Valentina
Also by the same author,
IMPERIAL HIGHNESS
CURSE NOT THE KING
FAR FLY THE EAGLES
Chapter 1
The month of June in the year 1812 was a perfect month for war; the weather was mild, the roads were dry, the rivers smooth flowing; the rolling countryside was like a garden, bisected by the frontier created between Poland and Russia by the River Niemen. On the Russian side of that river an army of close on half a million men was waiting, the soldiers of the Czar Alexander I, and across, in Poland, the troops of Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the French, ended their long march across Europe and came to rest, waiting for the order to advance. They too numbered half a million men, a hundred thousand of them cavalry. The world had been waiting all through the spring, while the Emperor of France brought his great fighting forces into position for his attack upon his old ally the Russian Czar, and the peace moves went on at the same time as the troop movements, but they came from France, and they found no response in the silent, menacing Russians. Russia wanted Napoleon to go to war, and in the last spring month of June, war was inevitable. Only one country with real ties of loyalty to France welcomed the prospect, and that was Poland, dismembered and partitioned three times in twenty-three years. What remained of the ancient Kingdom was now a Duchy of Warsaw with the King of Saxony as its ruler; it existed under the patronage of Napoleon, and Poles followed him and fought in his European wars because they believed he meant to restore independence and unify their country. The city of Danzig was en fête that June, because the war was certain, and the Emperor Napoleon himself had just arrived there from holding court at Dresden with his second bride, the Austrian Archduchess Marie Louise.
The Polish nobility gathered in Danzig, which wasn’t a fashionable city, but was packed with people now, because it had become part of the French route to Russia, and they opened their houses and decorated the city in the Emperor’s honour. One of the richest and most influential men in Poland was Count Theodore Grunowski; he had made the long journey from his estates in Lvov to present himself before the French and to do any service for his fellow politicians that might be required of him. Early in the evening of June the 8th he sat watching his wife getting ready for a reception in Napoleon’s honour.
He liked looking at her because she was very beautiful and it gave him pleasure; he had a keen aesthetic sense. He loved good paintings and fine furniture; he enjoyed music and appreciated good food and rare wines. He had a collection of Chinese jade which was priceless. He was a collector by nature, painstaking, determined and unscrupulous; he had acquired his young wife in much the same spirit as the rest of his possessions, though he had more fondness for his jade, and in the last year or so he had spent more time with his horses than he did with her. He hadn’t been in a hurry to marry; a succession of mistresses satisfied his appetites when young and ministered to his vanity as he approached middle age, and they were all women of inferior position who had no redress against him if he chose to treat them badly. He was contented with his own mode of life for many years, and only the need to provide an heir for his name and lands made him decide to cast off the bachelor role and look about him for a suitable wife.
He had first seen Valentina when she was sixteen; he had been staying with her father on his estate at Czartatz, ostensibly to do some hunting, but his real purpose was to inspect Count Prokov’s elder daughter, who was still unmarried. Alexandra Maria was twenty-seven years old, and in an age when girls married in their earliest teens it was not a recommendation to be a spinster in the late twenties. Theodore had made enquiries about her, and was attracted by her enormous wealth, inherited from the Count’s first wife, who had been a Russian Princess. He had learnt little more, except that there was a second daughter, the child of Prokov’s second wife, a well-born Polish lady, who was not, alas, rich like her predecessor. Both wives had died a few years after marriage and the Count lived alone on his huge estates with his two daughters; he sometimes came to Warsaw and he had issued the invitation to Theodore to visit him. The Count was not impressed by the house at Czartatz; it was too big and gloomy and everything in it was old-fashioned. Being a perfectionist where creature comforts were concerned, the Count was not in the best of humours when he came down to dine and meet his host’s two daughters. Neither of them had appeared before, and he thought this odd and inhospitable on the part of the elder, who should have been waiting at the steps with her father to welcome their guest. The moment he saw her he understood why; the woman who took the place at the opposite end of the table was arrogant and casual as a man, with a handsome, strong-featured face and slanting eyes betraying Tartar blood. He had been instantly repelled by her; nothing annoyed him more than signs of independence in a woman, and this was one absolute mistress of herself, and no virgin either, if he was any judge. His attention remained fixed for the rest of the evening, and the remainder of his visit, on the exquisitely lovely younger sister, with her pale skin and brilliant blue eyes; the combination of jet black hair with this flower-like colouring was so startling that the Count could scarcely bear to take his eyes off her.
