Time dragged by, endless, until at last the jingling of keys announced their gaoler, who led them down to a side-entrance, where a closed carriage waited with a small escort of troops. ‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘He wants to see you at once. I’ve known prisoners wait days, weeks even.’
‘Who?’ asked Glynde, but the carriage door slammed on the question.
‘If it’s Fouché, I hardly call it luck,’ said Jan, and they fell silent again, both of them thinking about Napoleon’s formidable Chief of Police.
‘He lives in style at all events.’ Glynde tried for a light note as the carriage drove through a guarded archway into the yard of a town house that was almost a palace. ‘No chance of escape.’ He was a little afraid his companion might do something rash.
‘No. Madness,’ Jan agreed.
Descending from the carriage, they saw that the escort had remained at the entrance, leaving just one man to guard them. ‘This way, gentlemen.’ He led them up porticoed steps. ‘My master says you are to consider yourselves his guests.’
‘Very civil of him,’ said Glynde. ‘Who is your master?’
But the man appeared not to have heard the question, as he led the way up a handsome staircase to the main floor of the house. Opening a door, he ushered them in, said, ‘The gentlemen, sir,’ and left them.
‘The very foolish gentlemen.’ The slender, grey-haired man who awaited them looked from one to the other, then held out his hand in welcome to Jan. ‘Mr. Warrington.’ He took a difficult step forward, ‘And Mr. Rendel! May I welcome you to what, I must remind you, is technically the soil of France.’
‘Declared neutral,’ said Glynde. ‘Monsieur Talleyrand –’ And then, ‘I beg your pardon, I should say –’
‘No, no. Talleyrand will do very well. My master was so good as to make me a Prince, but I still prefer my family’s name, for reasons that baffle even myself.’ He had shaken Jan’s hand, now held Glynde’s, looking him over with eyes that seemed to miss nothing. ‘I cannot tell you how delighted I am with your quite idiotic rashness, Mr. Rendel. I have been very much wishing to meet you.’
‘To meet me?’ Nothing was going as Glynde had expected. Had feared? His hand parted from Talleyrand’s reluctantly as he met look with look.
‘Yes. I knew your mother, so many years ago that it makes me feel old to recall it, something I particularly dislike. When I learned that Fouché’s men had picked you up, risking your life here in Tilsit, I could not resist arranging the meeting. But, forgive me, you gentlemen must be starving. You were presumably on your way home to your dinner, when you were arrested. Quite rightly, if I may say so. Tilsit is no place for an Englishman at this moment.’ He took another of his halting steps forward to a table with wine and glasses.
‘Please let me.’ Glynde anticipated him.
‘With pleasure. And then we will eat. Or rather, you will eat while I entertain you with scintillating conversation. I have been dining with my Emperor and the unfortunate King and Queen of Prussia,’ he explained, ‘or I would have released you from what must have been a quite anxious period of detention long before this. Though I consider that it served you richly right, and will, I trust, be a lasting lesson to you, Mr. Rendel. Mr. Warrington I have no need to scold. As an American, he is free of Europe, though I can think of circumstances in which he might find the freedom more theory than practice.’
‘You’re right there.’ Jan and Glynde exchanged glances, remembering their first meeting, and Glynde found himself wondering, as he poured and passed the wine, if Talleyrand, with Fouché’s omniscience at his disposal, did not perhaps know about it, too.
‘Your very good health, gentlemen,’ Talleyrand raised his glass. ‘But bring your wine with you. I have no doubt you have young men’s appetites, and propose to let you help yourselves, so that we can talk undisturbed.’ He took his seat at the head of a table lavishly supplied with smoked fish and cold meats and gestured them to do likewise. ‘Are you Pole enough to enjoy their inevitable salad of beet greens, Mr. Warrington?’
‘I’m learning to like it, sir. You appear to know all about us.’
‘I have made it my study since you became the Tsar Alexander’s good friends. He is a man who interests me enormously; such a chapter of contradictions. Can you tell me, Mr. Rendel, which is the real man?’
Glynde put down his glass and looked at him very straight. ‘I would need to know two things first, sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘Are we guests or prisoners, and, why do you want to know?’
‘Two very good questions. To the first, my guests, of course.
