Of course, if one were honest, Napoleon was right. Marianne acknowledged that he had been both kind and clearsighted. She even admitted that in his place she might have said the same. More than that, she was prepared to concede that Jason's behaviour, in contrast, had been less than gentlemanly. But all the time her brain was trying to think sensibly, her heart was shouting aloud rebelliously that it had the right to beat as it listed and to follow blindly after the flight of a self-centred sea bird called Jason Beaufort.
But now the heart's stubborn cries seemed to be growing more vehement, as if, deep in Marianne's being, another voice was beginning, timidly, to make itself heard. It was the voice that had uttered its first murmur as she looked at the portrait of the little fair-haired boy. Suddenly, superimposed upon the face of the baby king, Marianne had seemed to see another, darker child, and she had felt again the weight of a small, silky head against her breast and the soft grip of a tiny hand curled briefly round her finger. Sebastiano! For the first time since the dreadful night when he had been taken from her, Marianne found herself able to say his name. Where was he now, while his mother was struggling to find herself? To what secret place had Prince Corrado spirited him away?
Marianne shook herself fiercely, as though to shake off a cloud of wasps that buzzed about her, and fell to castigating herself.
'Just you stop romanticizing, my girl,' she told herself, aloud. 'At this moment your son is not hidden away in any secret place. He is fast asleep, like a fairy princeling, in a palace in Tuscany set in the middle of a great garden, guarded by snow-white peacocks. He is very well and quite safe there. He is king of a wonderful world and very soon he will be running and playing—'
Her voice choked and was drowned in a sudden flood of tears, and then Marianne was crying into the musty pillow as if her heart would break. Carried along on the tide of events and sustained by the emotional demands of the endless journey, divided between fatiguing days and passionate nights, she had managed hitherto to keep the memory of her son at a distance. But now the Emperor's dire warning had ripped away the flimsy barriers she had so painfully erected and left her cruelly exposed to the real meaning of her voluntary renunciation. The truth was that the baby was going to begin his life without her, that she would not be there when he learned to laugh and to talk and that the word 'mother' would mean nothing to his baby ears. In a little while he would be discovering the use of his little legs but the hands that reached out tenderly to catch him would be Dona Lavinia's – or those of the man who, though he was none of his, had yet pledged himself to give him all his love, and even to love him for two.
The agony was coming to the surface now, overcoming the temptation to run away, and in her misery Marianne could not have said which torment was the greater at that moment: the thought of the lover going ever farther away from her or that of the child whose love she would never know.
She might easily have allowed herself to sink into one of the familiar troughs of despair which had so often caused her sleepless nights but for a sudden conviction that all was not well which roused her from her own unhappiness. She opened her eyes and sat up, and for a moment wondered vaguely at the light that filled her room.
Jumping out of bed, she ran to the window and uttered a startled cry. The unwonted brightness, lighting the place like daylight, was the city of Moscow burning. Two huge fires, out of all proportion to what had been seen so far, had broken out to the west and south and, driven by the wind, were spreading rapidly, eating up the wooden houses like so much chaff.
At that moment, her godfather's warning came back to her. How could she have forgotten it? Marianne dressed quickly, slipped on her shoes and hurried from the room. The darkness and silence of the palace were oppressive. A single lamp burned on the landing and all was quiet and peaceful, except for the loud, regular snoring from the door next to her own which told that Jovial was sleeping soundly. The city was burning but no one seemed aware of it.
Determined to raise the alarm, Marianne flung herself down the stairs and along the great gallery where sentries stood on guard. She ran towards the door of the imperial suite and had almost reached it when she saw Caulaincourt also, it seemed, making for the Emperor.
'Thank God you are here, Duke! I was beginning to fear that no one in the palace was awake. The city is burning and—'
'I know, Princess. I have seen it. My man woke me five minutes since.'
'We must warn the Emperor!'
'There is no hurry. The fire looks serious but it is not threatening the Kremlin. I have sent my servant to rouse the Grand Marshal. We will consult with him what is best to be done.'
The Grand Ecuyer's calmness was reassuring. Marianne had met him for the first time the previous evening, for at the time when she had been much in the Emperor's company Caulaincourt had been ambassador to Russia, where he had remained until 1811. But she had felt an instant liking for the courteous, intelligent aristocrat who, with his intellectual good looks and perfect manners, was somewhat different from the usual run of the Emperor's associates. Moreover she was sorry for his grief over the death of his brother, killed at Borodino, and respected the courage which prevented him from showing it.
With a sigh of resignation, she sank down on a seat covered in Genoa velvet and raised to his a face so tragic that he was forced to smile.
"You are very pale, Madame, and I know that you are barely recovered from a recent injury. You should go back to bed.'
She shook her head. The great wall of fire that she had glimpsed from her window was still before her eyes and her throat felt stiff with terror.
'I can't. Oh, warn the Emperor, I implore you! The whole city is going to burn, I know it is. I am quite certain – I have been told so.'
'Who could have told you such a thing, Marianne, my dear?' Duroc's voice spoke sleepily behind her. He had evidently been dragged ruthlessly out of his first sleep.
'A priest – a priest I met the day before yesterday at St Louis-des-Français when I sought refuge there. He warned me – he warned all of us there, to fly and leave the city! It is doomed! Rostopchin threw open all the prisons and let out the dregs of the city. They have been given drink and money to set Moscow on fire!'
'But this is absurd!' Caulaincourt broke in. 'I know the Russians—'
'You know the diplomats, Duke. You know men like yourself. You do not know the Russian people. They have been leaving for days past, abandoning the city, their holy city. And the Governor has sworn that Moscow will not remain in your hands, and that he will use any means to prevent it.'
The eyes of the two officials met over Marianne's head.
'Why did you not tell us this before?' the Grand Marshal asked at last.
She shrugged. 'I tried to. I tried to warn the Emperor but he would not listen. You know how he is. But now we must save him. I swear to you that he is in danger. Wake him! Wake him, or I will do so myself!'
She rose and was already making for the closed door when Caulaincourt caught her arm.
'Calm yourself, Princess, I beg of you. Things have not reached such a pass yet. The Emperor is exhausted. For three nights he has not slept and the days have been hard. Let him rest a little longer, and you try to do the same. Listen, this is what we will do. You, Duroc, send to the Governor for news and have the Guard stood to arms. I am going to obtain a horse and ride out to see how matters stand, get together such help as I can. Something must certainly be done without delay. Ail available troops shall be mobilized to fight the fire.'
'Very well. Only don't ask me to go back to bed, for I could not. I could never sleep.'