'I've thought of that. But how can we find out?'
'Tomorrow, the Assistant Quartermaster-General is going to the Kremlin to make his report to the Emperor. He has asked me to go with him. It ought not to be too difficult for me to make my own inquiries and if your friend is there I will find out.'
'You would do that for me?'
'Of course, and much more if you should ask me. For to tell you the truth I did not mean to go with Mathieu Dumas at first.'
'Why not?'
He smiled a little wistfully and indicated the coat he was wearing.
'An audience with the Emperor in my present state—'
In fact this visit to the Kremlin which gave Marianne such pleasure posed considerable sartorial problems to her friend. He had lost all his baggage, having jumped into his carriage right in the middle of his dinner in the Apraxin Palace. He had driven back to his lodgings just in time to see the house burn down and had been obliged to look on, in helpless rage, while his belongings were destroyed. His entire wardrobe now consisted only of what he stood up in: a coat of blue superfine, of an excellent cut but no longer very clean, blue kerseymere pantaloons and a white shirt decidedly the worse for wear.
'We must think of some way to make you look more presentable,' Marianne said. 'The Emperor has a great dislike of slovenliness in dress.'
'I know that well enough. He'll favour me with one of those damned disgusted stares of his.'
All the same, a couple of shirts made of a reasonably fine linen were dug up from somewhere, with the help of Beyle's driver, François, now, by reason of the defection of his fellow servants, promoted to the office of valet. The coat was made fairly presentable by dint of a careful going over, followed by some energetic brushing. This left the elegant kerseymere pantaloons, for which no replacement could be found, and they were badly snagged in several places, one more than a trifle embarrassing. For his day-to-day work in the Quartermaster-General's office, Beyle had managed to discard them in favour of a coarse pair of infantryman's breeches but there could be no question of wearing these in the Emperor's presence.
'There's not so much as a yard of the damned stuff in our stores,' he complained. 'I'll have to resign myself to appearing before the Emperor bundled up in a pair of sergeant major's breeks or else in none at all.'
From this dilemma he was rescued by Barbe who, once she heard of it, promptly saved the situation. François, moved more by a sense of duty than by any real belief in what he was doing, had already washed and dried the offending garment. Barbe now carried them off and darned them with such exquisite neatness that by the time she had done with them they were virtually a work of art and infinitely respectable.
Beyle was so delighted that, quite forgetting his earlier suspicions, he instantly invited this new guardian angel to form a permanent part of his entourage.
'I engaged you for the duration of my – er – my wife's illness,' he said, 'but I should be very happy to keep you on indefinitely, unless, that is, you have some objection to returning with me to France or feel any hankering after your former – profession.'
Barbe, her yellow hair now neatly braided up in a coronet about her head and adding to the natural dignity of her demeanour, raised one haughty eyebrow and quite literally looked the young man up and down.
'I had not looked,' she said stiffly, 'after all that I have done, for your honour to have so little delicacy as to remind me of my youthful indiscretions. At my age, I'd have you know, such a way of life loses its charm. I should be glad to quit it and take service again – in some great house.'
Now it was Beyle's turn to be vexed. His usually even complexion flushed brick red.
'Do I understand you to imply that my household is not good enough for you?'
Barbe inclined her head. 'You have it,' she said coolly. 'I have been tirewoman to Princess Lubomirska, may I remind you. I could not, for the sake of my own self-respect, undertake to serve a lady of lesser degree. My dead father would turn in his grave.' For a moment, Marianne thought Beyle would choke.
'Ha! I suppose you think you had his blessing when you became a whore!' he yelped.
'Maybe not, 'though I always kept myself for soldiers so in that way I was serving my country. But supposing I were to go back into service for good, I could only do so with a really great lady. Now if your good lady were not merely your good lady – if she were a duchess, say, or even a princess, well, in that case, even supposing she should be homeless and without a penny to bless herself with – even wanted by the law, then I'd not refuse. Oh, by no means! Yes,' Barbe went on dreamily, 'I can see her as a princess. It would suit her down to the ground.'
Beyle and Marianne stared at one another in dismay. It was obvious where Barbe was leading. The woman knew their secret. Going about the city as she did each morning to see what she could pick up in the way of food, she must have seen the bills pasted up everywhere with their accurate descriptions of Marianne. And now, not satisfied with the thousand livres offered as a reward, she was intending to blackmail her employers.
Seeing that Beyle was too much overcome by this blow of fate to answer, Marianne took the matter into her own hands. Going right up to Barbe she looked her straight in the eyes.
'Very well,' she said icily. 'I am completely at your mercy. But, as you yourself have observed, I have no money, only—' She broke off, biting her lip as she realized that, stupidly, she had been on the point of mentioning the diamond. But that did not belong to her. It as hers only in trust and she had no right to use it even to save herself.
'Only what?' Barbe inquired innocently.
'Only the knowledge that I have done nothing to deserve that I should be hunted. But I will not argue with you. Since you have discovered who I am – the door is there! You may run to the nearest soldiers and give me up. The Emperor will be delighted to pay you the thousand livres when you tell him you have found the Princess Sant'Anna.'
She had expected the woman to sneer at her, perhaps utter some coarse words of abuse, and then make a dash for the door, but nothing of the sort occurred. Barbe certainly began to laugh but, to Marianne's immense surprise, her laughter was as candid as it was free of all malice. Then she came to Marianne and took her hand and kissed it, in the best tradition of Polish retainers.
'There,' she said, happily, 'that was all I wanted to know.'
'I don't understand you.'
'It's simple enough. If your highness will allow me to say so, I have known for a long time that you were not the wife of – this gentleman.' Barbe jerked her head in a vaguely contemptuous fashion to indicate Beyle. 'And I was hurt that you did not trust me. It seemed to me I had earned the right to be treated, not as a friend, to be sure, but at least as a loyal servant. I hope your highness will forgive me for having, to some extent, forced the truth from you, but I had to know where I stood and now I am content. I should not care to serve a person of no consequence but I'd regard it as an honour if your highness will allow me to wait on you.'
Marianne began to laugh, relieved and also a little touched, more so perhaps than she cared to admit, by this sudden, unexpected development.
'Oh, my poor Barbe,' she said with a sigh, 'I'd like above all things to keep you with me, but you know my position. I have nothing, I am hunted, threatened with imprisonment—'
'As if that mattered! The great thing is that no great lady can afford to be without an abigail, not even in prison. It is the privilege of those who serve a great house to follow their masters into misfortune. We'll begin with that and maybe the good will follow in its own time.'
'But why choose me? Why not rather go back to your own country?'