Chapter 9
The General of the Shadows
THE ancient Podolian stronghold of Khadjibey, rebuilt by the Turks and recovered by the Russians, had no doubt gained in strength and impregnability under its different owners but by no means in comfort. The cell into which Marianne was thrust unceremoniously, foaming with rage, was small and damp with grimy walls and a triple-barred window looking out at a gray wall and a line of stunted trees. Even the sight of these trees, however, was forbidden to the prisoners since the window glass had everywhere been whitewashed over so that a kind of fog seemed to hang over the prison even in bright sunshine.
The only furniture was a bed, consisting of nothing more than a plank and some straw, a heavy table and a stool, all three items bolted to the floor. An oil lamp stood in a recess but even this was behind bars, as though for fear the occupants of the cell might try to set fire to it.
After the massive door slammed shut behind her, Marianne remained for a moment sitting dazedly on the straw mattress where her guards had thrown her. It had all occurred so quickly that she could hardly take in where she was or what had happened to her.
There had been that woman, the wretched creature who had used her father's name as an excuse to reach her, to melt her heart and so get money from her! But what was the purpose of this charade? To obtain the money and ensure that she was spared the necessity of paying it back? That seemed to be the only explanation, for it was impossible to think of any other motive for such a diabolical trick. Revenge or feminine jealousy was ruled out since she and Madame de Gachet had only set eyes on one another for the first time in the entrance hall of the hotel. Marianne could not remember ever having heard her name mentioned before and even Jolival, although thinking he had met that devil in female form somewhere, could not recall when or where, or even put a name to her.
As her initial bewilderment passed, Marianne was seized again by the anger which had swept over her as she found herself apprehended like a common thief. With a roaring in her head and a red light before her eyes, she saw again the officer's triumphant expression as he pulled the diamond from her bag, the anger and mortification on the hotel proprietor's face and the gaping wonder of those other inmates of the hotel who had been attracted by the fuss at the sight of the magnificent stone.
'Oh, no!' Ducroux had cried out. 'It can't be true!'
It had been open to doubt whether this last remark was called forth to the splendor of the diamond or his own disappointment in his ravishing young guest. But with such evidence against her, how could she deny it? Especially since the devilish countess had taken good care not to show herself. And now what was to become of her?
After a little while, however, she began to take some comfort in the thought that Jolival was still at liberty. He would be bound to learn of this catastrophe as soon as he returned to the hotel and he would hurry straight to the governor to put an end to the dreadful mistake before it could end in a miscarriage of justice. But would he manage to see Richelieu in time to rescue Marianne from her present predicament? It seemed not unlikely, even highly probable, in fact: if the governor were anything like the gentleman his rank implied, he would never permit his old friend's name to be mixed up in such a fearful scandal.
She soon managed to convince herself that they would come for her before long and question her in some language she could understand. Then she would be able to make them listen to her, insist on being confronted with that dreadful woman, and then everything would be all right. They would even have to apologize to her, because after all she was the injured party, it was she who had been cheated out of five thousand rubles and with the most blatant effrontery. Well, they would see which rang clearer, the voice of truth or the voice of lies. How she looked forward to seeing the old harridan take her place in this cell…
Her spirits much restored, she was meditating along these lines when the brooding silence of the old prison was broken by a variety of sounds. There was the thud of heavy boots, the clatter of weapons and raised voices rising above the sounds of a struggle. To her horror, Marianne recognized that one of those voices was Jolival's.
'You have no right,' he was protesting furiously at the top of his voice, 'I tell you I'm a Frenchman, do you hear, a Frenchman! You have no right to lay hands on me! I demand to see the governor—I wish to see the Duc de Richelieu. Ri-che-lieu! For God's sake, why won't you listen to me, damn you?'
The last words ended in a kind of agonized grunt which told Marianne sickeningly that they must have struck the prisoner to quiet him.
Clearly, the unfortunate vicomte had been apprehended on his return to the hotel, perhaps even without a word of explanation. He must be totally bewildered by what was happening to him.
She flung herself at the door and pressed her face against the grating, screaming out: 'Arcadius! I'm here… close by! They've arrested me too! It was that woman, Arcadius, that horrible Madame de Gachet!'
But there was no answer beyond another cry of pain, further away this time, followed by the noise of a door being opened and shut again with a great crashing of bolts. Then a frenzy of rage seized Marianne. She hammered at the thick oaken door with hands and feet, screaming insults and abuse in a variety of languages in the crazy hope that one of the dumb brutes who had arrested them might catch some fragments of what she was saying, and demanding that someone be sent at once to inform the Duc de Richelieu.
The effects of this clamor were not long in coming. The door of her prison was pulled open so suddenly that she almost tumbled into the passage. What prevented her was a hand belonging to a gigantic individual with a completely bald head, as though all his capacity for growing hair were concentrated in the enormous gingery mustache that dropped on either side of his mouth. With one thrust of his great hand he sent her reeling back onto the straw, at the same time shouting at her in words she did not understand but which evidently contained a crude request to make less noise.
After which, the better to drive home his message, he took a long whip from his belt and laid about her back and shoulders with a force that made her scream aloud.
The thought that she was being treated like a vicious animal was the last straw to Marianne's temper. Writhing off the bed, she twisted like a snake and sprang, biting the man savagely on the wrist.
The jailer roared like a slaughtered ox. He tore her off and hurled her bodily across the room, to lie half- dazed by a few more blows from his whip. Then he left her.
She lay for a long while on the floor, incapable of movement. Her back and shoulders hurt abominably and she had a struggle to calm the frantic beating of her heart. Such was the fury and indignation that possessed her that in spite of the pain of the blows she had not shed a single tear.
What kind of people were these who maltreated their prisoners like that? Out of the depths of her memory she recalled things Princess Morousi had told her while she had been staying in her house. Justice, in Russia, was swift and summary. Often, those unfortunate enough to offend the tsar or his representatives would simply disappear. They would be sent in chains to the farthest reaches of Siberia to rot in the mines. They never came back because cold, hunger and ill-treatment very soon opened for them the way to what could only have been a better world.
Perhaps that was the horrid fate which awaited her and Jolival. If the Duc de Richelieu, that dedicated enemy of Napoleon, were ever to discover who she really was, then certainly nothing could save them from living death, unless the despot of new Russia should prefer to follow the fashion of his Turkish neighbors and drop them in the Black Sea with a stone around their necks.
At the thought of the governor, all her earlier anger revived. What kind of man must he be to permit such savage customs in the land where he was master? Surely the most hateful and contemptible of beings. How dared he bear the name of the greatest enemy of feudalism whom France had produced until Napoleon and suffer himself to play the lackey to a Muscovite tsar, the ruler of a race of men more barbarous even than the rudest savages, at least if her own galling recollections of the handsome Count Chernychev were anything to go by!
Painfully, she dragged herself to her feet at last, but only to collapse once more helplessly on her bed. Her back was hurting her and she was beginning to shiver violently in her thin silk dress, now rent and torn by the jailer's whip. She was cold in her dank cell. She was thirsty too, but the water in her pitcher, when she succeeded in lifting it with an effort to her lips, tasted horribly brackish and slimy, as if it had not been renewed for many days.
In an effort to obtain some meager warmth, she huddled as best she could into the straw, trying to avoid
