And yet his countrymen, his best friend, and his sons had gone off to fight and be killed for the French emperor. And here he sat. Was he right to let them go while he stayed at home?—Or to deny Tomasz’ request?
I should be there with Paweł and with my sons, he thought. I should! I can still handle the rigors of the march—and war. The old bloodlust he had held at bay for so long broke through, rising up from his gut, as he schemed how he could leave the very next day, be in uniform and in camp within the week. How Paweł and the Old Guard would welcome him! His sons, too! Damn Napoléon! Damn the upstart Corsican! I’ll go. I will! After a while, Jan stood, dusted himself off and walked with a good pace down by the river, body and heart enlivened by the decision.
It was nearly dark before he returned to the house. As he neared the lighted dining room windows, he saw Marta within, scurrying about with the supper preparations. For a moment he imagined Anna sitting at table waiting for him—annoyed at his tardiness—but smiling nonetheless. He halted abruptly.
He had for a few intoxicating minutes forgotten Anna. The excitement coursing through him like liquid fire slowed, stopped, cooled. He couldn’t leave her, not again. He looked up at the darkening sky. His boys were under that wide canopy somewhere this night, perhaps in danger, perhaps not. God be with them, he prayed. I cannot.
Zofia’s carriage clattered onto the cobblestones of the courtyard of the Brühl Palace, a rococo design and the most impressive residence in Warsaw. It took little more than the possession of a title to gain entrance to one of Archbishop Pradt’s receptions, but through her friendship with Anusia Potocka, Zofia had managed a seat at the archbishop’s table.
It seemed that Pradt was heavily in the debt of the Potockis. When he had arrived in Warsaw to take up his ambassadorship, he found the interior of the palace wholly unacceptable and set about having it completely refurbished. The undertaking took some weeks, and not wishing to stay at a hotel or rent an apartment—thereby depleting his significant salary of two hundred thousand francs—he prevailed upon the Polish hospitality of the Potockis to take him in for the interim.
More than a hundred people were assembled in the main reception hall, talking in clusters and sipping French wine. Anusia appeared out of the crush, moving forward to Zofia. “Oh! I’m so glad you’ve come, Zofia,” she said, kissing her on either cheek. “I do hope you don’t find the event as dull as the host.”
“That bad?”
“Oh, I just thank God he’s gone from our house. What an annoyance, as you’re likely to see.”
“Is Maria Walewska here?”
“Not yet.” Anusia moved her fan to her face. “Oh, dear, here he comes. Do be gracious, Zofia.”
“Why, Anusia, I am always gracious!”
Ignoring Anusia’s giggling, Zofia watched him approach. He was quite little. If she didn’t see his feet kicking out from under the dark ecclesiastical robes, she would have thought the man was walking on his knees.
Anusia introduced the abbé to Zofia. “I am most charmed to meet you, Lady Grońska. Each day I am surprised anew by the beauty of the Polish women.”
Zofia had worn a high-waisted low-cut gown of violet, and the archbishop’s eyes were trained for the moment on her décolletage.
“Thank you, Your Eminence,” Zofia said, dropping to her knees, the violet tulle skirt spreading out around her like the petals of a peony.
Pradt held out his ring for her to kiss. Rising, Zofia said, “Our Polish men have long kept us a secret, but now with them off to fight for the French, we must assume the stage.”
“It is not the French you Poles fight for, Lady Grońska. It is for your own country to be recalled to life.”
“That, Your Eminence, remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”
The abbé bristled, and the small beads that were his eyes widened slightly. “Do not doubt my word, Lady Grońska. It is true. One day you Poles will be grateful to the emperor.”
“A smug little man with a high, unpleasant voice.” Zofia whispered as the abbé sauntered off to visit with a nearby group of people.
“Indeed,” Anusia said. “He entertains very grandly though he’s thrifty as a squirrel. Do you know what he gave my father-in-law as a gift for our housing him?”
“I’d venture to say it was not money.”
“It was a painting. He was impressed by Lord Potocki’s collection of excellent art, so he sent to the archbishop’s palace in Malines for what he called a ‘masterpiece.’ Knowing the man’s taste, my father-in-law had a presentiment that the gift would ruin his gallery.”
