The youthful coachman cracked his whip and the equipage moved off at a fast trot. As it turned into the rue St-Honoré, the St Roch clock struck one, but Marianne did not hear it. When they reached the Tuileries bridge she was still trying to calm herself sufficiently to think sensibly of a way to save Jason from the Russian's murderous intent. With the boundless generosity of love, she blamed herself entirely for what had taken place. She even went so far as to blame herself for Jason's unkindness, by reason of the magic word, alarming yet so obscurely comforting, which Talleyrand had uttered: jealousy. If Jason were jealous, so jealous that he could insult her publicly, it might mean that, after all, everything was not quite lost.
'What can I do?' she asked herself desperately. 'How can I prevent this duel?'
The rattle of the carriage wheels over the deserted streets of the sleeping city of Paris filled her ears like a vast, threatening roar. She stared out at the passing houses, shuttered and silent now, filled with honest citizens lying peacefully in their beds for whom the tempests of the heart were probably matters of very little importance.
The carriage had almost reached the rue de Lille when an idea came to Marianne. By now, she was blaming herself further for wounding Chernychev. Like a fool, she had believed her power over him greater than it was. Instead of reasoning with him, making him understand that it would grieve her to see anything happen to a friend, she had allowed him to divine her love for Jason and had inevitably roused the very natural fury of a man who finds that the woman he desires prefers another. She ought, at least, to make another effort in that direction.
She reached out and gave a little pull on the cord whose other end was attached to the coachman's little finger. Gracchus looked back.
'Turn round, Gracchus. We are not going home just yet.'
'Very good, Madame. Where are we going?'
'Chassée d'Antin, the Russian embassy. You know it?'
'Used to be the Hôtel Thélusson? 'Course I know it.' The carriage was turned neatly and headed back towards the Seine, this time at a gallop. The streets were empty and it was possible to maintain this rapid pace, so that it was not many minutes before the enormous triumphal arch, thirty feet high and as many broad, which served as a gateway to the Russian embassy, loomed up ahead. Beyond lay a glimpse of extensive gardens, dotted with statues and pillars, with the house at the far end, lights blazing as though for a party. But the gate was guarded by a pair of Cossacks in long robes and drooping moustaches who were firm in denying her admittance. In vain did Marianne declare her name and titles and explain that she desired to see the ambassador, Prince Kurakin. The guards remained adamant: no pass, no passage. It was not just anyone who could gain admittance to the Russian embassy, at night especially.
' 'Strewth!' Gracchus exclaimed. 'They certainly guard the place well enough! Makes you wonder what's going on inside to make them so suspicious. It's easier to get to see the Emperor… What do we do now, Your Highness?'
'I don't know,' Marianne said miserably. 'I must get in or—Listen, Gracchus. Go and ask them whether Count Chernychev has returned yet. If he has not, we will wait for him. If he has…'
'What then?'
'Oh well, go anyway. We will think of that later.' Obediently, Gracchus clambered down from his box and strolled over to the Cossack on the left, whose face looked rather the less forbidding of the two. There began an animated dialogue in which gestures seemed to play a more important part than words. In spite of her anxious state of mind, Marianne could not help being diverted by the contrast between Gracchus's stocky figure, as broad as it was high in the huge, caped coachman's overcoat, and that of the gigantic Russian, with his huge fur hat and splendid whiskers, bending down towards him. The conversation continued for a minute or two, after which Gracchus came back and informed his mistress that the count had not yet returned.
'Good,' Marianne said. 'Get back on the box. We'll wait for him.'
'Are you sure that's a good idea? Seems to me as you didn't altogether part friends…'
'Since when have you been in the habit of questioning my orders? Draw up the carriage by the gate and wait.'
But before Gracchus could carry out this command there was the sound of a vehicle approaching through the embassy grounds. Marianne promptly told her driver to stay where he was, with the carriage blocking the gateway so that nothing could leave the embassy. With luck, the person coming might even be the ambassador himself…
In fact, it was Talleyrand. Almost at once, Marianne recognized the livery and the great English Arab horses which were the prince's pride. Talleyrand, for his part, had caught sight of Marianne's carriage and given his coachman the word to draw up alongside. His pale head and sapphire-blue eyes appeared at the window.
'I was going to call on you,' he said with a smile, 'but since you are here, I may go home to my bed with the satisfaction of knowing my duty done – and so may you. I don't think there's much more you can do here now, eh?'
'I don't know. I was going to—'
'See the ambassador? Was that it? Or see Chernychev, at any rate? Then I was right and you may go home and sleep with no fear of bad dreams. Count Chernychev leaves for Moscow tonight with… er… urgent despatches.'
'He was to go tomorrow…'
'Well now he goes in an hour. Prince Kurakin was very ready to understand that some messages are too urgent to be delayed – or possibly endangered by the turn of a sword. Our friend Beaufort handles his weapon quite as skilfully as the handsome colonel, so the chances were equal. Now it seems that just at present, the Tsar requires his favourite courier's presence urgently… You need have no fear. Chernychev will do as he is told.'
'And… the duel?'
'Put off for a month of Sundays – or at least until the two gentlemen in question find themselves face-to-face again, which will not be for a very long time, since Beaufort is due to return to America in a week's time.'
Marianne's chilled heart melted in a rush of warmth. So great was her relief that tears started to her eyes. Impulsively, she held out her hand to her old friend, through the open window.
'How can I thank you? You are my good angel.'
But Talleyrand shook his head, his face suddenly grave. 'No, I am afraid not. I fear I must bear a large share of the blame for the troubles which beset you. Today is not the first time I have regretted that I ever introduced you to – to you know who. If it had not been for that ill-conceived idea, you might have been happy today. I ought to have realized – that night when you met Beaufort in my house. Now, it is too late, and both of you are married.'
'I shall never give him up! I, too, should have realized it sooner, but I will not listen when you tell me it is too late. It is never too late for love.'
'Oh yes, my dear… when you are my age!'
'Not even then!' Marianne cried so passionately that even the cynical statesman was shaken. 'If you really wanted it, you could still love – really love! Who knows, perhaps it might even be the great love of your life.'
The prince did not answer. Hands clasped on the gold knob of his stick, chin resting on his hands, he appeared to be lost in a kind of daydream. Marianne saw that there was a sparkle in the pale eyes, usually so cold, and wondered if perhaps her words had conjured up for him a figure, a face… a love, perhaps, which he had not allowed himself to dream of, believing it impossible. Softly, as if he had spoken, but really in answer to her own thoughts, Marianne said: 'Impossible love is the only kind that I believe in, because it is the only kind that gives a savour to life, the only kind worth fighting for…'