'Santa Madona! Think for a moment,' Vania broke in. 'The Naryshkin Palace is on the other side of the city, and this poor child could never walk so far! I have a better idea. The priest of St Louis-des-Français—'
'The Abbé Surugue?' Lekain spoke with evident distaste. 'What a notion!'
'Why not? He is a Frenchman and a man of God. He will take us in. I know him. He is generosity itself.'
'Maybe, but he is still a priest and I do not care for priests. Relations between the Church and the stage may not be as bad as they were in Molière's time, but they are not so good even now. I'm not going.'
"Nor I,' said Madame Bursay. 'I don't know whether—'
'Well I am,' Vania interrupted her, slipping an arm round Marianne's waist. 'You go where you like. You'll know where to find me. Besides, you may be right. Not to distrust the Abbé Surugue, but to spare him an invasion. He may be overwhelmed with refugees already.'
'But I don't want to be the cause of separating you,' Marianne exclaimed miserably. 'Take me to this priest's house and then go with your friends. It's stupid to break up your party for the sake of a stranger.'
"You're not a stranger. You're a singer like myself. And what is more you are a princess of Tuscany and I am a Tuscan myself. So let us have no more words but be on our way. God keep you all until we meet again.'
"We may as well go with you as far as St Louis,' Madame Bursay said. We can go on from there. It's not far and we can take shelter in the church until the rain stops.'
This being agreed upon, they made their way through the empty streets as far as the chapel which had been dignified with the name of St Louis-des-Français, in imitation of that in Rome. It stood on the outskirts of Kitaigorod and adjoining it was a house of modest size, built of wood like nearly all those in the neighbourhood, but with a small garden bounded by a brick wall on its leftward side. The front door was up two steps and above it, well protected from the weather, a thick glass lantern illumined a small Roman cross carved in the stone. This was the presbytery.
With Lekain's help, Vania got Marianne up the two steps and, lifting the brass knocker, rained a series of loud bangs upon the door. The others, meanwhile, had discovered that the church door was locked and drifted off.
The door was opened by a little man dressed in black like a sacristan, with a skull cap over his grey hair. He carried a candle.
'You must be the verger,' Vania said in French, with her colourful Italian accent. 'This lady is hurt and we came to ask the Abbé Surugue if she and I might—'
The sight of a woman clad in a soaking wet petticoat did not appear to cause the verger of St Louis any particular surprise. He held the door open wide.
'Come in quickly, Madame,' was all he said. 'I will inform Monsieur the Cure.'
Marianne's head had drooped, exhausted, on to her companion's shoulder but at the sound of that voice she lifted it at once and their eyes met, not without amazement on both sides. For the verger of St Louis was Gauthier de Chazay.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Fire
The glance held for no more than an instant. Marianne's mouth opened. She was on the point of saying something, making some exclamation, but the strange verger had turned away quickly, murmuring something about fetching the Abbé, and vanished with his candle, leaving the two women in almost total darkness in a narrow entrance hall smelling of incense and yesterday's cabbage soup.
Marianne pulled herself together. Her godfather, she realized, did not want to be recognized, either because of Vania's presence there or for some other reason. There was never any shortage of mysterious reasons where he was concerned, as befitted the head of a religious order which, although underground, was none the less powerful for that. Clearly, he was here incognito, perhaps in hiding – but from whom? Or what?
Exhausted as she was, Marianne's persistent, insatiable curiosity was wide awake now and, in some curious way, seemed to revive her. What object could a cardinal of the Roman Church, and General of the Jesuits no less, which was to say the most powerful man in the Church after the pope, and possibly even before him, since Napoleon had been holding him a prisoner, what object could such a man possibly have for disguising himself in the modest garb of a verger of a parish church?
It was true that, ever since she had known him, Gauthier de Chazay had always shown a superb disregard for splendid attire. It was clad in a simple suit of black that his goddaughter would always remember him. The magnificent red robe which he had worn that epoch-making day at the Tuileries had struck her as some fantastic disguise. But on this occasion, the black garments were not simply modest but not even very clean.
'God forgive me,' Marianne thought, 'but I don't believe my godfather has shaved for days! He looks like a real moujik!'
She had no opportunity to verify this because it was not he who came back to them but a middle-aged priest wearing a soutane whose kindly face was surmounted by a few grey locks of hair shielding a balding crown. He flung up his arms to heaven at the sight of the two women sitting in their wet clothes on the bench in his hall.
'My poor children!' he cried, and the touch of the south in his voice brought a hint of sunshine into the dank passage. 'Have you, too, come to seek refuge here? But my house is full. Half the French residents of Moscow are here already. Where can I put you?'
'We don't need much room, padre,' Vania pleaded. 'Just a tiny corner in the church, perhaps?'
'It is packed to bursting. I was forced to shut the door into the street to keep more people from entering. One more and they will suffocate!'
'Here, then. If it were for myself alone, I should do very well on this bench, but my friend is hurt and exhausted… Only a simple mattress…'
The priest spread out his hands despairingly.
'I should not have said what I have if I had a mattress to offer you. But I have just given that belonging to Guillaume, my sacristan, to Madame Aubert's chief vendeuse, who is expecting a baby, and my own—'
'I understand. That was gone long ago,' Marianne said, trying to smile. 'If you had only a little straw we might lie down on, that would be more than enough. We belong to the stage and do not look for comfort—'
'To be sure! At all events I cannot turn you from my door on such a night – and in such a storm. Come with me.'
They followed him along the passage. From behind the closed doors on either side came a variety of sounds, whisperings, muttered prayers and snores, all telling how the priest's house was fulfilling its role of sanctuary that night. At the very far end the priest opened a small door beside the kitchen.
'There is a cupboard here where we keep tools and things. But I will fetch you some straw and I think there may be just room for the two of you to lie down. Then I'll bring you some means to dry yourselves and a warm drink.'
In a few minutes, Vania and Marianne found themselves installed in comparative luxury among the brooms and buckets and garden tools, with a truss of straw spread on the floor, a towel to dry themselves, tablecloths to wrap round them while they hung their wet clothes over the heads of the rakes to dry, and a steaming jug of hot spiced wine which they drank with infinite enjoyment by candlelight after their host had bidden them good night.
Before putting out the light, Vania made a careful examination of Marianne's bandaged shoulder. It was very wet but the thick layer of ointment she had spread on the wound had protected it from the rain. A strip torn from the towel made a fresh bandage. Then the singer laid her hand on her patient's brow.
'You will heal fast,' she said, with satisfaction. 'You have no sign of fever, even after all you have been through. Santa Madona, you must have a wonderfully sound constitution!'