To put it on no higher level, I do not intend that anything should tarnish the glow of this meeting between the world’s two great men, and, has it not struck you, Mr. Rendel, that the Tsar would hardly be pleased at the arrest of men who have been his constant companions.’
‘No.’ Surprised. ‘It had not, to tell truth. And, forgive me, I am not sure you are right. I think, at the moment, that we represent what the Tsar is turning away from. We have felt, Mr. Warrington and I, that our presence was no longer welcome.’
‘Especially yours?’
‘Yes.’ Glynde was already angry with himself for having spoken so freely. ‘You have not answered my second question.’
‘Why I want to know? But you must see that, Mr. Rendel. My Emperor and the Tsar are the two masters of Europe; they hold its future in their hands, are planning it now. I am, by the accident that lamed me, and whether I like it or not, a man of peace. I have lived through enough violence for a lifetime, and Europe has lived it with me. Did you see the battlefield of Friedland? No, of course you did not.’
‘We’ve seen enough,’ said Glynde.
‘To understand what I am saying? Good. Then think. Now, this very moment, these few days, here on the outskirts of Europe, these two men are deciding its future, for years, perhaps, for ever. Anything any of us can contribute to their getting it right is of the most immense importance. My master listens to me, sometimes.’
‘Please do not for a moment imagine that the Tsar ever listens to us,’ said Glynde.
‘But to Adam Czartoryski, perhaps?’
‘No longer, I am afraid.’
‘Unfortunate. Prince Ovinski?’
‘I don’t know. Besides, he is ill.’
‘Prince Ovinski? Now, that I did not know. I really begin to believe that Poland’s star is crossed.’
‘Poland’s?’ Jan had been eating and drinking heartily, leaving the conversation to the other two. ‘You care about Poland, Prince?’
‘Any thinking man who cares about Europe must consider Poland, Mr. Warrington. If you romantic Poles would only leave tilting at windmills and remember this, we would all go on much better at the conference table, where, in the end, the fate of nations is settled. Oh, I give you gallantry, every time, but where is the statesmanship that should back it? Let me refill your glass, Mr. Warrington, and we will drink a toast. To your Mr. Jefferson: now there is a statesman!’ He reached over to refill Jan’s glass from the bottle that stood on his side of the table. ‘To Mr. Jefferson! A great egalitarian and a great man of peace.’
‘Mr. Jefferson!’ Jan emptied his glass at a draught, swayed a little, looked across the table to Glynde. ‘I don’t feel quite the thing. Forgive –’ As he turned towards Talleyrand, he began to collapse, in slow motion, his legs giving way first.
‘Don’t let him fall. That’s it.’ Talleyrand must have given some signal, for two servants had appeared to gather him up as he fell.
Chapter 19
‘I am so very sorry.’ Dr. Wylie rose from beside the Prince’s bed. ‘I had hoped for a mere cold in the head, an influenza at the worst of it. Believe me, we have done everything we could. Your nursing has been beyond praise.’ He looked from the Princess to Jenny. ‘But I am afraid we must face it that we are losing the battle. The Tsar my master will be deeply grieved.’
‘But isn’t there any treatment? What sho
uld we do?’ asked the Princess, and then, as the doctor shook his head, ‘You can’t mean …’
‘He should not have got so wet, and then neglected himself. Keep him warm, keep him as comfortable as possible; let nothing agitate him. There could be a miracle, Highness. In this world, miracles are always possible. But: he should see a priest; understand his state; make his arrangements; see his son?’
‘I don’t believe it!’ But Jenny could see that the very fact that they were talking about the Prince as if he was not there was bringing the truth home to her. ‘There must be something we can do!’
‘You can pray, Highness.’ He turned to Jenny. ‘I rely on you to take care of her, Miss Peverel. And to let me know when I am needed.’
‘Yes.’ Left alone they looked at each other in silence, remembering.
‘You met him before I did,’ said the Princess at last.
‘I thought him the most polished gentleman I had ever seen.’
‘And so he –’ She stopped. She had almost said ‘was’. ‘I shall go on believing in Dr. Wylie’s miracle, Jenny. But send Lech for the priest.’
Much later, the Prince, who had been semi-conscious all day, woke clear-headed and asked to see the Tsar.
