'A doctor would be no bad thing either,' Bonnaire remarked. 'We could all three do with one.'
'My dear fellow, we must make do with what we have. Trying to find a doctor and medicines in our present situation would be like looking for poppies in a snowfield in midwinter. But good God!' he broke out, aiming some perfectly useless but very satisfying kicks at the carriage wheels. 'Why in heaven's name did I ever come to this cursed country! If the devil were to appear to me now and offer to transport me to Italy, to Milan, say, or those exquisite lakes, in exchange for my soul, I'd not simply accept, I'd feel as if I were robbing the poor chap. François!' he yelled at the top of his voice. 'François! Take that child and carry him to the house there and see if anyone claims him. And see if you can't dig up a bed somewhere while you're about it.'
Leaving Bonnaire to take care of Marianne, he set out himself on a tour of exploration, riding one of the horses taken from the carriage. François was the first to return and he was alone. He had found the child's mother without much difficulty. She was the wife of a French confectioner and had been hunting for her little boy all night after losing him in the stampede out of the city. But there was not an empty bed to be had for miles around. All he was able to bring back was some food, biscuits, dried fruit, cheese and smoked ham, given him by the grateful mother.
Beyle was away a long time and in the meanwhile Bonnaire and the driver, François, did what they could for Marianne. François found a spring and brought some water and the fat man did his best to make her swallow a little food, but with no great success. She was shivering violently and muttering incoherent phrases through chattering teeth, echoes of the nightmare phantasms that haunted her mind which threw poor Bonnaire into a dreadful state of agitation. Hearing her rave of the Emperor and a host of other things; conspiracy, Kuskovo, a cardinal, a masked prince, a man called Jason, the Duc de Richelieu, the King of Sweden and the war in America, the poor man began to wonder whether Beyle had not taken up with a notorious female spy. Consequently it was with profound relief that he greeted his superior's return.
'You can't think how glad I am to see you back. What's the position?'
The younger man shrugged eloquently and sighed. Then he turned to his driver.
'Did you find anything, François?'
'Not a thing, Sir, except for the child's mother. All the places round about the big house are full right up and so jam-packed that an invalid would get no peace at all. Here, at least it's quiet.'
'You've windmills in your head, my friend,' Bonnaire protested. The lady is burning hot. I'm sure her fever is worse than it was. We can't possibly stay here – though as to knowing where we can go—'
'Oh, as to that, there's no difficulty,' Beyle said calmly. We'll go back to Moscow.'
A chorus of protest greeted this apparently nonsensical suggestion, so he went on to explain. It was true, he said, that the town had been two-thirds destroyed but the fire had ceased to spread. In fact it was beginning to die out. The troops left behind by Napoleon had worked miracles in their fight against the conflagration and Beyle had been able to pick his way fairly easily through the smoking ruins until he came to the French quarter. At St Louis, he had found the Abbé Surugue, as cool as ever, saying mass before a large congregation, urging them to keep calm and blessing them energetically.
'The yard behind the church is full of refugees,' Beyle went on, 'but for the most part that district is undamaged. The engineers even managed to save the Marshals' Bridge. And now the wind has changed yet again and is driving the fire away from that part. What's more, if we go back to the city we may be able to obtain some medical help. The main Hospital is still standing and I ran into that remarkable fellow Baron Larrey. Neither he nor his assistants have left Moscow since the fires began. It's true he's a good deal to keep him busy.'
'Many people burned?'
'More broken bones. You'd never think how many have thrown themselves out of windows for fear of the flames. You—' He turned to his servants. 'Do your best to load the carriage without disturbing the lady more than you can help and let's be off.'
It did not take long. They left behind some of what they had brought with them, on Beyle's assurance that there was enough food in the city to feed an army for a considerable time. Bonnaire continued to object that they ought to have some idea of where they were going to lodge but on Beyle's retorting peremptorily that the Abbé Surugue would have made arrangements for them he subsided and accompanied them willingly enough, beginning to indulge himself with the idea of a hospital bed.
Thanks to the abbé's ability to point out those houses from which the owners had departed well before the start of the fire, they found themselves a house in the neighbourhood of the old Lubianka prison. Though small, it was comfortable enough, being the property of an Italian dancing master belonging to the household of Prince Galitzine, who had gone with his master into the country, and owing to its modest appearance it had so far escaped pillage.
It was not, however, entirely unoccupied. As he stepped inside, Beyle tripped over the figure of a youngish middle-aged woman lying in a puddle of wine on the hall floor and snoring like a grampus. She was dressed in a court dress of peacock blue satin with a cloth of gold turban on her head and she was quite evidently drunk. She possessed, however, one quality of supreme importance to the young auditor: she was female and he needed a female to attend to Marianne. This one, once brought round, might well answer the purpose.
A bucket of water or two from the well in the yard and a few vigorous slaps worked wonders. It seemed probable that the woman had been there some time and had slept her fill, for she opened one large, bloodshot eye and then the other, then sat up and pushed back her elaborate headgear which by this time was soaking wet and decidedly askew. Finally, she favoured her assailant with an ogling grin.
'And what can I do for you, my lovely?' she inquired in good French, though spoken with a formidable Slavonic accent.
The tone of the invitation left the young man in no doubt as to her profession. But, prostitute or not, he had no alternative. Upon interrogation, the woman revealed that her name was Barbe Kaska and she was, as she freely admitted, a member of the oldest profession in the world. She had moved into the house because the one she had been sharing with some others of her kind since their arrival in the wake of the Polish troops had burned to the ground. Her explorations of the house having begun with the cellar, she had no idea yet whether the rest of it would suit her. The cellar had been charming.
When Henri Beyle asked her if she would consent to abandon her usual occupation in order to take care of a sick lady, Barbe put on a virtuous expression and demanded: 'Is she your wife?'
'Yes,' Beyle lied, deciding there was no point in embarking on unnecessary explanations. 'She's outside, in the carriage. She – she's dreadfully ill. A high fever, delirious in fact. I don't know what to do for the best. I'll pay you well if you will help.'
Barbe's only answer was to step over the pool of wine, nonchalantly sweeping aside a broken bottle with one foot, and, picking up the dripping wet folds of peacock satin, march regally to the front door. The sight of Marianne, lying flushed and shivering, with closed eyes, drew from her murmurs of shock and sympathy.
'Jesus Christ! The poor love! What a state she's in!'
This was followed by a spate of oaths and exclamations and invocations of every saint in the Polish calendar. Then, inspired by the age-old feminine instinct that makes every woman at heart a blend of sick-nurse and sister of mercy, Barbe hurried back into the house to look for somewhere the sick woman could be put to bed, at the same time shouting that they must be careful how they lifted her from the carriage so as not to let the rug slip from round her.