayunabad. The beauties of the Turkish spring as they were unfolded to her day by day on Jolival's arm had wrought their own soothing medicine on her overtried spirit, while motherhood had given a fresh bloom of perfection to her natural grace.

Marianne's figure had recovered its youthful slenderness but with none of the painful emaciation which had so alarmed Jolival and terrified Jason Beaufort. She had become a woman, sure of herself and armed to the teeth for the only war that fitted her, the war of love. Hence, the traveler's curiosity and interest in the motley crowd swarming about the harbor was fully reciprocated. The local inhabitants made no secret of their admiration for the lovely stranger, so exquisitely dressed in white sprigged muslin flounced about the hem, and with huge emerald eyes sparkling from beneath the soft shade of an Italian straw bonnet with a high poke front lined with the same stuff.

After her came Arcadius de Jolival, clad in spotless white against the heat but spruce and fashionable as ever. An elegant straw hat and long green sunshade tucked under his arm completed an outfit which was also not without its effect on the natives. They were followed by a number of porters carrying their baggage.

The two friends presented the serene and leisurely appearance of tourists enjoying the experience of a new country, but this was all on the surface. Inwardly both were wondering uneasily what awaited them in this, the chief Russian port on the Black Sea.

Odessa was a strange city, beautiful in its way but with a temporary look about it. The place was full of scaffolding and still too new to have acquired a distinct personality of its own. For it was less than twenty years since a decree signed by the Tsarina Catherine II had raised the village of Tatar fishermen, newly wrested from the Turk, to the status of a Russian port. The name of the village and its Turkish castle had been Khadjibey. Catherine had rechristened it Odessa, in memory of the Greek colony of Odessos which had once stood on the site.

The village's elevation was no mere imperial whim. Situated in a rocky bay between the estuaries of the two great rivers, Dnieper and Dniester, it provided an outstanding strategic position and at the same time an outlet to the Mediterranean for the vast wheat-lands of the Ukraine.

It was wheat, in fact, which seemed to hold a peaceful dominion over this naval port. As Marianne and Jolival walked up to the one respectable hotel in the town, preceded by an urchin who had graciously appointed himself their guide in the hope of a tip, they saw dozens of wagons piled high with bursting sacks converging on the warehouses to be stored ready for loading in the holds of the waiting ships, some of which, as Marianne noted with a pang, were English. But she knew that she was in enemy territory now.

It was a full three weeks since Napoleon's Grand Army had crossed the Niemen to challenge Alexander on his own ground.

Marianne's eyes searched the huge harbor, big enough to shelter three hundred ships, hoping to catch sight of the familiar outline of the Sea Witch. But most of the vessels were European and the Russian fleet contained nothing like the antiquated Ottoman ships, so there was little chance of distinguishing the brig's masts among that forest of spars.

The town, tumbling down a steep cliff to the sea in a froth of luxuriant vegetation, was like a link between two spaces of infinite blue; but midway between the busy harbor and the fashionable part at the top, the old Turkish citadel, now strengthened and restored, added a grimmer note. Marianne found her eyes drawn to it irresistibly. Was it there that Jason had been incarcerated all these months?

She had waited for so long, hope dwindling with every new day, that she could hardly believe he was so near to her now. News traveled slowly in the Black Sea, where no one saw the need for hurry and anything was possible. Had the American privateer fallen victim to one of the sudden fierce storms that could blow up in those waters? Or been taken by one of the pirate fleets of polyglot origin which still infested that inland sea? The tsar's navy was powerless against these vermin who would descend without warning out of darkness or mist, attack like a swarm of wasps and vanish again as suddenly and completely as if the wind had carried them away.

And then, at the beginning of June when the Ottoman Empire, weary of fighting, was making peace with Russia, Osman had come back from the harbor with news which, disquieting as it was, was nothing like as tragic as they had feared. The brig had been captured by the Russians and taken to Odessa, where it was now in custody. Of the crew, there was no news at all.

The probability was that they were the prisoners of the formidable governor of the Crimea, that French émigré who, in spite of his name, had apparently made himself more Russian than the Russians and was now by all accounts devoting his considerable talents to developing the wealth of southern Russia and making Odessa into a real city: in a word, the Duc de Richelieu.

With the help of Princess Morousi, who by reason of the nearness of her estate at Arnavut Koy was able to visit Marianne quietly without arousing the suspicions of the ever-watchful Mr. Canning, the recluse at Humayunabad had been able to resume at second hand her friendship with Nakshidil. At her entreaty the Valideh had instituted discreet inquiries which had confirmed the supposition. The American was indeed the prisoner of Odessa's governor, and Nakshidil was compelled to own that she could do nothing to obtain his release. To disturb the fragile balance so recently established between the Porte and the tsar's governor for the sake of one troublesome foreigner was out of the question.

Marianne had accepted it and had made her decision quickly. In any case, the news, however bad, was still better than she had feared and better also than the long uncertainty. Jason had lost his freedom once again but at least he was still alive.

Of her child, on the other hand, she had had no news at all. The prince, Donna Lavinia and the baby seemed to have vanished into thin air and when she tried to question Osman about where his master might have gone the steward had only bowed deeply and protested that he did not know at all. But his smile had been almost too guileless. That was another subject about which he must have had very strict instructions.

Marianne had confined herself, therefore, to asking him to provide her with a vessel to carry her and Jolival in the greatest possible speed and comfort to Odessa. The Duc de Richelieu had been a friend and fellow pupil of her father's at the Collège du Plessis, and because of this she had asked for and obtained a passport in her maiden name. She had some faint hope that the duke might be moved by recollections of his youth to gratify his old friend's daughter by releasing the Sea Witch and her crew. He would certainly do it more readily for her than for the intimate friend of Napoleon.

Even then, of course, they would still have to escape from the trap of the Black Sea and sail back through the Bosporus under the guns of Rumeli Hissar and under the noses of the English ships, but all these seemed to Marianne to be minor obstacles. The fact that she would be facing them with Jason at her side took away much of their power to frighten her. The main thing, and the most difficult also, was to wrest the American away from his aristocratic captor, who was certain to be the mortal foe of liberalism in any form and, if he possessed even a fraction of the force of character of his illustrious ancestor, might well prove no easy nut to crack.

Marianne could picture him: lofty, arrogant, ruling his vast province with a rod of iron, a lover of luxury and of the arts, highly intelligent almost certainly but distinctly unapproachable.

Her fear of him was growing as she traversed the harbor, overflowing with life and activity. Even in the late afternoon the heat was still tremendous, but the crowd of tradesmen, clerks, peasants, seamen, porters and soldiers grew denser and busier the nearer they got to the long street which ran uphill to the administrative center of the town. There on the top of the cliff, above a handful of elegant pink and white houses built in the style of the preceding century, shone the gilded onion domes and rococo belfry of the brand-new churches.

Buildings were going up on all sides and the sites were all alive with men at work. The biggest seemed to be the arsenal, which was nearing completion. Masons on long ladders were busy carving the Russian imperial eagle above the monumental gateway, and their youthful guide began by leading the two travelers straight up to this, explaining engagingly by means of a great many gestures that before penetrating further into the city they must not neglect the opportunity to admire what was undoubtedly going to be one of the finest monuments anywhere to the glory of Alexander I, Tsar of all the Russias.

"Very well," Jolival sighed. "Let's go and admire it. It won't take long and we don't want to offend anyone."

Standing on a block of stone a few yards away from the scaffolding was a man apparently engaged in supervising the sculptors at their work. He was evidently a person of some importance because he turned from time to time and said a few words to a tall, dark young man carrying a writing block who at once made haste to copy it down.

The man's appearance was sufficiently remarkable. He was tall and thin and his rather aquiline features wore a slightly haunted expression. His hair, uncovered to the evening breeze, was short and wavy, still black in places but completely white in others. He was dressed any which way in a frock coat that had seen better days, well-worn boots and a black neckcloth knotted loosely around his throat. He was puffing away at a long meerschaum pipe which produced as much smoke as a small but lively volcano.

He was turning to toss another word or two to the tall young man between puffs when Marianne, Jolival and their little procession entered his field of vision. A flicker of interest came into his eyes at the sight of a pretty woman, but before he could do more than register her presence his attention was deflected by a frightful clamor of noise and shouting which broke out around him.

In another moment he had leaped down from his block of stone and rushed at them headlong with outstretched arms, mowing the two of them down and collapsing on top of them on a pile of grain sacks awaiting loading.

Before either Marianne or Jolival had time to do so much as gasp, a cartload of stone had thundered past bare inches from their heap of sacks and rumbled madly on to plunge into the harbor with a mighty splash. But for the stranger's prompt and courageous action, the two friends' journey would have ended there and then.

Blenching at the thought of what she had escaped, Marianne accepted her rescuer's hand to help her to her feet. Jolival was brushing dust from his elegant raiment, now irremediably crushed. Automatically straightening her bonnet, which had tipped over one ear, Marianne turned toward the stranger, now rather summarily slapping the dust off himself, a look swimming with gratitude.

"Monsieur," she began brokenly. "I don't know how to—"

The man paused in his work and cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Are you French? Have I had the happiness to oblige my fellow countrymen? If that is indeed so, Madame, then I am doubly glad to have preserved your beauty from harm."

Marianne found herself blushing under his ardent gaze. But by now Jolival had recovered from his fright and decided to take a hand. Bowing with ineffable grace despite his dented hat and crumpled clothes, he introduced himself.

"The Vicomte Arcadius de Jolival, entirely at your service, Monsieur. This lady is my ward, the daughter of the late Marquis d'Asselnat de Villeneuve."

Again the man raised his left eyebrow in a way that might have indicated either surprise or irony, Jolival could not be sure which. Then, all at once, he started searching through his pockets so feverishly that the vicomte could not help but ask him if he had lost something.

"My pipe," was the answer. "I can't think what I did with it."

"You must have dropped it when you rushed so nobly to our aid," Marianne said, bending down to look about her.

"I don't think so. I have a feeling it was gone before that."

It was not far to seek. The necessary appurtenance was restored a moment later by the tall young man who now rejoined them unhurriedly and without losing one jot of his Olympian calm.

"Your pipe, Monsieur," he said.

The stranger's harassed expression cleared.

"Ah, thank you, my boy. Just go along and see how the work on the guardhouse is coming along. I will be with you in a moment. And so," he went on, sucking vigorously at his pipe in an effort to get it going again, "and so… French, are you? Well, what the devil are you doing here, if I may ask?"

"Why of course you may!" Marianne smiled, finding herself liking him extremely. "I am here to see the Duc de Richelieu. He is still governor of the city, I hope?"

"He is indeed—and of all new Russia. You know him?"

"Not yet. But you, sir, who seem to be a fellow countryman, are you perhaps acquainted with him?"

The man smiled. "You would be surprised to find how many Russians speak French quite as well as I do, Madame. But you are correct on both counts. I am French and I do know the governor."

"Is he here in Odessa at this moment?"

"Why—yes, I imagine so. I have not heard that he has gone away."

"And what kind of a man is he? Forgive me if I seem to be presuming on your kindness, but I need to know. I heard it said in Constantinople that he is a very formidable man and somewhat difficult of access, that he rules here like a despot and is a hard man to cross. They said also that he hates the emperor Napoleon and everything to do with him."

The smile had faded from the man's face and he was regarding Marianne attentively with a stern, almost menacing expression.

"The Turks," he said slowly," have not so far had much cause to love His Excellency, who dealt them several sharp blows during the war. But do I understand, then, that you have come from the land of our erstwhile enemy? Have you no fear that the governor may require an explanation of what you were doing there? The ink is barely dry on the signatures to the treaty, you know. There is little mutual trust as yet and the smiles are still a trifle forced. I can only advise you to be very careful. Where the safety of his province is concerned, the governor is adamant."

"Do you mean that he will take me for a spy? " Marianne said in a low voice, coloring with a rush. "I do hope he won't because what I have to—" She was obliged to break off because the tall young man had come back at a run and was bending to whisper something in his master's ear with an appearance of unwonted agitation. Their new friend uttered an exclamation of annoyance and began to mutter angrily.

"Fools and half-wits! Nothing but fools and half-wits! Very well, I'm coming. Forgive me"—he turned back to Marianne—"but I am obliged to leave you on urgent business. We shall meet again, I am sure."

Cramming his pipe into his pocket without troubling to extinguish it, he bowed sketchily and was already hurrying away when Jolival called after him.

"Monsieur! Hi, Monsieur! Tell us at least whom we have to thank for saving our lives. Or how are we to find you again?"

The man paused for half a second in his stride and flung back over his shoulder: "Septimanie! I am called Septimanie!"

Then he vanished through the gateway of the arsenal, leaving Jolival staring after him with a look of astonishment.

"Septimanie?" he growled. "Why, that's my wife's name!"

Marianne burst out laughing and came to slip her arm through her old friend's.

"You are surely not going to take the poor man in dislike because of that? It's quite possible for a woman's Christian name to be a perfectly respectable surname at the same time. All it means is that our friend must be a descendant of someone who once lived in the old Gallic province of Septimania."

"I daresay," Jolival retorted, "but it's very disagreeable all the same. Upon my word, if I didn't know her to be so attached to England I'd be afraid of her turning up here… But there, come along now. I can see our guide is growing impatient. It's time for us to find out what a Russian hotel is like."

A good deal to the travelers' surprise, the place to which the boy now led them bore a striking resemblance to one of the better Parisian hostelries of the end of the previous century. Jolival, who had been expecting a dirty, smoky isba, trod with relief across the clean white doorstep of the Hotel Ducroux, which like the majority of Russian inns was called by the name of its proprietor.

It was a fine new building situated not far from the great barracks that were built into the side of the hill, pink-washed with tall white windows, their small panes gleaming in the last rays of the setting sun. The wide doorway with its shining brass fittings, flanked by a pair of orange trees in large glazed pots, stood open at the top of the hill at the beginning of the new town. It was clearly a very well-kept house.

Two maidservants in cap and apron and two men in red shirts—the only Russian note in this thoroughly European setting—rushed to take their baggage, while Maître Ducroux himself, magnificently attired in a dark blue coat with gilt buttons which gave him the appearance of a naval officer, came forward with stately tread to greet the new arrivals. This haughty demeanor melted into an expression of real delight, however, as he took in the elegance of his potential guests and the fact that he had to do with French people.

Antoine Ducroux himself had once been a cook in the employ of the Duc de Richelieu. He had come in answer to a summons when the duke had become governor of Odessa in 1803 to provide the rapidly growing town with a fitting hostelry. Since then the Hotel Ducroux had flourished. The food there was the best in all new Russia and a good part of the old, and it continued to prosper, thanks to the numbers of men of business who frequented the busy port, the newly rich settlers of what had formerly been an uncultivated desert region but was now in the process of rapid development, and to the officers of the military garrison, which was maintained at considerable strength.

As Marianne and Jolival were bowed by their host into an entrance hall charmingly decorated in panels of French gray picked out with gold, they came face to face with a middle-aged woman of striking appearance who was at that moment descending the stairs with a Russian colonel in attendance.

It was not so much her clothes that took the eye, although these were remarkable enough, consisting as they did of a wide-skirted dress of black silk of an extremely old-fashioned design, trimmed at neck and elbow with falls of white muslin, and a very large hat with a black feather set upon an edifice of powdered curls; rather it was the expression of her face, which bore a look of pride and arrogance that almost amounted to a challenge. Her age appeared to be about fifty and she was quite evidently an aristocrat. Judging from the superb earrings of pearls and diamonds that dangled on either side of her painted cheeks, she was also extremely rich.

The lady was by no means unhandsome, only there was a coldness and calculation about her blue eyes and a hard line to her mouth that rendered an otherwise harmonious set of features curiously devoid of charm. Her glance, directed upon the world from behind a delicately wrought lorgnette, left a disagreeable impression. This weapon she now aimed at Marianne, and she continued to stare at her as the two ladies passed one another, even to the extent of turning her feathered head somewhat until she was swallowed up in the bustle of the street, the colonel still trotting meekly at her heels.

Marianne and Jolival had halted instinctively at the foot of the stairs, letting Ducroux get a few steps ahead of them.

"What an extraordinary woman," Marianne said, when the two were out of sight. "Would it be rude of me to inquire who she is?"

"Not at all, Madame. Indeed, I could see by the way she looked at you that she will ask me the same question before long. It is strange the way French people recognize one another."

"That lady is French?"

"Yes indeed. She is the Comtesse de Gachet. She came here from St. Petersburg two days ago accompanied by Colonel Ivanoff, the officer you saw with her. She is, as I have been told, a lady of quality who has suffered much misfortune but who enjoys the special interest of His Majesty the tsar."

"What is she doing here?"

The proprietor spread his hands in a comical gesture of ignorance.

"I am not precisely sure. I believe that she is considering settling here on account of her health, which can support our mild climate better than the rigors of the capital. The financial loans and other advantages, quite apart from the allocations of land, which our governor makes available to those who are willing to come and colonize new Russia may also have something to do with it."

"That woman a settler?" exclaimed Jolival, who had observed the behavior of the woman in the black feathers with a quick frown in his eyes. "I can scarcely believe it. I have a feeling I know her, although her name means nothing to me. But I am sure I've seen those eyes somewhere before… but where?"

"Well, you certainly look as if you'd seen a ghost," Marianne said, laughing. "Don't worry about it. It will come back to you. Now, shall we go and see our rooms? After so many days cooped up on board ship, I can't wait to find myself in a real bedchamber again."

The room to which she was shown looked out over the sea and the confused bustle of the harbor, with its amazing variety of men and nations. There in a dense huddle of huts, tents and houses, each of which bore something of the national characteristics belonging to its owner, dwelt Jews, Armenians, Greeks, Tatars, Turks, Moldavians, Bulgars and Gypsies. Lights were springing up and fragments of song drifted with a strange scent of wormwood on the salty air.

Marianne stood for some time leaning out of the window and forgetting even to take off her hat, fascinated by the fantastic spectacle presented by the bay in the magic of a glorious sunset. The sea was on fire, reflecting the fading beams in great pools of purple and gold, shot with gleams of amethyst that turned to an incredible dark green in the shadow of the great mole. Drums and whistles sounded on board the ships. From every masthead the colors were being slowly hauled down as they were every night at this hour, all together as though in a well-rehearsed ballet. But even from this point of vantage, Marianne was no more able to make out the vessel she sought than she had been from the harbor. Where could the Sea Witch be? And where was Jason? In the citadel, perhaps, or else in some other prison she could not see? This town was like no other she had ever seen. It was disturbing and yet strangely attractive in its intense vitality. Standing there at the window, she felt as if she were on the borders of an unknown world which drew her and yet troubled her at the same time.

