Marianne answered him unhesitatingly.

'Yes,' she said, 'to tell the truth there was. But I thought better of it. If Jason wanted me as much as I want him, he would be here, in Moscow, at this very minute, looking for me, calling my name at the top of his voice.'

'How do you know he isn't?'

'You need not play the devil's advocate, my friend. You know as well as I that he is not. Jason is riding away from us, you may be sure. Really, it's nothing more than I deserve. I was a fool. Why did I have to get him out of prison in Odessa and follow him here? If I had left him with Richelieu, he would have stayed quietly where he was all through his country's wretched war with England, unless, of course, he managed to escape. But I opened the cage door myself and, like any wild bird, he flew away and left me. It serves me right.'

'Marianne, Marianne, you are very bitter,' the Vicomte said gently. 'I am not the man to defend him, but it's possible that you are painting him blacker than he is.'

'No, Jolival. I ought to have understood long ago. He is what he is – and I have only got my deserts. There is a limit to how stupid—'

Her torrent of self-criticism and disillusionment was broken into suddenly by a loud babble of voices among which Marianne had no difficulty in picking out the Emperor's metallic tones. A moment later, the doors of the imperial suite were flung open and Napoleon himself swept through them. He was in his dressing-gown, his hair on end and the nightcap he had just snatched off still in his hand.

There was instant silence. The hubbub of conversation died away as the Emperor's fulminating eye travelled over the assembled company.

"Why are you all standing here chattering like a flock of old women? Why was I not called? Why are you none of you at your posts? Fires are breaking out everywhere on account of the indiscipline of my troops and the careless way the inhabitants of this city are leaving their houses—'

'Sire!' The protest came from a handsome blond giant whose Nordic features were framed in a pair of luxuriant golden whiskers. 'Sire, the men are no more to blame for the fires than we ourselves! It is the Muscovites themselves—'

'Come, come! They tell me the city is given over to pillage. The soldiers are breaking down doors, bursting into cellars, carrying off tea, coffee, furs, wines and spirits. Well, I will not have it! You, Marshal, are Governor of Moscow. Put an end to this disorder!'

Marshal Mortier, at whom this censure was directed, made a movement of protest which doubled as a gesture of helplessness, then turned and vanished down the stairs, followed by two officers of his staff.

Meanwhile, Napoleon was declaiming: 'The Muscovites! The Muscovites! It's easy to blame the Muscovites! I cannot believe these people would set fire to their own houses to deprive us of a night's lodging!'

Courageously, Marianne made her way towards him.

'And yet, Sire, it is true. I beg you to believe me! Your troops are not responsible for this tragedy. Rostopchin alone—'

The imperial gaze fell wrathfully on her.

'Are you still here, Madame? At this hour a respectable woman should be in her bed. Return to yours!'

'And there wait patiently until my blankets are on fire and I may burn to death proclaiming my loyalty to the Emperor who is always right? No, thank you, Sire. If you will not listen to me, I would rather be gone from here.'

'And where to, if I may ask?'

'Anywhere, as long as it is out of here! I've no desire to wait until it is no longer possible to get out of this accursed palace! Or to form part of the holocaust Rostopchin has prepared to the memory of the Russian troops slain at the Moskva! You may do so if you like, Sire, but I am young and I still wish to live. And so, with your permission—' She swept a curtsy. But the reminder of his recent victory had calmed the Emperor. Bending forward suddenly he took the tip of her ear between his fingers and pulled it, with a force that drew a yelp from her.

'Calm yourself, Princess,' he said, smiling. 'You will not persuade me that you are afraid. Not you! As to your departure hence, we forbid it. If it becomes necessary to leave, we shall do so together. But for the present, let me tell you, there is no such necessity. You have my permission only to withdraw and rest yourself. We breakfast at eight.'

But Marianne was not fated to return to her room just yet. As the uneasy crowd which had filled the gallery began to disperse, a platoon of soldiers entered briskly, led by General Durosnel, escorting a number of men dressed in a species of green uniform and several long-haired moujiks, apparently prisoners. Lelorgne d'Ideville, the Emperor's interpreter, came hurrying after them. The Emperor, who had been about to return to his own apartments, turned frowning.

