Marianne and the Lords of the East

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  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.

&nbs
p; "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 yo
u 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?"