"I've asked our good Monsieur Ducroux to have supper sent up to your room for us." Jolival's familiar voice spoke behind her. "I didn't think you'd want to go down to the dining room, seeing that the hotel seems to be so full of men. I should say the best thing for us tonight would be to eat our supper and then get a good night's rest. The beds seem comfortable enough."

She swung around to face him.

"I want to see the governor as soon as possible, Jolival. Can't we go to his house this evening and see if they will let us in?"

Jolival looked deeply shocked.

"My dear, you are a lady of quality. You cannot possibly go to the governor's palace yourself and demand admittance, any more than I can. But don't be alarmed. One of the hotel servants is on his way there at this very moment carrying a very proper note composed entirely by your humble servant, expressing in the most formal terms your earnest wish to call on your father's old friend."

Marianne sighed. "You are quite right, as usual," she said, warming his heart with a contrite little smile. "Then there is nothing for us to do except, as you say, to have our supper and go to bed. I hope word will come from the duke for us to visit him tomorrow."

They spent a quiet, peaceful evening. Seated comfortably in the small sitting room attached to Marianne's bedchamber, the two friends did ample justice to the Hotel Ducroux's admirable cooking. The cuisine throughout was French and recalled to Marianne the delicacies with which the great Carême had been wont to furnish Talleyrand's table.

As for Jolival, in his delight at this temporary respite from eastern cooking he tackled carp à la Chambord, a salmis of duckling and tartelettes aux fraises as though he had not seen food for weeks, breaking off only to savor with the air of a connoisseur the excellent champagne, product of Epernay, which Ducroux was able to procure through the good offices of his former employer and a whole fleet of smugglers.

"You may say what you like," he confided to Marianne as he finished his second bottle, "but there is nothing like champagne for making you see things in a quite different light. I respect the emperor's taste for Chambertin, but to my mind he's a good deal too exclusive. There is simply nothing like champagne."

"I think he knows that," she said, smiling at the candle flame seen through the airy bubbles rising in her glass. "In fact, it was he who introduced me to it."

There was a flicker in her green eyes as she remembered that first night. Was it only yesterday, or hundreds of years ago, that Talleyrand, the old fox, had driven her out through the snow to the pavilion of Le Butard, a young girl in a dress of rose-colored satin, to charm away with her voice the melancholy humors of a certain Monsieur Denis who was said to be suffering from some unexplained misfortune? She saw again the charming, intimate little music room, Duroc's broad face, a trifle uneasy in the role of go-between, the fragrance of flowers everywhere, the bright fire blazing in the hearth, the frozen lake outside the windows. And then the little man in the black coat who had listened to her singing without a word, yet with such a look of kindness in his steel blue eyes… She saw it all and even felt something of the emotion which had stirred her then as the heady fumes of the champagne had cast her all too willingly into the stranger's arms. And yet, at the same time, she found herself wondering if that pleasant interlude had really happened to her, or if it were not just a story she had heard, a fairy tale in the manner of Voltaire or La Fontaine.

She shut her eyes and took a sip of the cold wine as though trying to recapture the taste of that night.

"France is a long way away," she said. "Who knows what awaits us here?"

Jolival cocked an eyebrow and smiled into his empty glass and then at the flower-decked table, still loaded with the remains of their meal.

"Just at this moment it doesn't seem to me so very far. Besides, we are treading the same soil as His Majesty the emperor, you know."

Marianne's eyes opened wide and she gave a little shiver.

"The same soil? What do you mean?"

"Only what Ducroux told me when I was talking to him before dinner. According to the latest information, the emperor is at Vilna. That is why we have seen so much military activity here. The regiments of Tatars and Circassians are mustering to join the tsar's army—and it's said the Duc de Richelieu thinks of marching at their head."

"A Frenchman at their head? Jolival, you can't mean it!"

"Why not? Have you forgotten that the Marquis de Langeron fought under the Russian eagle at Austerlitz? Richelieu is like him, an irreconcilable enemy of France as she is today. All he wants is to see Bonaparte defeated in the hope of putting those broken-winded Bourbons back on the throne."

Jolival seized the slender crystal flute from which he had been drinking and in a sudden spurt of anger sent it smashing violently against the white marble chimneypiece.

"Then I wonder," Marianne observed, "what we are doing sitting here drinking champagne and philosophizing instead of trying to see this man and make him listen to reason."

Jolival gave a shrug, then rose and, taking his young friend's hand in his, carried it to his lips with an affectionate gallantry.

"Sufficient unto the day, Marianne. The Duc de Richelieu won't be leaving tonight. And, may I remind you, we have a favor to ask and so are not precisely in the best position to start preaching him sermons. Forget what I have just told you and my display of bad temper. I think I'm turning into an old fool, God forgive me."

"No, you're not. It's just that you see red as soon as anyone mentions the subject of émigrés or princes. Good night, old friend. And you, too, try to forget…"

He was just leaving the room when she called him back. "Arcadius," she said, "that woman we passed coming in, Madame de Gachet, have you remembered where you met her before? She looked like an émigrée. Perhaps she was a friend of your wife?"

He shook his head. "No. She must have been very beautiful and Septimanie could never get on with pretty women. My impression is—yes, my impression is that she is connected with something unpleasant, with the memory of some horrible event buried deep in my memory which I can't quite recall. But I keep trying because when I saw her just now I had a kind of premonition, as if there were some kind of danger threatening—"

"Well, go and get some sleep. They say the night brings counsel. You may find you have remembered in the morning. Besides, we may be imagining things and giving a great deal too much importance to a poor woman who means no harm at all."

"It may be so. But I didn't care for the way she looked at us and I shan't be happy until I've worked out who she is."

Marianne slept soundly and forgot all about the woman in the black feathers. She was sitting up in bed the following morning, enjoying a real French breakfast of feather-light croissants, when there was a knock at her door. Thinking that the maid must have forgotten something, she bade her come in. But instead of the chambermaid's white cap, what peeped in was the powdered head of Jolival's mysterious lady.

She had her finger to her lips, enjoining silence, and she glanced back to make sure that there was no one in the passage before closing the door noiselessly behind her.

Marianne had paused in the act of spreading butter on a croissant and was staring at her in astonishment, her knife suspended in midair.

"Madame," she began, intending to request her uninvited visitor to let her breakfast in peace.

But once again the woman put her finger to her lips, accompanying the movement with a smile so charmingly girlish and confused that all Jolival's rather vague misgivings were forgotten in an instant. At last, when she had satisfied herself that all was quiet outside, the lady approached the bed and swept a curtsy that spoke Versailles in every line of it.

"I must beg you to pardon this unwarrantable intrusion when we have not even been introduced," she said in a voice as smooth as velvet, "but I do think that in a place where civilization is still in its infancy we may allow ourselves to dispense with some of the strict rules of polite society, while at the same time the natural ties which exist between people of the same nationality are strengthened to the point almost of brotherhood. But please, do not let me interrupt your breakfast."

This little speech had been rattled off with as much assurance as if the two of them were old acquaintances. Not to be outdone, Marianne assured her politely in return, though without any notable enthusiasm, that she was delighted to see her and begged she would be seated.

Her visitor pulled up a chair and sat down with a little sigh of satisfaction, spreading the shimmering skirts of her gray silk bedgown about her. She smiled again.

"The proprietor of the hotel told me that you were Mademoiselle d'Asselnat de Villeneuve and I can see that you are indeed the daughter of my dear friend Pierre. I was struck when I passed you yesterday by your extraordinary likeness to him."

"You knew my father?"

"Very well. I am the Comtesse de Gachet. My late husband was an officer in the same regiment. I knew your father when he was stationed at Douai in 1784."

She had no need to say more. In mentioning the father whom Marianne adored without ever having known him other than through his portrait, the woman had uttered the magic words. All Jolival's warnings and reservations were swept from her mind in an instant, and Marianne returned all her visitor's smiles and compliments in full. She even offered to share her breakfast with her, but Madame de Gachet would not hear of allowing her to ring for the chambermaid to bring fresh coffee and another cup.

"No, no. I've already had my breakfast. Besides, I would rather no one knew of this visit, so early and so unconventional as it is. People might start to wonder…"

Marianne laughed. "My dear madame," she said, "I really think you are worrying yourself unnecessarily. As you said yourself, manners are not so strict here as they are in France, and I am delighted to meet someone who knew my father since I never had the good fortune to do so myself."

"I'm sure. You must have been very young when he died."

"I was only a few months old. But do please tell me about him. You can't imagine how eager I am to listen."

"He was, I believe, the most handsome, gallant and noble gentleman imaginable…"

For the next few moments the Comtesse de Gachet held Marianne enthralled with an account of various occasions on which she had been in company with the Marquis d'Asselnat. But deeply interested as she was in all her visitor could tell her, Marianne could not help noticing that she seemed peculiarly ill at ease and that she was continually casting quick nervous glances at the door, as though she were afraid that someone might come in.

She broke off in the middle of her questions to say kindly: "You seem anxious, Countess. You have been kind enough to come and visit me and here I am pestering you with questions when I am sure your time is precious. If there is anything I can do to help you, I beg you to tell me."

Madame de Gachet smiled a trifle constrainedly, seemed to hesitate for a moment and then, as though reaching a rather difficult decision, she said in a low voice: "You are right. I am in great trouble—so much so that I ventured to call on you, a fellow countrywoman and the daughter of my old friend, in the hope that you might assist me. Yet now I hardly dare—I am so ashamed—"

"But why? Please, I beg of you, ask me anything—"

" You are so charming and have made me so welcome that now I am afraid in case I should turn you against me."

"I assure you you will not. Speak, I implore you."

The lady hesitated a moment longer and then, dropping her eyes to the lace handkerchief that she was kneading between her hands, she confessed at last: "I have suffered a terrible disaster. It is my misfortune, you see, to be a gambler. It is a shocking vice, I know that, but I started at Versailles in the circle of our unhappy queen and I can no longer help myself. Wherever I am, I have to play. Can you understand that?"

"I think so," Marianne said, thinking of Jolival, who was also an inveterate card player. "Are you trying to tell me that you have been playing here and you have lost?"

The countess nodded, without raising her eyes.

"Here, as in every other port in the world, there is a district—far from respectable, I am afraid—where every kind of gambling is carried on. It is called the Moldavanka. There is a house there run by a Greek, and I must say by no means ill-run at that. Yesterday I had some heavy losses there."

"How much?"

"Four thousand rubles. It is a great deal of money, I know," she went on hastily, seeing Marianne's involuntary gesture of dismay, "but I assure you that if you will lend it to me, with another thousand so that I may try and recoup my losses, it will not be money thrown away. I have something here which I should like you to accept as a pledge. Naturally, if I am not in a position to repay you by tonight, then you will keep it."

"But—"

Marianne broke off with a gasp. From the folds of the handkerchief she had been clutching so tightly Madame de Gachet had produced a magnificent jewel. It was a diamond drop so exquisitely pure and brilliant that the younger woman's eyes widened in amazement. It was like a fiery tear, a miniature sun containing all the concentrated radiance of the morning.

The countess let her gaze at it for a moment and then with a swift movement slipped it into her hand.

"Keep it," she said hurriedly. "I know it will be safe with you—and help me if you can!"

Marianne stared helplessly, now at the diamond scintillating in her palm and now at the woman. The lines in her face and the bitter twist to her mouth showed clearly in the morning light.

"You embarrass me very much, Madame," she said at last. "Although I know nothing of these things, I am sure this diamond must be worth a great deal more than five thousand roubles. Why not go to a jeweler in the town?"

"And have him refuse to return it to me? You are new here. You do not know yet what these people are like. Many of them are nothing more than adventurers, drawn here by the loans to be had from the governor. If I were to show anyone this stone they would kill me before they would let me have it back."

"Very well then. There is the governor. Why not entrust this jewel to him?"

"Because he is a ruthless persecutor of gambling halls—and of all who frequent them. I wish to settle in these parts, where it is beautiful and mild and sunny. I should not be granted permission to do so if the Duc de Richelieu knew the nature of my troubles. I am not even sure that the tsar, who has been good enough to take an interest in me and has even sent one of his officers to escort me, would look on it more kindly."

"You surprise me. I thought the Russians were passionate gamblers."

Madame de Gachet made a gesture of impatience and rose to her feet.

"My dear child, let us say no more about it. What I am asking of you is a small service of a few hours, no more, or so I trust. If you are unable to accommodate me, please say no more. I will endeavor to make some other arrangement, although—Oh, good God! How came I to get myself into this dreadful fix? If my poor husband could see me—" And the countess subsided abruptly onto her chair, shaking with sobs. Then, burying her face in her hands, she began to cry in good earnest.

Horrified to feel herself the cause of such misery, Marianne sprang out of bed and, pausing only to place the diamond carefully on the bedside table, scrambled hastily into a dressing gown and dropped to her knees beside her visitor, doing her best to comfort her.

"Oh, please, please don't cry! Of course I'll help you, my dear Countess! Forgive me if I seemed suspicious and asked too many questions, but the sight of the diamond frightened me a little. It is so very beautiful that I am quite afraid to have it in my possession… Only do, please, calm yourself. I will gladly lend you the money."

Before leaving Humayunabad, Marianne had reluctantly accepted a large sum in gold and letters of credit pressed upon the travelers by Turhan Bey's steward. She was unwilling now to accept money from the man who had taken away her child but Osman had made it clear that he dared not disobey what was an explicit order and in the end it was Jolival, with a much greater grasp of the practicalities of life, who had made her see reason. Thanks to his foresight, Osman had even been so obliging as to obtain Russian money for them, thus sparing them the hazards and chicanery of the money market.

Rising quickly to her feet, Marianne now went to one of her boxes and, having extracted the required sum, returned to place it in her visitor's hands.

"There, take it! And never doubt my friendship. I cannot bear to leave a friend of my father's in difficulties."

In a moment the countess had dried her eyes and, tucking the notes away in her corsage, flung her arms around Marianne and kissed her effusively.

"What a darling you are!" she cried. "How can I ever thank you?"

"Why—by drying your tears."

"They are dried already. And now I am going to sign a receipt for you. I will redeem it tonight."

"No, please. There is no need. Indeed, you will offend me. I am not a moneylender. In fact, I should like you to take back this splendid stone also."

But Madame de Gachet flung up her hand in a gesture of categorical refusal.

"Absolutely not! Or I shall be offended. Either I will return these five thousand rubles to you this evening or you will keep that stone. It is a family heirloom which I could never bring myself to sell, but you may do so very readily for I shall not be there to see it. I will leave you now, and thank you again a thousand times."

She went to the door but paused with her hand on the knob to look back at Marianne imploringly.

"Just one more favor. Will you be kind enough not to speak to anyone of our little transaction? By this evening I hope it will be settled and we need never mention it again. And so I beg you to keep my secret—even from the gentleman who is your traveling companion."

"Have no fear. I shall say nothing to him."

She had, in fact, no inclination to mention the matter to Jolival in view of the suspicions he had voiced regarding the unfortunate creature, who was clearly more to be pitied than blamed. Arcadius clung tenaciously to his own ideas and once he had taken a notion into his head it was the devil's own job to get him to abandon it. He would have been furious to learn that Marianne had lent five thousand rubles to a fellow countrywoman simply because she had turned out to be an old friend of her father's.

At the thought of Jolival, Marianne did admit to certain qualms. She had made short work of his advice and had undoubtedly been taking something of a risk in lending the money. She knew that gambling was a terrible passion and that she had been wrong to encourage it in the countess, but she had been moved by the poor woman's tears and saw her above all as a victim. She could not, no, she really could not have left a friend of her family, a fellow countrywoman and especially a woman of that age to the tender mercies of the owners of gambling houses or of the moneylenders of the town, who would have pounced only too readily on the improvident creature's remarkable jewel.

After watching her visitor's departure from the doorway, Marianne walked slowly back to her bed. Sitting down on the edge of it, she took the diamond drop in her fingers and watched the play of light upon it. It was certainly a very wonderful stone and she caught herself thinking that she would not be averse to keeping it if the countess failed to recoup her losses.

If that happened she might offer her a further sum to make up for her loss, but on no account would she ever sell such a treasure.

At the same time, staring at the diamond and remembering the magnificent earrings trembling in the countess's ears the day before, she felt her curiosity awaken. Who were these Gachets who possessed such princely jewels and how had the woman managed to retain them after twenty years of exile, when so many other émigrés had been and still were reduced to dire extremities of need? Had gambling come to her rescue?

It was hard to credit, for those to whom whist, faro or any other game of hazard had brought lasting prosperity were few indeed. Besides, not even Madame de Gachet herself knew whether her winnings with the thousand rubles left over after her debt was paid would be enough to cover the initial loan.

The more Marianne thought about it, the more depressed it made her. She had not yet reached the point of regretting her generous impulse but she had to admit that she had been a trifle hasty. Perhaps after all she would have been wiser to send for Jolival and have discussed it with him. But then the countess had been so insistent that the matter be kept a secret between her and her friend's daughter, and that was surely natural enough. At all events, she had given her promise to say nothing.

Finding no satisfactory answer to any of these problems, Marianne stowed the diamond away safely in her reticule and turned her attention to getting dressed. For some reason she was suddenly in a hurry to find Jolival and discover whether he had learned any more about the widow of the late Comte de Gachet.

When she was dressed, she left her own room and went along the passage to her friend's, which was at the far end. At this point there were two doors side by side, both opening into the passage, and since she had forgotten Jolival's number she knocked first on one and, receiving no reply, moved on to the next. When this too produced no answer, she returned again to the first.

Thinking that Jolival must be still asleep, she turned the handle.

The door opened easily, revealing a disordered room. Since the feminine character of the belongings thus revealed was enough to inform her that she had made a mistake, Marianne withdrew her head and turned to find herself face to face with a chambermaid who was eyeing her suspiciously.

"Was Madame looking for someone?"

"Yes. I thought this was the Vicomte de Jolival's room."

"Madame is mistaken. This room belongs to the Comtesse de Gachet. Monsieur the Vicomte is next door—but I don't think he is there just now."

"What do you know about it?" Marianne asked crossly, disliking the girl's tone. "I hardly think he'd tell you where he was going?"

"Oh, no, Madame! It's only that I saw him go out at about eight o'clock. He asked for a horse to be saddled and rode off in the direction of the harbor. Does Madame require anything further?"

"No… that will do, thank you."

Marianne walked back to her own room, feeling puzzled and out of sorts. Where the devil had Jolival run off to at this hour of the morning? And why had he said nothing to her?

She had grown accustomed to the vicomte's solitary expeditions, for he seemed to possess a peculiar faculty of making himself understood anywhere in the world and of finding out whatever he wanted to know. But here in this city where civilization was as yet only skin deep, a thin varnish on the surface of barbarism, it was uncomfortable to feel herself alone, even if only for an hour or two and in surroundings as typically French as the Hotel Ducroux.

