'The yard behind the church is full of refugees,' Beyle went on, 'but for the most part that district is undamaged. The engineers even managed to save the Marshals' Bridge. And now the wind has changed yet again and is driving the fire away from that part. What's more, if we go back to the city we may be able to obtain some medical help. The main Hospital is still standing and I ran into that remarkable fellow Baron Larrey. Neither he nor his assistants have left Moscow since the fires began. It's true he's a good deal to keep him busy.'
'Many people burned?'
'More broken bones. You'd never think how many have thrown themselves out of windows for fear of the flames. You—' He turned to his servants. 'Do your best to load the carriage without disturbing the lady more than you can help and let's be off.'
It did not take long. They left behind some of what they had brought with them, on Beyle's assurance that there was enough food in the city to feed an army for a considerable time. Bonnaire continued to object that they ought to have some idea of where they were going to lodge but on Beyle's retorting peremptorily that the Abbé Surugue would have made arrangements for them he subsided and accompanied them willingly enough, beginning to indulge himself with the idea of a hospital bed.
Thanks to the abbé's ability to point out those houses from which the owners had departed well before the start of the fire, they found themselves a house in the neighbourhood of the old Lubianka prison. Though small, it was comfortable enough, being the property of an Italian dancing master belonging to the household of Prince Galitzine, who had gone with his master into the country, and owing to its modest appearance it had so far escaped pillage.
It was not, however, entirely unoccupied. As he stepped inside, Beyle tripped over the figure of a youngish middle-aged woman lying in a puddle of wine on the hall floor and snoring like a grampus. She was dressed in a court dress of peacock blue satin with a cloth of gold turban on her head and she was quite evidently drunk. She possessed, however, one quality of supreme importance to the young auditor: she was female and he needed a female to attend to Marianne. This one, once brought round, might well answer the purpose.
A bucket of water or two from the well in the yard and a few vigorous slaps worked wonders. It seemed probable that the woman had been there some time and had slept her fill, for she opened one large, bloodshot eye and then the other, then sat up and pushed back her elaborate headgear which by this time was soaking wet and decidedly askew. Finally, she favoured her assailant with an ogling grin.
'And what can I do for you, my lovely?' she inquired in good French, though spoken with a formidable Slavonic accent.
The tone of the invitation left the young man in no doubt as to her profession. But, prostitute or not, he had no alternative. Upon interrogation, the woman revealed that her name was Barbe Kaska and she was, as she freely admitted, a member of the oldest profession in the world. She had moved into the house because the one she had been sharing with some others of her kind since their arrival in the wake of the Polish troops had burned to the ground. Her explorations of the house having begun with the cellar, she had no idea yet whether the rest of it would suit her. The cellar had been charming.
When Henri Beyle asked her if she would consent to abandon her usual occupation in order to take care of a sick lady, Barbe put on a virtuous expression and demanded: 'Is she your wife?'
'Yes,' Beyle lied, deciding there was no point in embarking on unnecessary explanations. 'She's outside, in the carriage. She – she's dreadfully ill. A high fever, delirious in fact. I don't know what to do for the best. I'll pay you well if you will help.'
Barbe's only answer was to step over the pool of wine, nonchalantly sweeping aside a broken bottle with one foot, and, picking up the dripping wet folds of peacock satin, march regally to the front door. The sight of Marianne, lying flushed and shivering, with closed eyes, drew from her murmurs of shock and sympathy.
'Jesus Christ! The poor love! What a state she's in!'
This was followed by a spate of oaths and exclamations and invocations of every saint in the Polish calendar. Then, inspired by the age-old feminine instinct that makes every woman at heart a blend of sick-nurse and sister of mercy, Barbe hurried back into the house to look for somewhere the sick woman could be put to bed, at the same time shouting that they must be careful how they lifted her from the carriage so as not to let the rug slip from round her.
