Marianne and the Crown of Fire

'And yet, Sire, it is true. I beg you to believe me! Your troops are not responsible for this tragedy. Rostopchin alone—'

The imperial gaze fell wrathfully on her.

'Are you still here, Madame? At this hour a respectable woman should be in her bed. Return to yours!'

'And there wait patiently until my blankets are on fire and I may burn to death proclaiming my loyalty to the Emperor who is always right? No, thank you, Sire. If you will not listen to me, I would rather be gone from here.'

'And where to, if I may ask?'

'Anywhere, as long as it is out of here! I've no desire to wait until it is no longer possible to get out of this accursed palace! Or to form part of the holocaust Rostopchin has prepared to the memory of the Russian troops slain at the Moskva! You may do so if you like, Sire, but I am young and I still wish to live. And so, with your permission—' She swept a curtsy. But the reminder of his recent victory had calmed the Emperor. Bending forward suddenly he took the tip of her ear between his fingers and pulled it, with a force that drew a yelp from her.

'Calm yourself, Princess,' he said, smiling. 'You will not persuade me that you are afraid. Not you! As to your departure hence, we forbid it. If it becomes necessary to leave, we shall do so together. But for the present, let me tell you, there is no such necessity. You have my permission only to withdraw and rest yourself. We breakfast at eight.'

But Marianne was not fated to return to her room just yet. As the uneasy crowd which had filled the gallery began to disperse, a platoon of soldiers entered briskly, led by General Durosnel, escorting a number of men dressed in a species of green uniform and several long-haired moujiks, apparently prisoners. Lelorgne d'Ideville, the Emperor's interpreter, came hurrying after them. The Emperor, who had been about to return to his own apartments, turned frowning.

'Now what is it? Who are these men?'

Durosnel told him.

'They are called boutechniks, Sire. They are the law officers whose duty it is to keep order in the streets. They were caught with lighted torches in the act of setting fire to a shop selling wines and spirits. These beggars were with them, assisting them.'

Napoleon started and his glowering gaze went, automatically, to Marianne's.

'Are you sure of this?'

'Quite sure, Sire. Furthermore there are witnesses, in addition to these men who apprehended them – some Polish shopkeepers of the neighbourhood who are coming after us.'

Silence followed this. Napoleon began pacing up and down slowly in front of the group of frightened prisoners, his hands clasped behind his back, throwing occasional glances at the men, who held their breath instinctively. Suddenly, he stopped.

'What have they to say for themselves?'

Baron d'Ideville stepped forward.

'They claim that they were ordered to set fire to the whole city by Governor Rostopchin before—'

'That is not true!' the Emperor cried. 'It cannot be true because it does not make sense. The men are lying. They are simply trying to shuffle off responsibility for their crimes, hoping it may earn them a measure of leniency.'

'Then they must be in collusion, Sire, for here come some more of them and I'll wager we will hear the same tale from them.'

It was true, another group had appeared, in charge of Marianne's old acquaintance, Sergeant Bourgogne. This time, however, they were followed by an elderly Jew with scorchmarks on his gown. It was he who, with a great many bows and sighs, explained how, but for the providential arrival of the sergeant and his men, he would have been burned, along with the entire contents of a grocer's shop.

'It's impossible!' Napoleon repeated several times. 'Impossible!' But his voice was losing some of its assurance. It was as if the repetition was intended, above all, to convince himself.

'Sire,' Marianne intervened quietly, 'these men would rather destroy Moscow than see you enjoy it. That may be a primitive emotion, but it is a facet of love. You yourself, if Paris were in question—'

'Paris? Burn Paris if the enemy took it? Now indeed you have run mad! I am not one to bury myself in the ruins. A primitive emotion, say you? These people may be Scythians but they have no right to sacrifice the work of many generations to the pride of one. And what is more—'

But Marianne had ceased to listen to him. Instead, she was staring in horrified fascination at two men standing, deep in argument, at the entrance to the gallery. One was the court's master of ceremonies, the Comte de Segur. The other was a diminutive priest in a black soutane whom she recognized without difficulty but with great uneasiness. What was Cardinal de Chazay doing here, in the presence of the man he had consistently opposed? What was his business? Why did he want to see the Emperor, for his arrival at the Kremlin in the middle of the night could have no other meaning?

Before she could so much as hazard a guess, Segur and his companion had joined the group. Napoleon was already giving out fresh orders, saying that he wanted patrols sent out to every district where the fires had not yet struck and a thorough house-to-house search for more men of the same kind as those still standing sheepishly before him.

'What is to be done with these?' Durosnel asked.

The sentence was quick and merciless.

'We cannot take prisoners. Hang them or shoot them, as you will. They are felons in any case.'

'But Sire, they are mere tools—'

'A spy is likewise a tool and yet he can look for no mercy. There is nothing to prevent you from running Rostopchin to earth and hanging him too. Away!'

Their departure left the way open for the master of ceremonies and his companion. Segur advanced to meet the Emperor.

'Sire,' he said, 'here is the Abbe Gauthier, a French priest, who is most anxious to speak to you regarding the present disturbances. He claims to possess reliable information.'

For no ascertainable reason, Marianne's heart missed a beat and she felt as if an iron hand had suddenly clamped down on her windpipe. While Segur was speaking, she had caught her godfather's eye and read in it such a hardness of purpose that it sent a chill up her spine. Never before had she seen in him this icy calm, this authority, wordlessly forbidding her to interfere in what might come. But it was only for a moment. Then the priest was bowing with the assumed awkwardness of one unused to consorting with the great ones of the world.

Napoleon, meanwhile, was observing him closely.

'You are a Frenchman, Monsieur l'Abbe? An emigre perhaps?'

'No, Sire. A humble priest but, owing to my knowledge of latin, I was engaged some years since to tutor the children of Count Rostopchin in that noble language, and also in French.'

'A language no less noble, Monsieur l'Abbe. So you were a member of the household of one who, I am told, although I cannot believe it, is an incendiary?'

'And yet you must believe it, Sire. I am in a position to assure your Majesty that those were indeed the governor's orders. The city was to be razed to the ground, and the Kremlin also.'

'But this is absurd! It is pure madness!'

'No, Sire. It is the Russian way. There is only one way for your Majesty to save this ancient and renowned city.'

'And what is that?'

'Leave it. Withdraw from it immediately. There is still time. Abandon your intention to remain here and go back to France, and then the fires will stop.'

'How can you be sure of this?'

'I heard the Count give his orders. He has left certain trusted men who know where to find the fire engines. It could all be over in an hour… if your Majesty were to announce your immediate withdrawal.'

Clasping her hands tightly together, Marianne listened breathlessly to this exchange which, to her, was totally incomprehensible. She could not imagine why her godfather should be trying to save the imperial army on pretence of saving Moscow. At the same time something which the Duc de Richelieu had said in Odessa recurred unbidden to her mind: 'He is going to Moscow where a great task awaits him, should the wretched Corsican ever