The chambermaid had said that he had ridden toward the harbor. Why? Was he going to look for the Sea Witch or to explore the neighborhood of the old citadel in the hope of hearing some news of Jason? Or perhaps both?

She paced about her room for a while, uncertain what to do. She was longing to go out herself and begin inquiries on her own account but dared not for fear of missing Jolival if he should return with any news. As time passed she grew increasingly bored and discontented at being obliged to remain indoors when she wanted so badly to go out and start her own search for Jason. She unpacked her boxes and packed them again, did her hair afresh, put on a hat to go out after all, then took it off again and cast herself into a chair, took up a book and threw it down, and finally donned her hat once more with the intention of going down at least as far as the front door and finding out from Ducroux whether any word had come for her from the governor's palace.

She was tying the wide sea-green crepe ribbons under her chin when all of a sudden an uproar exploded in the hotel. There were loud shouts and the sound of running feet in the passage, with a shrill voice shrieking in some foreign language, followed by the tramp of heavy-booted feet approaching, accompanied by a clash of arms.

Full of curiosity, Marianne was on her way to her door when it was flung open abruptly. In the opening, his shocked face whiter than his shirt, stood the hotel proprietor. He was accompanied by a law officer and two armed soldiers, and he looked like a man in extreme stages of embarrassment.

Marianne stared indignantly at the intruders.

"May I ask, Maître Ducroux, what this means?" she asked icily. "What kind of hotel do you call this? Who gave you permission to enter my room uninvited?"

"Indeed, Mademoiselle, it is not my fault," the man stammered wretchedly. "Believe me, I should never dream of… It is these gentlemen—" he finished, indicating the three Russians.

Meanwhile, disregarding both him and Marianne completely, the officer had stalked into the room and was flinging open trunks and boxes and tossing out the contents in such a cavalier fashion that Marianne lost her temper.

"This is your hotel, is it not? Then get these men out of here this instant unless you want me to complain to the governor! Gentlemen, you call them! I don't want to know what they think they're doing. Get them out!"

"Indeed, I can't help it. They insist on searching this room."

"But whatever for? Will you tell me that?"

Racked by the glittering green eyes that seemed able to flay him alive, Ducroux tugged awkwardly at his shirt cuffs and kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground at Marianne's feet, as though expecting the answer to come from there. A curt command from the officer seemed to force him to a decision at last and he lifted his unhappy gaze to hers.

"There has been a complaint," he said almost inaudibly. "A lady, a guest in the hotel, has missed a valuable jewel. She insists on a search of the whole building and—and unfortunately one of the maids saw you, Mademoiselle, coming out of the lady's room this morning."

Marianne's heart seemed to stop dead and the blood mounted to her cheeks.

"A valuable jewel, did you say? Who is this woman?"

"Madame de Gachet! She has been robbed of a very large, pear-shaped diamond—a teardrop, she calls it. It was an heirloom… she is making a great deal of fuss…"

Inevitably, the diamond was discovered a moment later in Marianne's reticule and, despite her furious protests as she realized too late the trap into which she had fallen out of pure innocence, she was dragged roughly from her room with a soldier on either side and hurried out of the hotel, watched by a large crowd which had been drawn up to the Hotel Ducroux by the uproar.

Without further warning she found herself hustled into a closed carriage, which had been hurriedly fetched, and driven away rapidly in the direction of the citadel, which she had been so anxious to visit only a short while before. They had not given her time to utter so much as a single protest.

Chapter 9 The General of the Shadows

THE ancient Podolian stronghold of Khadjibey, rebuilt by the Turks and recovered by the Russians, had no doubt gained in strength and impregnability under its different owners but by no means in comfort. The cell into which Marianne was thrust unceremoniously, foaming with rage, was small and damp with grimy walls and a triple-barred window looking out at a gray wall and a line of stunted trees. Even the sight of these trees, however, was forbidden to the prisoners since the window glass had everywhere been whitewashed over so that a kind of fog seemed to hang over the prison even in bright sunshine.

The only furniture was a bed, consisting of nothing more than a plank and some straw, a heavy table and a stool, all three items bolted to the floor. An oil lamp stood in a recess but even this was behind bars, as though for fear the occupants of the cell might try to set fire to it.

After the massive door slammed shut behind her, Marianne remained for a moment sitting dazedly on the straw mattress where her guards had thrown her. It had all occurred so quickly that she could hardly take in where she was or what had happened to her.

There had been that woman, the wretched creature who had used her father's name as an excuse to reach her, to melt her heart and so get money from her! But what was the purpose of this charade? To obtain the money and ensure that she was spared the necessity of paying it back? That seemed to be the only explanation, for it was impossible to think of any other motive for such a diabolical trick. Revenge or feminine jealousy was ruled out since she and Madame de Gachet had only set eyes on one another for the first time in the entrance hall of the hotel. Marianne could not remember ever having heard her name mentioned before and even Jolival, although thinking he had met that devil in female form somewhere, could not recall when or where, or even put a name to her.

As her initial bewilderment passed, Marianne was seized again by the anger which had swept over her as she found herself apprehended like a common thief. With a roaring in her head and a red light before her eyes, she saw again the officer's triumphant expression as he pulled the diamond from her bag, the anger and mortification on the hotel proprietor's face and the gaping wonder of those other inmates of the hotel who had been attracted by the fuss at the sight of the magnificent stone.

"Oh, no!" Ducroux had cried out. "It can't be true!"

It had been open to doubt whether this last remark was called forth to the splendor of the diamond or his own disappointment in his ravishing young guest. But with such evidence against her, how could she deny it? Especially since the devilish countess had taken good care not to show herself. And now what was to become of her?

After a little while, however, she began to take some comfort in the thought that Jolival was still at liberty. He would be bound to learn of this catastrophe as soon as he returned to the hotel and he would hurry straight to the governor to put an end to the dreadful mistake before it could end in a miscarriage of justice. But would he manage to see Richelieu in time to rescue Marianne from her present predicament? It seemed not unlikely, even highly probable, in fact: if the governor were anything like the gentleman his rank implied, he would never permit his old friend's name to be mixed up in such a fearful scandal.

She soon managed to convince herself that they would come for her before long and question her in some language she could understand. Then she would be able to make them listen to her, insist on being confronted with that dreadful woman, and then everything would be all right. They would even have to apologize to her, because after all she was the injured party, it was she who had been cheated out of five thousand rubles and with the most blatant effrontery. Well, they would see which rang clearer, the voice of truth or the voice of lies. How she looked forward to seeing the old harridan take her place in this cell…

Her spirits much restored, she was meditating along these lines when the brooding silence of the old prison was broken by a variety of sounds. There was the thud of heavy boots, the clatter of weapons and raised voices rising above the sounds of a struggle. To her horror, Marianne recognized that one of those voices was Jolival's.

"You have no right," he was protesting furiously at the top of his voice, "I tell you I'm a Frenchman, do you hear, a Frenchman! You have no right to lay hands on me! I demand to see the governor—I wish to see the Duc de Richelieu. Ri-che-lieu! For God's sake, why won't you listen to me, damn you?"

The last words ended in a kind of agonized grunt which told Marianne sickeningly that they must have struck the prisoner to quiet him.

Clearly, the unfortunate vicomte had been apprehended on his return to the hotel, perhaps even without a word of explanation. He must be totally bewildered by what was happening to him.

She flung herself at the door and pressed her face against the grating, screaming out: "Arcadius! I'm here… close by! They've arrested me too! It was that woman, Arcadius, that horrible Madame de Gachet!"

But there was no answer beyond another cry of pain, further away this time, followed by the noise of a door being opened and shut again with a great crashing of bolts. Then a frenzy of rage seized Marianne. She hammered at the thick oaken door with hands and feet, screaming insults and abuse in a variety of languages in the crazy hope that one of the dumb brutes who had arrested them might catch some fragments of what she was saying, and demanding that someone be sent at once to inform the Duc de Richelieu.

The effects of this clamor were not long in coming. The door of her prison was pulled open so suddenly that she almost tumbled into the passage. What prevented her was a hand belonging to a gigantic individual with a completely bald head, as though all his capacity for growing hair were concentrated in the enormous gingery mustache that dropped on either side of his mouth. With one thrust of his great hand he sent her reeling back onto the straw, at the same time shouting at her in words she did not understand but which evidently contained a crude request to make less noise.

After which, the better to drive home his message, he took a long whip from his belt and laid about her back and shoulders with a force that made her scream aloud.

The thought that she was being treated like a vicious animal was the last straw to Marianne's temper. Writhing off the bed, she twisted like a snake and sprang, biting the man savagely on the wrist.

The jailer roared like a slaughtered ox. He tore her off and hurled her bodily across the room, to lie half-dazed by a few more blows from his whip. Then he left her.

She lay for a long while on the floor, incapable of movement. Her back and shoulders hurt abominably and she had a struggle to calm the frantic beating of her heart. Such was the fury and indignation that possessed her that in spite of the pain of the blows she had not shed a single tear.

What kind of people were these who maltreated their prisoners like that? Out of the depths of her memory she recalled things Princess Morousi had told her while she had been staying in her house. Justice, in Russia, was swift and summary. Often, those unfortunate enough to offend the tsar or his representatives would simply disappear. They would be sent in chains to the farthest reaches of Siberia to rot in the mines. They never came back because cold, hunger and ill-treatment very soon opened for them the way to what could only have been a better world.

Perhaps that was the horrid fate which awaited her and Jolival. If the Duc de Richelieu, that dedicated enemy of Napoleon, were ever to discover who she really was, then certainly nothing could save them from living death, unless the despot of new Russia should prefer to follow the fashion of his Turkish neighbors and drop them in the Black Sea with a stone around their necks.

At the thought of the governor, all her earlier anger revived. What kind of man must he be to permit such savage customs in the land where he was master? Surely the most hateful and contemptible of beings. How dared he bear the name of the greatest enemy of feudalism whom France had produced until Napoleon and suffer himself to play the lackey to a Muscovite tsar, the ruler of a race of men more barbarous even than the rudest savages, at least if her own galling recollections of the handsome Count Chernychev were anything to go by!

Painfully, she dragged herself to her feet at last, but only to collapse once more helplessly on her bed. Her back was hurting her and she was beginning to shiver violently in her thin silk dress, now rent and torn by the jailer's whip. She was cold in her dank cell. She was thirsty too, but the water in her pitcher, when she succeeded in lifting it with an effort to her lips, tasted horribly brackish and slimy, as if it had not been renewed for many days.

In an effort to obtain some meager warmth, she huddled as best she could into the straw, trying to avoid hurting her sore back more than she could help. And to steady her fast-waning courage she tried to pray. But the words did not come easily, for it was hard to pray when she was full of anger, but at least that underlying rage helped to stave off fear.

How long she lay like that, with eyes wide open and staring, as still as the dead in the oppressive silence, she did not know. The hours passed slowly and the gray light that filtered through into the prison became dusk, but the girl on the pallet did not seem to notice. All her thoughts were with her friends, with Jolival, who must be enduring similar treatment to herself, and with Jason, who would never now receive the help that he must need so sorely… To think that he might be only a few yards away from her, sick, perhaps, and in despair. No amount of whipping or ill-treatment would ever overcome his fury of resistance. God alone knew what these brutes might have done to him.

She did not hear the judas in her door open. Nor did she move while a thin pencil of light entered the cell by the same way and move across until it fell on her pale figure lying in the straw.

"Dear God, it is she!" murmured a voice. "Open this door at once!"

The pencil beam grew until it became the bright light of a lantern carried by a jailer. It filled the cell, banishing the shadows, and only then roused the girl from her torpor. She sat up blinking just as a small man in a black soutane, with a halo of white hair, darted into the cell.

At the sight of that black robe, Marianne uttered a gasp of terror, for to a prisoner the arrival of a priest could scarcely be held a good augury. But it was only for a moment. A second later the newcomer was hurrying across to her with outstretched arms.

"Marianne! My little one! What are you doing here?"

She gave a cry of recognition, feeling as if the heavens had opened for her.

"Godfather! You—?"

But the shock of joy breaking in on her wretchedness was too much for her. Her head swam and she had to cling to the old man, who was hugging her in his arms, laughing and crying at once.

"Godfather! It can't be true… I must be dreaming…" She was stammering incoherently, still unable to believe that he was real.

By this time Cardinal de Chazay had been able to appreciate his goddaughter's condition, her torn dress and pale face, with the imprint of fear still in her eyes, and the angry words burst out of him.

"What have these savages been doing to you?" He rounded on the jailer and continued his tirade in Russian. The man had been standing by watching in blank amazement while a prince of the Roman Church cradled a common thief in his arms as tenderly as a mother. Now he vanished in response to an authoritative command and Gauthier de Chazay turned his attention to calming his goddaughter's sobs. Her shattered nerves had given way and she was weeping like a fountain into his shoulder, gasping out apologies.

"I was so frightened, Godfather! I—I thought they would do away with me w-without even a hearing…"

"And not without reason. I shall never be sufficiently grateful for the providential chance that brought me to Odessa just at this time! When Richelieu told me a female traveler who arrived at Ducroux's yesterday had been arrested for theft and was claiming on the strength of some slight resemblance to be your father's daughter, I felt I had to make sure and I hurried here at once. I'd no idea what could have brought you to this place, but I knew of only one person who looked like your father, and that was you, yourself. Although the business of the theft still worried me—"

"I stole nothing, I swear to you! That woman—"

"I know, my child, I know. Or rather, I guessed as much. You see, I know the woman of old. But come, we must not remain here. The governor came with me and is waiting for us in the commandant's office."

The jailer returned bearing an army greatcoat and a steaming glass. The coat he handed nervously to the priest, the glass he set down by Marianne.

"Drink it," the cardinal told her. "It will do you good."

It was a glass of milkless tea, strong and very sweet, and it filled the void in her empty stomach and, with its warmth, restored some life to her. While she drank the priest put the vast overcoat around her shoulders, hiding her tattered dress and bruised flesh. Then he helped her to her feet again.

"Can you walk? Would you like someone to carry you?"

"No, no, I can manage very well. The brute beat me horribly but he didn't kill me. But I should like someone to go and rescue my friend Jolival, Godfather. He was arrested not long after me, I heard them bring him here."

"Don't worry. It shall be attended to. He'll join us upstairs."

In point of fact Marianne was still far from steady on her feet, but the thought of seeing Richelieu so soon gave her wings. So much the better if it meant another battle to be fought. She felt strong enough to fight the whole world now and win. God had not deserted her. He had sent her one of His most distinguished representatives, and in the nick of time.

She had been too long familiar with the onetime Abbé de Chazay's mysterious comings and goings to feel much real surprise at finding him here, at the gateway to Russia and the east, dressed as a simple country priest. But a gasp of pure amazement was torn from her as she came face to face with the governor of whom she had been making such an ogre.

Still dressed in the same shabby boots and ill-fitting coat and still armed with the inevitable pipe, the man she had known as Septimanie was pacing irritably up and down the bare room which the commandant of the castle dignified by the title of his "office," on account of the presence in it of a table bearing at that moment three sheets of paper and an inkwell. He turned at the sound of the door opening and stood with a frown between his eyes and head lowered like a bull about to charge while the cardinal and the prisoner came in. He was evidently in an exceedingly bad temper and he spoke without preamble.

"So it was your goddaughter, Your Eminence. There can be no doubt of that?"

"None at all, my friend. None at all. This is Marianne d'Asselnat de Villeneuve, the daughter of my unhappy cousin, Pierre-Armand, and the Lady Anne Selton."

"If that is so, I fail to understand how the sole descendant of such a man could so far have forgotten herself as to become a common thief."

"I am not a thief," Marianne protested furiously. "That woman who accused me is the wickedest and most deceitful creature, and the most outrageous liar I have ever met. Only send for her, Your Grace, and we shall see then which of us is in the right."

"That is precisely what I mean to do. The Comtesse de Gachet enjoys His Imperial Majesty's especial protection and I owe her my respectful consideration on that account. The same can hardly be said of you, Mademoiselle. You have caused nothing but trouble ever since your arrival here. For all your name and your beauty, which I confess is striking, you seem to me the sort of young person who—"

"If you will allow me, my dear Duke," the cardinal cut in sharply, "I had not finished my introduction. The lady you see before you is no mere young person. Nor should you address her as Mademoiselle. Her full title, since her marriage, is Her Serene Highness, Princess Corrado Sant'Anna. Moreover I believe she has as much right to your respectful consideration as this Madame de Gachet, of whom I may perhaps know more than you."

Inwardly Marianne commended herself to heaven, cursing the family pride which had led the cardinal to impress his friend with this blunt revelation of her real name. Richelieu's stern eyes had widened and one eyebrow had lifted ominously. His rather high voice went up a full three tones to a harsh squeak.

"Princess Sant'Anna, eh? I've heard that name. I can't remember just what it was I was told about her, but I seem to think it was nothing very good. One thing at least is certain. She entered Odessa under false pretenses, taking good care to conceal her real rank and traveling simply under her maiden name. There must have been a reason for that—"

Gauthier de Chazay, Cardinal San Lorenzo, was not a patient man. He had listened with clearly growing irritation to this speech of the governor's and now he put an end to it by banging his fist loudly on the table.

"We can consider her reasons later, if you please, my son! Are you quite sure that your rather too obvious ill humor is not due to the fact that you owe the princess an apology and that it galls you to admit that Madame de Gachet is not the saint you had imagined?"

The duke moistened his lips and hunched his shoulders, possibly to hide the red that crept into his cheeks. He muttered something half-inaudibly about the difficulties attendant on remaining a faithful son of the Church when her princes were so unpleasantly meddlesome.

"Well?" the little cardinal insisted. "We are waiting."

"I shall apologize to—the lady when the matter has been cleared up. Let the Comtesse de Gachet be admitted."

Watching the woman to whom she owed her recent unpleasant experiences sweep into the room like a great actress taking the stage, Marianne saw red and could have hurled herself at the impudent creature. She came forward more powdered and plumed than ever and leaning on one of the tall beribboned canes which Marie-Antoinette had made the fashion walking in the gardens of the Trianon, the skirts of her purple gown brushing the ground. After curtsying urbanely to the duke, she sat down without waiting to be asked on a coarse wooden chair. The glance that rested briefly on Marianne and on the unremarkable little priest standing beside her showed precisely what she thought of them.

She arranged her silken skirts around her as she had done in Marianne's bedchamber and uttered a tiny laugh.