Half an hour later Marianne, undressed and put into one of the dancing master's nightshirts, was lying in bed between white sheets and well protected from draughts by huge curtains of mustard-coloured rep. Barbe herself, having shed the fumes of alcohol along with her drenched blue satin, had bundled her hair up in a towel and dug up from somewhere a sort of grey overall, evidently the property of some manservant, and put it on over her wet petticoats.
In the ensuing hours Beyle was to thank heaven again and again for having put this extraordinary woman in his path. She was invaluable. In no time at all she had explored the Italian's house and discovered everything they most needed. She had a fire going in the dark, vaulted kitchen which was situated in the basement next door to the famous cellar, which also contained a variety of useful provisions such as tea, sugar, honey, flour, dried fruit, onions and preserves. Barbe went through it all and decreed that the first thing to be done for the invalid was to make her swallow a big cup of hot tea. Then, when Beyle's servants appeared at the kitchen door, she promptly got rid of them by the simple method of telling them outright that there was no room for them in such a small house and they must shift for themselves elsewhere. Only François, the driver, found favour in her eyes but the new abigail's would-be ingratiating smile was enough to send him hurrying off to join his fellows in their search for lodgings near by. He was, as it turned out, the only one of them to continue in Beyle's service, the others having found, in addition to new quarters, a more lucrative occupation in plundering the Great Bazaar.
There was, of course, equally no place for Bonnaire in the establishment. He, in any case, was anxious to seek treatment on his own account and directed his steps hopefully towards the main hospital of the city. Beyle, meanwhile, made himself as comfortable as he could in the single living-room of the house.
But when he came to tap on the door of the room in which Barbe had for some moments past been closeted with Marianne, the sight that met his eyes had him rooted to the spot. The Polish woman was sitting on the bed with Marianne's head resting on her bosom. She had the girl's mouth open and was examining her throat by the light of a candle. Beyle sprang forward.
'Here! What do you think you're doing?'
'Trying to discover the cause of her fever. There's such a redness down there, you'd think she was on fire.'
'Well? And what do you propose to do?'
Barbe, quite unmoved by his tone, set the candle on the bedside table, laid Marianne back on her pillows, and came towards him.
'All that may be necessary,' she said simply. 'You must know, I've seen a fair bit of fighting since I've been following the army, and nursed more than one man. I've learned things. More than that, before I – came down in the world I used to be waiting woman to Princess Lubomirska and my father, God rest his soul, was apothecary on the Janowiec estate. I know what I'm about. I've seen fevers of this kind before in plenty. So just you go and rest yourself and leave me be. I daresay that great gaby of a man of yours can knock you up something to eat.'
With her flaxen hair ruthlessly swept up into the towel, large, bulbous violet eyes and face not altogether unattractive, despite the massive forehead, too broad for a woman, Barbe was, in her way, a formidable figure. Her references, moreover, seemed to be excellent so that Beyle succumbed and let her have her way. He was not feeling particularly well himself and so retired without further argument, merely asking the nurse if she would be good enough to save a little tea for him if, as she had announced, she was going to make some for Marianne.
'I am feeling a trifle liverish,' he confided,
with some idea of enlisting her sympathies on his own account, 'and I'm sure it would do me good.'
'It won't do you any harm, certainly, as long as you don't fill it up with cream.' Barbe gave a sigh. 'Well, well, it seems to me it was high time you found me. You're neither of you what one might call blooming. By the way, what's your name?'
'I am Monsieur de Beyle, auditor to the Council of State,' he told her, with his usual emphasis on what, in his opinion, was his impressive position.
However, it did not appear to satisfy Barbe.
'Yes, but what are you? Count, marquis, baron or what?' she asked, reeling off the list ingratiatingly.
Beyle flushed to the roots of his black hair.
'None of them,' he said, nettled. 'Although my position is at least equivalent to a title.'
'Oh,' said the Polish woman. She said no more but the shrug with which she shut the bedroom door upon him indicated the measure of her disappointment.
