glittering staff.
Jason, whose great height gave him a partial view over the heads of the crowd, caught sight of an empty space behind them and grasping Marianne by the wrist drew her after him.
'Come on,' he cried. 'Now is the time to cross! We'll be able to reach the street just over there.'
They ran for it, still dragging the gipsy after them. The gap turned out to be caused by a troop of cossacks who had drawn rein at the door of a large monastery, where an officer had dismounted and was talking to an old, bearded priest in crow-black, funereal robes.
As ill-luck would have it, just as they reached the other side a sudden movement in the crowd, which was still coming on, jostled the cossacks and Marianne, jerked forward by Jason to avoid being crushed beneath their hooves, crashed hard against the priest and trod on his foot.
He uttered a squawk of shock and displeasure and, seeing that his assailant was a woman, pushed her away sharply but not before the officer had grabbed her roughly by the arm and, shouting at her in words she did not understand, was evidently trying to force her to her knees in order to beg trie man's pardon. Jason would have sprung to her assistance but two of the cossacks forcibly restrained him, while Marianne, still struggling furiously in the officer's grip, found herself suddenly staring into his face. It was no more than an instant, but they knew one another.
'Chernychev!' Marianne gasped.
It was none other. As blond and handsome as ever, and as exquisite also, in spite of the blood and dust that marred the dark green dolman, from which the Legion of Honour had disappeared, and in spite of the lines of fatigue on his pale face. His eyes, too, were the same, the same cruel, cat-like gaze, the green eyes slanting slightly upwards and the high cheekbones hinting at mongol blood. Oh yes, he was the same man, the same attractive, disturbing Count Alexander Chernychev, the Tsar's spy and the lover of half the ladies in Paris, although it was not easy to recognize the nonchalant seducer, so skilled at gathering the secrets of the Empire from the Princess Borghese's arms, in this hard-bitten warrior. But the recollection of their last meeting was enough to make Marianne try desperately to wrench herself from his grasp and escape.
She was wasting her time. She knew already that the slim, white fingers clenched about her arm could be as hard as steel. Besides, he too had leaped at once to the name that went with that passionate face and the huge eyes just then dilated with terror.
'Why, it's my princess!' he cried in French. 'The most precious of all my possessions. The fabulous emerald of the poor camel-driver on the road to Samarkand. By Our Lady of Kazan, this meeting was the very thing I needed to make me believe that God is still a Russian!'
Before Marianne could recover from the shock of this unexpected encounter, he had swept her into his arms and was kissing her in a way that drew a roar of approval from his own men and a shout of fury from Jason.
'Let her go!' he bellowed, casting prudence to the winds. 'Damn you, you filthy cossack! How dare you lay a hand on her!'
Against all expectation, Chernychev released Marianne and turned towards the other man still struggling in the grip of his cossacks.
'I think I have the right to handle my own property,' he said arrogantly. 'As for you, moujik, how dare you even speak to me? Are you jealous? Are you her lover also? Then here is something to make you change your tone!'
He raised the whip he held in his hand and slashed it viciously across Jason's face, so that the trace of the lash stood out in a red weal. The American strained frantically to break free of his captors but only succeeded in provoking their mirth.
'Coward!' he roared. 'You're nothing but a coward, Count Chernychev, who strikes only when he can do so with impunity and bandies insults in the same way! You don't hesitate to defame a woman who is a defenceless stranger here!'
'Defame the Princess Sant'Anna? How do I do that by speaking the truth? In the name of my patron St Alexander, may I die if I lied when I said that she is mine! As for you, I've a good mind to make you pay for your insolence under the knout. It's the only proper treatment for your kind.'
'Look closer! I'm not one of your moujiks. I'm a man who already has one account to settle with you. Have you forgotten the night they played
The Russian's arm, already raised to strike again, fell slowly. He took another step towards Jason and scrutinized him closely. Then he broke into a shout of laughter.
'By God, it's true! The American! Captain – Captain Lefort, is it not?'
'Beaufort, if you please. Now that you know who I am, I am waiting for an explanation, not to say an apology, for what you have just said.'
'So be it! You have my apology – but only for mispronouncing your name.' He favoured Jason with a mocking grin. 'I've always had the greatest difficulty with foreign names. As for this lady—'
Unable to bear any more, Marianne ran to Jason.
'Don't listen to him! He's nothing but a mischief-maker. A spy – a wretch who uses friendship and love alike to serve his own interests—'
'My master's interests, madame! And Russia's!'
He snapped out an order to the men who were still holding Jason and they loosed their grip immediately. The American found his arms free once more and promptly used them gently to put aside Marianne who was trying to cling to him.
'Let be. I want to hear what he has to say for himself. And I must ask you not to interfere. This is a matter between gentlemen. Now, Monsieur,' he went on, turning to Chernychev. 'I am still waiting. Are you going to admit that you lied?'
The Count gave a shrug. 'If I were not afraid of shocking your sensibilities and exhibiting the worst of bad taste, I would have my men strip her clothes off here and now and you would then see that she bears a small scar on her side – my crest imprinted on her flesh after a night of love.'
'A night of love?' Marianne cried, beside herself. 'You dare to call it a night of love? The barbarous way you treated me? He got into my bedchamber, Jason, by breaking the window. He knocked me half-unconscious and tied me to my bed with the cords from the curtains and then raped me! Do you hear? He raped me as if he were putting a city to the sack! And as if that were not enough, he wanted to leave some permanent mark upon me and so – and so he – he heated up the seal ring that he wears and pressed it, red hot, into my flesh. That is what he calls a night of love!'
With a cry of wrath, Jason sprang at the Russian with clenched fists raised to strike but Chernychev sidestepped quickly and, drawing his sword, pressed its point against his attacker's chest.
'Not so fast…! I may have been a trifle hasty that night and I acknowledge that 'night of love' was a slight exaggeration – at least where I was concerned. It would have been better applied to the man who came after me – the one with whom I fought a duel, my charmer, in your garden…'
Marianne shut her eyes. She felt sick with anger and despair. She seemed to be caught in a web of half- truths more damaging than any insults. Jason's face had taken on a grey tinge. Even his eyes, strangely emptied of expression, seemed to have lost their colour and become as grey as steel.
'Chernychev,' she murmured faintly, 'you are a villain!'
'I don't see why. You can scarcely accuse me of lying, my sweet. Unhappily I'd not have very far to go to call the man himself to be my witness. He can't be more than a day's march away at this moment. He is with Marshal Victor's corps which is pursuing Wittgenstein. But with your permission, we will finish this interesting conversation at another time. My men are blocking the way for those coming up behind. I'll order up mounts for you and—'
'Indeed you will not,' Jason interrupted him with ominous coolness. 'I am not going one step in your company, nor have I any reason to do so.'
The Russian half-closed his eyes so that they gleamed like bright green slits. Still smiling, he slowly lowered his sword.
'You think not? I can think of an excellent reason, and that is that you have no choice! Either you come with me and we settle our differences when we make camp tonight, or I have you shot as a spy. Because I am sure there are other reasons for your presence here than simply to bring my fair conquest to me. As to the lady herself, I have only to say the word – tell this crowd of people here precisely who she is – and she would be torn to pieces in five minutes. So choose – but choose fast.'
