gallop away into the distance until the trees of France came into sight again! She had begun to hate the vastness of Russia. It had closed on her like a fist. She was stifling in the cramped house, with its wood-panelled walls and the ceiling pressing down on her, and in the daily round of life that went on inside it. Soon, she knew, the snow would begin to fall and bury them, herself and Beyle and all the others who were bound in that place by the will of one man only. The will to leave was becoming a palpable thing in all of them – all save Napoleon, who continued to believe that all was well.
By the end of September, however, the news was not so good. Some of the couriers were seriously delayed and one actually failed to arrive at all. Worse still, a convoy of artillery wagons coming from Smolensk with an escort of two squadrons of cavalry was ambushed, only twenty versts from Moscow, by a band of cossacks and the escort taken prisoner. Two days after that, eighty Dragoons of the Guard were taken at Prince Galitzine's estate of Malo Wiasma. But Napoleon continued to review his Guard on the parade ground at the Kremlin, every day precisely at twelve noon.
Beyle grew increasingly depressed as the news continued to come in and, although he did his best, his jokes became fewer and fewer.
'We've enough to feed the army for six months,' he told Marianne, 'but I find these new tactics of the Russians very alarming. How much longer will we be able to keep our line of retreat open? They say there are bands of armed peasants roaming the countryside around Moscow. The cossacks, too, seem to be getting bolder. If the Emperor continues to be obstinate we shall soon find ourselves cut off, with our communications cut, at the mercy of the Russian army, which is presumably refitting somewhere, since Alexander has not deigned to give a sign of life.'
'But can't anyone make the Emperor see sense?'
'Berthier and Davout have both tried but Napoleon promptly began working out a plan to march on St Petersburg at once, so that they climbed down smartly. As for Caulaincourt, he no longer dares to open his mouth. The rest go to the theatre. A stage has been fitted up in the Pozniakoff Palace and Madame Bursay's company are performing
Early in October, Beyle fell ill of a bilious fever. Marianne was obliged to nurse him and found herself very soon out of patience with her patient. Like a great many men, he was a horrid invalid, moaning and grumbling, pleased with nothing, least of all his food. He lay in bed, looking as yellow as a quince and never opening his mouth except to complain, either of their treatment of him or his own intolerable sufferings. For in addition to the trouble with his liver, he was also a martyr to toothache. Marianne sat by him, finding it harder and harder to control the urge to dot him over the head with one of the innumerable pots of herb tea that Barbe concocted for him. Beyle's illness tried her hard, for in spite of his temporary absence from duty, news continued to arrive from the Kremlin, brought by the kindly Bonnaire, who was now recovered and came every evening to keep his colleague up to date with events.
In this way, they learned that the couriers were having more trouble than ever in getting through, and that Prince Schwarzenberg, in East Prussia, was complaining that his position was already awkward and threatening to become worse. The Prince of Neufchatel had tried once again to persuade Napoleon to leave Moscow and fall back towards Poland in order to avoid being cut off from his army. He had earned himself an acid rejoinder.
'You want to go to Grosbois, do you, to see the Visconti?'
When he heard that, the invalid was beside himself with fury.
'Mad! He's run mad! He'll get us all killed! It only needs Marshal Victor, Oudinot and Gouvion-Saint-Cyr to suffer a reverse on the Dvina and we are trapped without a hope of getting out alive. The Russians are getting bolder every day.'
The situation in Moscow certainly seemed to be deteriorating. Count Daru, the Minister in charge of Supplies, came one evening to call on his young relative – obliging Marianne to make herself scarce – and made no secret of his fears.
'The Russians have got to the stage of picking off men and horses foraging for food in the outskirts of the city itself. We have to give them massive escorts. The mails are getting worse every day. Half the couriers never arrive.'
Every night there seemed to be another piece of bad news to listen to, another stone added to the burden that lay on Marianne's heart. She was almost physically aware of the trap that was closing on her and those with her, so that when, one morning, she saw the Emperor himself ride past beneath her window, it was all she could do not to fling herself at his feet, crying to him to go and leave his insane obstinacy before he condemned them all to a lingering death from fear and the endless northern night that would soon descend. But he seemed to be wholly indifferent to his surroundings. He rode on calmly on Turcoman, one of his favourite mounts, one hand thrust into his waistcoat, smiling at the unusual autumnal sunshine that seemed to follow him and justify him in his stubborn determination.
'We'll never get out of here,' Marianne thought desperately. And now her sleep began to be troubled by nightmares.
On the twelfth of October, however, a somewhat better piece of news arrived. It took the form of a letter, addressed to Beyle from the Quartermaster's office and brought by the indefatigable Bonnaire.
Beyle read it and then handed the unfolded sheet to Marianne.
'Here, this concerns you.'
The letter was unsigned but there was no doubt who it came from. It was from Constant.
'There is now thought to be no hope of recovering the vanished lady,' he wrote. 'Consequently, certain persons are no longer useful. They were instructed to join the train of wounded leaving Moscow the day before yesterday, under the command of General Nansouty, although they will not be released until they reach France.'
Marianne screwed the letter into a ball and dropped it into the brick stove which took up a good half of the end wall of the room. Then she came back to where Beyle lay in bed, clasping her hands tightly together to keep them from trembling with excitement.
'Then my mind, too, is made up,' she said. 'There is no need for me to be a burden to you any longer, my friend, or to go on staying here. My friends have left and I must go too. With good horses, I should be able to catch them up. No convoy can travel fast if there are wounded.'
The sick man uttered a croak of laughter that ended in a fit of nervous coughing and a whole series of moans. He wiped his lips with his handkerchief and lay with his chin in his hands for a moment before he explained.
'Without a signed order from the Kremlin it is absolutely impossible to obtain so much as a donkey. The army has barely enough for its own needs, not counting remounts. Moreover, such animals as we have got are virtually on their last legs, however much we nurse them. And you need not tell me we have only to steal a pair because that, too, is impossible – unless you're tired of life!'
'Very well. Then I'll walk, but I'm going to leave somehow.'
'Don't talk such rubbish. It makes you sound like an idiot. You are quite mad! Walk, indeed! Six or seven hundred leagues on foot! Why not on your hands while you're about it? Besides, what would you eat? The convoys and the couriers have to take their own food with them at least as far as Smolensk because, thanks to our friends the Russians' pleasant little habit of burning everything behind them, there's not so much as a cabbage stalk to be found. Lastly,' he reminded her, 'the news from outside is alarming. Bands of furious peasants are attacking small groups of travellers. Alone, you would be in danger.'
He was really angry and had quite forgotten his own physical discomforts, but his anger dropped before Marianne's desperate face.
'But what can I do?' she stammered, almost in tears. 'I want to go so much! I'd give ten years of my life to go home!'
'So would I! Now, listen to me, and above all don't cry. When you cry it makes me stupid and feverish again. There may be some hope – if you will only be a little patient.'
'I will be patient, only tell me quickly.'
'Well then, Bonnaire brought me some news as well as this letter. Our situation is becoming worse every day and the Emperor is beginning to realize it. He has heard rumours that the Russians, far from being exhausted as the