He cultivated her very carefully, and was pleased to find her gentle and quite unsophisticated. Love was not a word in his vocabulary, it was not in his emotional capacity to feel anything for any human being except in the basic terms of tolerance for men or lust for a woman. And his lust for Valentina overcame his desire for a rich wife to add to his own fortune and prestige; he left Czartatz with the understanding that he would marry Count Prokov’s younger daughter within a month of her seventeenth birthday, and he extracted from her father a dowry of thirty thousand roubles. In exchange, Prokov received a place on the council of the Grand Duchy, which he had always desired and which was within Theodore’s power to obtain for him. Everybody was satisfied with the arrangement, except the bride to be, who wept and pleaded with her father to find someone younger and less forbidding than the Count. His elder daughter swore at him, and quarrelled fiercely on her sister’s behalf. Had Theodore witnessed the extent to which he had judged Alexandra correctly he would have fled the country at the thought of taking such a wife. But it was useless; Valentina’s father was obdurate; the bribe of political power was more to him than the sentimental pleadings of a girl without experience or the angry reproaches of a woman with far too much. The marriage took place at the chapel at Czartatz, and the Count had taken his bride away immediately after the ceremony, insisting that they return to his estate at Lvov. They had spent the night at a posting inn on the road, and the Count had observed all the conventions of courtesy, allowing her an unhurried dinner, before escorting her up the narrow stairs to the one bedroom in the place. There he had subjected her to an act of callous rape, neither expecting nor caring about arousing her response. He was in a hurry to gratify himself, and his own appetite was all that mattered. Later, when he felt less urgent, he might take trouble with her. He was extremely angry in his cold way to find her crying herself to sleep, and positively furious when she shrank from him the next morning.
The bride who finally arrived at Lvov was wan and spiritless and red-eyed from constant weeping. Her husband gave her into the care of a young widow, the wife of a serf on his estate who had had some training as a maid, and began by ordering her to burn the new Countess’s trousseau, which was badly made and out of fashion, and the most experienced dressmaker in Warsaw was summoned to make a suitable wardrobe. The action was typical of the Count’s attitude; he made it clear from the beginning that he expected complete obedience from his young wife in every aspect of her life, and that tears or complaints would be punished without mercy. Valentina had learnt a lesson in inhumanity that first year which taught her to discipline her rebellious spirit and force her unwilling flesh to do as she was ordered. There was no alternative, no respite. Her husband had written an irritated letter to her father complaining that she was wilful and unco-operative and he felt he had been cheated in the marriage settlement. He had an even greater cause of complaint when she remained childless after six months of unremitting attention from him. His disappointment was so great that had Count Prokov not died within a year of the marriage he might well have sent her home and asked for an annulment.
Her father’s death left Valentina without hope of redress; she knew it, and she submitted accordingly. The little maid advised; she was a kindly, simple woman who sympathised from the first with her unhappy mistress, and appreciated her gentleness. Never once had Valentina struck her or threatened to have her whipped, and this was rare in great ladies when dealing with a bonded serf. She grew to love the Countess, and to try to help her. She knew what a bad husband could be like, whether he was a slave or a lord; she had borne the marks of her own marriage to a drunken brute for seven years, until the good God took him, and released her. Jana set about protecting her mistress, warning her of the Count’s habits, his humours, his pedantic, irritable insistence on complete protocol in his house. And, slowly, Valentina learnt. Now, after five years of marriage, she was still childless, and he had ceased to trouble her too often; in this respect she found her life much easier to bear. At twenty-two she was in the full flower of her beauty; she was a perfect hostess, a cool, sophisticated wife and a great lady in her own right. He could find no fault with her except her barrenness, and he taunted her with it from time to time when he felt like hurting her a little, and she never replied. He had no idea how she implored God on her knees that she would never, never have a child to carry on his name. She was cold, and that was another pity in his view; but she was virtuous, and he was sure of that. Unlike many women in similar positions, Valentina had never had a lover. She had no interest in men. One husband was enough. She glanced at him now, as Jana combed her black hair into the high curls made fashionable by the French Empress Marie Louise. He was a handsome man in his way, but he was ageing fast, and the selfishness, pride and cruelty were written on his face. She often took comfort from the thought that one day, perhaps in ten years even, he must die. She was no different from many other women. Men ruled the world and made the rules. There was nothing to do but bear it and enjoy the few things God had given freely, like the countryside and fine horses, and moments when visual beauty lifted up the sinking spirits as a great sun set, red and blazing, or the moon turned the gardens at Lvov into an enchanted landscape.
