The Count looked suddenly serious. ‘Forgotten your station? Yes, I understand you very well, mademoiselle, better than you understand me! The English speak of loving their children, but they place them in the care of people they despise. In Russia it is not so. In Russia, a governess is treated with honour, for she is someone whom we regard as most fit to care for and instruct those dearest to our hearts. We love our children, and entrust them only to those we admire and respect.’
Anne was too confused to reply. She lowered her eyes, and managed only to mutter, ‘Sir, I beg you will not–’
The Count spoke again, in a cheerful, matter- of-fact way. ‘But tell me, Miss Peters, what do you think of the First Consul? An able man, there is no doubt, but what is your observation?’
Anne recovered herself with an effort. ‘He smiles with his mouth, but not with his eyes,’ she said. ‘I think I would find him rather frightening, if ever I should come close to him.’
The Count nodded. ‘You show more discernment than the British Ambassador,’ he said, dropping without appearing to notice it into French, which evidently came more naturally to him. ‘Lord Whitworth thinks him vulgar, ambitious, and unscrupulous. He hates him, but does not fear him, and that is a man I think it will never do to underestimate.’
‘I’m sure you are right. But do you not think the Consul ambitious?’ Anne replied in the same language. ‘It seems to me he wishes to rule all of Europe.’
‘For its own good,’ the Count said with a faint smile. ‘To free all nations from the tyranny of monarchy.’
‘And unite them under the rule of one man, and that man himself,’ Anne concluded gravely. ‘Pardon me, I am mistaken. Of course he is not ambitious.’
‘And what will be the end of it? You think we shall have war again? Well, I agree with you. This peace was never made of very strong cloth, and now it wears thin.’
‘And what then, sir?’ Anne could not help an edge of anxiety creeping into her voice. ‘Who will win? Voltaire says that God is always on the side of the big battalions.’
‘Then God will have a hard task in choosing. The battalions will be big on both sides. If war comes, it will be bad, very bad.’ The word was unemphatic, but the expression on the Count’s face was chilling. ‘There are no victors in war. Everyone suffers, and afterwards, no one can ever remember what it was all about.’
‘Do you think it will come soon?’ Anne asked quietly.
He met her eyes. ‘Yes, soon. The tension grows daily. Myself, I believe that Bonaparte would rather delay matters, but he will make no concessions unless your country evacuates Malta. He has said too often and too publicly that he will have the Treaty, and nothing but the Treaty.’
‘I cannot believe the Government will give up Malta,’ Anne said. ‘From what I have heard my father say, it is as important a naval base as Gibraltar. They will think even war is better than losing Malta.’
‘Between ourselves, mademoiselle, Malta is nothing more than an excuse. Your Lord Whitworth is sent new instructions almost daily, to make ever more stringent demands. If it seems that one set will be met, then there comes another. Someone in England wants war, and is determined to have it.’
‘Oh no, I can’t believe it,’ Anne said. But the Peace had never been popular in England, coming as it did, not after a great victory, but as the result of a stalemate; and there were a great many powerful men whose business would benefit by the resumption of war.
The Count, a slight smile on his lips, seemed to be watching these thoughts pass through her head as though she were quite transparent. Provoked, she asked, ‘But, pray, how do you know about Lord Whitworth’s instructions, sir?’
His eyes shone with amusement. ‘We Russians know everything. We have a special arrangement with God for being right. And now, mademoiselle, since we have determined world history between us, and this is, after all, a ballroom, perhaps we should turn to more important things. Will you do me the honour of dancing with me when the ball resumes?’
Again Anne realised how far she had forgotten herself. She looked up at him, shocked. ‘Oh no, sir, you must not ask me! It is quite, quite impossible!’
He smiled easily. ‘Indeed. Am I so very repulsive to you, mademoiselle?’
Her cheeks burned with confusion and distress. ‘Sir, you don’t understand. It is bad enough that I should converse with you, but as to dancing with you – why, even your asking me, if it were known, would bring severe reproof upon me! It would be thought most improper. No, no, you must not! I am a governess. It will not do.’
‘You are mistaken, mademoiselle,’ the Count said cheerfully. ‘I am an old acquaintance of your father, and as such may quite properly ask you to dance. But I see Sir Ralph Murray has just come in by the far door. Lest you should be embarrassed, I shall go and explain the matter to him and ask his permission to ask you.’
‘Oh no, sir, please do not! He would very much dislike it. And Lady Murray would be so angry.’
‘I have observed Lady Murray closely, and if I know anything about humanity, she will only be flattered. How could any grande dame object to being reminded that her governess is so well-connected?’ His voice was all sweet reason, but Anne was sure that there was a light of mischief in his eyes as he bowed to her and, without allowing her more argument, walked away.
Sick with apprehension, Anne watched him approach Sir Ralph, bow, and speak to him. She saw her employer’s expression change from one of polite interest to astonishment, saw the immediate shake of the head as the Count made his request, followed by a growing bewilderment as the explanation expanded. It was, of course, impossible for Sir Ralph to refuse, and that alone would have secured his displeasure. He summoned Anne with a crook of the finger, and astonishment and disapproval were equally in evidence as he relayed the substance of the Count’s words. It was clear that he was not in the least flattered that this eminent man wished to dance, not with one of his daughters, but with his daughters’ chaperone; and only a lifetime in diplomacy prevented him from betraying stark disbelief that the Russian had ever been acquainted with her father.
At the beginning of the ball, Anne had sighed because she could not dance; now, as Count Kirov led her scarlet-faced into the set, and she felt the disapproving eyes of every English matron upon her, she would have been grateful to have resumed her former obscurity. In spite of the prospect of half an hour’s free converse with him, she would have been glad just then to find herself back in her room in Margaret Street, with a cold in the head and a heap of stockings to dam.
The ball ended with fireworks, soup and pasties, and since Hartley Murray had not arrived at the ball at all, and Sir Ralph had gone off with Lord Whitworth to the embassy to work, it was left to Anne to escort the young ladies home. As they waited in the foyer for the carriage, Anne thought she intercepted some pointed and hostile looks, and felt sure she was being talked about. The atmosphere seemed to her so electric that she was surprised that the Miss Murrays did not notice it; but they chattered happily about the ball, their partners, their flirts and the toilettes of every other woman they could put a name to, with complete unconcern. Astonishing though it seemed, it was evident that they had neither seen Anne dancing, nor had heard of it from anyone else.
On the short journey to the rue St Augustine, Anne sat with her eyes cast down and reflected upon the evening and the probable consequences. How could she have been so foolish as to talk to the Count so freely? It was from that that all her troubles had arisen. True, their meeting at the ball was the purest accident, but he would not have asked her to dance but for their previous conversation on the Îie de la Cité. That was when she should have discouraged him by being properly formal.