"Have you sealed the fate of this unhappy creature already, Duke? I see that you have fetched a priest to her, to prepare her no doubt for the proper punishment of her kind. I really think, however, that Siberia will do well enough for the girl and that you will not—"

"That will do, Madame," the cardinal broke in curtly. "You are here to answer questions, not to pass judgment on what does not concern you. Or to lay down the correct punishment for theft. That is a matter in which you have some experience, have you not? I believe it must be almost twenty-six years since—"

"My dear sir," the governor began, but the cardinal silenced him with a lift of his hand, although his eyes never left the countess's.

She had paled visibly under her paint and Marianne saw to her surprise that there were beads of sweat along the line of the powdered hair, while the white fingers emerging from her black lace mittens had tightened on the cane.

Madame de Gachet turned her head, clearly unwilling to meet the calm blue gaze fastened so steadily on her. She laughed again, lightly, and shrugged her shoulders with an assumption of indifference.

"Naturally I have experience, Monsieur l'Abbé, but indeed I am at a loss to understand your meaning."

"I think you understand me very well. The fact that you are here at all you owe to some of my own order, as well as to the unwitting kindness of the tsar. Nevertheless, those few drops of royal blood that run in your veins do not authorize you to make fresh victims."

Marianne had been following this strange and incomprehensible exchange eagerly. Now she saw the countess's eyes start from her head. She put a shaking hand to her throat as if she were choking, made an effort to rise and sank back heavily onto her chair as though her legs refused to bear her.

"Who—who are you?" she whispered almost inaudibly. "How could you know that—unless you are the devil?"

Gauthier de Chazay smiled.

"Nothing so illustrious, and my dress should tell you I have not even the honor to represent him. But we are not here to play at riddles or to uncover secrets. I have said what I have solely in order to persuade you to withdraw a charge which you know very well is false."

The fear had not left her eyes but she said at once with a kind of desperate haste that she withdrew the charge, that it was all a dreadful misunderstanding.

But this Marianne would not have.

"That does not satisfy me," she said. "I mean this woman to confess the truth, the whole truth. Witnesses saw the officer who arrested me take the diamond drop from my reticule, so how can anyone say the woman was mistaken? She gave me the stone as surety for a loan of five thousand rubles which she needed to pay her gambling debts and was to pay back the same evening. I suppose she lost it all and made up this shameful story as a way of getting back her diamond without repaying the money."

This time it was the Duc de Richelieu who interrupted.

"Is this true, Madame?" he asked sternly, turning to the countess, who was looking the picture of guilt.

She nodded, not daring to raise her eyes. A heavy silence fell on the room as they regarded her. The duke tapped out his pipe mechanically on a corner of the table. His face was strangely blank and he was evidently torn between his sense of justice and the pressing instructions which had come to him from Petersburg. Justice prevailed.

"Then I have no choice but to place you under arrest…"

She looked up at that, but before she could speak the cardinal had forestalled her.

"No," he said with unexpected authority. "You will do nothing of the kind, Duke. You have had instructions from the imperial chancellery to assist the Comtesse de Gachet to settle in the Crimea—where she is to reside for the remainder of her natural life, with Colonel Ivanoff to—er, look after her. You will do just that."

Now it was the duke's turn to bang his fist on the table.

"Your Eminence," he said forcibly, "I yield to no one in respect for your cloth, but this is not a matter for the Church. It is a matter for the state. I shall inform the tsar of what has occurred and I am sure His Majesty will agree with me. The woman must be tried and sentenced."

The cardinal did not answer at once. Instead he took Richelieu by the arm and drew him aside into the embrasure of the single narrow window, which at this hour of night was in deep shadow. But Gauthier de Chazay was not after light. Marianne, watching him intently, saw him lift his hand palm upward and display the ring he wore turned inward on his finger to the governor's eyes. Richelieu whitened visibly and rewarded the little cardinal with a glance of mingled awe and apprehension.

"The general—" he breathed.

"Well?" the priest said.

"I shall obey, Monseigneur."

"You will earn the order's gratitude. And now, Madame—" He turned back to the defeated countess, who had been watching this scene without understanding but with alternate hope and dread. "You may return to your hotel where you will announce your departure for tomorrow morning. Colonel Ivanoff shall hear within the hour to which Crimean city he is to escort you and he will receive the appropriate papers. After that we must consider how best to establish the truth in the best interests of all."

Madame de Gachet rose with an effort and stood leaning on her ridiculous cane like a wounded soldier on his musket. All her arrogance had left her. She looked now like a very old woman.

And it was in a tone almost of humility that she murmured: "I do not know who you are, Monseigneur, but I should like to thank you—yet I do not know how."

"Very easily. By honoring the bargain you made with Mademoiselle d'Asselnat. You agreed, did you not, that the diamond drop should be hers if you failed to return her five thousand rubles? Can you return them?"

"No—but if someone were to lend me the money I might—"

"You might do nothing of the sort. Your repentance is a fragile thing, Madame, and deceit is second nature to you. On your return to the hotel you will have the stone delivered to the governor's palace and he will see that it is handed to your victim. That will be safer—"

"But I don't want it," Marianne protested.

"You will keep it, however. That is my order. You will keep it—in memory of your mother, who died on the scaffold for having tried to save the queen. Do not try to understand. I will explain later. But now you too should go back to the hotel and rest, for you stand in great need of it."

"I won't go without my friend Jolival."

Before she had finished speaking, the door opened and Jolival appeared. His eyes were closed and he was supported by a jailer, for he seemed to have difficulty in walking. Marianne saw to her horror that there was a bandage around his head and that it was stained with blood.

"What have they done to him?" she cried, and ran to him.

But as she took his other arm to help guide him to a chair, he opened one eye and smiled at her.

"A tap on the head to keep me quiet… nothing serious, but I feel a trifle dizzy. It's brought on one of my headaches… If you could manage to obtain a glass of brandy, my dear…"

The duke opened a cupboard set in the wall and after a glance inside emerged with a bottle and a glass which he half filled.

"There's only vodka here," he said. "Would that do as well?"

Jolival took the glass and gazed with some surprise at the man who proffered it.

"Well, well, if it isn't Monsieur Septimanie. What brings you here?"

"Jolival," Marianne broke in, "this gentleman is the governor, the Duc de Richelieu himself."

"Well, I never! And I was thinking—" He paused to swallow the contents of the glass but showed no particular sign of surprise. Then he returned the empty glass with a sigh of satisfaction. A little color had come back to his wan face.

"Not bad," he said. "I might even say it goes down like water."

His eyes suddenly took in the presence of the countess and Marianne saw them darken.

"That woman," he muttered. "I know now who she is! I know where I saw her last. My lord Duke, you are the governor here, then let me tell you that this woman is a thief, a creature publicly branded as such! The last time I saw her she was being held down while Sanson, the public executioner, set his iron to her flesh. That was in 1786, on the steps of the Palais de Justice in Paris, and I can tell you—"

"Be quiet," the cardinal interrupted him sharply. "No one has asked you to say anything on that subject or what you may think about it. I am Gauthier de Chazay, Cardinal San Lorenzo and Marianne's godfather. By the grace of God I was here when I was needed to set things right. That is now done and we need hear no more of the matter." He turned to the countess, whose terrors had revived at the entrance of Jolival. "Madame, you may go. Colonel Ivanoff awaits you. He will have his orders within the hour and you have only to pack your belongings. But if you wish to enjoy a quiet sojourn here, see to it that you do not indulge in any more such escapades. You will be provided with enough to live on."

"You have my promise, Your Eminence… Forgive me!"

She stepped forward timidly and, bending her knee with difficulty, bowed her head with a beseeching look. He made a quick sign of the cross above her purple feathered headdress and then held out his hand for her to kiss. On that hand there now appeared only a plain gold band.

Madame de Gachet rose and left the room in silence without looking back.

"She didn't even apologize," Marianne said when she had watched her go. "I think she might have done that at least, after all I suffered on her account."

"It is useless to expect it," answered the cardinal. "Hers is the kind of mean spirit which never forgives its victims for the wrongs she has done them… and for the consequences."

The governor came forward from behind the table, where he had remained an observer of the preceding scene, and spoke to Marianne.

"Then it is I, Madame, who will offer you my apologies, for you have suffered at the hands of my subordinates. How can I make it up to you? When we met down by the harbor yesterday evening you seemed most anxious to speak to the governor. Is there something you would ask him?"

Marianne's pale cheeks flushed with pleasure. Could it be that, after all, her unpleasant adventure was going to be rewarded, much sooner and more easily than she had imagined, with the release of Jason and his ship? It seemed not impossible, for the duke was even then talking of compensation.

"My lord Duke," she said softly, "there is a boon, although I hardly dare to ask it, for I have not forgotten that I owe my life to the good Monsieur Septimanie. But it is true that I made the voyage from Constantinople with that object. My only fear is that it may have given you a distrust of me—"

Richelieu laughed, and the sound was so warm and friendly that it lightened the tension left by the mystery of the Comtesse de Gachet.

"I know, but the cardinal's warning cannot be lightly disregarded. As to Septimanie, it is merely one of the innumerable absurd names with which the children of certain families are apt to find themselves burdened. It amuses me to use it now and then. But do please make your request."

"Very well. I believe that at some time in March an American brig called the Sea Witch was captured by the Russian fleet and brought into harbor here. I want to know what has become of her and her crew and if possible to obtain their liberty. Captain Beaufort is a very dear friend of mine."

"He must be indeed… You took a very grave risk, Madame, in coming to this country to get news of him. This Beaufort is a lucky man."

There was a sudden melancholy in the eyes that dwelled on the beautiful woman before him, so touchingly young and frail in a coat many sizes too big for her which swamped the remembered grace of her figure. Her face was pale with pain and weariness, but her great luminous green eyes shone like emerald stars at the sound of the American's name. She clasped both hands together in a pretty gesture of entreaty.

"For pity's sake, Your Excellency, tell me what has happened to them!"

The sparkle in the green eyes had grown brighter still and Richelieu guessed that the tears were not far off. And yet, oddly enough, his face seemed to harden.

"The ship and the men are here. But you must not ask me any more for the present because I have no time to spare. Other less pleasant but more demanding duties call me. But if you will give me the pleasure of dining with me tomorrow night I may be able to tell you something more."

"My lord—"

"No, no! Not another word. A carriage is waiting to drive you back to Ducroux's, with an escort befitting your station. We will speak of it again tomorrow evening. This is not the place."

There was nothing more to say. Surprised and a little disappointed by this sudden dismissal, which suggested a wish to avoid the subject, Marianne dropped a curtsy as deep as the wobbly condition of her legs would permit. Her one wish now was for a hot bath and her bed, where she could forget the horrors of the day she had just lived through. Even Richelieu's announcement that he intended keeping the cardinal with him did not wring a protest from her. The governor was clearly burning to question him about the strange woman whom he had brought to heel in such a remarkable fashion.

The same question was tormenting Marianne also, but they were no sooner in the carriage which was to take them back to the hotel than Jolival fell so fast asleep that it took two men to get him out and upstairs to bed in his own room, and even then he did not wake. So she was compelled to master her very natural curiosity regarding both Cardinal San Lorenzo and the mysterious Madame de Gachet.

She was forced to acknowledge that her godfather was a most remarkable person. He seemed to possess unusual powers and his path lay always in the darkest, most mysterious ways. Through all the years of her childhood and adolescence, she had built up a picture of him as a character out of a novel, the man of God who was also a secret agent, sworn to the twofold service of the Pope and the exiled royal family of France. She had seen him in Paris, at the time of Napoleon's marriage to the Austrian emperor's daughter, decked in the scarlet of a prince of the Church—but a rebellious prince, in open revolt against the emperor and compelled to fly by night to escape from Savary's police. Not that this had hindered him at all when it came to arranging her own marriage with a mysterious prince whom no one had ever set eyes on and of whom she herself had seen only a gloved hand during the wedding ceremony.

And now he was here, in Odessa, still engaged no doubt on some secret task, but clad it seemed in unusual and mysterious power which enabled the little blue-eyed priest to command even the highest in this strange land. What office did he hold now? What new unsuspected dignity had he put on? Just now, looking at the gold ring on the cardinal's finger, Richelieu had used a strange, unlikely word to be applied to a priest: the general. Of what secret army was Cardinal de Chazay the head? It must be a powerful one, even if it operated in the shadows, thought Marianne, remembering the ease with which a onetime abbé, poor as a church mouse, had produced the vast sum in gold demanded by her first husband, Francis Cranmere.

Tired of wondering, Marianne let the answers to these questions wait. What she needed now was sleep so that she would be fresh and wide awake tomorrow evening to plead Jason's cause with the governor. That cause might not be easily won, because Richelieu's manner had cooled noticeably when she had summoned up courage to put her request. But at least the brief exchange had told her that Jason was actually here in the same town and that she would see him soon.

With her mind thus far at rest, she was able to respond pleasantly to Maître Ducroux's effusive welcome and his reiterated apologies for his own unwilling part in what he referred to as "the unfortunate incident." But it was with real delight that she found herself once more in her own room. A chambermaid had been busy there and everything had been set to rights, presumably while the proprietor awaited the verdict in the case.

When she opened her eyes late the following morning, the first thing she saw was a bunch of enormous roses by her bed. They were a wonderful shell pink and the scent was so strong that she took them in both hands and buried her nose in them. It was then she saw that beside them was a small package accompanied by a note sealed with the cross and chevrons of Richelieu in red wax.

The contents of the package came as no surprise. It was, of course, the diamond, elegantly done up in a gilt comfit box, and once again Marianne fell under the spell of the magnificent stone. It seemed to glow within the curtains of her bed with a magical radiance. But the note gave her even more to think about.

It contained no more than a dozen words above the governor's signature: "The most beautiful flowers, the most beautiful jewel, for the most beautiful…"

Yet the implication behind those twelve words was so agitating that she jumped out of bed and put on the first dress that came to hand, thrust her feet into a pair of slippers and, not even bothering to comb out the two thick plaits swinging at her back, rushed from the room, still clutching the gilt box and the note in one hand. She knew she had to talk to Jolival at once, even if it meant emptying a jug of water over him to wake him.

As she passed Madame de Gachet's room, she saw that the door was wide open and the room cleared of all that lady's personal belongings. She must have quitted the town as soon as it was light. But Marianne did not stop. She opened the adjoining door and walked in without pausing to knock.

The sight that met her eyes was a reassuring one. Seated at a table before the open window, wearing one of the loudly patterned dressing gowns that he affected, was the vicomte, engaged in eating his way systematically through the contents of an enormous tray. These ranged from some of Maître Ducroux's airy croissants to victuals considerably more substantial and included, besides the tall silver coffee pot, a brace of promisingly dusty bottles.

The vicomte appeared unperturbed by Marianne's tumultuous entrance. He beamed at her with his mouth full and pointed to a small chair.

" You seem to be in rather a hurry," he remarked when he could speak. "I do hope nothing else disastrous has occurred?"

"No, no—at least, I don't think so. But tell me first how you are feeling."

"As well as anyone can feel with a head like this," he said, taking off his nightcap and revealing an empurpled lump the size of a small egg with a cut across the middle of it in the center of his bald pate. "I'd best be careful how I take my hat off for the next few days if I don't want to attract too much attention from the barbarians who inhabit these parts. Would you like some coffee? You look to me as if you'd got up in a hurry without waiting for any breakfast. And while we're on the subject, are you going to show me what it is you're clutching to your heart?"

"These!" Marianne said, laying them before him. "I want to know what you think of this note."

The aroma of coffee filled the room as Jolival went on calmly filling her cup. Then he read the note, drank a glass of wine, returned his nightcap to his head and settled back into his chair, waving the sheet of paper gently.

"What I think?" he said after a moment. "Upon my word, what any fool would think! That His Excellency was very much taken with you."

"And doesn't that worry you at all? Have you forgotten I am to dine with him tonight—and alone, because I don't recall hearing him invite you also?"

"Quite right, from which I deduce that he was not equally taken with me. But I don't think you need worry, because even if I am not there your godfather is sure to be present. In any case, you are bound to hear from him during the day and I believe that this is one occasion when he will be much better able to advise you than your Uncle Arcadius because he knows the duke. Your godfather is a very remarkable man—and one I'd very much like to know more of. You have often talked of him, my dear, but I had no idea he'd risen to such power."

"Nor I! Oh, Jolival, I can tell you—there are times when, for all his great kindness to me, my godfather makes me uneasy. He almost frightens me. He is so mysterious. And it is his very power, as you say, that scares me. There seems no end to it. I thought I knew him, you see, and yet every time I see him there is something more that is new to me."

"There's nothing odd in that. You knew someone who stood to you in place of your father and mother, a little priest who gave you an unvarying affection. But you were a child and naturally you did not see the whole picture of the man."

"It was natural when I was a child, yes. But not now. And yet the older I get, the deeper grow the shadows that surround him."

She described as best she could all that had taken place in the commandant's office before Jolival's entrance, endeavoring to recall the exact words used and dwelling on the curious moment when Richelieu had capitulated instantly at the sight of the cardinal's ring, and on the words "the general" which had escaped him.

Jolival stiffened as she uttered them.

"He said the general? You are quite sure?"

"Positive. And I must say I didn't understand it at all. What do you think he meant? I know it is a title sometimes given to the head of a monastic order, but my godfather has never been a monk. He has always been in the world…"

She saw that Jolival was not listening to her. He said nothing, but the look on his face was all at once so grave and so remote that she dared not break in on his thoughts. His breakfast forgotten, he took the little gilt box and opened it, holding the diamond between his fingers so that it blazed like a drop of fire in the sunshine. For a long moment he let the light play on it in blue flashes, as though seeking to hypnotize himself.

"So much suffering! So much pain and tragedy for the sake of this little bit of carbon and a few more like it. Of course," he went on, "that would explain it all—even the way the cardinal seemed to be protecting that wretched woman, although neither you nor I could understand it at the time. But the ways of the Lord are very strange. And stranger still those of men such as these, to whom secrecy is second nature."

However, Marianne had had enough of the atmosphere of mystery which had surrounded her for the past twenty-four hours.

"Arcadius," she said firmly, "I am wholly lost. Do, please, try to be a little clearer. Tell me in plain words what it is you think. Who is my godfather and what is he general of?"

"Of shadows, Marianne… of shadows. Unless I am very much mistaken, he is at this moment the supreme head of the Company of Jesus, the leader of the most formidable army of Christ. He is the one who is called fittingly enough, the Black Pope."

Marianne shivered, despite the sunshine flooding the room.

"What a terrible name! But I thought the Pope, the one in Rome, that is, had disbanded the Jesuits in the last century."

"Yes, in 1773, I think. But that was not the end of the order. Frederick of Prussia and Catherine II gave it a home, while in Catholic countries it went underground and so became more formidable than ever. Your godfather, my dear, is probably the most powerful man in the world at this moment because the order has connections everywhere on earth."