‘Jana!’ the Count said suddenly. ‘Put that necklace away. Madame will wear her rubies with that dress.’ The maid curtsied and hurried away to get the jewels from their leather cases. ‘Rubies will suit that red dress much better,’ he said. ‘You should have thought of that for yourself, Valentina. Tonight’s reception is tremendously important. Everyone in Poland will be there. Hurry up, girl, fasten it and then get out. With your permission, my dear?’
‘Of course.’ Valentina looked at him, unable to hide her surprise. ‘Jana, go, please. Give me my pelisse first.’
‘I will fasten it for you,’ the Count said, ‘but it can wait a moment. I have something to tell you privately, my dear. I was summoned by Potocki today. Napoleon is already in Danzig, and has sent word that he will attend the reception this evening. All the Marshals and members of his General Staff are with him. It’s certain now that the Czar Alexander has refused to make peace, and the French will invade Russia within the next few weeks. The whole world is waiting for this invasion and the outcome. But most especially Poland. I’m sure you know this?’
‘I know it all,’ she said. ‘We are all praying for Napoleon to destroy Russia, so that we can be a free, united Kingdom again.’
‘Bravo!’ the Count said. ‘That is what we all hope. But we would like a little assurance that His Imperial Majesty Napoleon really intends to re-establish our country. He’s promising now, because he needs us to stay firm at his back while he fights the Russians. And he has the use of our troops and supplies. But promises are cheap. The man is only a little Corsican parvenu anyway; one can’t rely on anyone who’s not a gentleman. If he fails, Valentina, Russia will lay us waste with fire and sword, exactly as she’s done before. We must know how far to go in his favour. Now I will stop boring you with all these political details, which I’m sure you don’t fully appreciate—Potocki is a great admirer of yours. He mentioned to me that the services of a beautiful woman who kept her ears well open might be more useful to Poland than a dozen regiments. Danzig is crawling with the élite of the Grand Armée. If, for instance, you were to make yourself agreeable to some of them, and repeat everything you heard, you might bring some invaluable piece of news, some real indication of how the Imperial mind is working. Potocki explained all this to me and I had to agree. I have therefore offered him your services as a spy for the Polish Government. I want you to tell him tonight how glad you are to do it.’
For a moment Valentina didn’t answer him. For the past six years, ever since Napoleon’s defeat of the Russians at Tilsit, she had been brought up to regard the French as the champions of Polish liberty and the Emperor Napoleon as the saviour of her divided country. Now her husband had committed her to spying upon the men who were so soon to fight a terrible war from which it was hoped Poland would ultimately benefit.
‘If you are hesitating,’ he said, ‘may I remind you of the grievous harm a refusal would do my political career in the future? May I also remind you that your half-Russian sister is hardly an advantage at the moment; you might be suspected of treason, instead of mere weakness. You can’t afford to disappoint the Count. Or me.’
‘At least you don’t pretend I have a choice,’ Valentina said. ‘I shall do as I am told. But I find it disgusting.’
‘Think of your country’s future,’ he said coldly, ‘if you haven’t any wifely concern for mine. Regard yourself as yet another martyr in the cause of Poland’s freedom.’
‘Surely,’ Valentina said, ‘Madame Walewska knows Napoleon’s intentions? What better source of information could you have?’
Six years ago the beautiful Countess Walewska had deliberately thrown herself at Napoleon’s feet, primed by the same men who were now recruiting Valentina, and she had become his mistress and Poland’s most persuasive advocate. She had left Poland with Napoleon’s illegitimate son and lived for some years in Paris. The plan had miscalculated, for the unhappy woman had fallen deeply in love with the Emperor, and her reports were too biased to be trustworthy. At the mention of her name the Count laughed contemptuously.
