"I'm not playing. I threw this letter away, but then I thought I'd better burn it. But read it. It should interest you."
It was soon done. When he had finished, Jolival took out flint and steel and set light to a corner of the sheet. He carried the burning paper to the hearth and stood watching it until it was all consumed.
"Is that all you can say?" Marianne asked angrily.
"What should I say? You have been asked to do something. Do it, and as I have already told you, try and forget all about it. Whatever happens, we shall certainly be obliged to return to Paris." He took out his watch. "And now, it is time you were getting ready for dinner."
"For dinner? Has it dawned on you that I shall have to go alone? And that I don't in the least want to? I'm going to write a note begging to be excused… until tomorrow, say. Tonight I—I don't feel well."
"Oh, no you won't. Come here a moment." Taking her by the wrist he drew her over to the window. The air outside was full of the sound of drums, trumpets and fifes and the earth resounded to the tread of some hundreds of horses. A huge crowd had gathered around the barracks and was watching a long ribbon of movement, like a steel snake, winding up from the harbor.
"Look," said Jolival. "That is Prince Tsitsanov's two regiments of Georgians disembarking. From what Ducroux tells me, the governor has been waiting for them with some impatience. In two days' time he means to put himself at their head and ride to join the tsar's army, which is even now retreating before Napoleon's forces in Lithuania. If you want to secure Beaufort's release, it is tonight or never."
"Arcadius, think of that note! Are you quite sure that Richelieu won't attach certain—certain conditions to his release?"
"It's possible. But I trust you to play the game and not get burned. If you refuse this invitation not only will you not get what we came for, you may even make Richelieu angry enough to see to it that you never find your friend. The choice is yours, certainly. Only choose fast. As I said, he will be gone in two days. It's not easy, I know—but now is the moment for you to prove what you can do in the way of diplomacy."
As she still hesitated he crossed to a chair on which lay a number of dresses and, picking one at random, came back and dumped it in her arms.
"Hurry up, Marianne—and make yourself look beautiful. You may have two battles to win tonight."
"Two?"
"Jason's release, for one. And after that who knows? You didn't succeed in keeping Kamenski's troops tied up on the Danube, but you may yet keep the Circassians in Odessa. You've only to make him see the impropriety of a Frenchman taking arms against other Frenchmen." Jolival smiled at her with disarming candor.
Marianne clutched the dress to her and scowled at him indignantly.
"My godfather may be the Black Pope, Jolival, but there are times when I wonder if you aren't the very devil!"
Chapter 10
The Swedish Letter
THE blue fragrance of tobacco smoke floated in the air of the room, at once cozy and elegant, where Marianne and the governor were finishing dinner. The almost overwhelmingly heady scent of orange trees drifted in from the garden through the open windows and the noises of the town faded gradually and died away, as though the little yellow salon had broken some invisible moorings and sailed away into the sky like a magic balloon.
Across the centerpiece of wilting roses, Marianne regarded her host. The duke was leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed absently on the tall white candles that were the room's only illumination, puffing slowly at the pipe which she had just given him permission to light. He looked happy and relaxed, a long way from the dramatic events of the previous day and from the cares of government. So much so, indeed, that she was beginning to wonder if they would ever get around to the subject she had come there to discuss.
She had not wanted to broach the matter herself because that meant putting herself in the position of a suppliant and so at a disadvantage. He had invited her here this evening: it was for him to make the first move and begin asking the questions. But he seemed in no hurry to do so.
From the moment when the carriage he had sent to the hotel to fetch her had deposited her at the steps of the small but palatial new building which was the governor's residence, Marianne had made up her mind to play the game through to the end, however it turned out. It would be gauche to do otherwise. And for the present it was simply a distinguished nobleman entertaining a very pretty woman with a little private dinner.
That much had been clear to her from the moment he bowed over her hand, where he stood at the top of the steps to greet her.
Septimanie, the superintendent of the building works, in his tired old coat and dusty boots, had given place to a remarkably distinguished-looking man arrayed in the most elegant of evening dress: black silk stockings and knee breeches, shining leather pumps, high shirt points and cravat of snowy white and the French order of the Saint-Esprit glittering on his black, long-tailed coat. And Marianne found to her surprise that there was something vastly romantic about the black hair streaked with silver and that smooth, yet curiously ravaged countenance. He was like one of the characters who haunted the imagination of that lame English poet of whom Hester Stanhope had talked so much, with a mixture of admiration and exasperation, in Constantinople, the young Lord Byron.
The duke had shown himself the perfect host, a model of tact and consideration. The meal had been light and delicate, such as might appeal to a woman, and was served to the distant accompaniment of a concerto by Vivaldi. Richelieu talked little while they ate, evidently preferring to leave the music to speak for itself and content during its brief intervals simply to contemplate the beauty of his guest. She was looking lovely indeed in a gown of pearly satin cut low on the shoulders and with no other ornament than a pale rose nestling in the hollow of her breasts.
One of the two footmen in powdered wigs and white stockings who had waited on them during the meal came in bearing with the greatest care a bottle of champagne, from which he filled two tall translucent glasses before withdrawing again. When he had gone, the duke rose to his feet and raised his glass. Without taking his eyes from Marianne, he said: "I drink to you, my dear, and to your loveliness, which has made this one of those rare and memorable evenings when a man longs to be God and have the power to make time stand still."
"And I," she answered him, rising in her turn, "I, too, drink to this evening, Your Excellency. I shall remember it always as one of the pleasantest I have ever spent."
They drank, still looking into one another's eyes. Then the duke left his place and, grasping the bottle on the way, came around the table to refill his guest's glass himself despite her laughing protests.
"Gently, my lord Duke! You must not make me drink too much—unless, that is, we have other toasts to drink to."
"But we have." He raised his glass again, but now there was no smile on his face and his voice was impressively serious as he declared: "I drink to Cardinal de Chazay. May he return safely from the perilous mission he has undertaken for the peace of the world, and for Church and king!"
Startled, Marianne automatically lifted her glass again, although this repeated reference to the king was by no means to her liking. Yet not for anything in the world would she have refused to drink her godfather's health. Besides, she had already gathered from certain remarks dropped by her host during their meal, that he believed himself in the company of a woman whose political beliefs and aspirations coincided exactly with his own. He saw her only as the cardinal's goddaughter, the daughter of his own old friend, and if he mentioned the name of Sant'Anna at all it was only to pay tribute to that ancient princely family with its wide connections, and with no hint of distrust.