Marianne and the Lords of the East

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  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 anyon
e 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…"