'Let be. I want to hear what he has to say for himself. And I must ask you not to interfere. This is a matter between gentlemen. Now, Monsieur,' he went on, turning to Chernychev. 'I am still waiting. Are you going to admit that you lied?'
The Count gave a shrug. 'If I were not afraid of shocking your sensibilities and exhibiting the worst of bad taste, I would have my men strip her clothes off here and now and you would then see that she bears a small scar on her side – my crest imprinted on her flesh after a night of love.'
'A night of love?' Marianne cried, beside herself. "You dare to call it a night of love? The barbarous way you treated me? He got into my bedchamber, Jason, by breaking the window. He knocked me half-unconscious and tied me to my bed with the cords from the curtains and then raped me! Do you hear? He raped me as if he were putting a city to the sack! And as if that were not enough, he wanted to leave some permanent mark upon me and so – and so he – he heated up the seal ring that he wears and pressed it, red hot, into my flesh. That is what he calls a night of love!'
With a cry of wrath, Jason sprang at the Russian with clenched fists raised to strike but Chernychev sidestepped quickly and, drawing his sword, pressed its point against his attacker's chest.
'Not so fast…! I may have been a trifle hasty that night and I acknowledge that "night of love" was a slight exaggeration – at least where I was concerned. It would have been better applied to the man who came after me – the one with whom I fought a duel, my charmer, in your garden…'
Marianne shut her eyes. She felt sick with anger and despair. She seemed to be caught in a web of half-truths more damaging than any insults. Jason's face had taken on a grey tinge. Even his eyes, strangely emptied of expression, seemed to have lost their colour and become as grey as steel.
'Chernychev,' she murmured faintly, 'you are a villain!'
'I don't see why. You can scarcely accuse me of lying, my sweet. Unhappily I'd not have very far to go to call the man himself to be my witness. He can't be more than a day's march away at this moment. He is with Marshal Victor's corps which is pursuing Wittgenstein. But with your permission, we will finish this interesting conversation at another time. My men are blocking the way for those coming up behind. I'll order up mounts for you and—'
'Indeed you will not,' Jason interrupted him with ominous coolness. 'I am not going one step in your company, nor have I any reason to do so.'
The Russian half-closed his eyes so that they gleamed like bright green slits. Still smiling, he slowly lowered his sword.
'You think not? I can think of an excellent reason, and that is that you have no choice! Either you come with me and we settle our differences when we make camp tonight, or I have you shot as a spy. Because I am sure there are other reasons for your presence here than simply to bring my fair conquest to me. As to the lady herself, I have only to say the word – tell this crowd of people here precisely who she is – and she would be torn to pieces in five minutes. So choose – but choose fast.'
'Then say the word!' Marianne cried. 'Say it and be done, for no power on earth will induce me to go with you. You are the most despicable person of my acquaintance. Make them kill me! I hate you—'
'Be quiet!' Jason ordered her roughly. 'I've already told you this is a matter between men. And you, sir, I'll have you know that I propose a third course. We will fight here and now. You seem very ready to forget that you left Paris within a few hours of calling me out and that I have every right to call you a coward.'
'When the Tsar commands, I obey. I am a soldier first and foremost. I was obliged to leave, much to my regret, but I repeat, sir, you shall have your satisfaction tonight.'
'No, I will have it now. Damnation, Count Chernychev, it's no easy task to get you to fight. But perhaps this will do it.' And with that Jason struck the Russian two swift, glancing blows across the face. Chernychev went very pale.
'Now,' Jason asked, almost pleasantly, 'will you fight?'
The Count's face was waxen white against the dark green of his uniform. His nostrils were pinched and he seemed to have difficulty with his breathing. He looked as if he were about to be sick.
'Yes,' he hissed at last through clenched teeth. 'Give me time to get my troop on its way and then we'll fight!'
In another moment the road was cleared and the cossacks had ridden off, with thunderous cries of encouragement, leaving only a dozen of their number and a youthful, beardless captain remaining. Chernychev turned to take his leave of the priest with whom he had been talking when Marianne bumped into him but he had already gone inside, shocked either by the violent turn events seemed to be taking or by his fellow-countryman's behaviour towards the unknown woman, and the monastery doors had closed silently behind him. The Count shrugged with an air of annoyance and muttered something under his breath. Then he turned back to his adversary.
'Come,' he said. 'At the end of that side street you see there is a small square in between the monastery wall and the gardens of two large private houses. It is very quiet and will serve our purpose admirably. Prince Aksakov will see to the lady.' The youthful captain thus indicated lapsed momentarily from the military rigidity of his stance and hurriedly offered his arm to the half-fainting Marianne.
'If you please, Madame,' he said in fluent, virtually accentless French, bowing with unexpected grace. This drew a bark of laughter from Chernychev.
'You may address the lady as Serene Highness, my dear Boris,' he said sardonically. 'It is no less than her due.' Then, indicating Shankala who was still standing silently by. 'And who is this? She appears to belong to you also.'
'The Princess's maid,' Jason put in quickly, before Marianne had time to find her voice.
'She looks more like a gipsy than a respectable servant but then your tastes were always a trifle bizarre, Marianne my dear. Well then, I think we may make a move.'
They set off, the two parties to the projected duel leading, followed by Marianne leaning heavily on the young officer's arm and cudgelling her brains desperately for some way of stopping this duel which could only end in tragedy. For if Jason did manage to save his own life running the Russian through, who could say what the cossacks would do to them in their rage at the loss of their leader? At the moment they were pressing close on all sides and indeed serving a useful purpose in keeping back the press of armed men which had once more overtaken them.
But in another second or two they had reached the shady square and found it as silent and deserted as if it had been the middle of the night. With its blind walls and closely shuttered windows it was like something from a dead world and at its entrance the clamour of the near-by street fell oddly silent. The long, leafy branches of a gigantic sycamore, dark green on one side, soft and silvery beneath, stretched over the gilded railings of a garden wall and the ground below them was quite flat.
'This seems a good enough place,' Jason observed. 'I trust that your – er – kindness will extend to the loan of a weapon?'
But the captain was already freeing his sword from its silken knot and tossing it over to him. Jason caught it and drew it from the sheath and, after testing the blade against his thumb, tried a few passes with it. The sun glittered on the flashing steel.
Chernychev, meanwhile, had thrown off his cloak and unbuttoned his jacket, which he threw to one of his men. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he ripped off his shirt of fine lawn. Jason smiled grimly and did the same with his blouse.
Stripped to the waist, the two men looked about equally matched for strength but they might indeed have belonged to two different races so great was the contrast between the white skin of the one and the reddish hair on his chest, with the body of the other, deeply tanned by long exposure to the sea air. Without so much as a glance at the woman for whose sake they were about to fight, the pair took up their stations facing one another underneath the sycamore where the shadow was thickest and where the sun was least likely to bother them.