Marianne and the Crown of Fire

with a nagaika, or horsewhip, thrust through his belt. His arms were folded on his chest and he was dressed in a coat of military cut, blue and high-collared, with gilt epaulets. His strong, arrogant features showed traces of Turcoman blood, but it was nevertheless an expressive face, animated by a pair of very large eyes of some indeterminate colour, although at the moment it reflected nothing but a cold cruelty.

The crowd had fallen silent, manifesting neither pleasure nor any other emotion at the torture of a fellow being. Yet as she mingled with them, Marianne was struck by the look on the people's faces. All, without exception, expressed a total, absolute and, as it were, concentrated hatred. The sight of it appalled her.

'What are these people made of?' she muttered under her breath. 'The enemy is at their gates and they stand here watching a poor devil being flogged to death.'

A sharp jab from an elbow in her side silenced her abruptly. Looking round, she saw that it had come, not from one of her companions, but from an elderly man of pleasant and distinguished appearance, dressed in old- fashioned style but with a simplicity that did not preclude a certain elegance. Far from it, for while he wore his hair long, no trace of powder marred the gleaming surface of the black satin ribbon that confined it and showed off its fine, silvery hue.

Seeing Marianne gazing at him in astonishment, he smiled faintly.

'You should be more careful, Madame,' he murmured. 'French is not an unfamiliar language in these parts.'

'I speak no Russian, but if you would rather we conversed in some other tongue – English, for instance, or German—'

This time the old gentleman, for such he clearly was, smiled openly, an action which detracted somewhat from his charm by revealing some regrettable deficiencies in his teeth.

'As to English, it is rare enough to arouse some curiosity. German, on the other hand, is known and, ever since the time of Peter III, cordially detested.'

'Very well then,' Marianne said. 'Let us continue in French. That is, Monsieur, if you will be kind enough to satisfy my curiosity. What has the wretched man done?'

Her new friend shrugged his shoulders.

'His crime is twofold. He is a Frenchman and he dared to rejoice openly at the approach of Bonaparte's armies. Before this he was a man much valued and even respected for his culinary talents, but that was enough to ruin him.'

'Culinary?'

'Yes indeed. His name is Tournais and he was head cook to the Governor of Moscow, Count Rostopchin whom you see there, personally overseeing his punishment. Unfortunately for his back, Tournais allowed his tongue to run away with him.'

Marianne clenched her fists, feeling herself overcome with helpless rage. Must she stand there in the sunset watching a fellow-countryman flayed alive for nothing more than loyalty to his emperor? Fortunately, she had not long to wonder for the beating was coming to an end.

At an order from Rostopchin, the unfortunate chef was cut down, unconscious and covered in blood, and carried inside the palace.

'What will become of him?' asked Jolival, who had joined Marianne and overheard her conversation.

'The governor has given out that tomorrow he is to be sent to Orenburg to work in the mines.'

'But he has no right to do that!' Marianne burst out, once more forgetting all caution. 'The man is not a Russian. It's horrible to treat him like a guilty moujik!'

'So he is also being treated as a spy. Ultimately, poor Tournais, for whom I am sincerely sorry, for he is a true artist, is merely a scapegoat. Now that the great battle is over, Rostopchin is not sorry to show the people that he means to have no mercy on all who have the slightest connection with Bonaparte.'

It was the second time the old gentleman had used that name and it gave Marianne the clue she needed. Evidently he was one of those unyielding emigres who were sworn never to return to France as long as the scourge of God, Napoleon, reigned there. A little circumspection would therefore be wise. Nevertheless, Marianne could not resist her thirst for information.

'A great battle, did you say?'

The old gentleman stared and, reaching for the lorgnettes suspended on a velvet ribbon round his neck, set them on his nose and considered the young woman with astonishment.

'Well, well! My dear young lady, where have you been, if I may make so bold?'

'In the south, Monsieur, more precisely at Odessa, where I had the privilege of meeting his grace the Duc de Richelieu.' She added a few more vague words of explanation but her new friend was no longer listening. The name of Richelieu had quite won him to her and now that he felt sure that this young woman was one of his own kind he heartily approved of her. From then on there was no stopping him and once Jolival also had been introduced, the others being relegated to the obscurity of servants, he seemed prepared to hold forth endlessly.

And so it was in the pleasant, educated tones of the man they learned to call Monsieur de Beauchamp that the travellers heard of what had taken place five days earlier on the plain of Borodino, on the right bank of the river Kologha, a tributary of the Moskva, and some thirty-five leagues from Moscow itself. The Russian army, which up to that point had seemed to melt into the landscape as the French advanced had decided to make a stand and attempt to bar the way to the capital. The fighting for the redoubts on the road was fierce and the casualties on both sides appalling,[1] if the reports of the wounded who were even now being brought into the city were to be believed.

'But who won?' Jolival demanded, beside himself with impatience.

The old gentleman gave a sad little smile.

'We were told it was the Russians. The Tsar had replaced Barclay de Tolly with old Kutuzov, the darling child of victory, and no one ever imagined it could be otherwise. There was even a Te Deum sung in this very place. But the wounded tell a different story. They say that the army is retreating hard on their heels and that Bonaparte is marching on Moscow. Tomorrow or the day after, he will be here. As soon as that became known, all those who could began to leave Moscow. Hence the dreadful confusion throughout the city. Even Rostopchin is going, he has just said so, but for the present he is staying to await Kutuzov whose army must pass through the city to fall back on Kazan.'

With Jason's stern eye upon her, Marianne succeeded in maintaining her supposed character and remained calm in the face of news which filled her with joy. Jolival, meanwhile, was thanking the old gentleman with exquisite, courtly politeness for his recital and begging him to set the seal on his kindness by recommending an inn, that was, if there were any left open, which would provide them with a roof. This request produced an immediate protest from Jason.

'There's no call for us to stay here, least of all if Bonaparte is coming! We'd better be gone before nightfall and find ourselves a hostelry of some kind on the road to Petersburg.'

Monsieur de Beauchamp directed his lorgnette at him and stared for a moment with a mixture of outrage and astonishment at this bearded moujik, evidently a servant, who had the impertinence not merely to venture an opinion but actually to do so in French. Then, apparently considering it beneath his dignity to give the fellow a set- down, the old gentleman merely shrugged his shoulders and, turning his back on him, addressed himself to Jolival.

'You will never get out of the city tonight. Every street is packed solid with carts and carriages, with the exception of those leading westwards. But there is a chance that you will still find a lodging in Kitaigorod, the walls of which you see before you over there, even if only with—'

But Marianne was fated never to hear the name of the innkeeper who might have offered them a bed because at that moment something like a huge tidal wave swept into the square and drove like a bullet from a gun straight for the dais on which the governor was still standing, engaged in giving orders to a number of underlings. Several thousand men and women armed with picks and axes and pitchforks and shrieking like famished wolves bore down on the Rostopchin palace. The massive wave broke against its walls with a shuddering impact that swept apart the little group gathered round the old gentleman.

In an instant Marianne found herself torn from her friends, half submerged in a welter of waving arms, and borne irresistibly back towards the river. Convinced that she had been caught up in a revolt and believing that her last hour had come, she uttered a shrill scream: 'Jason! Help!'

He heard her. Kicking and righting his way he managed to get to her and grabbed her wrist and together