‘I can think of almost any source better than the infatuated babblings of that damned woman; all she does is repeat the politic lies Napoleon tells her for our benefit, and she’s stupid enough to believe them herself. It was obvious from the beginning that she was quite unsuitable.’ He drew out his little dress watch and stood up quickly. ‘Come, my dear. Let me fasten your pelisse. I told the carriage to be ready half an hour ago.’ He took up the sable-lined velvet pelisse and wrapped it round his wife’s shoulders; his fingers brushed across her bare throat and lingered as they fastened the silk cords across her breast. The caress made her shudder; the calculated sexual antics disgusted her, and alarmed her. There had been blessed intervals in the last two years when he hardly troubled her at all, and she supposed he had a mistress. She moved away from him abruptly.
‘Come, Theo; we’ll be late.’
‘So we will. Never mind, I shall visit you this evening.’
‘As you please,’ she said. She had made excuses once or twice but he had always discovered the deception and now she didn’t dare to lie.
He opened the door for her and they went down the wide stone staircase to the front entrance where their carriage and an escort of two outriders with torches waited in the street outside. Twenty minutes later they were announced at the entrance of the Grand Salon in the Kalinovsky Palace where the members of the first families of Poland were giving a reception in honour of Napoleon. A crowd of four hundred had assembled in the three enormous rooms which had been prepared for the reception of the Emperor and his staff. The biggest was almost a hundred feet long, the walls were hung with crimson silk and fine ormolu candelabra stood at intervals down the sides of the room, shedding their yellow light on a scene of glittering uniforms, handsome men, and women resplendent in jewels and magnificent gowns. A buffet had been arranged in two smaller rooms where a sumptuous supper was ready, and an alcove was reserved for the Emperor. The ladies of Danzig society had arranged huge alabaster vases of flowers in the French and Polish colours, and Count Potocki himself had provided gold plate for Napoleon’s use. An orchestra played at one end of the huge room, raised up on a gallery; the atmosphere was stifling with dozens of different scents, candle grease and beeswax polish which had made the oak floors as dangerous as glass to walk upon.
Many heads turned when the Count and Countess Grunowski were announced. They paid few visits to the city, but Valentina was well known for her beauty. Certainly the Count had the satisfaction of seeing her cause quite a sensation as she stood in the doorway, greeting Count and Countess Potocki, her red velvet dress contrasting vividly with her jet black hair, and rose white skin; Grunowski’s heavy rubies glowed round her neck and shimmered in her ears. Her dress was simple compared with many of the heavily embroidered, colourful creations worn by some of the women, but it had been designed with an artist’s eye for the tall, slim figure and beautiful breast and arms of the woman who wore it; the long court train fell to the ground from her shoulders and was edged with a band of gold thread embroidery three inches wide.
Potocki himself was a little stirred by her as she stood in front of him that night. She was certainly beautiful enough to turn the head of any man, and probably wise enough to know that her patriotic duty might well entail more than mere eaves-dropping, but he had left that part to the discretion of her husband. He would know how to explain it to her, and when the moment was right. At least they were not going to repeat their initial mistake with another lovely victim, and set Valentina at Napoleon himself. A lesser man would do.
‘My compliments, Madame,’ he said. ‘I have never seen such a vision of beauty, and all the fair blooms of Poland are in flower tonight.’
Valentina smiled and thanked him. She decided that this was the moment to do what her husband had ordered. And perhaps it was right; Potocki was a man of honour. He must know that it was vital to spy upon the French, however despicable it seemed in theory. ‘I am happy to be of service, Highness,’ she said. ‘My husband told me of your request and I will do anything I can to help our country. You can rely on me.’
‘I’m sure I can,’ he said, and he took her hand and kissed it. ‘Poland has always been fortunate in her children.’
