Vania was suddenly so flushed with happiness that Marianne shot her a glance half-envious, half-amused.
'You seem to have a great admiration for the King of Naples?' she said with a smile.
The singer turned and looked her straight in the eyes, then, with a pride that was not without its greatness, she said simply: 'He is my lover. I would go through fire for him.'
'It would be a pity if you did. No man, however brilliant, deserves to have such a woman as you destroy herself for his sake. Live and if your love is returned, enjoy your happiness.'
'Oh, I do believe he loves me! But there are so many women running after him—'
'Beginning with his wife. Are you not afraid of the formidable Caroline?'
'Why should I be? She is all very well, but had her brother not been an emperor she would never have been a queen and no one would have paid very much attention to her at all. She cannot even sing. Besides, even as wives go, she's not the most faithful.'
Evidently this, to the prima donna, was a fatal flaw, and her argument was not without its logic. Marianne preferred to leave Caroline Murat to her own fate, which was a matter of some indifference to her, for she had never held Napoleon's youngest sister in affection. She had known her for too long for a devious and ill-natured woman.
Consequently, she was able to look on indulgently at Vania's meeting with her royal lover. As the King's white horse burst into the square, the Italian sprang forward almost under its hooves and might easily have been trampled but for Murat's presence of mind. He leaned down with a yell of delight and, grasping her round the waist, swept her up into the saddle. Whereupon, regardless of who might be looking on, the King and the singer embraced passionately, spoke briefly and then embraced once more. Then, as easily as he had caught her up, Murat lowered his mistress to the ground.
'Until tomorrow!' he cried. 'Go to the Kremlin and ask for General Durosnel. He will tell you where my headquarters are.'
He was about to ride on when Marianne ran forward.
'Sire!' she called. 'Can you tell me if the Emperor is coming?'
Murat reined in his mount and stared at her with some astonishment. Then he burst out laughing.
'What? Are you here too? Here's a pleasant surprise for the Emperor! I hope he appreciates it as he should!'
'But will I see him, Sire? Is he following you? I have to speak to him.'
'I hope, for his sake, that you'll do no more than speak. He is at a place called Bird Hill at this moment but I don't expect him to enter Moscow tonight. I must take a look at the city before he comes and gives chase to that old fox, Kutusov. Has he much of a start, do you know?'
'He went through yesterday morning, but his army was passing all night, going towards Riazan. There are some stragglers left even now.'
'Good. Forward, gentlemen! It's for us to catch them up. As for you, Madame, do not try to reach the Emperor today. Tomorrow, he will be in the Kremlin, for they will be making his quarters ready for him tonight. Be patient a little longer. He will be delighted to see you.'
Pulling off his magnificent, if ridiculous hat, Murat swept them a low bow and, handling his horse with consummate skill, set off at a gallop along the Moskva, followed by several troops of horse and Vania's eyes, which were shining like twin stars.
'Tomorrow,' she sighed. 'How long it seems! What shall we do until then? I don't suppose you want to go back to St Louis-des-Français?'
'By no means! I mean to try to find my friends. Would you mind if we went over to the governor's palace? It was there we became separated, two days since.'
As they strolled slowly, arm in arm, in the direction of Rostopchin's mansion, the two women were able to watch Napoleon's troops gradually taking possession of Red Square. Not a moment was wasted as the artillery and the foot batteries moved in and established a park. A few shots were fired from the Kremlin ramparts, whereupon guns were trained on the massive Saviour's Gate while a group of officers, accompanied by a platoon of Polish lancers shouting orders in Russian, set about effecting an entry.
'They'll not have much trouble,' Vania remarked. "There's only a rabble inside. They won't make it a regular siege. They couldn't.'
Temporarily losing interest in the matter, she drew her companion off in the direction of the governor's palace, where a few people had gathered to watch the entry of the invaders. A smartly-dressed female, accompanied by a number of much younger ladies attired in a much simpler style, detached herself from them and began hurrying towards a group of horsemen, seen by their plumes to be senior officers of some kind, who were dismounting before the doors of St Basil's cathedral.
'Come, Mesdemoiselles!' she called. 'Do not be afraid. These are our own people. They will surely be able to restore my poor husband whom these savages have taken away!'
'It seems to me that the Russians took more hostages than we thought,' Vania remarked. 'That is Madame Aubert, the celebrated French dressmaker. She has been too careless recently and made no effort to conceal her joy at the news of the war. Rostopchin must have paid her by taking her husband.'
But Marianne was no longer listening. Among the people outside the palace, she had just caught sight of Craig O'Flaherty. He was strolling slowly up and down, with head bent, hands clasped behind his back and a dejected expression, like a man waiting for something but who had almost given up hope.
Uttering a joyful cry, Marianne literally threw herself into his arms, quite forgetting her wound. She was reminded of it brutally enough and her cry of joy ended in a squeak of anguish which O'Flaherty scarcely seemed to notice.
'Here you are at last!' he cried, lifting her at arms' length as if she had been a doll. 'By St Patrick, I was beginning to think that you were gone for good. Where's Beaufort?'
Marianne gave him a rapid account of her adventures since they had last seen one another and presented Vania, who seemed to make a considerable impression on the Irishman. Then, without pausing for breath, she went on: 'Now you know as much as I do. I hope to get news of Jason very soon. But do you know anything of Gracchus and Jolival?'
'Gracchus is scouring the town for you. As to Jolival, he's in there.' He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Rostopchin house behind him. 'After the mob had passed the other day, some of those young fellows practising their swordplay here recognized him for a Frenchman and gave chase. In running from them he had the ill-luck to fall and break his leg.'
'Is he – oh, my God! They did not kill him?'
'No. I managed to disarm one of them and get his weapon and so brought our friend off safe enough. Sure, he was a trifle under the weather but the luck was ours in that we fell in with a medical man, another Frenchman and the governor's personal physician, which gave him the more reason for making himself scarce, for fear of what might be coming to him from that quarter. He saw Jolival fall and by the mercy of God his Hippocratic oath proved stronger than his fears. He came to our assistance and we carried the poor fellow into the palace stables where he had been hiding. The horses had all gone by that time. Then, when Rostopchin and his people departed some hours later, we were able to move quietly into the house itself.' He laughed. 'At this very moment our dear Vicomte is probably lolling in the governor's own bed. Come in and see him. The sight of you will be the best medicine he can possibly have.'
They found Arcadius ensconced like a king in a vast wing armchair full of cushions, set in the window of a large, luxuriously appointed bedchamber, with his splinted leg propped up before him on a stool, supported by a pillow. There was gilding everywhere but the fact that the decorations consisted almost exclusively of battle scenes and military trophies, together with a complete absence of carpets, combined to make the place about as cosy as a throne room.