"But all this is only guesswork? You cannot be sure!" Marianne cried desperately.

Jolival returned the diamond to its box but did not shut the lid. Instead, he held it out to her.

"Look at that stone, my child. It is wonderfully pure and beautiful—yet this and a few others like it were enough to smash the throne of France."

"I still don't understand."

"You will. Have you ever heard of a fabulous necklace which Louis XIV ordered from the royal jewelers Boehmer and Bassange for Madame du Barry, but which was never delivered owing to the king's death—and so afterwards became the property of Queen Marie-Antoinette? Have you ever heard of that dark and terrible episode known as the Affair of the Necklace? This drop is the central stone, the largest and most precious diamond of that necklace."

"Of course! But, Jolival, you don't mean—that woman is not—she can't be—"

"The thief? The celebrated Comtesse de la Motte? Yes. I know she was said to have died in England, but it was never proved, and I have always been convinced that behind that woman there was another hand at work, a powerful, ambitious hand, pulling the strings of her greedy and unscrupulous little mind. I am sure now that I was right."

"But… who?"

Jolival shut the box and put it into Marianne's hand, closing her fingers around it one by one as though to keep it safe. Then he rose and paced the room for a moment before coming to rest before her.

"There are state secrets which it is dangerous to touch and names whose very sound is death. Moreover, here again I have no proof. You can always try asking the cardinal when you see him, but it would surprise me if he were to give you an answer. The order keeps its secrets close, and I am very sure that if I had uttered Madame de Gachet's real name last night, I shouldn't be here talking to you this morning. Take my advice, my dear, and forget all this very quickly. It is a deep and dangerous business and full of pitfalls. We have enough to worry us without getting into such deep waters. And, if you'll be guided by me, you'll ask the cardinal to give you back the five thousand rubles, which we might well have need of, and to take the stone in exchange. I have a feeling it will not bring us luck."

Later in the day, however, as Marianne was considering her wardrobe, trying to decide which dress to wear to dinner with the governor, she was told that a Catholic priest was below asking to see her.

Sure that it must be the cardinal, she hastily gave the order for him to be shown up to the little sitting room adjoining her bedchamber. She was looking forward to a long talk with her godfather and had made up her mind to do what she could to confirm or deny Jolival's suspicions. But, to her disappointment, her visitor turned out to be the cardinal's incorrigibly dismal secretary, the Abbé Bichette.

Even he, though, was an old acquaintance and for a moment she had some hope of learning something from him. But the abbé, looking more uncompromisingly gloomy than ever in a long black soutane that made him look rather like a closed umbrella, merely informed her that His Eminence was deeply distressed to be obliged to leave Odessa without seeing her. He entreated his beloved daughter to put her trust in Our Lord Jesus Christ and to accept his blessing and the letter which his unworthy servant Bichette was charged to deliver to her, together with an accompanying packet.

Thereupon he handed her a black leather wallet containing the sum of five thousand rubles. Marianne, a good deal surprised, was about to open the letter but then, seeing that the Abbe Bichette was about to retire, considering his mission accomplished, she detained him.

"Has His Eminence already left?" she asked.

"No. His Eminence is awaiting my return. Which means that I must hurry so as not to delay him."

"I should very much like to go with you. How strange of the cardinal to go so soon! Surely he knows how glad I was to see him again? And we have not exchanged a single word in private—"

"He is aware of that, but it would not be wise to go with me. His Eminence would be greatly displeased. Nor does he like to be kept waiting, so—with your permission…" He was almost running to the door.

"Where are you going?"

This time she thought he would have burst into tears.

"Indeed I do not know. I only follow His Eminence and ask no questions. Perhaps that letter may tell you. And now I must beg you to let me go…"

He made a bolt for the door as though seized with a sudden panic, and as he went he picked up a low-crowned, broad-brimmed black hat of such a characteristic shape that Marianne, who had failed to notice it when he came in, could no longer doubt that Jolival was right. Bichette was a Jesuit. Not one very high up in the secrets of the order, but a Jesuit nonetheless. And seeing that he had, however unwittingly, provided her with the answer to one of her unframed questions, she did not prolong his torment but let him go. In any case, it was high time she read her letter.

It was very short. The abbé had already delivered the substance of it. Gauthier de Chazay only added that he hoped to see his dear goddaughter before too long and explained the five thousand rubles.

"The history of the stone is too dark," he wrote, unconsciously repeating what Arcadius had said, "for me to wish you to keep it, and that is why I am returning the money you gave for it. As to the stone itself, I ask you to take it back to France. It is worth a fortune and I cannot take it with me where I am going. Exactly six months from today, someone will come to your house in the rue de Lille. He will show you a disk with the four letters AMDG[7] engraved upon it and you will give him the stone. If you should happen to be away, I think you may safely ask Adelaide to do it for you, and you will have rendered a great service to your Church and to your king…"

This missive, which was, to say the least, extraordinary, coming from one whom she had always regarded as a second father, irritated Marianne profoundly. She crumpled it up and threw it across the room. Really, she thought, the cardinal was taking too much for granted. He had found her in dire straits and had rescued her, certainly, but then he charged her with a mission that was none of hers without even stopping to ask what she was doing here and what she might want or need. Take it back to Paris? But she was not going back to Paris! And what did he mean by that allusion to her Church and her king? She had no king, as the cardinal very well knew. The only sovereign she acknowledged was the emperor. So what did it all mean? And how long would people who claimed to love her go on thinking they had the right to use her and her time just as they liked?

Angry as she was, it still occurred to her that it might be unwise to leave lying about a letter from a man such as the cardinal, and so she set about recovering it from under the heavy chest of drawers where it had rolled.

She was down on her hands and knees poking at it with a sunshade when Jolival came in. He stood watching her in some amusement and when she emerged at last, flushed and disheveled, clutching the crumpled-up paper in her hand, he helped her to her feet.

"What are you playing at?" he asked her with a smile.

"I'm not playing. I threw this letter away, but then I thought I'd better burn it. But read it. It should interest you."

It was soon done. When he had finished, Jolival took out flint and steel and set light to a corner of the sheet. He carried the burning paper to the hearth and stood watching it until it was all consumed.

"Is that all you can say?" Marianne asked angrily.

"What should I say? You have been asked to do something. Do it, and as I have already told you, try and forget all about it. Whatever happens, we shall certainly be obliged to return to Paris." He took out his watch. "And now, it is time you were getting ready for dinner."

"For dinner? Has it dawned on you that I shall have to go alone? And that I don't in the least want to? I'm going to write a note begging to be excused… until tomorrow, say. Tonight I—I don't feel well."

"Oh, no you won't. Come here a moment." Taking her by the wrist he drew her over to the window. The air outside was full of the sound of drums, trumpets and fifes and the earth resounded to the tread of some hundreds of horses. A huge crowd had gathered around the barracks and was watching a long ribbon of movement, like a steel snake, winding up from the harbor.

"Look," said Jolival. "That is Prince Tsitsanov's two regiments of Georgians disembarking. From what Ducroux tells me, the governor has been waiting for them with some impatience. In two days' time he means to put himself at their head and ride to join the tsar's army, which is even now retreating before Napoleon's forces in Lithuania. If you want to secure Beaufort's release, it is tonight or never."

"Arcadius, think of that note! Are you quite sure that Richelieu won't attach certain—certain conditions to his release?"

"It's possible. But I trust you to play the game and not get burned. If you refuse this invitation not only will you not get what we came for, you may even make Richelieu angry enough to see to it that you never find your friend. The choice is yours, certainly. Only choose fast. As I said, he will be gone in two days. It's not easy, I know—but now is the moment for you to prove what you can do in the way of diplomacy."

As she still hesitated he crossed to a chair on which lay a number of dresses and, picking one at random, came back and dumped it in her arms.

"Hurry up, Marianne—and make yourself look beautiful. You may have two battles to win tonight."

"Two?"

"Jason's release, for one. And after that who knows? You didn't succeed in keeping Kamenski's troops tied up on the Danube, but you may yet keep the Circassians in Odessa. You've only to make him see the impropriety of a Frenchman taking arms against other Frenchmen." Jolival smiled at her with disarming candor.

Marianne clutched the dress to her and scowled at him indignantly.

"My godfather may be the Black Pope, Jolival, but there are times when I wonder if you aren't the very devil!"

Chapter 10 The Swedish Letter

THE blue fragrance of tobacco smoke floated in the air of the room, at once cozy and elegant, where Marianne and the governor were finishing dinner. The almost overwhelmingly heady scent of orange trees drifted in from the garden through the open windows and the noises of the town faded gradually and died away, as though the little yellow salon had broken some invisible moorings and sailed away into the sky like a magic balloon.

Across the centerpiece of wilting roses, Marianne regarded her host. The duke was leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed absently on the tall white candles that were the room's only illumination, puffing slowly at the pipe which she had just given him permission to light. He looked happy and relaxed, a long way from the dramatic events of the previous day and from the cares of government. So much so, indeed, that she was beginning to wonder if they would ever get around to the subject she had come there to discuss.

She had not wanted to broach the matter herself because that meant putting herself in the position of a suppliant and so at a disadvantage. He had invited her here this evening: it was for him to make the first move and begin asking the questions. But he seemed in no hurry to do so.

From the moment when the carriage he had sent to the hotel to fetch her had deposited her at the steps of the small but palatial new building which was the governor's residence, Marianne had made up her mind to play the game through to the end, however it turned out. It would be gauche to do otherwise. And for the present it was simply a distinguished nobleman entertaining a very pretty woman with a little private dinner.

That much had been clear to her from the moment he bowed over her hand, where he stood at the top of the steps to greet her.

Septimanie, the superintendent of the building works, in his tired old coat and dusty boots, had given place to a remarkably distinguished-looking man arrayed in the most elegant of evening dress: black silk stockings and knee breeches, shining leather pumps, high shirt points and cravat of snowy white and the French order of the Saint-Esprit glittering on his black, long-tailed coat. And Marianne found to her surprise that there was something vastly romantic about the black hair streaked with silver and that smooth, yet curiously ravaged countenance. He was like one of the characters who haunted the imagination of that lame English poet of whom Hester Stanhope had talked so much, with a mixture of admiration and exasperation, in Constantinople, the young Lord Byron.

The duke had shown himself the perfect host, a model of tact and consideration. The meal had been light and delicate, such as might appeal to a woman, and was served to the distant accompaniment of a concerto by Vivaldi. Richelieu talked little while they ate, evidently preferring to leave the music to speak for itself and content during its brief intervals simply to contemplate the beauty of his guest. She was looking lovely indeed in a gown of pearly satin cut low on the shoulders and with no other ornament than a pale rose nestling in the hollow of her breasts.

One of the two footmen in powdered wigs and white stockings who had waited on them during the meal came in bearing with the greatest care a bottle of champagne, from which he filled two tall translucent glasses before withdrawing again. When he had gone, the duke rose to his feet and raised his glass. Without taking his eyes from Marianne, he said: "I drink to you, my dear, and to your loveliness, which has made this one of those rare and memorable evenings when a man longs to be God and have the power to make time stand still."

"And I," she answered him, rising in her turn, "I, too, drink to this evening, Your Excellency. I shall remember it always as one of the pleasantest I have ever spent."

They drank, still looking into one another's eyes. Then the duke left his place and, grasping the bottle on the way, came around the table to refill his guest's glass himself despite her laughing protests.

"Gently, my lord Duke! You must not make me drink too much—unless, that is, we have other toasts to drink to."

"But we have." He raised his glass again, but now there was no smile on his face and his voice was impressively serious as he declared: "I drink to Cardinal de Chazay. May he return safely from the perilous mission he has undertaken for the peace of the world, and for Church and king!"

Startled, Marianne automatically lifted her glass again, although this repeated reference to the king was by no means to her liking. Yet not for anything in the world would she have refused to drink her godfather's health. Besides, she had already gathered from certain remarks dropped by her host during their meal, that he believed himself in the company of a woman whose political beliefs and aspirations coincided exactly with his own. He saw her only as the cardinal's goddaughter, the daughter of his own old friend, and if he mentioned the name of Sant'Anna at all it was only to pay tribute to that ancient princely family with its wide connections, and with no hint of distrust.

Prudence dictated that she should not disabuse him. On the contrary, she favored the governor with her dewiest smile.

"To my dear godfather, whose vigilance and tenderness toward me have never failed, and who gave me one more striking proof of that last night when he cleared up that frightful mistake."

"It is good of you to call it a mistake. Myself, I would rather describe it as stupidity without precedent and unpardonable brutality. When I think that those ruffians actually dared to strike you—Does it still hurt?"

He let his gaze dwell on her shoulders in a lingering way that suggested something rather more than simple Christian charity. Marianne gave a light laugh and pirouetted so that he could see her back.

"It's nothing. You see, it is almost gone already." Then, her voice changing suddenly, she added on a note of real anxiety: "But you spoke of an important mission, Your Excellency, and of… peril?"

She looked up at him with the beginnings of a tear in her eye and he uttered a distressed exclamation, then bent and took her hand in his and held it.

"What a fool I am! Why, you are really upset! I ought never to have said that. Come, let us go out and sit on the terrace for a while. It is a warm night and the fresh air will do you good. You look quite pale."

"Yes," she admitted, letting him lead her out through the tall french windows. "I was frightened suddenly. My godfather—"

"Is one of the noblest and bravest and most generous-hearted men I have ever met. He is worthy in every respect of the deep affection I can see you have for him. But you also know him well enough to know that he would not like you to fear for him when he is serving the cause."

"I do know. He is too strong himself ever to understand such fears, or that others may be a little oversensitive—"

With something between a sigh and a tiny sob, she sat down on a sofa upholstered in pale silk which, with a number of chairs, had been placed out on the small terrace. It was a charming place with a view extending out over the leafy gardens to the bay beyond, illumined faintly in the light of a crescent moon. It was also an ideal spot for the exchange of confidences and for the kind of private conversations in which the surroundings may be conducive to leading people on to say more than they mean…

Suddenly Marianne wanted very much to know more about this mysterious mission of the cardinal's. If he were endangering his life in the service of "the cause," then it was almost certainly Napoleon and his army who were going to suffer for it.

She leaned back on the sofa, drawing aside her skirt to let the duke sit beside her, and sat for a moment letting the scented silence of the garden lap around them. Then, after a little while, she spoke hesitantly, as though exerting a painful control over herself.

"Your Excellency," she said. "I know I ought not to ask you this, but it is so long since I have heard anything of my godfather… And now I have found him again only to lose him almost at once. He has vanished, just like that, without seeing me again, without even a kiss… and I may never see him again—ever! Oh, tell me, at least, I implore you, that he is not going to—the places where the fighting is, that he is not going to meet—the invaders?"

With a fine show of agitation, she had placed both hands in the governor's and was leaning toward him, enveloping him in the sweet cool scent of her perfume.

He laughed gently, clasping her two slim hands in his, and moved a little closer, so close that his eyes were able to look down into the disturbing hollow between her breasts.

"Come, come, my child," he said indulgently. "You really must not worry. The cardinal is a churchman. He is not going to attack Bonaparte, you know. I don't see that it can do any harm if I tell you that he is going to Moscow, where there is a great task awaiting him if by any chance the Corsican ogre should get that far. But you may be sure he will be stopped long before that… Dear me, what a nervous little thing you are. Wait here, I am going to find you a drop more champagne."

But she clung to him firmly, having no desire to fall once more into the same sparkling snare as at Le Butard.

"No, please, don't go! You are very kind. You make me feel much better. See, I am quite all right now. Not nearly so frightened." She smiled at him, hoping inwardly that her smile was as seductive as she meant it to be. At all events, he sat down again promptly.

"Really? You are not so worried now?"

"Not nearly. Forgive me. I am a little foolish about him, I know, but I owe him my life, you see. He was the one who found me in my parents' house after it had been sacked by the revolutionaries, who hid me under his cloak and carried me to England at the risk of his own life. He is all the family I have."

"But—your husband?"

Marianne did not hesitate. "The prince died last year," she declared boldly. "He had property in Greece and also in Constantinople. That was the reason I made this long journey. You see, I am not the guilty creature you imagined."

"I have already told you I was a fool. And so you are a widow? So young, so beautiful—and all alone!"

He moved a little closer and Marianne, who was already feeling slightly uneasy thinking that she had perhaps led him on a little too much, made haste to change the subject.

"That is enough about me. It isn't really very interesting. Do you know, I never even found out what lucky chance it was that brought my dear cardinal here? Was he expecting me? He must have second sight if that was so."

"No. Your meeting was one of those accidents that come about God alone knows how. The cardinal only arrived here two days before yourself. He came from St. Petersburg with important news for me."

"From St. Petersburg? News from the tsar, then? Is it true what they say of him?"

"What do they say?"

"That he is as handsome as a Greek god! Altogether charming and attractive."

"Quite true," said the duke, with a note in his voice that set Marianne's teeth on edge. "He is the most remarkable man I have ever met. Men ought to kiss the ground he walks on. He is the crowned archangel who will save us all from Bonaparte…"

He had turned his head away and was gazing up to heaven as though expecting this Muscovite archangel of his to descend with flapping wings. At the same time he embarked on a panegyric of Alexander I, who was clearly his great hero, which Marianne found tedious in the extreme. She was beginning to think it must be growing very late and she had found out very little. Jason's fate, in particular, had not even been mentioned.

She let him run on for a little longer and then, when he paused for breath, she murmured quickly: "A remarkable man, indeed! But I begin to fear I am trespassing on Your Excellency's time. Surely it must be very late?"

"Late? Not in the least—besides, we've the whole night ahead of us. No, no, I'll not hear of it! Very soon now, tomorrow probably, I shall be leaving myself to take the tsar some reinforcements in the shape of the regiments I've mustered here. This is the last evening of peace I shall have for a long time to come. Don't shorten it for me!"

"Very well. But aren't you forgetting, Your Excellency, that I came here with a favor to ask you?"

He was so close that she could feel him stiffen and draw away. She guessed that she had brought him back to earth a little too abruptly for his liking. But she decided that if he had a mind to forget his promise she would bring him to the point once and for all, even at the risk of putting him in an ill humor.

"A favor?" he said irritably. "What then? Ah, yes—that American privateer. Almost certainly a spy, a spy in the pay of Bonaparte. Can't think what he could be doing here otherwise."

"You don't often find spies going about with a brig of that size, Your Excellency. It would be a rather obvious way of entering a country, surely? Up to now, Mr. Beaufort's business has been chiefly in the wine trade. As to being in the service of Bonaparte"—Lord, this was going badly!—"I can assure you he is nothing of the sort. It is not long since he saw the inside of a Paris prison—and the convict barracks at Brest as well!"