They passed on and began mingling with the crowd. The Count paid her the compliment of staying at her side, but he talked politics to his friends and did not trouble to include her beyond the introduction. Valentina occupied herself with exchanging a few words with some of the ladies she knew and otherwise looked round the room. The Emperor was expected soon, and all his staff were there. If she were supposed to make contact with them, then it was surely wasting time to stay rooted among her fellow Poles, but without the Count’s initiative there was nothing she could do. After a time she became aware that she was being watched; the eyes of the watcher seemed to draw her to the left, and when she turned she immediately met the gaze of a French officer who was standing among a group of animated ladies and some senior officers in the Polish Lancers. He was tall and he held himself with an air of arrogance that went with the rank of Colonel in the Imperial Guard and the coveted Legion d’Honneur on his breast. There were touches of grey in his dark hair, and he wore it cut short and without the elaborate sideburns affected by many of the French. The eyes that stared so boldly into hers were a curious colour, a steely grey, and they were set in a hard, aristocratic face, tanned by weather in countries all over the world, and marked by a scar down one cheek. Most men watched Valentina with admiration and this man made no secret of his approval. His glance swept over her from head to foot, and he acknowledged her angry stare with a slight smile. Valentina turned to her husband, anxious to move away, but at that moment the double doors at the end of the Salon were opened wide, and Potocki and his wife, followed by half a dozen nobles, hurried out. ‘Napoleon has arrived,’ the Count said. ‘Come quickly or we will lose our places in the line.’
The crowd was dividing rapidly, making a lane for the Emperor of France, and because of the Count’s quickness they found themselves standing in the front rank on the left. The next moment two trumpeters of the Imperial Guard sounded a fanfare, and the French Court Chamberlain appeared, walking backwards through the open doors. He turned and rapped loudly three times with his Staff of Office.
‘His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Napoleon. The Countess Walewska.’
Valentina had seen his portrait hanging in crude copies in many Polish mansions; she had seen the famous profile, so like a Roman Caesar, on coins and medallions, and she had heard Napoleon described. Nothing prepared her for her first sight of the most formidable soldier in the world, the man the English swore ate babies and who, his soldiers said, was something more than human. He was very small, a few inches above five feet, and he wore a plain dark green coat and white breeches with white stockings and buckled shoes; his only ornament was the Grand Cross of the Legion d’Honneur round his neck, the famous order for gallantry in the field which he had founded himself. Beside him walked one of the loveliest women Valentina had ever seen in her life; she was small and slim, with hair the colour of new minted gold and wide violet blue eyes. There was a look of radiance upon her face which gave it an almost spiritual beauty; her hand was on Napoleon’s arm, and the smile on her lips was for him alone. This, then, was the famous Marie Walewska, the virtuous wife of a great nobleman who had agreed to prostitute herself to the Emperor for her country’s sake, and fallen victim to a love which was beyond her power to control. It was said that he loved her in return; yet he neglected her for months and he had divorced his first Empress Josephine to marry an Austrian Archduchess who didn’t care for him at all. He had a son now too, the little King of Rome, a child he loved as tenderly as any woman. He had seen little or nothing of Marie Walewska’s child. And yet she stayed in his shadow, for ever patient, for ever waiting and often forgotten, the woman her own people called the White Rose of Poland, and men like Valentina’s husband dismissed as a fool who had let herself be duped by love. As Napoleon came near them, the crowd began dipping in homage; just before she sank to her knee in a deep curtsey, Valentina glanced into the face of Napoleon Bonaparte and the incongruously blue eyes in the oliveskinned Italian face met hers for a brief second. The effect of that glance was like contact with lightning. A current passed out of the man, a magnetism that held and mesmerised even in that fleeting instant, and it was something infinitely greater than the dominance of a man who was supremely male. Greatness was in him, and majesty too, and the unlovely Bourbons, with a thousand years of monarchy behind them, had never possessed it as did this little Corsican General who had conquered all Europe in the span of fourteen years. Marie Walewska was not a fool; the men who had tried to pit a mere woman against such a man were the ones whose wits had given out. It was not until he had passed far beyond them that Valentina remembered how tired and strained Napoleon had looked. The Emperor made a relatively quick circuit of the room, speaking a word here and there to someone presented by Count Potocki, and then disappeared into the smaller supper room. Protocol relaxed immediately and the whisper of conversation became an excited roar while a lot of undignified pushing began round the doorway where the Emperor and his mistress were having supper. Nearly three hours had passed and Valentina had not even had a glass of wine; the big buffet room was impossibly crowded, and as it was obvious that His Imperial Majesty didn’t intend to circulate again that night, people struggled for chairs and food and settled wherever they could find a place. ‘Please, Theo, couldn’t we go home? I’m exhausted and quite faint with hunger.’