“A gift that no doubt cost Pradt nothing.”
“Exactly. And its arrival vindicated my father-in-law’s fear.” Anusia let out a little gasp. “Zofia, it is the most pedestrian rendering of a scoundrel once famous in that area.”
“An unlikely subject for a bishop’s home. He was ridding himself of it.—And did Lord Potocki place it in his gallery?”
“He would sooner swim the Baltic.” Anusia chuckled. “No, he gave it its own little gallery—in the garret of the Willanów residence.”
Zofia smiled slyly. It would be sheer fun, she decided, to put this haughty man in his place.
Maria Walewska arrived just in time for supper. Zofia suspected her tardiness had been calculated so she would miss the abbé’s tour of the reception hall and his incessant small talk. Not that his jabbering stopped at table. He chattered on throughout the meal, commenting on every course, boasting of the chef he left behind in Malines, lamenting the absence of certain French dishes. He berated his servers loudly for the slightest infraction—something not done in Polish households.
He had Maria Walewska seated at his right hand, as if she were his queen. Pradt would finish every commentary with a look in her direction, that look facilitated by the use of a lorgnette that swept over her shapely form like a searchlight. Maria had dressed most modestly, however, allowing the abbé little to ogle. Sometimes in his private discourse to Maria, his hand would cover hers as if to make a point, and it would linger there.
The sight caused Zofia to involuntarily stiffen in her chair. And it took only a few glances about to realize that no one was ignorant of his infatuation with Maria. The young women smiled with ironic amusement, their mothers’ tongues clucked with disdain, and the older men glowered behind spectacles, as if at insult. The ambassador was no diplomat: that much was certain.
“The bean soup reminds me of a story about Madame de Pompadour,” Pradt announced suddenly. “Everyone knows she favored the use of multiple beauty spots on her lovely face, yes? Well, one little rebellious spot chose suppertime to take a little dip in her soup bowl!”
He paused, waiting for some reaction. He had the attention of everyone within hearing, but the prelude to the story elicited little response. “You’ll never guess what Madame de Pompadour did!” he exclaimed. “Rather than admit to her embarrassment, she spooned up the beauty mark. Looking down to where it floated in clear broth, she declared: ‘Look! What good luck—a raisin!’ And before anyone could manage a good look, she ate it down!”
Pradt’s audience did afford a little surprise and laughter now, but not as loud and cloying as Pradt’s own hiccup-like laugh. Amidst the polite response, Anusia leaned over to Zofia. “I could have guessed it,” she said. “He told the same story a dozen times at Willanów. It won’t be the last of the Pompadour anecdotes, you can be certain.”
It wasn’t. “Did you know,” Pradt asked, retaking the stage, “that Madame de Pompadour believed a beautiful woman is more frightened by the end of her youth than by death?—And she certainly proved it! On her deathbed, about to breathe her last, she gathered up all the strength left to her and called out to her Creator, ‘Wait a moment!’ With arms she could barely lift, she took her rouge, drew crimson circles on her pallid, lifeless cheeks—and promptly died!”
“Isn’t it odd,” Anusia wondered aloud, “that an archbishop is so consumed with a courtesan out of the past?”
>
“Perhaps not,” Zofia whispered. “Look at the way he leers at poor Maria. And the stories he chooses are not particularly flattering to women.”
As the courses continued, Pradt told two more Pompadour stories.
“Your Eminence,” Zofia said at the next lull, “isn’t it so that much of the time Madame de Pompadour was the power behind Louis XV’s throne?”
Pradt flashed a wide, insincere smile. “Her influence was overrated, Lady Grońska.”
“Really?” Zofia persisted, her dark eyes fixed on her target. “Here in Poland we heard she was called the last uncrowned queen of France. Is that a falsehood?”
Pradt’s lower lip trembled very slightly. “Hearing such a thing does not attest to its veracity, my lady.”
Zofia was not about to acquiesce. She proclaimed in a lilting voice: “Wasn’t it Cato who said ‘The Romans govern the world while women govern the Romans’?”