Richelieu said nothing. He had got to his feet and was pacing agitatedly up and down the little terrace, his arms folded across his chest and his fingers plucking at the folds of lace about his throat. Marianne watched him anxiously, thinking what a strange character he was. His reactions were wholly unpredictable and the least thing seemed to catch his nerves on the raw.

As abruptly as Napoleon himself could have done, he came to a sudden halt in front of her and shot out: "This man? What is he to you? Your lover?"

Marianne took a deep breath and forced herself to keep calm. She could see that he was studying her face closely. He was evidently expecting her to lose her temper, to make one of those calculated outbursts of indignation that came so easily to women in love and deceived nobody. Easily, she sidestepped the trap and leaned back in her seat, laughing gently.

"That is not very imaginative of you, Your Excellency. Do you think there is only one reason that a woman might wish to help a man when he's in trouble?"

"Of course not. But this Mr. Beaufort is not your brother, is he? And you have undertaken a long and dangerous voyage to come and plead for him."

"Long and dangerous? Crossing the Black Sea? Really, my lord Duke, let us be serious." She stood up suddenly, her face growing very serious indeed, and said austerely: "I have known Jason Beaufort a very long time. The first time I met him was at my aunt's house, Selton Hall, where he was a guest, received there as he was everywhere in England. He was acquainted there with the Prince of Wales. To me, he is a very dear friend, as I said, a childhood friend."

"A childhood friend? You swear it?"

She heard the quiver of jealousy, bitter and desperate, in his voice and knew that if she wanted to save Jason it was necessary to convince him. With the faintest shrug of her lovely shoulders, she murmured in a tone of gentle raillery: "Why, of course I swear. But, although I hesitate to say it, my lord Duke, surely you are behaving a little like a jealous husband—rather than a friend whom I have known only a short time, but to whom I had looked for more gentleness and understanding… for more affection, even, considering the old ties between us…"

He was staring at her intently, breathing rather hard, as though trying to read to the bottom of the green eyes, as deep and compelling as the sea. Gradually, Marianne felt something yield and relax in him.

"Come," he said at last, taking her by the hand and hurrying her quickly inside.

She followed him through the little yellow salon where the candles were already guttering, across a wide landing tiled in black marble and into a huge office, lit only by a nightlight on the desk. The long blue velvet curtains were tightly drawn and the room felt as close and dark as a tomb.

Still holding her hand, the duke went straight to the writing table, which was littered with papers and a heap of green leatherbound dispatch boxes. There he released her at last. Not even pausing to sit down, he opened a drawer and took out a large sheet of paper stamped with the double-headed eagle and already covered with writing. A space had been left blank. He filled it in, added a few more words and signed with a nervous scrawl.

Marianne had managed to read some of it over his shoulder, and her heart beat faster as she realized that it was an order for the release of Jason and his men. But then, while Richelieu was hunting for sealing wax and melting it at the candle, her eyes wandered over the remainder of the desk and paused for a moment on a partially folded document. She was not able to read more than a few words, but what she read struck her so forcibly that it was all she could do not to put out her hand and pick it up.

Meanwhile, the duke had finished writing. He reread the order quickly and then handed it to Marianne.

"There. You have only to give that to the commander of the citadel and your childhood friend will be instantly restored to you, along with those who were captured with him."

Flushed with happiness, Marianne took the precious paper and slipped it into a pocket cunningly hidden in a fold of her skirt.

"I am deeply grateful," she said, much moved. "But—may I ask if this includes the restitution of the ship?"

Richelieu stiffened and frowned.

"The ship? No. I am sorry but it is out of my power. By the law of the sea it belongs now to the Russian navy."

"But surely, Your Excellency, you have no right to deprive a harmless foreigner of his sole means of livelihood? What good is a seaman without a ship?"

"I don't know, my dear, but I have already gone as far as I dare in offering to release a man whose country is at this moment at war with our ally, England. I have given a fighting man back to America. Don't ask me to give her a ship of war as well. The brig is a fine vessel. Our navy will make good use of her."

"Your navy? Indeed, my lord Duke, I begin to ask myself if there is anything French left in you. Your forebears must be turning in their graves if they can hear you."

Unable to contain herself any longer, she had allowed her indignation to blaze forth, and the governor blanched at the icy contempt that showed clearly in her tone.

"You have no right to say that!" he cried, his voice rising to the curiously shrill note it had in anger. "Russia is a true friend. She took me in when France had cast me out and now she is mustering all her forces to fight against the usurper, against this man who, to satisfy his own insane ambition, has not shrunk from putting all Europe to fire and slaughter. Russia is prepared to shed her own blood to save France from this scourge."

"To save France—but France has never asked to be saved. And if what they say in the town is true, you, the Duc de Richelieu, are going to march tomorrow at the head of the Georgian troops—"

"To crush Napoleon! Yes, I am! And gladly!"

There was a moment's silence, while both sides paused for breath. Marianne, breathless and blazing-eyed, could barely contain herself, but she meant to stop this man going to fight against his own people in the ranks of the tsar if it was the last thing she did.

"So, you are going to fight him? Very well. But have you thought that in fighting him you will also be fighting men of your own blood, your fellow countrymen, your brothers and your peers?"

"My brothers? The scum thrown up by the revolution and dressed up in fancy titles? Really, Madame!"

"Your peers, I said! Not Ney and Augereau, Murat or Davout, but men with names like Ségur, Colbert, Montesquiou, Castellane, Fezensac and d'Aboville—to say nothing of Poniatowski and Radziwill! Because you will be raising your sword against them, too, Monsieur de Richelieu, when you charge at the head of your half-savage Tatars!"

"Be quiet! I am bound to aid my friends."

"Say your new friends, rather! Very well, then, my lord Duke, but take care that you do not serve the tsar an ill turn."

"An ill turn? What do you mean by that?"

Marianne smiled, pleased to have struck a spark of anxiety in the duke's eyes. She had a feeling that her blows had struck home more truly than she had dared to hope. And a fiendish idea had just occurred to her, one whose destructive power she meant to put to the test.

"Nothing. Or nothing I can be sure of. But please, never mind. Forgive me if I spoke too sharply just now. You see—I like you very much. I cannot help myself, and not for anything in the world would I have you come to regret your—your truly generous heart. You have been so kind to me and to my friends. I would do anything to keep you from falling into a trap, even if it made you accuse me of Bonapartist sympathies, although of course it is not true."

Richelieu softened immediately.

"My dear Princess, I know that. And I believe in your friendship. It is in the name of that friendship that I beg you to speak. If you have discovered anything that affects me, you must tell it to me."

She gazed into his eyes and uttered a deep sigh. Then she shrugged.

"You are right. This is no time for scruples. Listen, then. You know that I came here from Constantinople. While there, I became friendly with Princess Morousi, the widow of the former hospodar of Walachia, and it was she who gave me what I can hardly call a warning, for at the time it seemed to me no more than a piece of gossip of no great importance."

"Tell me. She is not a woman with the reputation of an idle gossip."

"Very well. Then I will go straight to the point. Are you quite sure of the regiments that have just landed? It was Prince Tsitsanov who sent them, was it not?"

"Yes, but I fail to see—"

"You will. It is less than ten years, I believe, since Georgia came under Russian control? The majority of the people there are loyal, but not all. As for Prince Tsitsanov, according to what I was told he seems to have been finding out that Tiflis is a long way from St. Petersburg and that his governorship had something vice-regal about it. From vice-regal to regal is not so very far, my dear Duke, and by asking the prince for troops you provided him with a convenient method of getting rid of unwanted troublemakers. He is not going to miss those two regiments, you may be sure of that. As to how they will behave under fire, shoulder to shoulder with the Muscovites whom they detest… But there, as I said, I am not sure of this. What I am telling you is idle drawing room chatter, nothing more. I may very well be maligning Prince Tsitsanov—"

"But on the other hand, what you say may easily be true."

The duke had dropped into a chair behind the desk and was gnawing his thumb with a gloomy expression. Marianne stood for a moment, gauging the effect of her words. The man was certainly a genius when it came to organization. He was a great colonial administrator and possibly a great diplomat, but he was also a worried man, a man who lived on his nerves, and in these aspects of his character he was showing himself more vulnerable than she had dared to hope.

She hesitated, uncertain of her next move. Richelieu, staring into space, appeared to have forgotten her entirely. And then there was the order for Jason's release burning a hole in her pocket. She was impatient now to get away from the governor's palace and hurry to the citadel. And yet something drew her to that open letter on the desk, which was stirring slightly in a faint breath of air come from nowhere in that close room, almost within her reach as though to tease her.

The silence prolonged itself and at last Marianne gave a small cough.

"Your Excellency," she said, "I am sorry to disturb you when you are thinking, but if I might ask you to see me home? It is very late and—"

Before the words were out of her mouth he was on his feet and was stumbling toward her like a man half out of his mind with worry, where she stood like a ghostly vision in the dimly lighted room.

"Don't leave me," he said brokenly. "Don't leave me alone—not now! I don't want to be alone here tonight."

"But why ever not? What have I said to alarm you so? For you are afraid, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am afraid. But not for myself. I am afraid of what I was about to do. But for you—but for the advice you have just given me, I might have gone to Alexander bringing disaster, betrayal, even death. And that to the man to whom I owe everything, who has been good enough to call me his friend—"

"You mean—that you will not go?"

"Just that. I will stay here. The Georgian troops will be sent back again tomorrow. Only the Tatars whom I have trained myself and can trust will set out for Kiev. And I shall remain behind."

A wave of joy swept over Marianne. Even now she could hardly believe that she had won, won all along the line. Within the hour Jason would be free, and tomorrow Richelieu would remain in Odessa and two regiments of troops would never reach the battlefield. It was almost unbelievable. It was too much, and if she had only been able to recover the Sea Witch as well…

"Is it because of what I said to you?" she asked quietly.

"What did you say?"

"You will not fight against your own people?"

Marianne felt the duke's hands tremble as they gripped her shoulders.

"I cannot fight my own brothers, however misguided, yes, there is that… But you have also made me see that by leaving new Russia I should be leaving the field open for others' ambitions. If I go, what is to stop Tsitsanov or anyone else from stepping in? The Crimea needs to be strongly defended. I must stay. Without me, God knows what might happen."

Marianne was seized with a sudden and highly inappropriate desire to laugh. Politics was certainly a most peculiar game, and its practitioners the strangest people. You could rely on them to go one better and her spurious information had been a wild success. The duke had built on it in a way she could never have expected.

However, she managed to choke back the laughter that was bubbling up in her and merely smiled, although the eyes that met Richelieu's were twinkling so gaily that it was a wonder they did not betray her. Happily for her, the duke mistook the real cause.

"You are wonderful," he said softly. "Truly, I think that Providence herself must have sent you to me. Are you really a woman, or are you an angel in disguise? The loveliest of all the angels. An angel with emerald eyes, unutterably sweet and beautiful, clad in the shape of an adorable woman…"

He was standing very close to her and all at once his hands slid down from her shoulders to encircle her waist. For a panic-stricken moment she saw the duke's tormented face near to hers, his dark gaze thickened with desire like a pool when the bottom was stirred up. She tried to push him away, startled to find him suddenly transformed into a different man.

"Your Excellency, please, let me go! I must go—I have to go home."

"No. You shall not go. Not tonight, at least. I can recognize fortune when she appears, for she comes all too rarely. You are my chance, my one chance of happiness. I knew it the moment I saw you, the other day, down there on the crowded quayside. You were like a fairy hovering above a reeking bog. And you were beautiful, as beautiful as light itself. You have saved me tonight—"

"Nonsense. I have merely given you some good advice. Anyone would think to hear you that I had snatched you from the jaws of death."

"You cannot understand. The thing you have saved me from was worse than death. It is a curse, a curse that has hung over me for years. God Himself has sent you. He has heard my prayers…"

His hold on her tightened and Marianne felt a moment's terror as she realized that she was powerless against him. That thin, almost fragile-looking body concealed a wholly unsuspected nervous strength. His arms closed about her like a vise and he was deaf to her entreaties, as though he had become quite suddenly another person. And he was talking so strangely. What had God to do with the fierce access of desire which had made him seize her like this?

"A curse?" she gasped, struggling to get her breath. "Whatever do you mean? I don't understand."

He had buried his face in the soft hollow of her shoulder and was covering it with kisses, his lips traveling by degrees up the slender neck.

"You can never understand, so do not try. Give me this night, only this one night, and I will let you go. I'll give you anything you want… Only let me love you… It is so long since I have known what it is to love. I thought I never should… never again. But you are so lovely, so desirable… You have brought me to life again…"

Was he mad? What did he mean? He was squeezing her so tightly that she could almost hear her ribs cracking, and yet at the same time the softness of his lips upon her quivering flesh was almost unbearable. Marianne was conscious of a sudden lump in her throat and she knew, even in the midst of her anger and her shame, that she no longer had the will to fight. It was so long since she too had known the sweetness of love and of a man's touch caressing her body. Not since that unknown lover—some Greek fisherman, had he been?—had taken her in the recesses of a cave so dark that she had never even seen his face. He had been no more than a vague form in the night, a kind of phantom, yet he had given her the most exquisite pleasure.

The soft touch of his mouth was on her cheek, had found her lips, which parted of themselves. Her heart was thudding like a hammer in her chest and when a hand crept up to her breast and imprisoned it, she felt as if her legs were giving way beneath her. It was a simple matter for the duke to lower her gently on to the velvet-covered sofa which stood close by the desk.

He took his lips from hers as he laid her down and turned briefly to extinguish the candles. The room was plunged into darkness. Her head swimming and her limbs on fire, Marianne thought for an instant that she was back again in that glorious cave in Corfu. She was at the heart of an impenetrable darkness in which there was nothing, only a warm, tobacco-scented breath and two hands that divested her skillfully of her dress and began a passionate exploration of her body.

He was quite silent now, and his only contact with her was through those roving hands, caressing her breasts, belly and thighs, lingering over each new revelation, before resuming their exquisitely titillating voyage of discovery, until it seemed to Marianne that she must go mad. Her whole body was on fire and crying out for the satisfaction of its primitive desires. So that it was she, at last, who drew him down to her.

She reached up and linked her arms about the duke's neck, seeking his lips, and they fell back together on to the cushions, she giving a little gasp of pleasure as she felt his weight upon her and sensed the pent-up passion in his body. In her eagerness to satisfy a hunger which had been too long denied and was now brutally awakened, she was already offering herself, but she waited in vain.

Silence fell, thick and frightening. The weight removed itself from her body and then, quite suddenly, out of the enveloping darkness, as thick and black as the tomb, there came the sound of a sob.

Marianne got up quickly and felt her way to the desk. Her trembling fingers found flint and tinder, and she struck a light and first one and then another candle came to life, revealing the room with its heavy furniture, its thick curtains and its oppressively businesslike atmosphere, as far removed as it was possible to be from the delirium of love.

The first thing to catch Marianne's eye was her dress, lying in a snowy heap of satin on the end of the sofa. She snatched at it in a kind of fury to cover her shivering nakedness, still striving to control her breathing and calm the frenzied beating of her heart. It was only then she saw the duke.

He was sitting on the edge of a chair, his head in his hands and crying like a child whom Santa Claus had forgotten. His shoulders were shaking with sobs and he was shivering so wretchedly that all Marianne's feelings of bitter frustration were swallowed up in pity for him. At that moment, the powerful governor of new Russia looked more wretched and broken than the least of the Armenian beggars that crowded the port of Odessa.

Hurriedly, she slipped into her dress and did what she could to tidy her hair. She could not bring herself to break the silence, preferring rather to wait for his misery to subside, for she sensed in some confused fashion that it sprang from a deep and private hurt. But when, after a little while, his sobs showed no sign of abating, she went to him and laid one hand timidly on his shoulder.

"Please," she said gently, "don't cry. It is not worth it. You—you were unlucky. It happens sometimes. You must not upset yourself like this over such a little thing."

He lifted his head abruptly from his hands, revealing a face so ravaged with tears that Marianne's heart was touched.

"Not simply unlucky," he said miserably. "It is the curse I spoke of—earlier. I thought—oh, how I thought that you had banished it. That it was lifted from me at last! But it was not to be. I have it still. I shall always have it. It will be with me all my life and because of it my family will die with me."

He had risen and was pacing the room agitatedly. To her horror, Marianne saw him pick up the heavy bronze inkstand from his desk and hurl it with the full force of his arm against one of the bookcases, the front of which shattered in a crash of broken glass.

"Cursed! I am cursed!" he raged. "You can't know what it is to be unable to love, to love as other men love. I had forgotten it, but just now, when I touched you, I felt—oh, the wonder, the miracle of it—I felt that my power of feeling was not dead, that I could still desire a woman, that perhaps my life could begin again. But no, it could not! Ever since that dreadful day, it is all over—all over! Forever!"

He was shaken by a fresh bout of sobbing so violent that Marianne was afraid. The poor man seemed so close to the depths of despair that she cast about in her mind for some way to help him. On a small table by a window she saw a silver tray with a jug of water, some glasses and a decanter filled with a dark-colored liquid that was evidently some kind of wine. Going quickly to the table, she filled a glass with water and then, just as she was about to take it to Richelieu, who had slumped down again on the end of the sofa, an idea came to her. She felt in the pocket of her dress and brought out a small sachet containing a grayish powder.

Earlier that evening, setting out to keep this dinner engagement which had filled her with such apprehensions, she had brought the sachet with her from her room. In it was a preparation with a base of opium which Turhan Bey's Persian physician had made up for her during the last weeks of her pregnancy, when she was finding it difficult to sleep. It had the power of inducing a swift and pleasant slumber and it had occurred to Marianne that it might prove a useful weapon if Richelieu's attentions should become too pressing.

Smiling a little ironically, she dropped a pinch of the powder into the glass, adding a little wine to take away the taste. The duke's attentions could hardly have been more pressing, and yet she had quite forgotten what only a little while before had seemed such a vital weapon. Or had she simply refused to remember it in her sudden overmastering need for love? And now the helpful drug was to be used for a more charitable purpose, to obtain a little rest and forgetfulness for an unhappy man.

She bent and gently made him raise his head.

"Drink this. You will feel better… Please, drink it and then lie down."

He drank it all down like an obedient child and then stretched himself on the sofa where not long before he had laid Marianne. His eyes, reddened with tears, were full of a gratitude that went to her heart.

"You are very kind," he murmured. "You are looking after me as though I had not just made a fool of myself to you…"

"Please, we'll say no more about it."