‘It’s impossible, I’m afraid.’ His wife bent over the bed and took his hand. ‘He is across the river, in Tilsit, conferring with Napoleon.’
‘Who will betray him! As he has us Poles. Used us and cast us aside. Like Marie Walewska, poor child. Will we never learn? Then I must write to him. Fetch pen and paper.’ But he was too weak to hold the pen. ‘I’ll dictate it then.’ His fierce gaze travelled round the crowded little room. ‘Miss Peverel, you will do me this favour? And you,’ to the Princess, ‘will sign each sheet when she has written it. It will not be long. Send for Casimir; he should be here, too. And – who is there of the court still on this side of the river, or have they all gone to fawn on the Corsican?’
‘I saw young Prince Vorontzov this morning.’ Jenny volunteered it into a lengthening silence.
‘Let him be fetched. Quickly.’ There was no need of the warning. They could all see how he fought for a thread of strength. ‘Give me some brandy, my dear, and while we wait for our witnesses, one small request to you.’
‘Yes?’ The Princess was holding the glass while he sipped from it.
‘Miriam. I left her as housekeeper at Vinsk. Let her stay?’
‘Of course I will.’ The Princess’s eyes met Jenny’s. ‘No need to ask it.’
‘Thank you. And – don’t think too hardly of me. Ah, here they are. Casimir, come here to me. Vorontzov; it’s good of you to come. I shall ask you to witness, with my wife, the letter I am about to dictate to the Tsar.’ He raised his voice, not waiting for an answer, and began to dictate so fast and with such certainty that Jenny was hard put to it to keep up with him. He must have been composing it in his head during the lucid intervals of the days he had lain ill. He was the Tsar’s faithful and humble servant; these were his last words. He was also a Pole. ‘Let me commend your Poles to you, sire. Just give them hope, and they will serve you far better than they have ever served the Corsican upstart. The world needs Poland. Russia needs it; as a protection, as a barrier, a first line of defence. Let me commend to you, too, my son Casimir, to whom I bequeath all my Russian estates, and may I beg you to join his mother, my wife, in watching over his minority. He will serve you, sire, I am sure, as faithfully as I have. I only hope, to more purpose.’ He paused as Jenny took a new leaf, began writing frantically to catch up. ‘Almost done, Miss Peverel.’ The words came with difficulty now. Instructions about his funeral; Casimir was his beloved son; he begged the Tsar’s protection for him and his mother: ‘My loyal wife. There.’ He lay back among the pillows, looked at his wife: ‘Read and sign, if you please. There is no time for talk. And then you, Prince.’
Passing the closely written sheets to the Princess, Jenny was aware of her silent, seething rage. And yet, surely, she had got infinitely more than she might have feared. Suppose he had disowned Casimir. Instead, amazingly, he had made him his heir direct, not in succession to his mother, as she must have expected.
The tired eyes turned to her. ‘Thank you, Miss Peverel.’ A whisper now; she bent close to his ear. ‘I know I can trust you to have taken it down, word for word. And to look after –’ a straight look from bloodshot eyes ‘– my son, Casimir. Now, promise to do one more thing for me.’ A quick glance showed the Princess still angrily reading. ‘That chest in the corner. In the confusion after my death, get rid of its contents for me? I doubt they’ll surprise you much.’ His mouth tried for a smile. ‘It has been a pleasure to know you, Miss Peverel. Thank you, my dear.’ He turned back to the Princess as she signed at the bottom of the letter’s two pages. ‘Now you, Prince?’ That done, he reached out a hand to encircle a slightly shrinking Casimir. ‘Gentlemen, my son and heir. The hope of Poland!’ And fell back on the pillows.
In the chaos that followed, Jenny found it easy enough to open the cedar chest in the corner of the room. Odd to be so little surprised by its contents: the cloak and mask of the Brotherhood, and the insignia that denoted one of their leaders. How long had she suspected that the Prince had been one of the group who interrogated her, that first time, at the hunting lodge, on her way to Rendomierz? There were other episodes that were less easy to understand, suggesting, perhaps, divided leadership in the Brotherhood itself, but there would be time to think about that later. For the moment, she owed it to the Prince – and to the Princess – to get rid of this evidence of his involvement. She sent for Lech. ‘There are some old clothes of the Prince’s in that chest, Lech. He asked me to get rid of them for him. You’ll do it, for me? And nothing said.’