The Count was pale and there were drops of sweat on his forehead; he was as tired and famished as his wife, but he answered curtly: ‘Not yet. Potocki will be with us soon. We must wait here.’ They did not have to wait much longer, for soon the Count could be seen making his way towards them. He came up to Valentina and bowed.
‘Come with me, Madame. Marshal Murat, King of Naples, has asked to meet you. Will you excuse me, my dear Theodore? I will return Madame to you as soon as she has been presented.’
‘Make no apology to me,’ the Count said. ‘I’m sure my wife will find the Marshal better company than a tired and ageing husband. If I could safely leave her in your care I might commandeer a coach and make my way to bed.’
Even as he said it Valentina knew that it was all rehearsed. This introduction had been planned; this was why they had been told to wait.
‘Rely upon me,’ Potocki said. ‘I will take good care of Madame Grunowski for you. Now, my dear lady, follow me. We must not keep the Marshal waiting!’
Joachim Murat was born in Gascony and he had all the conceit and flamboyance of that stubborn French breed; he had begun his real military career with Napoleon in the Italian campaign of 1796 and having joined the young General and attached himself firmly to his rocketing star of fortune, Murat had risen like a meteor. The Emperor had married him to his sister Caroline and given him the little Kingdom of Naples as a reward. As they approached him Valentina identified him easily in the crowd of brilliantly dressed officers. Firstly he was half a head taller than most, and he was wearing a uniform of his own design, coated and breeched in scarlet velvet with a profusion of gold lace and so many decorations that he dazzled the eye. His passion for clothes was a joke which no one dare indulge to his face except Napoleon, who complained that when they appeared together the crowds thought that he, and not Bonaparte, was Emperor because of the gaudy way he dressed. But he was quite certainly handsome, with a bold, engaging smile and flashing eyes; he was reputed to be the most fearless cavalry leader in the world. The bright coloured uniform was always conspicuous at the head of every charge in battle, and his troops adored him. His victories in the boudoir were as well known as those won on the field and he was said to have been one of the Empress Josephine’s lovers when Napoleon was away at war. He moved a step forward to greet the Count and the extremely lovely lady he was bringing with him; the introduction had been suggested to him, with the hint that he would find the Countess Grunowski the prettiest woman in Danzig, and Murat had agreed with alacrity. He liked amusement, and at the moment the Emperor was in a bad humour and the lull before the invasion of Russia was tedious and irritating. Nerves were apt to fray at such a time, and he needed relaxation. As soon as he saw Valentina he was only too hopeful that she was one of the devoted band of Polish ladies who considered it an act of patriotism to accommodate French officers.
‘Aha! How delightful! How exquisite! Madame, your devoted servant.’ He swept Valentina an exaggerated bow, and immediately offered her his arm. He was not a man who wasted time, and one look into those beautiful blue eyes had convinced him that indeed there was no time to waste. ‘I’ll swear you’ve had no supper? No? I thought not—nor have I, dammit. I’m as hungry as the devil and you must be too. Come and we’ll set ourselves to rights. And you must tell me all about yourself.’
Everyone was watching them as they sat down in the inner room at a table reserved for the King of Naples, and Valentina flushed as the Emperor himself glanced up. Murat saw it and laughed. He had a very loud, infectious laugh, and she couldn’t help liking him in spite of his vulgarity. ‘Dieu—it’s an age since I’ve seen a woman blush,’ he confided. ‘And it’s damnably pretty on you. What’s your name, I can’t get my tongue round Polish.’
‘Valentina, Sire,’ she said. ‘The Emperor looked at us as we sat down; I shouldn’t be here, my rank isn’t sufficient.’
‘To hell with that,’ the Marshal said. ‘Your beauty entitles you to be over there with him, if he hadn’t involved himself with the other lady. Isn’t it strange how a lovely woman can look so damned miserable? I couldn’t endure it myself. I like gaiety. Armand, stop standing there with your mouth open and pour us some wine! And get some food, man, for God’s sake. Madame is starving!’
The food was superb: chicken in aspic with fresh cherries, quantities of rich pastries, and out-of-season fruits. Murat drank and ate with uninhibited enjoyment, pressing her to do the same.
‘Where’s your husband?’ he enquired.