She smiled at him and slipped a cushion under his head. Then, so that he might breathe more easily, she unfastened the high cravat and opened the front of his shirt, so drenched with sweat that it stuck to his thin, dark chest. Then she went to draw back the curtains and open a window to let the cool night air into the close atmosphere of the office.

"No," Richelieu said, "no, we must speak of it. You must know… You have the right to know why the grandson of the Maréchal de Richelieu, the greatest womanizer in the whole of the last century, cannot even make love to one woman. Listen, I was sixteen in 1782—sixteen when they married me to Mademoiselle de Rochechouart, and she was twelve! It was a great match, worthy of both our families and, like royal alliances, it was concluded by our parents without consulting either of us. And I married her by proxy. I was told that she was considered too young to consummate the marriage, although it was necessary for family reasons that it should take place."

"Please," Marianne said, "do not tell me this. It will only rouse painful memories for you, I am sure, and—"

"Painful, yes," he admitted with a bleak smile, "but as to rousing them—even after all these years they will not sleep. Indeed, I believe it will do me good to tell someone, and for that person to be a woman—the one woman I might ever have loved… Where was I? Oh, yes… it was three years after that, when my wife had reached the age of fifteen, that our families decided to bring us together. And when I saw the person who henceforth bore my name, I knew why our parents had been so insistent on the wedding's taking place by proxy. It was so that I should not see my betrothed… If I live to be a hundred I shall never forget the sight which met my eyes as I ran—yes, in my eagerness to see her, I actually ran—up the great staircase of our house. A freak! Rosalie de Rochechouart, Duchesse de Richelieu, was a freak! A dwarf! Hunchbacked and pigeon-chested, with a wizened, monkey face and a huge nose… a caricature of a human being, fit to be shown at a fair. Can you, who are so beautiful, even picture anything so ugly? I felt as if I had fallen into a nightmare. Whether I had a sudden vision of what life would be like with that creature by my side, I do not know now. All I know is that I gave a great cry and fell back unconscious, right to the bottom of the stone staircase.

"The next day I had myself put into a post chaise… I left a note behind me and I went to recover from my injuries on my estates in the country. I could no longer face Paris. From there, seeing no one, I went off to fight against the Turk, hoping that God would rid me of my life. By then I knew that, whether I wanted to or not, I had no choice but to remain faithful to my wife… You see? It is as simple, and as senseless as that. A wasted life. It is laughable…"

But Marianne felt no wish to laugh. She knelt beside the sofa, once more cradling the hand of this man whom she had feared, admired, hated and even, for a moment, almost loved, and for whom she now felt a compassion that was something like tenderness. She felt to him as to a brother.

For her, too, the first taste of marriage had been a cruel disappointment, although it had come nowhere near in intensity to the tragic shock suffered by the young duke. She stroked his hand with a timid gesture of affection, trying to convey to him how much she shared his bitterness and regret.

He turned his head and looked at her, his eyes already filming over with the effects of the drug, and made a sad attempt at a smile.

"It is—laughable, isn't it?"

"No. By no means. Anyone who could laugh must be singularly lacking in heart. The tale of your marriage is one of the saddest things I have ever heard. You are greatly to be pitied—both you and she, for she must have suffered also. And—and you have never seen her since?"

"Yes. Once. When I—when I returned to France to aid the king, knowing his danger. I understood then… what you have just said, that she must have suffered also…poor, innocent child… poor, wretched soul, imprisoned in a monstrous form. We became friends, and are so still, I believe. She lives in France—at the Chateau de Crosilles… She writes to me… She writes beautiful letters, such beautiful…"

His words had been coming more and more slowly as his eyelids drooped more heavily and he had difficulty in keeping them open.

Soon they closed altogether and all at once the only sound in the room was that of his calm, regular breathing.

For a moment Marianne remained where she was, holding his hand relaxed in hers. Then she laid it gently on the cushion by his side and stood up slowly, wondering what she ought to do.

Silence had fallen on the house. The well-trained servants had evidently retired to bed or to their own quarters. Only the guards were presumably still on duty at the gates. Somewhere in the town a clock struck one, reminding her that the night was not yet over and that she had work still to do.

Through the satin of her dress, her hand touched the document which was to set Jason free and she began to tiptoe to the door. Her cloak was still across the landing, in the little yellow salon where they had dined. The duke had not allowed them to remove it when she arrived, but had himself taken it from her shoulders and laid it over a chair in case she might feel a chill from the open window. She decided to go and fetch it.

Then, just as she was about to leave the room, she thought that she would blow out the candles, so that the duke might sleep on undisturbed. She went back to the desk and it was as she leaned across it to blow out the lights that she saw the letter.

In the varying emotions of the last half hour she had forgotten all about it, and now she reproached herself. Fate had put into her hand a document which might be vital to the emperor. She had no right to pass it by.

She put out her hand quickly and, taking the letter, read it eagerly. It was from the tsar in St. Petersburg. What had attracted her attention was a name, that of the crown prince of Sweden, Charles-Jean. The tsar sent his friend Richelieu confidential copies of letters written to him by the former Marshal Bernadotte.

"The Emperor Napoleon," Charles-Jean had written, "is accustomed to the management of great armies and this must inevitably give him confidence, but if Your Majesty can use your forces sparingly and succeed in avoiding a pitched battle, so that you are able to reduce the war to a business of forced marches and minor engagements, then the Emperor Napoleon is certain in the end to make some mistake of which Your Majesty can take advantage. The luck has so far been almost always on his side, for he owes his successes in the military, as in the political field, wholly to the novelty of his proceedings, but if intensely mobile units can be directed speedily against his weak or ill-supported positions, then there can be no doubt that the outcome for Your Majesty will be happy and that Fortune, tired of serving Ambition, will join at last those ranks where Honor and Humanity command…"[8]

The letter went on to express the prince's satisfaction at the conclusion of a peace with the Turks and his impatience for the arrival of "subsidies from England" which would enable him when the time was ripe to "take the Emperor Napoleon's armies in the rear and to attack the borders of his Empire…"

In addition to this there was a note in which the future king of Sweden spoke of his great wish to annex Norway, then a Danish possession, and of the actions which the tsar might take with regard to Denmark in order to assist his friend Charles-Jean in the achievement of his desires, in return for which he might count on the support, very far from negligible, of the Swedish army.

Marianne turned the dangerous paper around and around in hands that were suddenly icy cold, handling it as gingerly as if it had been dipped in gunpowder. She could not believe her eyes, and her brain simply refused to register at first what could only be read as the purest treachery. Bernadotte was a Swede by too recent adoption for such friendly letters to Napoleon's enemies to come well from him. But, well or otherwise, Marianne felt that Napoleon must be told of the danger threatening his rear.

With the idea of copying the letter, she had seated herself at the table and was looking for a pen when she changed her mind. A copy would not do without the tsar's letter as well. She knew Napoleon well enough to be sure he would be unwilling to believe it. She looked at the sleeping man, her eyes full of trouble and remorse for what she was about to do. She did not like the idea of stealing his correspondence but it was the only way. She must take the tsar's letter.

Without more ado, she thrust the letter into her pocket, snuffed out the candles and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. To cross the landing to the yellow salon, recover her cloak and hurry downstairs, dragging it around her as she went, was the work of a moment.

A minute or two later she was scurrying past the drowsy sentries, who barely opened an eye in time to glimpse a flash of white satin vanishing into the night, then drowsed again and troubled themselves no further in the matter.

Marianne was possessed now with a feverish haste. She had to wake Jolival, get Jason out of his prison and leave Odessa somehow before daylight. When Richelieu woke, he would know at once who had stolen his letter and would be bound to make a search for her. If she was to warn the emperor, she must first make good her escape.

Marianne picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could toward the Hotel Ducroux.

Chapter 11 Death of a Witch

FROM the moment when he was shaken awake by an excited Marianne from the chair where he had fallen asleep while waiting for her to return, Jolival knew that this was going to be a memorable night. Fortunately, he was not a man who ever found much difficulty in dragging himself out of the mists of sleep and it did not take long for Marianne to put him in possession of the facts.

He watched her dubiously for a moment as she waved the two letters under his nose, one the order of release, signed Richelieu, the other a letter from the tsar which had come into her hands somewhat less honorably. Then he asked a question or two which very readily convinced him that there was no time to lose if they did not wish to find their stay in Odessa uncomfortably prolonged. Complimenting Marianne briefly on her prompt action, he began to struggle into his coat.

"If I have it right," he said, "the first thing we have to do is to get Beaufort and his men out of the castle. But what then?"

Knowing Marianne, he had put this last question in a tone of perfect innocence, but she replied without a shadow of hesitation.

"Surely the tsar's letter told you that. Wake up, Jolival! We must reach the emperor on the march into Russia and see that he knows of the danger threatening him at home."

Busy stuffing shirts into a big leather valise, Jolival only grunted.

"You talk as if this were Paris and we had only to travel as far as Fontainebleau or Compiègne. Have you any idea of the size of this country?"

"I think so. In any case, its size does not seem to have daunted the soldiers of the Grand Army, so there is no reason why I should let it frighten me. The emperor is marching on Moscow. So to Moscow we will go."

She had folded Alexander's letter again and now put it, apart from the other paper, into an inner pocket in the dress of smooth, dark woolen cloth which she had donned in place of the dress she had worn that evening.

Jolival went to the table and picked up the paper authorizing the release of Jason and the crew of the Sea Witch.

"And what of him?" he asked gently. "Do you expect to persuade him to travel halfway across Russia with us? Have you forgotten his reaction in Venice when you asked him to sail with us to Constantinople? He has no more cause to love Napoleon now than he had then."

Marianne's green eyes met her friend's squarely, with a determination in them that was new.

"He will have no choice," she said crisply. "Richelieu agreed to release him but he would not hear of letting the brig go. The harbor here is too well guarded for him to repeat his exploit in February. And he can scarcely swim home."

"No. But he might take a passage in any vessel sailing through the Bosporus and the Dardanelles."

Marianne made an impatient movement and Jolival recognized that it would be useless to persist. Besides, they both had more important things to do than stand there arguing. They hurried on with their preparations for departure, and as two o'clock was striking from the nearby church Marianne and her friend left the Hotel Ducroux. Each was carrying a single large valise containing their money, a few clothes and their most precious possessions. Everything else had been left behind as too cumbersome for fugitives to take with them. They had also left money, in the shape of a gold coin, on the table in Marianne's sitting room, to pay for their lodging. The things they had left behind would have more than covered such charges as they had incurred, but the affair of the "stolen" diamond was still fresh in Marianne's mind and not for anything would she have left a dubious reputation behind her. It would be bad enough when the police came looking for her, as they surely would, on the grounds of tampering with the governor's private correspondence.

Almost running down the steep streets that skirted the barracks, the two of them reached the harbor in a very few minutes. At this time of night it was quiet and all but deserted. Only a gypsy violin wailed somewhere behind the closed shutters, making a weird background to the sounds of cats quarreling over a pile of fishheads. Already, the dark walls of the castle were looming over the fugitives.

"I hope they'll agree to set them free at this hour of night," Jolival ventured to say uneasily.

Marianne put out her hand peremptorily to silence him. Then she was hurrying toward the sentry, who stood leaning half-asleep against his box, keeping his balance with the ease of long practice. She shook him fiercely and when the man at last opened one sleepy eye, waved the paper under his nose so that he could make out the governor's signature by the light of the guttering lamp above his head.

It was unlikely that the man could read but the imperial arms on the paper were enough, together with the young lady's energetic pantomime indicating clearly that she wished to enter the castle and be taken to the commandant.

Little as she cared to admit it, Marianne was at least as uneasy as Jolival. The commandant might easily refuse to release his prisoners in the middle of the night and if he were a difficult man or a stickler for the rules he could equally well insist on having the order confirmed. But it seemed that the gods were on Marianne's side that night.

The sentry made no difficulty about hurrying into the citadel, taking the paper with him. Not only that, but he summoned no replacement and the two visitors were able to follow him into the courtyard which was as dark as the bottom of a well. No sound came from the guardroom and it seemed as though everyone were asleep. Now that the war with Turkey was over, everyone could relax.

Marianne and Jolival were left alone for a moment, standing close together at the foot of the stairs leading up to the commandant's quarters. Both their hearts were thudding and the same thought was in both their minds: were they going to see their friends appear or a posse of soldiers to escort them to the commanding officer for further questioning?

But that night the commandant was delightfully if energetically engaged with a pair of pretty Tatar girls whose company he had not the smallest wish to abandon, even for a moment. He opened his door a crack at the sentry's knock, cast a glance over the paper which the man held out to him while still standing rigidly to attention, cursed fluently but, recognizing the governor's signature and the fact that there seemed to be no fault to be found with the document, gave the order to release the men from the American ship at once. It did not occur to him that there was anything more he needed to know.

Only too glad to be rid of lodgers who had proved remarkably expensive and uncooperative, he hurried into his office, not even pausing to put on his clothes, and in that state of nature put his hand to the order without more ado. Then he barked some orders at the soldier, adding that he did not wish to be disturbed again that night, and hastened back to his private paradise.

The soldier clattered down again to the courtyard and, making a sign to the two foreigners to follow him, trotted away toward the iron grille giving access to the prison courtyard, which looked particularly grim in the flaring light of two torches. There he made them wait again while he summoned two men to work the winch to raise the grille.

Ten minutes later he was back with two figures behind him, and at the sight of the taller of the two Marianne's heart beat faster. A moment later, overcome by a joy she could not control, she had cast herself on Jason's chest laughing and crying at once, and his arms had closed automatically around her.

"Marianne!" he exclaimed with stupefaction. "You, here? It can't be! Am I dreaming?"

"No, you are not dreaming," Jolival broke in, thinking that this was not the moment for mutual congratulations. "Nor is there time for it. We must get out of here, and quickly. The governor has released you but the danger is not over yet, far from it."

Nevertheless he himself was more moved than he cared to admit, and he submitted to a warm embrace from Craig O'Flaherty while the sentry looked on indulgently at a reunion of which he probably comprehended very little. Marianne and Jason meanwhile were locked in one another's arms, oblivious of all the world.

The two prisoners wore long beards and were filthy dirty but Marianne did not care. The body pressed to her belonged to Jason, the mouth crushing her own was Jason's mouth and she asked nothing better than to lose herself with him in a kiss which, if each had had their way, would have lasted for an eternity.

But Jolival decided that it had gone on long enough and parted them.

"Come," he told them gruffly. "That will do. You'll have time enough for kissing when we are on our way, but for the present let us be away from this place. I do not like it."

Craig's cheerful laugh rang in his ears. "Nor we, faith! Let's find a decent tavern! I'd give my right arm for a bumper of good old Irish whiskey."

Marianne came back to earth and stared at the two men with some bewilderment.

"But—are there only the two of you? Where are the others? Where is Gracchus? The governor gave orders for the release of all the crew—"

"Precisely," Jason answered her. "And all the crew means us—all that's left of it, at least. This governor of yours doesn't seem to have much idea of the ways of soldiers, my pet. The commodore of the fleet that captured us saw no reason why the prison authorities should be at the charge of maintaining all the riffraff of the Mediterranean. He let the crew go as soon as we got ashore to go to the devil in their own way. Only Craig and I had the honor to be made prisoners of war."

"But Gracchus? Where is he? Did they free him too?"

Seeing that she was really worried, Jason tightened the arm that he had slipped around her waist as they walked.

"Gracchus is French, my love, and that being so, in more danger than either of us. These devils would have shot him without mercy. He played stupid while we were still at sea, but he's an enterprising lad and when we came into the bay just before dawn, he jumped into the sea and swam ashore."

"Good God! He may be dead!"

O'Flaherty gave a shout of laughter.

"You don't know him! Gracchus is quite the most astonishing broth of a boy it's ever been my luck to meet. Do you know where he is at this moment?"

As they talked they had crossed the ancient drawbridge with its rusty chains which had not been raised for more than a century, and now, at the foot of the rocky outcrop on which the citadel was built, the cluttered maze of the harbor lay before them. O'Flaherty pointed to the squat shape of a little synagogue.

"Do you see that Greek tavern in between the synagogue and the big grain warehouse attached to the distillery? Gracchus got himself taken on as a waiter there. He talks a weird mixture of Greek and Turkish that he learned in Constantinople and doesn't manage too badly, especially as he's picked up a fair smattering of Russian since his arrival."

"But how do you know where he is?"

"Because we've seen him. When he'd been there a few days he took to hanging around the citadel and whistling French sea songs. Our prison looked out over the rock that side and so we were able to communicate with him. Sometimes…" He paused and heaved a deep sigh that testified to the real depth of his gratitude. "Sometimes the dear lad even managed to smuggle us in a bottle or so to comfort us. Unfortunately, we couldn't get out by the same way the bottles came in. The window was too narrow, and the walls too thick."

The night was growing cooler and a light wind had sprung up off the sea. It caught at the four hurrying figures and the two seamen breathed in the smell of seaweed with delight.

"God, but it's good to be free!" Jason sighed. "At last we can put to sea again. Do you hear how it's calling us, my sweet? Oh, for the feel of my own deck under my feet again!"

Marianne shivered a little, knowing that the difficult moment had come. She opened her mouth to tell Jason the truth but Jolival, guessing how hard it was for her, spoke first.

"You are free, Jason," he said deliberately, "but your ship is not. In spite of all that we could do, the Duc de Richelieu refuses to give her up."

"What?"

"Try to understand, and above all do not lose your temper. It's wonderful enough that we were able to get you out of that rat hole. The brig is a prize of war and is now the property of the Russian navy. There is nothing that the governor can do about it."

Marianne felt Jason's fingers harden against her side. His voice remained very nearly level, but there was a disturbing note in it, as if he were very tense.

"I have stolen her once before. I can do it again. It's becoming something of a habit."

"Have no illusions. That is not possible here. The brig is anchored out there, near the end of the long mole, and there are Russian vessels all around her. And besides, if it were daylight you could see that there are men at work making some alterations in her. What is more to the point, we have to leave this place without delay."

"Why so? Have I or have I not been released on the governor's orders?"

"Yes. But you must be out of Odessa before sunrise. That is the order. If you are found here you will be imprisoned again and then neither we nor anyone else will be able to get you out. Not only that, Marianne is not precisely on the best terms with the governor. He was inclined to be rather more—er—friendly than she cared for. So make up your mind. Stay and try to recover your ship and you will be running the risk of prison for yourself and the governor's bed for Marianne. I think our wisest course will be to leave as soon as possible."

With Jason's arm about her, Marianne held her breath. At that moment she wanted to laugh and cry at once and she could have kissed her old friend for managing to put the matter in such a way as to avoid awkward questions. Jason was not an easy man to deceive, and he knew how to cross-examine as skillfully as any experienced lawyer. She could feel his heart beating more quickly under her hand, and a wave of pity, mingled with acute anxiety, swept over her. At that moment he was going to make his choice between her and the ship, which she had often accused him of loving more than her, more indeed than anything in the world.

