"These!" Marianne said, laying them before him. "I want to know what you think of this note."

The aroma of coffee filled the room as Jolival went on calmly filling her cup. Then he read the note, drank a glass of wine, returned his nightcap to his head and settled back into his chair, waving the sheet of paper gently.

"What I think?" he said after a moment. "Upon my word, what any fool would think! That His Excellency was very much taken with you."

"And doesn't that worry you at all? Have you forgotten I am to dine with him tonight—and alone, because I don't recall hearing him invite you also?"

"Quite right, from which I deduce that he was not equally taken with me. But I don't think you need worry, because even if I am not there your godfather is sure to be present. In any case, you are bound to hear from him during the day and I believe that this is one occasion when he will be much better able to advise you than your Uncle Arcadius because he knows the duke. Your godfather is a very remarkable man—and one I'd very much like to know more of. You have often talked of him, my dear, but I had no idea he'd risen to such power."

"Nor I! Oh, Jolival, I can tell you—there are times when, for all his great kindness to me, my godfather makes me uneasy. He almost frightens me. He is so mysterious. And it is his very power, as you say, that scares me. There seems no end to it. I thought I knew him, you see, and yet every time I see him there is something more that is new to me."

"There's nothing odd in that. You knew someone who stood to you in place of your father and mother, a little priest who gave you an unvarying affection. But you were a child and naturally you did not see the whole picture of the man."

"It was natural when I was a child, yes. But not now. And yet the older I get, the deeper grow the shadows that surround him."

She described as best she could all that had taken place in the commandant's office before Jolival's entrance, endeavoring to recall the exact words used and dwelling on the curious moment when Richelieu had capitulated instantly at the sight of the cardinal's ring, and on the words "the general" which had escaped him.

Jolival stiffened as she uttered them.

"He said the general? You are quite sure?"

"Positive. And I must say I didn't understand it at all. What do you think he meant? I know it is a title sometimes given to the head of a monastic order, but my godfather has never been a monk. He has always been in the world…"

She saw that Jolival was not listening to her. He said nothing, but the look on his face was all at once so grave and so remote that she dared not break in on his thoughts. His breakfast forgotten, he took the little gilt box and opened it, holding the diamond between his fingers so that it blazed like a drop of fire in the sunshine. For a long moment he let the light play on it in blue flashes, as though seeking to hypnotize himself.

"So much suffering! So much pain and tragedy for the sake of this little bit of carbon and a few more like it. Of course," he went on, "that would explain it all—even the way the cardinal seemed to be protecting that wretched woman, although neither you nor I could understand it at the time. But the ways of the Lord are very strange. And stranger still those of men such as these, to whom secrecy is second nature."

However, Marianne had had enough of the atmosphere of mystery which had surrounded her for the past twenty-four hours.

"Arcadius," she said firmly, "I am wholly lost. Do, please, try to be a little clearer. Tell me in plain words what it is you think. Who is my godfather and what is he general of?"

"Of shadows, Marianne… of shadows. Unless I am very much mistaken, he is at this moment the supreme head of the Company of Jesus, the leader of the most formidable army of Christ. He is the one who is called fittingly enough, the Black Pope."

Marianne shivered, despite the sunshine flooding the room.

"What a terrible name! But I thought the Pope, the one in Rome, that is, had disbanded the Jesuits in the last century."

"Yes, in 1773, I think. But that was not the end of the order. Frederick of Prussia and Catherine II gave it a home, while in Catholic countries it went underground and so became more formidable than ever. Your godfather, my dear, is probably the most powerful man in the world at this moment because the order has connections everywhere on earth."

"But all this is only guesswork? You cannot be sure!" Marianne cried desperately.

Jolival returned the diamond to its box but did not shut the lid. Instead, he held it out to her.

"Look at that stone, my child. It is wonderfully pure and beautiful—yet this and a few others like it were enough to smash the throne of France."

"I still don't understand."

