[Marianne 5] - Marianne and the Lords of the East

by Juliette Benzoni

  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 J
olival, 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 st
airs, 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.