'You will heal fast,' she said, with satisfaction. 'You have no sign of fever, even after all you have been through. Santa Madona, you must have a wonderfully sound constitution!'

'What's more, I'm very lucky – most of all in meeting you.'

'Bah!' Vania sang softly under her breath: "Luck is a woman…" And I might say the same. I have long wanted to meet you.'

Neither woman was long in falling asleep but Marianne's was restless and uneasy. The day had been a long and trying one for her: the panic-stricken streets, the meeting with Chernychev, the duel, Jason's arrest, then the gipsy's murderous attack and her own wound, ah culminating in their escape from the blazing building and the flight through the pouring rain, had given her a terrible battering. While her body slept, her mind, freed from its control, beat about like a frantic bird, finding no rest. She was still a prey to all the terrors which had assailed her but had been temporarily set at a distance by a warm-hearted, picturesque angel in a fiery robe and an absurd head-dress of feathers.

Strangely enough, she found herself caught up once more in the old dream which had so often haunted her. The sea – the sea rising in angry waves and making a foam-flecked barrier between her and the ship that was sailing away from her with all sails set. Despite the fury of the waves, she was fighting desperately to reach it, struggling with every ounce of strength and willpower until, just as she was about to sink, a vast hand came out over the sea and descended to pluck her from the abyss. But tonight the sea was red and no hand appeared. What came was something else, something that touched and shook her lightly. Marianne started awake to see her godfather bending over her and gently shaking her.

'Come,' he whispered. 'Out into the passage. I must speak to you.'

Marianne glanced quickly at her companion but Vania, curled up in the Abbé Surugue's tablecloth, was sleeping like a child and showed no signs of waking when her friend rustled the straw in rising.

The passage was in darkness. Only the lamp burning at the street door lightened the gloom a little, enough at least to show that the place was deserted. Even so, Marianne and the cardinal stayed in the archway of the door.

'I'm sorry I had to wake you,' the cardinal said. 'I see that you are hurt?'

'It's nothing. I was hit – in the crowd,' Marianne lied, feeling herself unequal to the business of a long explanation.

'Good, because you must be gone from this house first thing in the morning, and from Moscow as well. From Moscow most of all. I can't understand how you come to be here at all. I thought you at sea, on your way to France.'

He spoke shortly, as though he had been running, and his breath smelled sour and feverish, nor was there the least tenderness in his tone, but rather a kind of querulous irritation.

'I might say the same to you,' Marianne retorted. "What is Cardinal San Lorenzo doing in Moscow, disguised as a verger, just when the Emperor is about to enter the city?'

In that dim light, she caught the flash of anger in the churchman's eyes.

That is no concern of yours. And I have no time now for explanations. Go, I tell you. Fly this city, for it is doomed.'

'By whom? And to what fate? Do you think Napoleon is mad enough to destroy it? That is not his way. He hates plunder and destruction. If he takes Moscow, Moscow has nothing to fear.'

'Ask me no questions, Marianne. Do as I tell you. Your safety, your very life depends on it. Who is this woman with you?'

'Vania di Lorenzo. She is a famous singer – and a very good-hearted person.'

'I know of the singer, but nothing of her heart. Never mind. She must know something of the city and I am glad that you are not alone. You will leave here in the morning – almost at once, indeed, for it will soon be light. Ask her to show you the road taken by those travelling to Siberia. At Kuskovo, you will find the house of Count Sheremetiev. It is not far, not more than a league and a half. The Count is a friend. Tell him you are my goddaughter. He will give you a welcome and you may wait there until I come to you.'

'Should I tell him also that I am Princess Sant'Anna, the friend of the Emperor? I think that might serve to cool his welcome somewhat,' Marianne said ironically. Then, speaking very firmly, she went on: 'No, Godfather. I am not going to Kuskovo. I am sorry to go against your wishes. It is the first time in my life that I have ever done so intentionally. But I have no business there and I mean to stay in Moscow.'

She felt the cardinal's cold, dry hand clasp hers suddenly in the darkness.

'How stubborn you are,' he said crossly. 'Why do you insist on staying? It is to see him, is it not? Admit that you are waiting for Bonaparte!'