A little cheer and rattling of silver went up from the women in the room. Anusia elbowed Zofia in the ribs. “You’ve gone too far, Zofia.”
The abbé’s olive complexion smoldered red. His lips thinned and tightened.
“Au contraire,” Zofia answered in a whisper. “He needs to know I will not melt away in the heat of his hot air.”
“But why anger him?” Anusia whispered.
Ignoring her friend’s question, Zofia raised a spoonful of her dessert to her lips. “I must say, Your Eminence” she announced, “that the raspberry mousse is divine!”
A small orchestra played after supper. According to Anusia, at this, his first reception, the abbé had said he wished to provide dancing for the young people. He failed to realize that all the young men had gone to war. No one danced this evening, either.
“Lady Grońska.” The strangely high voice came from behind.
Recognizing it immediately, Zofia turned around. “Your Eminence,” she said nodding slightly.
“Would you care to see some of my paintings?”
“Yes, please.” Zofia had been calculating how she might privately talk to the abbé, and now her problem was solved. He led the way, chattering on like a parrot about his interest in art. They came to tall white doors gilded with gold, and he pushed them open, standing to the side as Zofia passed. She felt his hand on her waist as she entered. His touch lasted but moments, and yet the skin at the back of her neck prickled at his touch. He closed the door behind them.
“You have but one painting in here,” Zofia said, nodding toward the fireplace.
“And it is worth looking at, my dear. Come.” He took her hand.
Zofia allowed herself to be led. She had an idea now just how his attentions made Maria feel.
“It’s a Dutch seascape.—Do you like it, Zofia? May I call you that?”
“If you wish.”
When they stood before the painting, Zofia withdrew her hand.
“Well?” he asked.
“Yes,” she lied, “it’s lovely.”
“You may speak your mind, Zofia.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw your expression the moment you took it in.—You may say what you think.”
“Very well—it’s dreadful. Perfectly dreadful.”
The abbé laughed. “Exactly! A poor imitation of a Dutch master.”
“You were testing me? I thought so!”
“You have shown me tonight that you are quite independent.”
“Have I?” Zofia asked, her tone all flirtation. “Anusia Potocka thought I overstepped myself.”
“Not at all.” Pradt pivoted now and stood looking up at Zofia.
Drawing in a deep breath, Zofia turned to face him. A light gleamed in the little man’s eyes. A lurid light, Zofia thought, even as she smiled. His face reflected an impetuosity she had encountered before—but never from an archbishop. “I am glad to have this private audience, Your Eminence.”
“Are you?” he asked, smiling up at her. “You may call me Dominique. We should not be so formal.”
“I wish to confide in you.”
“By all means, my dear.”
“I am certain that in your lifelong position in the church you cannot be used to gossip. Even if the gossip is swirling like a tide all around you.”
“Gossip?”
“Terrible, vacuous talk, Your Eminence. Terrible.”
The abbé paled slightly. “About what?”
“I do hate to be the bringer of bad news.”
“You must tell me, Lady—er, Zofia.”
“It’s about Maria Walewska.”
“Maria?”
Zofia nodded. “And you.”
The small eyes widened. “Nonsense! There is no cause for gossip. I am duty-bound to the emperor to watch out for her. He personally directed me to look after her. He calls her his petite Marie. ”
“I know and you’re right—I’m certain there’s nothing to the talk. I’m convinced of your innocence.”
“Thank you.”
“Still—the gossip persists. It’s rather ugly.”
“I hadn’t realized.”
“If word should reach the emperor’s ear— ”
“There is no foundation for such stories!”
“Well, there are the letters, you see.”
“Letters?”
“Yes, the ones you wrote to Maria. I read them quite by mistake, you understand, and Maria lectured me for doing so. But I must tell you that should the emperor see the one or two of them—well, as innocent as they are, they might be taken in a different light by some people.”
Pradt’s eyes narrowed, his face white as his collar. “Ah, I see what you’re up to. You are even more independent than I gave you credit for.”
Zofia smiled. “Some would say dangerous.”
“And you know the emperor?”