Disappointed or not, Barbe the prostitute worked like a trojan that night, shut up alone with Marianne. She fought the fever with every means in her power, making the invalid swallow cup after cup of weak tea with plenty of honey in it and a greyish powder, a supply of which she seemed to carry in a metal box in a pocket in one of her petticoats, along with her other valuables – just then consisting of a string of pearls and a few rings acquired from an abandoned house. She even went so far as to bleed Marianne, with the aid of a carefully sharpened kitchen knife, an operation that would have made Beyle shudder if he could have seen it but which she performed with a skill and confidence that any experienced apothecary might have envied.
She laboured to such good effect that by midnight or thereabouts Marianne was sleeping at last, a sleep that was no longer the unconsciousness of delirium. Her kindly physician then settled down in a large elbow chair with plenty of cushions to refresh herself with the remainder of the tea heavily laced with an old Armagnac she had found in the dancing master's cupboard, where he kept his scores and a few Italian books.
It was broad daylight when Marianne struggled slowly back to consciousness again. Finding herself lying in a strange bed, in a strange room, with a strange woman sitting beside her she thought at first that she was still dreaming.
But the room smelled of cold tea, brandy and the smoke which was still creeping in through the drawn curtains. Moreover the grey shape with the human face that lay huddled in the armchair was snoring too loudly to belong to the world of dreams. All this, and the aches and pains in her own body, convinced Marianne that she was wide awake.
She had, besides, a horrid feeling of being stuck to the bed. She must have perspired a great deal when the fever broke because the sheets and the nightshirt she was wearing were soaked with sweat.
She hoisted herself painfully into a sitting position. Even this simple action was enough to tell her that, while her body was wretchedly weak, her mind at least was quite clear again. With that, she began trying to put her thoughts in order and to work out how she came to be in this room, the details of which she could not make out clearly because the drawn curtains left it still in semi-darkness.
Memory returned swiftly enough: her flight through the blazing city, the fight with the drunken harpy in the boulevard, Beyle's carriage and the little wood beside the lake, then her stupid, irrational urge to follow the road to the sea, the way it had seemed to call her, and the child who had run into her arms and calmed that urge. After that, everything was very misty and she could not remember, only she had an impression that she had travelled a long way, tumbling into huge chasms peopled with evil shapes and grinning faces.
Her mouth felt dry and she saw a glass half-filled with water on the table by her bed. She reached out her hand to get it but there seemed to be no strength in her. She would never have believed a glass of water could be so heavy. It slipped out of her clumsy fingers and fell and broke on the floor.
Instantly the grey bundle sprang up like a jack-in-a-box.
'Who goes there! Stand and show yourself!'
'Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to wake you,' Marianne stammered, startled. 'I was thirsty – I was trying to get a drink.'
The woman's answer was to rush to the curtains and fling them wide open. Sunshine flooded into the room, lighting up the bed and the pale-faced girl, her great dark eyes made even larger by the dark rings under them. Barbe came and stood beside her, hands on hips, and studied her with a beaming smile.
'Eh, but that's better! So you've decided to come back to us, have you, little lady? By St Bronislawa, you've done the right thing! I'll go an' tell your husband this instant.'
'My husband—?'
'Why, yes, your husband. He's sleeping in the next room. You've had a nasty bout of fever but you surely can't have forgotten that you've got a husband, eh?'
If the woman had not spoken with such a strong accent, Marianne might have thought, from her appearance, that she was not unlike her old acquaintance, Mere Tambouille, but clearly this one was a Russian or something not far removed. Marianne wondered if she could also be mad. What was all this about a husband?
She had her answer when the strange creature reappeared, dragging after her Marianne's friend of the day before, still half-asleep and struggling to open his eyes. The woman must have hauled him from his bed.
'See!' she exclaimed triumphantly, pointing to the girl propped on her elbow in the bed. 'What do you say to that? Have I nursed her well or not?'
Beyle finished rubbing his eyes and smiled at her.