'Now what is it? Who are these men?'

Durosnel told him.

'They are called boutechniks, Sire. They are the law officers whose duty it is to keep order in the streets. They were caught with lighted torches in the act of setting fire to a shop selling wines and spirits. These beggars were with them, assisting them.'

Napoleon started and his glowering gaze went, automatically, to Marianne's.

'Are you sure of this?'

'Quite sure, Sire. Furthermore there are witnesses, in addition to these men who apprehended them – some Polish shopkeepers of the neighbourhood who are coming after us.'

Silence followed this. Napoleon began pacing up and down slowly in front of the group of frightened prisoners, his hands clasped behind his back, throwing occasional glances at the men, who held their breath instinctively. Suddenly, he stopped.

'What have they to say for themselves?'

Baron d'Ideville stepped forward.

'They claim that they were ordered to set fire to the whole city by Governor Rostopchin before—'

'That is not true!' the Emperor cried. 'It cannot be true because it does not make sense. The men are lying. They are simply trying to shuffle off responsibility for their crimes, hoping it may earn them a measure of leniency.'

'Then they must be in collusion, Sire, for here come some more of them and I'll wager we will hear the same tale from them.'

It was true, another group had appeared, in charge of Marianne's old acquaintance, Sergeant Bourgogne. This time, however, they were followed by an elderly Jew with scorchmarks on his gown. It was he who, with a great many bows and sighs, explained how, but for the providential arrival of the sergeant and his men, he would have been burned, along with the entire contents of a grocer's shop.

'It's impossible!' Napoleon repeated several times. 'Impossible!' But his voice was losing some of its assurance. It was as if the repetition was intended, above all, to convince himself.

'Sire,' Marianne intervened quietly, 'these men would rather destroy Moscow than see you enjoy it. That may be a primitive emotion, but it is a facet of love. You yourself, if Paris were in question—'

'Paris? Burn Paris if the enemy took it? Now indeed you have run mad! I am not one to bury myself in the ruins. A primitive emotion, say you? These people may be Scythians but they have no right to sacrifice the work of many generations to the pride of one. And what is more—'

But Marianne had ceased to listen to him. Instead, she was staring in horrified fascination at two men standing, deep in argument, at the entrance to the gallery. One was the court's master of ceremonies, the Comte de Ségur. The other was a diminutive priest in a black soutane whom she recognized without difficulty but with great uneasiness. What was Cardinal de Chazay doing here, in the presence of the man he had consistently opposed? What was his business? Why did he want to see the Emperor, for his arrival at the Kremlin in the middle of the night could have no other meaning?

Before she could so much as hazard a guess, Ségur and his companion had joined the group. Napoleon was already giving out fresh orders, saying that he wanted patrols sent out to every district where the fires had not yet struck and a thorough house-to-house search for more men of the same kind as those still standing sheepishly before him.

'What is to be done with these?' Durosnel asked.

The sentence was quick and merciless.

'We cannot take prisoners. Hang them or shoot them, as you will. They are felons in any case.'

'But Sire, they are mere tools—'

'A spy is likewise a tool and yet he can look for no mercy. There is nothing to prevent you from running Rostopchin to earth and hanging him too. Away!'

Their departure left the way open for the master of ceremonies and his companion. Ségur advanced to meet the Emperor.

'Sire,' he said, 'here is the Abbé Gauthier, a French priest, who is most anxious to speak to you regarding the present disturbances. He claims to possess reliable information.'

For no ascertainable reason, Marianne's heart missed a beat and she felt as if an iron hand had suddenly clamped down on her windpipe. While Ségur was speaking, she had caught her godfather's eye and read in it such a hardness of purpose that it sent a chill up her spine. Never before had she seen in him this icy calm, this authority, wordlessly forbidding her to interfere in what might come. But it was only for a moment. Then the priest was bowing with the assumed awkwardness of one unused to consorting with the great ones of the world.

Napoleon, meanwhile, was observing him closely.

'You are a Frenchman, Monsieur l'Abbé? An émigré perhaps?'