'Why, shoot them, to be sure! Would you believe it, from all we can discover, these lads belong to the police—'
'Sergeant,' Marianne interrupted him, 'you would do well to make sure there are no more of their kind still at liberty. There is a rumour that the governor has left orders for the burning of Moscow.'
'We know that. They've even begun to try and carry it out. But we soon dealt with that. Never you trouble your pretty head for that, M'dame. Our Father of Victories knows what he's about.'
'Ah, have you any news? Is he here yet?'
'The Emperor? Not yet. But he won't be long now. Listen! I can hear them playing 'Victory is Ours'. That tune means he's not far off.'
Marianne picked up her skirts and ran.
The square outside the palace presented a remarkable sight. The troops bivouacked there might have been preparing for a masquerade, for most of them seemed to be engaged in trying on a variety of strange and exotic costumes. There were men so covered in furs that they could have been mistaken for bears, and others dressed as Kalmuks, Tartars, Chinamen, Turks, Persians and even as gentlemen of the time of Catherine the Great. Heaped all about them was such an assortment of every kind of foodstuff, sausages, hams, broached casks, fish, flour and sugar, that the scene resembled nothing so much as a vast, unlikely carnival. Like children, the soldiers were trying to compensate themselves in this way for the weeks of misery and wretchedness that they had endured on the interminable march. It was like the market place of Samarkand after the passing of Genghis Khan.
Then, all at once, everything stopped. The roll of drums and bellowed commands rose at last above the din. Slowly, the men began tugging off their finery and assumed a more military demeanour, lining up in such a way as to conceal the litter of supplies cluttering the square. The marching tune of the guards could still be heard for a moment or two longer, then that, too, died away and once again there was the deathly silence that had hung over Moscow twenty-four hours before. There was the clash of arms, a brief command or two, then, suddenly, a loud burst of cheering. The Emperor had arrived.
In spite of herself, Marianne held her breath and raised herself on tiptoe to get a better view. He was riding slowly, walking the Emir, one of his favourite mounts, dressed as he often was in the uniform of the chasseurs, with a thoughtful expression on his face and one hand thrust into the front of his waistcoat. He had eyes for nothing but the great red fortress he was about to enter and which glowed redder than ever in the light of the rising sun. Only now and then he let his gaze flicker for an instant towards the Bazaar, from which a black column of smoke was still rising.
'He's put on weight,' Gracchus whispered. 'He doesn't look well.'
He was right. Napoleon's face had a bilious yellow tinge and his figure had undoubtedly thickened. Curvetting around him were Berthier, Caulaincourt, Duroc, the Mameluke, Ali, and others whose identity Marianne was unable to make out. He lifted his hand in acknowledgement of the men's frenzied cheers and then the whole cavalcade, with a company of the 1st Chasseurs bringing up the rear, swept through the Saviour's Gate, where the Chasseurs instantly took up guard duties.
'Do you think they will let us in, Mademoiselle Marianne?' Gracchus asked uneasily. 'We don't look very respectable, with our clothes all dirty and everything.'
'There's no reason why they shouldn't. I saw the Grand Marshal there. I shall go and ask for him. Come on.'
Without more ado, she made her own way up to the great tower which housed the Saviour's Gate. But as Gracchus had predicted, the sentries refused to let her pass, although she stated her name and titles clearly.
'We've had no orders as yet,' she was told by a young lieutenant who could barely have dismounted from his horse. 'Wait a minute.'
'But I am only asking you to let Grand Marshal Duroc know that I am here. He is a friend of mine.'
'I daresay. But you must give him time to find his way about, and us to get our orders.'
Marianne waited patiently for a minute or two and then, as the officer seemed to have forgotten all about her, she returned to the attack. But with no more success than at first. The argument was threatening to become protracted when, by good fortune, a figure smothered in a good deal of gold lace appeared in the huge archway.
Marianne recognized him at once.
'There is Captain de Trobriant,' she said. 'Bring him to me.'
'You are out of date, Madame. He is a major now and our commanding officer. But I do not see—Here, you! Come back!'
But Marianne was tired of arguing and she had slipped under his arm, outstretched to bar her way, and was running towards his superior officer. Trobriant was, in fact, an old acquaintance. She had met him first on that memorable evening at Malmaison when she and Jason had succeeded in warning Napoleon of the attempt on his life planned by the Chevalier de Bruslart. Since then, the handsome officer of chasseurs had been a frequent visitor in the drawing-rooms of the Hotel d'Asselnat and it did not take him a second to know the pale, quietly dressed woman who came running towards him.
'You? But what are you doing here? On my oath, I'd no idea you were in Russia and I do not think the Emperor himself—'
'It is the Emperor I am here to see. Please, Trobriant, get me inside. You know me. I am not mad or hysterical but I must speak to His Majesty at once. What I have to tell him is of the greatest importance. It concerns the safety of all—'
He stared into her eyes for a moment and what he saw there must have convinced him for he drew her arm through his without another word.
'Come,' he said.
Then, turning to the subaltern, he added: 'Let in the young man with the Princess Sant'Anna, Breguet. He is her coachman.'
'How was I to guess that?' Breguet muttered. 'How can a man tell a coachman without coach or horses – any more than a princess dressed like a chambermaid.'
'No one expects it of you.' Trobriant smiled at Marianne. 'I trust I shall be able to find my way about this barracks of a palace. Perhaps you know it better than I do?'
'By no means. I have only just come here myself.'
In the officer's company, she passed through courts and gardens dotted with churches and palace buildings, making for the largest of them all, an amazing mixture of gothic and modern styles the bulk of which had been erected by the Tsarina Elizabeth. Soldiers were settling in all around them and the Emperor's servants were already making themselves at home in their new quarters.
'Is the Emperor pleased?' Marianne asked as they climbed a broad marble staircase.
'You mean is he in a good temper?' the officer said, laughing. 'Yes, I think so. As he rode into the courtyard just now, I heard him exclaim: 'So at last I am in Moscow, in the Kremlin, the ancient palace of the Tsars!' I'm glad he took it like that because when we entered the city and saw it so deserted we feared the disappointment would be too great. But no – the Emperor thinks the people are afraid and will come out of hiding when they see that he means them no harm.'
Marianne shook her head sadly. 'They are not going to come out, my friend. This whole city is one enormous trap.'
She said no more because just then they came into a huge gallery in the midst of which the Master of Ceremonies, the Comte de Segur, and the Prefect of the Palace, the Marquis de Bausset, both of whom had arrived the previous evening to prepare quarters for the staff, were busy explaining the billeting arrangements to the people crowding the room.
All of them were far too busy to take any notice of the new arrivals and Trobriant, catching sight of the impassive figure of the Mameluke, Ali, standing with folded arms before a great inlaid door, steered a course towards him.
'Is the Emperor within?'
Ali nodded, indicating that Napoleon was in his bedchamber in the company of his valet.
'Constant?' Marianne cried. 'He is just the man I need! Go and fetch him, for the love of heaven! Tell him the Princess Sant'Anna is here and wishes to see His Majesty upon the instant.'
A minute later, Napoleon's Flemish valet came hurrying through the door and literally fell upon Marianne, for