'Yes, indeed you have! It's like a miracle. My dear Barbe, I make you my apologies. You certainly are a remarkable woman. I suppose you wouldn't carry your goodness still further and go and make us a hot drink? Coffee, for preference, if you can find any.'
Barbe laughed, shook out her overall and crumpled petticoats flirtatiously, and pushed back the hair that was escaping from the towel and straggling about her face. Then she made for the door.
'I see how it is! You want to make a fuss of her? No need to worry about me, you know. I know all about it.'
She went out, shutting the door firmly behind her and Beyle walked over to the bed.
'Feeling better?'
'As weak as a new-born kitten but certainly better. Tell me, where are we and who is that woman?'
'A kind of fallen angel, incredible as it may seem. I shall always be grateful to Providence for having placed her in our path.'
He told her rapidly all that had happened since she had lapsed into her fever and even managed to make her laugh by describing the manner in which he had made Barbe's acquaintance.
'She asked me if you were my wife and I thought it best not to go into details.'
'You were quite right. It makes things easier. But what are we going to do now?'
He drew the chair in which Barbe had slept up to the bed and sat down.
'The first thing is to have breakfast, just like any respectably married couple. After that we'll put our heads together. This house is not too bad at any rate and I think we may as well stay here for a while. There's not a great deal left standing in Moscow that is not full of troops. You must get well again and, from what I understood you to say, you are anxious to keep out of the way of the Emperor and his suite?'
A faint flush rose to Marianne's cheeks and at the same time she felt a rush of gratitude. This man who was a total stranger to her had behaved with the delicacy and discretion of a true friend.
'That is true. And I think it's time I gave you some explanation—'
'There's no hurry. Please. You are still so weak. And the little I have done for you does not deserve your confidence.'
She smiled at him, in gentle mockery. 'That is not how it seems to me! I owe you the truth – the whole truth. Are you not my husband? It will not take long.'
As clearly as she could, she described in her turn what had taken place in the Kremlin and why it was that she must avoid coming within Napoleon's reach until she knew what the situation was.
&
nbsp; 'If you have ever met him,' she finished, 'you must know what I mean. He will not forgive me for having assisted in the escape of a man who, to him, was a dangerous spy. What I want to do now is to find my friends as soon as possible, and then leave Moscow as discreetly as I can.'
'And go back to Italy, I suppose?' He sighed comically. 'How I understand you! And how I wish I might really pass as your husband and go with you! I love Italy more than anything. But I don't think you have any need to worry. For one thing, we have no idea what the Emperor will decide to do as a result of this disaster, and for another, you are perfectly safe here. Ah, here is breakfast at last!' The last words were uttered simultaneously with Barbe's appearance bearing a tray the size of a small table. She made her entry as majestically as a Spanish galleon sailing into harbour.
Although her throat was still very sore, Marianne managed to eat a little boiled ham floating in a sea of cabbage, which was the easiest thing in the world to come by in Russia. Cabbage was the national vegetable and vast acres of it were grown all round Moscow. Marianne was not fond of it but she made herself eat some in the belief that it would help her to get back her strength. Then Beyle went out, saying that he was going to take a look round and see how matters stood and Marianne let Barbe change her sheets and her nightshirt, both of which had become unpleasantly sweaty. As Barbe pulled the nightshirt over her head, Marianne's hand went instinctively to the little wash-leather bag she always carried round her neck, in which was the diamond drop, as though to assure herself that it was safe.
The movement did not escape Barbe and she shot a severe look at the girl, then smiled somewhat grimly.
'I lay no claims to virtue,' she said, 'but I think I am honest. Oh, yes, I picked up a few trifles in the fire, but only because it would have been a shame to leave them to burn. I wouldn't touch your relics.'
Marianne understood from this that Barbe, greatly to her credit, had not investigated the contents of the bag, evidently taking it for the kind of thing in which pious souls liked to carry a little consecrated earth or some relic they regarded as a talisman. She blamed herself the more for having unconsciously wounded her feelings.
[Marianne 6] - Marianne and the Crown of Fire Page 22