There was nothing for it but to obey. Marianne swept a low curtsy and then followed the valet who, with the confidence of a man long used to finding his way about the most extensive palaces, led her by way of two corridors and a small staircase to a comfortable room with windows almost directly above the Emperor's, only rather more dusty.
'We'll see what we can do by way of chambermaids tomorrow,' he told her with a reassuring smile. 'For tonight, if your Highness would kindly make allowances…'
Left to herself, Marianne did her best to calm her agitated spirits and to shake off the misery that oppressed her. She felt lost and abandoned, in spite of the undoubted concern Napoleon had shown for her, and that at a time when he must have had other things to do than trouble himself with a woman's private emotions. What was it he had said? That perhaps he still loved her? No, that must be impossible. He had said it only to comfort her. The one he loved was his little blonde Austrian. Besides, what did it matter now? What was more serious, and more disturbing also, was that bold, categorical declaration of his. With what remorseless logic he had demonstrated that she was not a woman dedicated to a single love, that she might be susceptible to the attractions of other men besides Jason. How could he fail to see that that was false, that she loved him, had never loved anyone else but him, not even after Corfu when—
She clasped her hands together tightly and a shiver ran down her spine. Corfu! Why had that name come to her mind just then? Was it because, unconsciously, something in her mind was trying to prove the Emperor right? Corfu – the cave – and the fisherman, that mysterious lover whom she had never seen but in whose arms she had experienced total fulfilment, an intoxication such as no other man had ever given her, not even Jason. That night she had behaved like a wanton, and yet she had not regretted it, not once. Far from it. The memory of that invisible lover, whom she privately thought of as Zeus, remained to charm and trouble her.
'I must be mad!' she exclaimed wildly, clutching her head in her hands as though she would tear out such sacrilegious thoughts. But that she could not do. Everything Napoleon had said went on going round and round in her head, driving agonizing furrows through her brain and raising a thousand questions which she knew she could not answer, yet which resolved themselves at last into one single question: could she really know herself so little?
Confronted with the most difficult problem she had ever had to face, Marianne lost all consciousness of time. Hours must have passed while she sat deep in thought, for the sun was long past its zenith when there was a tap at the door and Constant reappeared. Finding her still seated bolt upright on a low, straight-backed chair, he exclaimed: 'There, I don't believe your Highness has rested at all, and you looked so tired…'
Marianne tried to smile at him and, failing, drew an ice-cold hand across her brow.
'Yes, I am tired. What time is it?'
'Gone six o'clock, Madame. And the Emperor is asking for you.'
'Good God! And I've not even combed my hair—'
'That is of no account. His Majesty has something he wishes you to see – something very serious.'
Her heart missed a beat.
'Serious? My friends—'
'Have arrived – quite safely, never fear. But come quickly.'
This time he took her to a kind of antechamber where an extraordinary scene met her eyes. A number of men were grouped about a stretcher on which lay a figure draped in red. The Emperor was standing beside the stretcher and next to him was a distinguished-looking man whom Marianne had never seen before. Reclining on a bench a little way off, enveloped in a dressing-gown several sizes too big for him, was Jolival, a pale-faced Gracchus at his side.
Marianne felt a wave of relief at the sight of them.
'Thank God, you are here—' she was beginning, when Napoleon beckoned her to him.
'They tell me you know this woman. That it was she who tried to kill you. Is this true?'
Marianne's eyes widened. The figure wrapped in red cloth was Shankala, but a Shankala so changed that Marianne could not help feeling a rush of pity. The gipsy's face was very white and there was a trickle of blood at one corner of her mouth. She seemed to have great difficulty in breathing.
'Her chest is crushed,' the Emperor said. 'She will not last an hour, and well for her. It will spare her a hanging. Do you want to hear what she had to say?'
Marianne stared in stunned amazement from Napoleon's stem face to the waxen features of the dying girl.
'Yes, of course… But how does she come to be here?'
Gracchus spoke up timidly from his corner.
'It was Monsieur Craig who found her when he was coming back with a carriage, along by the Yaouza, just as the fire was taking hold. She was still living, so he brought her with him in the hope of learning something about Monsieur Beaufort. He arrived just as the major and I came to fetch them and Monsieur le Vicomte said that we should bring her to you because – because it seemed to be important.'
Understanding came to Marianne and she uttered a strangled cry and clapped her hand to her mouth.
'Jason! Oh, my God! They've killed him—'
'Unfortunately not,' Napoleon said irritably. 'He is alive. Now stop tormenting yourself about him and listen to what they have to tell you. This is my interpreter, Baron d'Ideville. He managed to speak with the woman and make out rather more than this young man here was able to catch. Well, Baron.'
'No, Sire!' Jolival spoke up on a note of entreaty. 'I beg you will let me tell her. It will be less painful. I am most grateful to the baron for his help, but we are strangers to him.'
Baron d'Ideville bowed, indicating that he perfectly understood, and moved away a little. Napoleon went with him and took his arm.
Marianne turned to her old friend.
Well, Jolival? What is it you have to tell me that is so terrible?'
'Oh, nothing tragic after all,' he said, with a little shrug. 'It is not so very terrible – except for you, alas!'
'Explain, please! What is this all about? They said that Jason has not been shot?'
"No. He is in perfect health and at this moment is no doubt travelling serenely on his way to Petersburg. The cossacks took him to Kutuzov's camp outside Moscow and there he was brought before an officer of the staff – a Colonel Krilov.'
'Krilov? But that was the name of the friends he was trying to reach!'
'He was undoubtedly a member of that family. Shankala could not tell us very much about him but she remembered the name and she saw Jason come out arm in arm with a Russian officer. The two seemed on the best of good terms. At that, thinking the danger was past, the gipsy went to Jason. He would have driven her away at first but then he changed his mind and called her back and had this Krilov question her. He asked where you were and why you were not with her.'
'What did she say?'
'That she did not know. That she had lost sight of you. That you had vanished round the corner of the street.'
'And he believed her?' Marianne cried, stunned.
'So it seems. He asked no more questions. He simply shrugged and went off with his new friend, after telling Shankala that he had had enough of her, or words to that effect. But she's a stubborn creature. She stayed in the camp, which was not difficult because there were other women with the army. No one took any notice of her and she was able to learn a little more because the affair naturally caused something of a stir in the camp – an American dressed as a moujik dropping, as it were, out of the blue. Well, she discovered that Colonel Krilov had obtained permission to escort him to St Petersburg himself to introduce him to his family and she hoped to be able to follow them. But when Kutuzov resumed his march, he got rid of all the women and sent them back to the city. Shankala was caught up in the crowd and obliged to return here, willy nilly. There, that's the sum of it.'