'There is no reason for me not to admit it, if you must put it so. Yes, I am waiting for the Emperor. I wish to speak to him.'

'What about?'

Marianne recognized that she was on slippery ground. In another moment she would forget that Gauthier de Chazay was one of the Corsican's most deadly enemies and allow him to guess something of the information she carried. She caught herself just in time and answered, after only the slightest hesitation: 'About my friends who are lost. I came here with Jolival and Jason Beaufort and his lieutenant, an Irishman named O'Flaherty, but I have lost them all. Jolival and O'Flaherty yesterday, in the crowd in Red Square, while Jason was made prisoner by the Russians after wounding Count Chernychev in a duel.'

She thought the cardinal would burst with rage at that.

'Fool! Three times fool! A duel! In a city in a state of total uproar and with one of the Tsar's favourites into the bargain! And what was this duel all about?'

'About me,' Marianne snapped back at him, no longer troubling to keep her voice down. 'It's about time you stopped regarding all my friends as rogues and vagabonds and your own as saints. I'm not likely to find Jolival or Craig O'Flaherty at Count Sheremetiev's house. Nor even my poor Jason. Heaven knows what the cossacks will have done with him! He may not even be still alive!'

The cardinal heard the break in her voice and his own softened perceptibly.

'Of course he is – unless his opponent has died, in which case… well, Sheremetiev may still be able to help you find him. He has a great deal of influence and any number of friends with the army. Go to him, I beg you.'

But after a short struggle with herself, she shook her head. "Not until I have found Jolival. After that, yes, I may do so. There is not much else I can do. In return – you seem to have such powerful connections, to have so much influence yourself, please, won't you try to find out what has become of Jason? If you will do that, then I will go to Kuskovo.'

What she did not say was that she needed Jolival to help her carry out her self-imposed mission to Napoleon, without which she would not sail for America.

Now it was the cardinal's turn to hesitate. At last he shrugged.

'Tell me how and where this idiotic duel took place. Where do you think the cossacks were taking this American of yours?'

'I don't know. They only said the Ataman should decide what was to be done with him. As to the duel…' She described it briefly, mentioning the part played by Prince Aksakov, and waited for what her godfather should say.

He was silent for a moment, then he muttered: 'I think I know where Ataman Platov is to be found. I will see what I can do. But you must do as I tell you. Try to find your friends if you must, but be sure you are out of Moscow by tomorrow evening. Your life depends on it.'

'But won't you tell me why?'

'That I cannot do. It is out of my power. But I implore you to listen to me. By the evening of tomorrow, the fifteenth of September, you must be at Kuskovo. I will see you there.'

Without another word, Gauthier de Chazay turned and left her, his small, dark shape seeming to melt into the shadows of the passage.

Marianne went back to her cupboard where Vania was still sleeping soundly. She lay down beside her and, feeling somewhat comforted by the thought that she had entrusted the search for Jason to someone qualified to undertake it, did her best to forget the mysterious danger hanging over her. In any case, she had nearly thirty-six hours before her. And so, this time, when she fell asleep she did not dream.

She was woken by a sound of trumpet calls and, opening her eyes, saw in the light of the candle, for no daylight penetrated their retreat, Vania struggling into a black dress which, although a trifle tight for her, was nevertheless more suitable to the occasion, and certainly less conspicuous than Dido's flowing robes. She was, however, experiencing a good deal of difficulty, having omitted to undo the sash, and was swearing freely in several languages at once.

Marianne made haste to extricate her by unfastening the knot and pulling the dress down over her head.

'Thank you!' Vania gasped, emerging red-faced and dishevelled, from the suffocating folds of cloth. 'I have our host's generosity to thank for this elegant garment. He brought it a minute ago. I suppose he had it as a donation from some charitable lady – but I could wish her charity had gone so far as to make it a new one,' she added, with a grimace. 'I don't care for her scent at all – or for the smell it's meant to cover up!'

Sleep and Vania's ointment had worked wonders. Marianne's shoulder was stiff but much less painful and she was sure she had no fever at all.

'What time is it?' she asked.