Richelieu said nothing. He had got to his feet and was pacing agitatedly up and down the little terrace, his arms folded across his chest and his fingers plucking at the folds of lace about his throat. Marianne watched him anxiously, thinking what a strange character he was. His reactions were wholly unpredictable and the least thing seemed to catch his nerves on the raw.
As abruptly as Napoleon himself could have done, he came to a sudden halt in front of her and shot out: "This man? What is he to you? Your lover?"
Marianne took a deep breath and forced herself to keep calm. She could see that he was studying her face closely. He was evidently expecting her to lose her temper, to make one of those calculated outbursts of indignation that came so easily to women in love and deceived nobody. Easily, she sidestepped the trap and leaned back in her seat, laughing gently.
"That is not very imaginative of you, Your Excellency. Do you think there is only one reason that a woman might wish to help a man when he's in trouble?"
"Of course not. But this Mr. Beaufort is not your brother, is he? And you have undertaken a long and dangerous voyage to come and plead for him."
"Long and dangerous? Crossing the Black Sea? Really, my lord Duke, let us be serious." She stood up suddenly, her face growing very serious indeed, and said austerely: "I have known Jason Beaufort a very long time. The first time I met him was at my aunt's house, Selton Hall, where he was a guest, received there as he was everywhere in England. He was acquainted there with the Prince of Wales. To me, he is a very dear friend, as I said, a childhood friend."
"A childhood friend? You swear it?"
She heard the quiver of jealousy, bitter and desperate, in his voice and knew that if she wanted to save Jason it was necessary to convince him. With the faintest shrug of her lovely shoulders, she murmured in a tone of gentle raillery: "Why, of course I swear. But, although I hesitate to say it, my lord Duke, surely you are behaving a little like a jealous husband—rather than a friend whom I have known only a short time, but to whom I had looked for more gentleness and understanding… for more affection, even, considering the old ties between us…"
He was staring at her intently, breathing rather hard, as though trying to read to the bottom of the green eyes, as deep and compelling as the sea. Gradually, Marianne felt something yield and relax in him.
"Come," he said at last, taking her by the hand and hurrying her quickly inside.
She followed him through the little yellow salon where the candles were already guttering, across a wide landing tiled in black marble and into a huge office, lit only by a nightlight on the desk. The long blue velvet curtains were tightly drawn and the room felt as close and dark as a tomb.
Still holding her hand, the duke went straight to the writing table, which was littered with papers and a heap of green leatherbound dispatch boxes. There he released her at last. Not even pausing to sit down, he opened a drawer and took out a large sheet of paper stamped with the double-headed eagle and already covered with writing. A space had been left blank. He filled it in, added a few more words and signed with a nervous scrawl.
Marianne had managed to read some of it over his shoulder, and her heart beat faster as she realized that it was an order for the release of Jason and his men. But then, while Richelieu was hunting for sealing wax and melting it at the candle, her eyes wandered over the remainder of the desk and paused for a moment on a partially folded document. She was not able to read more than a few words, but what she read struck her so forcibly that it was all she could do not to put out her hand and pick it up.
Meanwhile, the duke had finished writing. He reread the order quickly and then handed it to Marianne.
"There. You have only to give that to the commander of the citadel and your childhood friend will be instantly restored to you, along with those who were captured with him."
Flushed with happiness, Marianne took the precious paper and slipped it into a pocket cunningly hidden in a fold of her skirt.
"I am deeply grateful," she said, much moved. "But—may I ask if this includes the restitution of the ship?"
Richelieu stiffened and frowned.
"The ship? No. I am sorry but it is out of my power. By the law of the sea it belongs now to the Russian navy."
"But surely, Your Excellency, you have no right to deprive a harmless foreigner of his sole means of livelihood? What good is a seaman without a ship?"
"I don't know, my dear, but I have already gone as far as I dare in offering to release a man whose country is at this moment at war with our ally, England. I have given a fighting man back to America. Don't ask me to give her a ship of war as well. The brig is a fine vessel. Our navy will make good use of her."
"Your navy? Indeed, my lord Duke, I begin to ask myself if there is anything French left in you. Your forebears must be turning in their graves if they can hear you."
Unable to contain herself any longer, she had allowed her indignation to blaze forth, and the governor blanched at the icy contempt that showed clearly in her tone.
"You have no right to say that!" he cried, his voice rising to the curiously shrill note it had in anger. "Russia is a true friend. She took me in when France had cast me out and now she is mustering all her forces to fight against the usurper, against this man who, to satisfy his own insane ambition, has not shrunk from putting all Europe to fire and slaughter. Russia is prepared to shed her own blood to save France from this scourge."
"To save France—but France has never asked to be saved. And if what they say in the town is true, you, the Duc de Richelieu, are going to march tomorrow at the head of the Georgian troops—"
"To crush Napoleon! Yes, I am! And gladly!"
There was a moment's silence, while both sides paused for breath. Marianne, breathless and blazing-eyed, could barely contain herself, but she meant to stop this man going to fight against his own people in the ranks of the tsar if it was the last thing she did.
"So, you are going to fight him? Very well. But have you thought that in fighting him you will also be fighting men of your own blood, your fellow countrymen, your brothers and your peers?"
"My brothers? The scum thrown up by the revolution and dressed up in fancy titles? Really, Madame!"
"Your peers, I said! Not Ney and Augereau, Murat or Davout, but men with names like Ségur, Colbert, Montesquiou, Castellane, Fezensac and d'Aboville—to say nothing of Poniatowski and Radziwill! Because you will be raising your sword against them, too, Monsieur de Richelieu, when you charge at the head of your half-savage Tatars!"
"Be quiet! I am bound to aid my friends."
"Say your new friends, rather! Very well, then, my lord Duke, but take care that you do not serve the tsar an ill turn."
"An ill turn? What do you mean by that?"
Marianne smiled, pleased to have struck a spark of anxiety in the duke's eyes. She had a feeling that her blows had struck home more truly than she had dared to hope. And a fiendish idea had just occurred to her, one whose destructive power she meant to put to the test.
"Nothing. Or nothing I can be sure of. But please, never mind. Forgive me if I spoke too sharply just now. You see—I like you very much. I cannot help myself, and not for anything in the world would I have you come to regret your—your truly generous heart. You have been so kind to me and to my friends. I would do anything to keep you from falling into a trap, even if it made you accuse me of Bonapartist sympathies, although of course it is not true."