“Oh, yes.”
“How well?”
“Very well, Your Eminence.”
“I imagine that you do.” He gave a wicked smile. When Zofia returned it in kind, Pradt turned his attention back to the painting, his face pinched.
A long, silent minute passed.
“You know, Lady Grońska,” he said in a dark drawl, “that I could have you excommunicated.”
“And you should know,” Zofia said, “that—like you—I’m not a very good Catholic.” She heard him draw in a deep breath. Unable to help herself, she followed up on that thread of thought. “And isn’t it so that the pope himself has excommunicated the Emperor of France? It doesn’t seem to have slowed him a jot.”
“Maria has kept the letters?” He turned back to Zofia, all business now. “Look at me, Lady Grońska.”
Zofia pivoted, smiling. “You were to call me Zofia.”
“Never mind that. Has Maria kept the letters?”
“Yes.”
“And to get them back?”
The business mode became infectious. “You are to leave Maria alone. She is an innocent and should not be placed in a compromising position. You know her attachment to the emperor—and his to her.” Zofia paused, then said with soft authority: “No more letters, flirtations, lingering touches, or sitting at your right hand.”
“I see.” The abbé turned and stared blankly at the seascape. He muttered the old proverb “Where the devil can’t manage, he’ll send a woman.” After a while he spoke in a stronger, resigned voice: “We understand each other, Lady Grońska.”
Zofia smiled at the painting, certain he often used it as a way of deciphering friend from sycophant. Well, she was neither. “You know, you’ve done wonders with this palace. I hope you’ll stay in Warsaw a long time.”
Pradt turned back to Zofia. “Ma chère! It seems you can shapeshift from silky ingenue to the meanest shrew and back again in the blink of an eye.”
Zofia chuckled. “Do you know the Pompadour maxim about the hedgehog?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Madame de Pompadour said that the hedgehog gives up its quills only when the wolf loses his tee
th.”
31
Having finished their various duties for the day, Anna, Anusia Potocka, and Maria Walewska were preparing to leave the hospital.
“You won’t disappoint me now, Anna,” Maria said. “You are coming tonight? Pradt’s reception will be much more fun with the two of you there.”
“Only a funeral for the nasty little man would be more fun!” Anusia said, laughing. “We’ll be there, Maria, guarding you on either side. And Anna dares not miss. She had a special invitation from Pradt. What did it say, Anna?”
Anna shrugged. “The archbishop had the temerity to command my presence.”
“Maybe he’s lost interest in Maria,” Anusia said.
“Good God, I hope so!” Maria cried.
“Seriously,” Anna said after they had a little laugh, “it’s a little mystery. But I look forward to any news coming back from the march east.”
“This reception for King Jerome should be more interesting than the others,” Anusia said, a sparkle coming into her eyes. “There are so many stories that preceded his arrival in Warsaw!”
Prior to beginning her toilette for the royal reception, Anna went to visit the ailing Princess Charlotte Sic. She was about to start up the stairs when she came upon Izabel making her descent. Her eyes were red from crying.
“Iza! How good to see you!”
The girl came to the bottom of the stairs and tried to smile.
“She’s very ill, your mother says,” Anna whispered.
Iza nodded, allowing Anna to enfold her in her arms. The girl shook and her tears started afresh. “Oh, I didn’t cry in front of her, Aunt Anna. I didn’t. I waited until I closed the door behind me.”
“Good for you,” Anna said.
After a while, Anna held her at arm’s length. Iza was fifteen now and developing into a young woman. She lacked Zofia’s dark Tatar looks. The startling difference in Iza’s looks had prompted Zofia to occasionally refer to her daughter as a cuckoo or changeling, and Anna had reprimanded her for doing so in the girl’s presence. The child had Zofia’s dark hair but her features, light complexion and eyes could only reflect her father’s traits. Anna had often wondered over the years who the father was, but this was one issue the chatty Zofia would not talk about. It was clear now, though, that for Iza the awkwardness of childhood was falling away and nature was transforming her into a real beauty. It had happened in a matter of months, it seemed, this caterpillar to butterfly miracle.
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