A port! Marianne started at the word. A port meant the sea, the best possible way of escape. She had been trapped in this vast country for so long that she had almost forgotten the sea existed. In an instant the old dream, so painfully buried beneath the rocks of reason and the promise that had been extracted from her, shivered and tried to raise itself again. Danzig. It was there that she had tried to make Jason go, there that she had hoped to take ship, with Napoleon's blessing, bound for the high seas and the land of liberty. It was there, perhaps, that the great vice that was crushing her would loose its hold.
All of a sudden she felt a wild, irresistible longing to reach that city and its port. The small amount of gold that she had managed to save, sewn into her chemise, might be enough to buy her a passage on one of those contraband ships of which Solomon had spoken. And after that would come the cold seas and the perilous shores of all those countries where the Emperor ruled, but there might be another port also, and another ship… Then the vast ocean, spread like a giant sail from pole to pole, and beyond the ocean – America, and another war, and that special America of Marianne's, whose name was Jason Beaufort.
She was so lost in her own dreams that she did not notice that Solomon had stopped speaking and was looking at her, obviously expecting her to say something.
'Well?' he asked, when she still gave no sign. Marianne started and stared at him blinking like someone only half-awake. Then she smiled.
'It's wonderful,' she breathed. 'How can I ever thank you for what you are doing for us? Why are you so generous?'
The old Jew's shoulders lifted a little under his faded robe. He went to the far end of the room and a small panel in the wall, perfectly concealed by the pattern of the hanging, opened as if by magic under his agile fingers. He took out a package wrapped in a dirty cloth and, after first shutting the cupboard again with the same conjuring trick as before, brought it to the table. A second later, the package had passed from his hands to Marianne's. She stared at it without understanding.
'Give that to Ishak. Tell him to lay out half of it as he knows and return the remainder to me in the form of merchandise, of which he also knows.'
Automatically, Marianne undid the cloth and looked, with Barbe craning over her shoulder. They uttered a simultaneous gasp of amazement. There, nestling in the folds, gleamed six flawless pearls as big as quails' eggs.
As Marianne looked up at him with a question in her eyes, the old man coughed a little and pulled vaguely at his wispy grey beard. His eyes twinkled suddenly as he murmured: 'I – er – found them, during the fighting, in the Church of the Assumption. If they were found here, I should hang for it.'
'And if they're found on us?' Marianne asked.
'Ah, well – then I suppose you would be likely to hang too, but it will at least release you from the intolerable burden of gratitude. If those things get to Ishak, we shall be quits.'
There was nothing particularly funny in it, yet Marianne was beset by a sudden urge to laugh, as she thought of the brilliant still lying on her breast. The diamond taken from a notorious thief – and now these pearls got from a Virgin who, in Russia, must amount to much the same! If she died in this adventure, those who came to strip her corpse would surely make their fortunes. But she had never been afraid of danger, especially when she saw beyond it the way out of a desperate situation.
'Very well,' she said gaily. 'I'll undertake this commission for you. And in spite of it, I'll still say thank you!'
An hour later, when Marianne and Barbe were up in their attic sleeping the sleep of the just, Solomon Levin, enveloped in an immense furred gown that made him look as broad as he was long, slipped cautiously out of his house and through the snowy streets to the city wall. He passed through, by way of a breach made earlier by the French guns, and made his way swiftly to the Jewish cemetery. As he walked, he smiled into his beard and now and then he rubbed his hands together, perhaps to warm them.
CHAPTER NINE
The Last Bridges
There were a dozen of them barring the road where the snow was trodden hard by horses' hooves. But more could be seen, patrolling in small groups, among the trees that clothed the sides of the valley. Cossacks! Straight- legged in their long stirrups, they looked like barbaric statues, no different, except in the colour of their clothes, from those that Marianne had seen on the banks of the Kodyma: bearded men with fierce eyes, dressed in coarse red or blue wool. They wore shaggy fur hats or flat caps and carried long, red lances and their little spirited horses seemed swamped under the high painted wooden saddles.
Motionless, in spite of the fierce wind from the north that drove the powdery snow at them in great gusts, they watched the approaching vehicle. Barbe, who was driving, gritted her teeth so hard that the line of her jaw showed clearly through the white skin but she said nothing, and went on. Only the snowlight reflected back from her eyes with a harder brightness. Sensing danger, Marianne coughed to hide her anxiety and jerked her head at the river whose grey and swollen waters, flecked with fragments of ice, hurried past to the left of them.
'The bridge? Is it far?'
'Three or four versts,' Barbe answered, her eyes still on the riders ahead. 'We want to get over quickly. There's a storm coming up. But with those—'
The weather was certainly threatening. Thick, black clouds were rolling up at frightening speed, driven by the north wind that froze the skin and brought tears to the eyes.
It was an hour since the two of them had left the little town of Borisov, on the right bank of the Berezina, where they had found shelter for the night in the home of a dealer in second-hand clothes. For the first time in the ten days since they had left Smolensk they had had some trouble in finding a lodging, for the troops of the Russian Admiral Chichakov were billeted there, moving into position to deal the final blow to Napoleon.
The whole town was overrun with soldiers and even the secondhand clothes dealer, Jew though he was, had little more than his shop for himself. If it had not been for Solomon Levin's letter, he would probably have rejected his unwanted visitors out of hand, since they were not even of his own race, but the merchant of Smolensk seemed to possess great influence among those of his faith. Out of deference to him, the second-hand clothes dealer had allowed the travellers to spend the night in his woodshed, along with their horse and cart. They had slept badly but at least they had been sheltered from the cold.
As far as Borisov, things had gone better than they could possibly have hoped. The cold had not been unbearable, two or three degrees below zero at most, and thanks to Solomon their travelling arrangements were both sound and unremarkable. Their little kibitka, although it needed a coat of paint and looked shabby enough to attract no covetous eyes, was equal to the worst roads, while the little, shaggy horse that drew it was strong and sturdy and well shod for going on ice. What was more, they carried with them oats, food and blankets and even weapons, a gun and two hunting knives, intended chiefly for defence against wolves, made bolder by the winter and the snow.
On those nights when there was no town for them to stay in, Barbe made sure that they pulled up to sleep in a wood, where they were sheltered from the wind. Then she would light a fire, to keep off wild animals. She was used to camping and her knowledge was precious to them now. She had the strength and courage of a man, and with it a placidity that was a great comfort. What was more, ever since officially entering Marianne's service in Moscow, she seemed to have given up drinking. It was true that little opportunity to do so had come her way, but it was she who had insisted on the careful rationing of the little cask of brandy Solomon had placed in the cart: a thimbleful for each of them every night for warmth. And so, little by little, a kind of friendship was growing, with no word spoken and no outward sign, between the one-time camp follower and her aristocratic mistress.
Until now, they had encountered no serious unpleasantness. The worst moment had been when they were leaving Orcha and some stones had been thrown at them by Christians in the town as they came out of the house of the money-changer, Zabulon. But neither had been hit.
Now and then they had caught a glimpse of a line of cossack horsemen etched against the clear line of the sky. Then the wind sweeping over the plain had brought to them the disturbing strains of a wild singing, matched to the beat of the horses' hooves, quickening as they passed from a walk to a trot and swelling tempestuously at the
