position.
'Your Highness is quite sure that the letter is genuine? The Foreign Office has never balked at forgery where its interests were concerned, nor do I see how secret clauses of the Treaty of Tilsit, how a letter addressed to the tsar in person—' She broke off, realizing that she had lost her audience. The two women had remained standing in the center of the room, but now the sultana was engaged in prowling slowly around and around her visitor. It was evident that she had quite lost interest in a political discussion to which she felt she had already given a sufficient answer, and she was subjecting Marianne's dress to the detailed scrutiny which any woman, be she empress or no, reserves for matters of such vital importance.
Nakshidil extended a cautious finger and stroked one of the full green satin sleeves with its frosting of crystal beads. She sighed.
'That dress is truly ravishing. I have never liked these long sheaths that Rose has made so fashionable. I preferred the hoops and frills of my youth. But this is enchanting. I wonder what I should look like in such a dress…'
Marianne was aware of a moment's hesitation while she adjusted herself to the ease with which the sultana passed from matters of state to feminine frivolities. Should she lend herself to the game? Was it simply an attempt to evade the subject, or had this woman who had risen to such dizzy heights still kept something of her incurable Creole frivolity? It did not take her long to decide. Smiling as if no word of politics had ever passed her lips, she said: 'I hardly dare to ask if Your Highness would care to try it on—'
Nakshidil's face was transformed instantly.
'Really? Would you let me?'
Even before Marianne could answer, a brief command had summoned the women whose duty it was to help their mistress to undress, another brought forth a tall, gold-framed mirror in which it was possible to see oneself from head to foot, and a third sealed the entrance to the pavilion.
A moment later Marianne found herself standing in her under-petticoat of fine lawn watching as Nakshidil stripped off sky-blue muslins faster than her women could assist her without snagging them. But the discarded veils were cast aside as contemptuously as if they had been a heap of old rags while one of the women proffered the dress which she had been helping Marianne to remove.
Divested of her clothes, the fair Creole stood up for a moment as naked as a fish and as coolly unconcerned about it as any woman long accustomed to the communal bathing and beauty care of the harem. And her young cousin saw to her amazement that her body was as smooth and faultless as that of a woman of thirty. There was no trace of slackness or of sagging flesh, not a discolored vein to be seen, and Marianne was reminded sadly of the lament she had heard so short a time before.
That form, with its voluptuous curves, recalled to her another daughter of those distant islands, Fortunee Hamelin. It was so obviously made for love, a perfect instrument designed to bend and vibrate to the fierce tempest of sensual passion which it had never truly known. Nor had the single pregnancy left the slightest trace. This beauty had the pointless, lonely splendor of a museum piece.
A feeling of profound pity swept over Marianne as Nakshidil emerged, as excited as a small girl, from the shimmering folds of the sea-green dress and let its heavy folds drape themselves about her. The dress was too long, its rightful owner being somewhat the taller of the two, but apart from that it fitted perfectly, so perfectly indeed that the sultana clapped her hands delightedly.
'Oh,' she cried, 'how I should love to own this dress!'
Marianne had a mental vision of herself returning to the embassy in her petticoat, since there was really nothing she could do but make a present of the dress. But, equal to anything that might help to save her mission and install her firmly in the sultana's good graces, she did not hesitate, but spoke up cheerfully: 'If Your Highness will lend me a cloak or something so that I may not shock people when I go back to the embassy, I shall be happy to present you with the dress since you like it so much.'
The blue eyes sparkled and gazed eagerly at Marianne.
'You would give me your dress?' Nakshidil said. 'Even though we do not resume our former relations with Napoleon?'
Marianne controlled herself sufficiently to give no sign. Her smile lost none of its warmth or sweetness and she managed to sustain a dignity and unconcern which came none too easily when dressed only in one's petticoat.
'Friendship is one thing,' she said quietly, 'and politics are quite another, very different as it seems to me. This is a gift from the heart—and I am only conscious of how unworthy it is. I wish I had something more precious to offer to Your Highness in token of my gratitude—'
The sultana's laugh held real amusement.
'I begin to think your emperor would be well advised to put you in Latour-Maubourg's place! You're a much better diplomat than he is—'
Then, picking up the skirts that were too long for her, she went to her visitor and hugged her with true Creole warmth.
Still with her arms around her, she went on with sudden seriousness: 'I can do nothing for your emperor, my child. Believe me, it is not from ill will. I don't even bear him any grudge over Rose's divorce or that notorious letter. There are such things as political necessities, I know that, and, as you say, these have nothing to do with human feelings. Those who serve them must forget that they have hearts—and sometimes consciences also. But things are going very badly for us on the Danube. My son, the sultan, yearns for a well-trained, modern army, but he has to meet the Russians with an undisciplined horde which, though gallant, is eaten with corruption. Its fighting methods are medieval and it is dominated by the janissaries, with their outdated ideas and vendettas. No wonder it suffers heavy losses. Our grand vizier is shut up in Rustchuk asking for assistance and calling for an armistice—'
'You would consider—making peace?' Marianne gasped with a sudden pang.
'Short of a miracle—and I don't believe in miracles when dealing with an empire that would gladly rob us of the Dardanelles—we shall have to make peace before the winter is out. Khaled, the grand vizier, makes no secret of his desire to treat with Kutuzov because he is under continual attack by Ataman Platov's cossacks and running short of men.'
'But you must hold out, Your Highness!' Marianne implored her. 'The emperor does not ask for your continued resistance without reason. Very soon now—'
'Nearly a year—'
'Sooner, perhaps. I can tell you that Marshal Davoust and your cousin, Prince Eugene, are gathering an immense army in Germany. If you can only hold out, the tsar will soon be forced to relieve you of Kutuzov. Your war is lost now, but Napoleon can turn the tables for you and give you victory—and the Danube principalities.'
Nakshidil, who had continued to hold Marianne within the warm circle of her arms, let her go and shrugged. The sadness of her smile was tinged with irony.
'Don't try to make me believe, Princess, that Napoleon is about to attack Alexander purely for the sake of helping us. I've told you, we ceased to have any illusions regarding his intentions toward us a long time ago. If he wants us to go on holding out there is one thing he can do—send us troops, a few regiments out of that immense army of his. Then perhaps the grand vizier might hold out, with more than the fifteen thousand men he has at present! Otherwise, it's impossible.'
'Will Mr. Canning bring you any better help?'
'Not in a military sense, no. But diplomatically, yes. When it comes to negotiating the peace, he is pledged to help us and to obtain the best possible terms from the tsar.'
'Oh, Your Highness,' Marianne said reproachfully, 'has the sultan so far forgotten his mother's country? Have you yourself forgotten it?'
'I have forgotten nothing,' Nakshidil said with a sigh. 'Unfortunately, my son has been taught to look on his mother's country with some distrust. Do you think Mahmoud can forget that one of his greatest enemies is French?'
'French? Who is that?'
'The governor of Odessa. For years now, that man has been building up a powerful city on the shores of the Black Sea, and, more important, a harbor for the ships that come out to attack us at the very mouth of the Bosporus. I am speaking of the Duc de Richelieu, the tsar's friend and more Russian than the Russians. Napoleon had better reckon with that irreconcilable emigre because he has the Tatar hordes at his beck.'
