Marianne had accepted it and had made her decision quickly. In any case, the news, however bad, was still better than she had feared and better also than the long uncertainty. Jason had lost his freedom once again but at least he was still alive.
Of her child, on the other hand, she had had no news at all. The prince, Donna Lavinia and the baby seemed to have vanished into thin air and when she tried to question Osman about where his master might have gone the steward had only bowed deeply and protested that he did not know at all. But his smile had been almost too guileless. That was another subject about which he must have had very strict instructions.
Marianne had confined herself, therefore, to asking him to provide her with a vessel to carry her and Jolival in the greatest possible speed and comfort to Odessa. The Duc de Richelieu had been a friend and fellow pupil of her father's at the Collège du Plessis, and because of this she had asked for and obtained a passport in her maiden name. She had some faint hope that the duke might be moved by recollections of his youth to gratify his old friend's daughter by releasing the Sea Witch and her crew. He would certainly do it more readily for her than for the intimate friend of Napoleon.
Even then, of course, they would still have to escape from the trap of the Black Sea and sail back through the Bosporus under the guns of Rumeli Hissar and under the noses of the English ships, but all these seemed to Marianne to be minor obstacles. The fact that she would be facing them with Jason at her side took away much of their power to frighten her. The main thing, and the most difficult also, was to wrest the American away from his aristocratic captor, who was certain to be the mortal foe of liberalism in any form and, if he possessed even a fraction of the force of character of his illustrious ancestor, might well prove no easy nut to crack.
Marianne could picture him: lofty, arrogant, ruling his vast province with a rod of iron, a lover of luxury and of the arts, highly intelligent almost certainly but distinctly unapproachable.
Her fear of him was growing as she traversed the harbor, overflowing with life and activity. Even in the late afternoon the heat was still tremendous, but the crowd of tradesmen, clerks, peasants, seamen, porters and soldiers grew denser and busier the nearer they got to the long street which ran uphill to the administrative center of the town. There on the top of the cliff, above a handful of elegant pink and white houses built in the style of the preceding century, shone the gilded onion domes and rococo belfry of the brand-new churches.
Buildings were going up on all sides and the sites were all alive with men at work. The biggest seemed to be the arsenal, which was nearing completion. Masons on long ladders were busy carving the Russian imperial eagle above the monumental gateway, and their youthful guide began by leading the two travelers straight up to this, explaining engagingly by means of a great many gestures that before penetrating further into the city they must not neglect the opportunity to admire what was undoubtedly going to be one of the finest monuments anywhere to the glory of Alexander I, Tsar of all the Russias.
"Very well," Jolival sighed. "Let's go and admire it. It won't take long and we don't want to offend anyone."
Standing on a block of stone a few yards away from the scaffolding was a man apparently engaged in supervising the sculptors at their work. He was evidently a person of some importance because he turned from time to time and said a few words to a tall, dark young man carrying a writing block who at once made haste to copy it down.
The man's appearance was sufficiently remarkable. He was tall and thin and his rather aquiline features wore a slightly haunted expression. His hair, uncovered to the evening breeze, was short and wavy, still black in places but completely white in others. He was dressed any which way in a frock coat that had seen better days, well-worn boots and a black neckcloth knotted loosely around his throat. He was puffing away at a long meerschaum pipe which produced as much smoke as a small but lively volcano.
He was turning to toss another word or two to the tall young man between puffs when Marianne, Jolival and their little procession entered his field of vision. A flicker of interest came into his eyes at the sight of a pretty woman, but before he could do more than register her presence his attention was deflected by a frightful clamor of noise and shouting which broke out around him.
In another moment he had leaped down from his block of stone and rushed at them headlong with outstretched arms, mowing the two of them down and collapsing on top of them on a pile of grain sacks awaiting loading.
Before either Marianne or Jolival had time to do so much as gasp, a cartload of stone had thundered past bare inches from their heap of sacks and rumbled madly on to plunge into the harbor with a mighty splash. But for the stranger's prompt and courageous action, the two friends' journey would have ended there and then.
Blenching at the thought of what she had escaped, Marianne accepted her rescuer's hand to help her to her feet. Jolival was brushing dust from his elegant raiment, now irremediably crushed. Automatically straightening her bonnet, which had tipped over one ear, Marianne turned toward the stranger, now rather summarily slapping the dust off himself, a look swimming with gratitude.
"Monsieur," she began brokenly. "I don't know how to—"
The man paused in his work and cocked an eyebrow at her.
"Are you French? Have I had the happiness to oblige my fellow countrymen? If that is indeed so, Madame, then I am doubly glad to have preserved your beauty from harm."
Marianne found herself blushing under his ardent gaze. But by now Jolival had recovered from his fright and decided to take a hand. Bowing with ineffable grace despite his dented hat and crumpled clothes, he introduced himself.
"The Vicomte Arcadius de Jolival, entirely at your service, Monsieur. This lady is my ward, the daughter of the late Marquis d'Asselnat de Villeneuve."
Again the man raised his left eyebrow in a way that might have indicated either surprise or irony, Jolival could not be sure which. Then, all at once, he started searching through his pockets so feverishly that the vicomte could not help but ask him if he had lost something.
"My pipe," was the answer. "I can't think what I did with it."
"You must have dropped it when you rushed so nobly to our aid," Marianne said, bending down to look about her.
"I don't think so. I have a feeling it was gone before that."
It was not far to seek. The necessary appurtenance was restored a moment later by the tall young man who now rejoined them unhurriedly and without losing one jot of his Olympian calm.
"Your pipe, Monsieur," he said.
The stranger's harassed expression cleared.
"Ah, thank you, my boy. Just go along and see how the work on the guardhouse is coming along. I will be with you in a moment. And so," he went on, sucking vigorously at his pipe in an effort to get it going again, "and so… French, are you? Well, what the devil are you doing here, if I may ask?"
"Why of course you may!" Marianne smiled, finding herself liking him extremely. "I am here to see the Duc de Richelieu. He is still governor of the city, I hope?"
"He is indeed—and of all new Russia. You know him?"
"Not yet. But you, sir, who seem to be a fellow countryman, are you perhaps acquainted with him?"