Jason took several deep breaths. Then his arm tightened spasmodically, almost fiercely around her, and Marianne knew that she had won.

"You are right, Jolival. Indeed, you are always right. Let's go. But where to? It will be daylight in an hour."

There was a brief silence and Marianne guessed that Jolival was picking his words, choosing those least likely to provoke a stormy reaction from the hot-tempered American. He made up his mind at last and murmured reflectively like a man thinking aloud: "I think our best course… will be to travel farther into Russia… to make for Moscow, for example. We heard on our arrival here that the Grand Army had crossed the Lithuanian frontier and was marching on the Russian holy city. Our best chance is to make contact with it and then—"

The reaction came, but it was less violent than Marianne had feared.

"Make contact with Napoleon! Have you gone mad, Jolival?"

"I don't think so. Isn't he responsible for the mess that you and Marianne have been in this past year? He owes you something. Even if only a ship out of Danzig or Hamburg to carry you to America."

This time he had spoken the magic words. Jason's fierce grip on Marianne loosened gradually and his voice was almost cheerful as he said: "That's not a bad idea. But I have a better."

"What is it?" Marianne asked softly, sensing more trouble ahead.

"I've no truck with Napoleon but you're right, I do need a ship to get back home and play my part in the war. We'll go not to Moscow, or only in passing, but to St. Petersburg."

"You want to cross the whole of Russia? Do you know that's something like two thousand miles?"

The American's broad shoulders, in the torn and much-abused coat he wore, lifted slightly.

"What of it? It's only a couple of hundred more, unless I'm much mistaken. Will you come with me, sweetheart?" he added, turning tenderly to address the girl at his side.

"I'd go with you to Siberia if you wanted me. But why St. Petersburg?"

"Because my father, who was a great traveler in his youth, had a friend there, a rich shipowner for whom he once did a favor. We never asked for any repayment of the debt, indeed there was none in my father's eyes, nor would I claim any, but we have had news of the Krilovs from time to time and I know that they will help me. And I would rather ask help from a friend than from the man who condemned me to the convict chain."

Only a brief glance passed between Jolival and Marianne, but they understood one another. They both knew Jason's stubborn nature of old and his near inability to forgive an injury. Better, they felt, to say nothing of the tsar's letter and agree to Jason's plan. The road to St. Petersburg passed by Moscow, after all, and so they lost nothing by it. And then luck might be on their side and once the letter was in Napoleon's hands there would be nothing to prevent Marianne from going with the man of her choice at last.

That he should have given in so easily was more than they had hoped. Knowing his almost physical love for his ship, Marianne had expected something of a fight. But she saw, too, as they made their way down to the Greek tavern to seek out Gracchus, that Jason's eyes turned continually to the far end of the great mole. Gradually he began to walk more slowly. She urged him on affectionately.

"Come, we must hurry if we are to be out of the town in time. Dawn is not far off."

"I know. But you don't need me to rout out Gracchus."

He let go of her suddenly and she saw him run toward the site of the new arsenal. He came back holding an unlighted lantern.

"Have you got a light?" he asked Jolival.

"Of course. But do we need one?"

"No. I know. Only lend me flint and tinder and wait for me. I shouldn't be long but if I'm not back in, say, half an hour, then go without me."

"Jason!" Marianne cried, struggling to keep her voice down. "Where are you going? I am coming with you."

He turned and took her hand and squeezed it tightly before putting it in Jolival's.

"No. I forbid you. What I am going to do is my business. She is my ship."

The Irishman already understood.

"But I am coming with you," he said firmly. "The rest of you, wait for us. Rouse Gracchus and try to find some kind of vehicle for the journey. We can't walk to St. Petersburg."

In another moment he was running after the dark figure of Beaufort, who was making for the small beach where some boats lay drawn up out of the water.

"This is madness!" Jolival cried, no longer bothering to keep his voice down. "We won't find one, except at the post house by the Kiev gate, and for that we must climb the hill again to the other side of the town. And even then we may have trouble—"

Craig paused for a moment and they heard him laugh.

"Sure and you may have somewhat less trouble if we are successful. The folk hereabouts will have enough doing at the harbor to keep them busy awhile. They'll not be troubling themselves about the likes of us. Now hurry."

A moment later Marianne and Jolival saw with a sudden chill a small boat put out from the shore and creep slowly and silently over the dark water.

"What are they going to do?" Marianne whispered fearfully. "They surely wouldn't—"

"Yes. They are going to set fire to the Sea Witch. I was expecting something of the sort. A man like Beaufort could never have consented to leave his ship behind… Come, we too have work to do. You can say your prayers later," he added, not without a touch of irritation, as he became aware that Marianne was murmuring softly over her clasped hands.

The house of which the Greek tavern occupied the ground floor was small and square with only a single upper floor. There was one large window enclosed with a latticework balcony in the Arab style and next to it another, much smaller one, closed by a single wooden shutter. Feeling that there was a strong likelihood that this would be where young Gracchus slept, Jolival picked up a stone and threw it hard against the shutter.

He had guessed right, for after a moment a hand pushed the shutter open with a faint creak and a tousled head looked out. Before he could say anything, Jolival called up softly: "Gracchus! Is that you?"

"Yes, but who—"

"It's us, Gracchus," Marianne said, "Monsieur de Jolival and—"

"Mademoiselle Marianne! By all the saints! I'm coming down."

The next instant Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche dropped quite literally into their arms and hugged them both with the utmost enthusiasm, seeing them in that moment not as his employers but as friends miraculously restored to him. They returned his greeting just as warmly, but Jolival saw to it that their transports did not last too long.

"Listen here, my lad," he said firmly, breaking in on the young man's exclamations of delight, which even in whispers were still penetrating enough. "We aren't here for a reunion. We need your help."

Leaving Jolival to explain hurriedly what had been happening,

Marianne made her way back to the waterfront. Already it was less dark. The forest of masts stood out more clearly, and so did the white crests of the small choppy waves. A sudden gust of wind whirled around her, filling the wide cloak she was wearing and making it clap like a flag. She stood with every sense on the alert, straining her ears to catch the slightest sound of oars amid the rattle of small bits of wood blown by the wind, and peering out into the shadows of the harbor.

It seemed to her that Jason and Craig had been gone for hours and his last words reechoed in her mind: "If I am not back in half an hour…" It was too dark for her to see her watch, but according to the pendulum of her heart that half hour must have been up weeks ago.

Suddenly, just when she could bear it no longer, and was on the point of setting out along the mole whose long stone causeway lost itself in shadow, she saw a tongue of fire leap up in the darkness ahead, lighting up a thick cloud of smoke shot with a red glow along its underside. At the same moment she saw two vagrants jump up like rats fleeing a sinking ship from behind the pile of casks, where they must have sought refuge for the night, and run toward the houses uttering some harsh cries she could not understand but which could no doubt have been translated as "Fire! Fire!"

Immediately the harbor was wide awake. Lights sprang up and windows were thrown open. There were shouts and cries and dogs began to bark. Realizing that she was likely to be cut off from her friends, Marianne turned back to find Jolival and Gracchus. She met Jolival halfway to the tavern and saw that he was alone.

"Where has Gracchus gone to now?"

"He's arranging our departure. I've given him money and we'll join him later in the upper town. He'll be waiting for us at the end of the main street, the Deribasovskaya, not far from the posting house. Let's hope Jason and Craig will not be much longer."

"They've been gone so long already. You don't think—"

He took her arm and slipped it through his own, patting it reassuringly.

"No, I don't. It seems a long time to you, and that's quite natural. But it's barely a quarter of an hour since they left us and if you ask me, they've not been wasting any time."

The fire, in fact, seemed to be spreading. Tall flames licked up into the night and the wind was blowing thick waves of choking black smoke in toward the shore. Men with buckets were beginning to run toward the mole and the light of the fire showed more and more people crowding onto the waterfront. A bell somewhere began to toll wildly.

"It's a good thing the brig was anchored at the far end of the mole. Otherwise, with this wind, those two madmen would have stood a good chance of setting fire to half the town," Jolival grunted.

His next words were swallowed up in a deafening roar, accompanied by a tremendous explosion of fire. Jolival scrambled quickly onto a stone block attached to a nearby house, dragging Marianne after him. They cried out at the sight that met their eyes.

Evidently the Sea Witch had blown up and now the fire was traveling to the other ships moored nearby. It seemed as if the sea itself were on fire and the screams of the crowd were drowned in the roaring of the flames, driven by the wind.

"Jason knew his ship," Jolival muttered. "He must have set fire to the magazine. That explosion was a ton of powder going up."

In fact the after part of the stricken brig was still spitting fire like a volcano. The mizzenmast flared like a torch and crashed in a shower of sparks onto the prow of a neighboring frigate, which was already alight. Marianne swallowed suddenly and found that there were tears in her eyes. She had been jealous of the ship, seeing her as a rival for Jason's love, but to see her perish thus, by her master's own hand, was a shocking thing. It was as if she were watching the death of a friend, or even her own death. She thought of the figurehead, the figure of the green-eyed siren carved in her own likeness, which in another moment would be burned to ashes.

She heard Jolival at her side give a slight sniff and she knew that he too was having difficulty with his feelings.

"She was a beautiful ship," he said quietly.

Jason's voice, breathless and rasping, answered him.

"Yes, she was beautiful… and I loved her like my own child. But I'd rather see her burn than know her in another's hands."

Marianne saw by the light of the fire that both he and Craig were white and dripping with sea water. But neither seemed aware of it. Both their eyes were on the Sea Witch and in both there was the same fury of grief.

"Our boat capsized from the force of the explosion," the Irishman explained. "We had to swim for it."

All at once Marianne flung her arms around Jason's neck, shaking with convulsive sobs. Tenderly, his arm went around her while with the other he drew her head down onto his shoulder and gently stroked her hair.

"Don't cry," he said quietly. "We'll have another ship, bigger and still more beautiful. It was my own fault in a way. I ought never to have called her Sea Witch. She was fated to be burned… like a real witch."

Marianne gulped miserably. "Jason… are you superstitious?"

"No… not in the usual way. But it grieves me and maybe I am not quite myself. Shall we go? The whole town seems to be converging on the harbor. No one will notice us."

"But you're soaking wet and your clothes are in rags! You can't travel like that."

"Why not? I may be all you say, but at least I'm free, thanks to you, and that in itself is wonderful."

With that, he swung her almost gaily off the stone bench onto the ground and, still holding her hand, pulled her after him up the street that led up the hill to the new town. Jolival and Craig hurried after them, keeping close to the walls to avoid being swept away by the ever-increasing crowds of people flowing downhill to the harbor.

Seen from above, the fire had assumed such proportions that the whole port area seemed to be alight. In fact, only three ships, those nearest to the brig, had been attacked by the flames. The four fugitives paused under the branches of a gigantic sycamore that overhung a garden wall to regain their breath after the climb and looked back for a moment.

The Sea Witch was dying. Her stern had gone and her bows, borne under by the weight of water, were lifting dramatically. For an instant the fine line of her prow reared up, still intact, holding up her figurehead like a last prayer to heaven before dragging it down beneath the waves. Then slowly, almost solemnly, she sank back and disappeared below the surface of the sea.

Marianne felt Jason's hand tighten on hers. He was cursing hoarsely through clenched teeth. Then, he raised his voice and, flinging the words out like a challenge, he cried out: "I shall have another, I swear that before long I shall have another ship of my own to take the place of this one. Another ship just like her!"

Gently, timidly almost, Marianne began to stroke his cheek, feeling the muscles rigid under her hand as though turned to stone.

"But you will not give her my face, for it has not brought you luck."

He turned to look at her, his eyes bright with unshed tears, and then, swiftly and suddenly, like a horseman gulping down a stirrup cup before a grueling ride, he bent and kissed her hard upon the mouth.

"But I shall," he answered her gravely, and then, with a tenderness that made her heart melt within her, he added: "She shall have your face—and I shall call her Bel-Espoir!"

It was not long after that that they came up with Gracchus a short distance from the posting house. There had been a moment's panic for Marianne as they passed the governor's residence, but like all the upper town it was quiet and silent as a tomb. Marianne spared a thought for the man within, who must even then have been deep in the drugged sleep she had procured for him. Certainly no one would have succeeded in waking him. She knew the power of the drug she had given him and the sun would be high in the sky before the Duc de Richelieu opened his eyes. He would learn then of the conflagration in the harbor in the early morning and of the burned ships, but it might be some time yet before he discovered the theft of his letter, because he would first have to hurry down to the harbor to assess the damage and take such steps as might be necessary. That would give the fugitives a little more time if he decided to pursue them inland. But what was much more likely was that he would direct the search to sea, as the natural element of seamen—and their friends.

So that if he did eventually decide to pursue the thief she should, with luck remaining on her side, have acquired a very good start.

After they came upon Gracchus, propped up tranquilly with folded arms against the side of an impressive vehicle drawn by three horses in charge of a huge bearded driver in a red hat with a square crown to it, Marianne was very nearly sure that luck was on her side, in the person of this resourceful Paris urchin who seemed to possess an uncanny knack for adapting himself instantly and imperturbably to any circumstance, however unlikely, and also of working miracles. The vehicle that he had acquired now was an example of this in its way.

It was a kibitka, one of the great four-wheeled covered wagons, not unlike those used by the American colonists, which the Russian merchants were accustomed to employ to transport themselves and their merchandise from town to town and from fair to fair.

Heavier, certainly, and also slower than the various other conveyances in use on Russian roads, the kibitka possessed a definite advantage in that it was more stoutly built, less conspicuous and able to carry more passengers, not to mention a great deal more baggage, than would have fitted into a telega or a troika. It would take all the fugitives, whereas normally at least two carriages would have been needed to accommodate the whole party. And finally, Richelieu would be less likely to look for the Princess Sant'Anna under the hood of a countrified wagon than amid the cushions of a more fashionable type of vehicle.

But Gracchus's genius did not stop short at the choice of transport. Poking her head inside, Marianne saw that it contained a number of rolled-up mattresses, also designed to serve as seats, and a pile of new blankets, as well as cooking utensils and provisions. There were also spades and an assortment of weapons. Last of all, there were suits of clothes which, although they might not have been cut in London or Paris, were nonetheless respectable. These were evidently intended for Jason and Craig. It looked as though Gracchus had laid out the money Jolival had given him to advantage, and with a speed that no one else could have hoped to rival.

"It's like magic," Marianne said happily, emerging from the wagon to allow the two men to change their clothes. "However did you manage it, Gracchus? There can't have been any shops open at this hour?"

Gracchus blushed crimson, as he always did when his mistress paid him a compliment, and chuckled.

"Well, it's not so wonderful, Mademoiselle Marianne. You can get hold of anything, at any hour of the day or night here, if you've got the money. You only have to know what doors to knock on."

Craig O'Flaherty's coppery head peered out from inside the wagon. "Well, you seem to know the right doors, me lad, and that's for sure! But I've a nasty notion there may yet be one thing we're lacking. You'll not have heard, maybe, what we poor prisoners were told by an Italian fellow back in the castle there for his misfortune, but it seems that if you want to travel in these parts, and more important, if you want to be able to get fresh horses on the road, you need to have some kind of passport—"

"It's called a podoroshna," Gracchus agreed placidly and pulled from his pocket a paper bearing an official stamp freshly applied. He waved it at the Irishman. "Like this. But to be exact, Monsieur Craig, the podoroshna is nothing more or less than a permit to use post horses. You can do without one if you've got the money, but it's a great saving and it ensures that the people at the posting houses treat you with some respect. Anything else you'd like to know, Monsieur Craig?"

"No, nothing else," said the Irishman, gloomily extricating his large person from the cart, revealing himself clad in a pair of baggy trousers tucked into short boots and a gray shirt buttoned at the neck and caught in at the waist with a leather belt. "Except that I suppose I shall have to get used to these new fashions somehow and that I could do with a shave."

"And so could I," added Jason, also emerging and dressed in similar garb. "We look just like our late keepers."

Gracchus ran a critical eye over them, then nodded approvingly.

"Not bad at all. In any case, it's all that I could find. And if you'll take my advice, you'll stick to your beards. They make you both look like proper little sons of holy Mother Russia and that's the best thing we could ask."

Gracchus, in fact, had shown himself a worthy general, and not liking to let his mistress travel deeper into enemy territory under her own name, he had taken it upon himself to have the podoroshna made out in the name of Lady Selton, an English traveler, and consequently eccentric, whose object was to see something of the tsar's empire and to study the patriarchal customs of his people.

Gracchus, Jason and Craig were entered on this all-important document as the lady's servants, while to Jolival, rechristened Mr. Smith, was allotted the role of secretary.

"Mr. Smith!" the vicomte grumbled. "Was that the best you could think of? Where's your imagination?"

"Monsieur the Vicomte will pardon me." Gracchus retorted with dignity, "but Smith is the only English name I know, apart from Pitt and Nelson."

"I've had a narrow escape, then. Well, Mr. Smith, so be it. And now I think it's time we were making a move."

Dawn was already breaking in the glorious reds and purples of a blustery sunrise. From somewhere nearby came the chimes of a Russian orthodox monastery calling its monks to their morning prayers. The copper domes of a church gleamed like fire against a lurid sky suddenly filled with the gliding flight of gulls and the swift, darting black shapes of swallows.

The streets in the upper town were beginning to come to life. Those people who had run down to the harbor were drifting back again, talking noisily about what they had seen. Others, who had not thought it worthwhile to leave their beds, now opened their windows and threw back the shutters to shout their questions from house to house.

At the far end of the street soldiers were taking down the heavy chain that was stretched between the two squat bastions of the Kiev gate to close it for the night. The first of the day's wagons of grain were visible on the other side.

The travelers climbed into the kibitka and settled themselves as comfortably as they could on the mattresses. Gracchus hopped up beside the driver, who had apparently been continuing his interrupted night's sleep because he found that it was necessary to shake him awake before he could take his place beside him on the wooden plank which served as a box.

Having cast a glance inside to assure himself that all was well with his companions, Gracchus addressed himself to the driver and declaimed majestically, and not without some consciousness of the effect he was producing: "Fperiod! Forward!"

The man chuckled to himself, but he touched up his horses and the huge wagon lumbered away lurching over the ruts, for such things as cobblestones were still unknown to the new town, and drew up to the gate.

Marianne slid her hand into Jason's and, leaning back against the side of the wagon, composed herself for sleep.

Not many moments later, the kibitka had left Odessa behind it and was beginning the long journey across the vast extent of Russia.