‘What have you done to him?’ Glynde was on his feet, gazing furiously at Talleyrand, as his servants picked up Jan’s lifeless form.
‘No harm, just a small knock-out drop in his wine. He’ll wake in the morning with a very sore head, and you and I will convince him that he is suffering merely from my strong burgundy. He’s an abstemious young man in the general way, I understand. It should be easy enough. There is really no need to go with him, Mr. Rendel. I promise you, word of a gentleman, that my people are going to put him comfortably to bed in my guest-chamber, where you may join him at your leisure.’ He had risen, too, and took one of his awkward steps forward to lay a hand on Glynde’s arm. ‘I beg you to indulge me in this. We have to talk, you and I.’
‘I cannot see why.’ Still angry, confused and a little afraid, Glynde nevertheless did not feel he could keep the older man awkwardly standing at his side. He moved reluctantly back towards the table, aware of Talleyrand’s weight on his arm.
‘Thank you.’ Seated again, Talleyrand smiled at him. ‘Where to begin? I’ve waited a long time for this day.’
‘At the beginning, perhaps? What is it you want of me, sir?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing at all. It is what I owe you that has weighed on me for the last thirty years or so.’
‘Thirty years?’
‘Rather more, I suppose. How time does pass. Do you remember your mother at all?’
‘I’ll never forget her. Oh – what she looked like, no. I was a child when she died.’ How strange to remember, in this moment of danger, that Jenny had reminded him of his mother, the fragrance of her. ‘You met her, you say?’
‘Oh yes, I met her.’ Talleyrand refilled both their glasses from a new bottle, smiling ruefully at Glynde as he did so, then raised his glass. ‘I drink to her memory. Your beautiful mother. I met her in seventy-five. They were in Paris, she and her husband, for the coronation of Louis XVI, poor man, and his unfortunate wife. I was twenty-one, a wild young student, disinherited by my father, because of this leg, thinking the world my enemy. They hadn’t made a priest of me, yet. But they meant to, and I knew it. I’m making excuses! Disgusting.’ He paused for a moment, sipping his wine.
‘But why are you telling me all this?’ asked Glynde impatiently. ‘What
has this ancient history to do with anything?’
‘Because the past so often explains the present. A lesson you might usefully learn. And because I’m a coward, I suppose. I hadn’t thought I was, but it seems I am after all. You’re not going to like what I am about to tell you.’
‘Then cut the roundaboutation and tell me. Something about my mother? Nothing you tell me can make me love her less. She loved me. The only person who did.’
‘Ah? Your father?’
‘Never has. Never will.’
‘But he gave you his name.’ Elbows on table, Talleyrand met his eyes steadily. ‘He had every right not to.’
‘What?’ He was on his feet, knocking over his glass. ‘What are you daring to say!’
‘That I loved your mother. The only woman, I think, I ever truly loved. And she loved me. But we didn’t talk enough, she and I. Oh, she told me how unhappy she was with your father, of his blatant unfaithfulness since the birth of your brother; what she failed to make me understand, can you blame her, was how totally he neglected her.’
‘What are you saying?’ Red wine seeped across the damask cloth.
‘That I did not see soon enough, how completely she and your father lived apart, what a disaster your birth would be for her. If I had – I wonder – We students knew a great deal, much of it bad. I might have prepared your death for her. I am glad I did not.’
‘You’re saying –’
‘That I am your father. Like it or not, you have to live with it. Personally, I find I like it.’
‘Like it! So that was why – is why! You’re right; he gave me his name. Nothing more. But I owe him everything. Now tell me what I owe you, Monsieur Talleyrand? Except this shame!’
‘Nothing. I have said so already. But I do allow myself to hope that perhaps, when you have come to terms with it a little, we might be friends.’
‘Our countries are enemies. Don’t think I shall ever forget it.’
‘Admirable, Mr. Rendel. Do you know, I believe I shall indulge myself by calling you Glynde. I hope you now recognise what a gesture it was on Lord Ringmer’s part to give you one of the family names.’
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