"You will. Have you ever heard of a fabulous necklace which Louis XIV ordered from the royal jewelers Boehmer and Bassange for Madame du Barry, but which was never delivered owing to the king's death—and so afterwards became the property of Queen Marie-Antoinette? Have you ever heard of that dark and terrible episode known as the Affair of the Necklace? This drop is the central stone, the largest and most precious diamond of that necklace."

"Of course! But, Jolival, you don't mean—that woman is not—she can't be—"

"The thief? The celebrated Comtesse de la Motte? Yes. I know she was said to have died in England, but it was never proved, and I have always been convinced that behind that woman there was another hand at work, a powerful, ambitious hand, pulling the strings of her greedy and unscrupulous little mind. I am sure now that I was right."

"But… who?"

Jolival shut the box and put it into Marianne's hand, closing her fingers around it one by one as though to keep it safe. Then he rose and paced the room for a moment before coming to rest before her.

"There are state secrets which it is dangerous to touch and names whose very sound is death. Moreover, here again I have no proof. You can always try asking the cardinal when you see him, but it would surprise me if he were to give you an answer. The order keeps its secrets close, and I am very sure that if I had uttered Madame de Gachet's real name last night, I shouldn't be here talking to you this morning. Take my advice, my dear, and forget all this very quickly. It is a deep and dangerous business and full of pitfalls. We have enough to worry us without getting into such deep waters. And, if you'll be guided by me, you'll ask the cardinal to give you back the five thousand rubles, which we might well have need of, and to take the stone in exchange. I have a feeling it will not bring us luck."

Later in the day, however, as Marianne was considering her wardrobe, trying to decide which dress to wear to dinner with the governor, she was told that a Catholic priest was below asking to see her.

Sure that it must be the cardinal, she hastily gave the order for him to be shown up to the little sitting room adjoining her bedchamber. She was looking forward to a long talk with her godfather and had made up her mind to do what she could to confirm or deny Jolival's suspicions. But, to her disappointment, her visitor turned out to be the cardinal's incorrigibly dismal secretary, the Abbé Bichette.

Even he, though, was an old acquaintance and for a moment she had some hope of learning something from him. But the abbé, looking more uncompromisingly gloomy than ever in a long black soutane that made him look rather like a closed umbrella, merely informed her that His Eminence was deeply distressed to be obliged to leave Odessa without seeing her. He entreated his beloved daughter to put her trust in Our Lord Jesus Christ and to accept his blessing and the letter which his unworthy servant Bichette was charged to deliver to her, together with an accompanying packet.

Thereupon he handed her a black leather wallet containing the sum of five thousand rubles. Marianne, a good deal surprised, was about to open the letter but then, seeing that the Abbe Bichette was about to retire, considering his mission accomplished, she detained him.

"Has His Eminence already left?" she asked.

"No. His Eminence is awaiting my return. Which means that I must hurry so as not to delay him."

"I should very much like to go with you. How strange of the cardinal to go so soon! Surely he knows how glad I was to see him again? And we have not exchanged a single word in private—"

"He is aware of that, but it would not be wise to go with me. His Eminence would be greatly displeased. Nor does he like to be kept waiting, so—with your permission…" He was almost running to the door.

"Where are you going?"

This time she thought he would have burst into tears.

"Indeed I do not know. I only follow His Eminence and ask no questions. Perhaps that letter may tell you. And now I must beg you to let me go…"

He made a bolt for the door as though seized with a sudden panic, and as he went he picked up a low-crowned, broad-brimmed black hat of such a characteristic shape that Marianne, who had failed to notice it when he came in, could no longer doubt that Jolival was right. Bichette was a Jesuit. Not one very high up in the secrets of the order, but a Jesuit nonetheless. And seeing that he had, however unwittingly, provided her with the answer to one of her unframed questions, she did not prolong his torment but let him go. In any case, it was high time she read her letter.

It was very short. The abbé had already delivered the substance of it. Gauthier de Chazay only added that he hoped to see his dear goddaughter before too long and explained the five thousand rubles.