Valentina had begun to enjoy herself; it was impossible not to with such a companion; many women had found themselves in his bed while they were still laughing at his jokes; the Empress Josephine herself had been unable to resist his light-hearted, rascally approach to love after the suffocatingly dull passion of her brilliant husband. ‘My husband has gone home,’ Valentina said. ‘He’s tired.’
It was on the edge of Murat’s tongue to add that he was also tactful but he stopped himself in time. Such a lovely, charming creature, and with an engaging air of innocence—she might be frightened away if he were too impetuous. ‘How fortunate for me; here I am, having supper with the most beautiful woman in the room—yes, Armand, what is it?’ He turned to his aide-de-camp, a tall pleasant-looking young officer in a red and green uniform; he bent and whispered something to the Marshal, and passed him a piece of paper. Murat smiled at Valentina and apologised.
‘Paper,’ he said. ‘The bane of the soldier’s life. Permit me one moment, Madame.’
The note was short and unsigned. It said simply: Be careful; this is the one we were warned about. Leave her to me. Murat read it and grimaced; he put it in his pocket and said lightly: ‘Hélas, duty follows everywhere. The Emperor will be leaving soon and I must attend him. Let me select someone to take care of you till I get back. Armand, fetch Colonel De Chavel.’
She knew him at once; the man who had stared at her so deliberately earlier in the evening now bowed and kissed her hand, and for a moment the steel grey eyes met hers again. ‘I have been admiring you from afar, Madame,’ he said.
‘Make sure you don’t shorten the distance, my friend,’ Murat reminded him. He got up and took leave of Valentina. When he too kissed her hand his lips were hot and they lingered.
‘Pay no attention to him,’ he said. ‘He’s just a dull infantry Colonel. Keep your allegiance for the cavalry. Au revoir, Madame.’
She sat silently, watching the swaggering figure make its way to Napoleon’s table and, after a moment, sit down with him.
‘You must forgive me,’ Colonel De Chavel said, ‘I have been longing to introduce myself. I’m very grateful to the Marshal.’
‘He’s a charming man,’ Valentina said defensively. There was something mocking in his voice that made her sure he was laughing at the vulgar Gascon, and at her. ‘I hadn’t eaten a bite or touched a glass of wine,’ she added. ‘The crush was abominable; he did me a great service by inviting me to share supper with him.’
‘But of course,’ the Colonel said. ‘The Marshal is always concerned with the comfort of pretty ladies. You don’t owe me any explanation, my dear Madame. I’m only too happy to deputise for him for a while. Is there anything I can get for you? A little Polish vodka, perhaps?’
‘No thank you. There’s nothing I want.’ She turned away from him angrily. ‘How long do you suppose the Marshal will be?’
‘That’s hard to say; I see signs that the Emperor is about to leave. If he takes Murat with him he won’t appear again tonight. Unless, of course, you have made an arrangement?’ He asked the insulting question in a casual, mocking voice that made her flush to her hair.
‘I have no idea what you mean, Colonel. Please take me back to the main salon where I can find someone to take me home.’ She had half risen from her chair when the pressure of his hand on her arm stopped her; it was firm enough to make her sit down again.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘allow me to make amends for having made you angry. I’m only a dull infantryman, as the Marshal said. I’ve been too long campaigning, I suppose; I’ve forgotten my manners. Please forgive me.’
Slowly he withdrew his hand and she remained in her chair. She didn’t want to forgive him; she didn’t even believe his apology, but there was something about the man that made it difficult to refuse him. He poured wine for her and for himself and they drank it without speaking; he was watching her intently, studying her with the same arrogant appraisal which had made her so uncomfortable in the reception room, before they had even met.
‘Colonel De Chavel,’ she said suddenly. ‘Why are you staring at me? Is anything wrong with me?’
‘I beg your pardon again, Madame,’ he said coolly. ‘I was thinking how beautiful you were. Where is your husband, by the way?’
‘He left earlier; he was tired.’ The excuse sounded so lame that Valentina blushed and turned away. ‘I ought to leave,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it’s late.’
‘Unfortunately we must wait until the Emperor goes first,’ the Colonel remarked. ‘I’m sorry I’m being a such a poor substitute for the Marshal. I was hoping to find favour with you.’ The hard, shrewd eyes bored into hers, and there was contempt in them as well as mockery.
‘Then I’m afraid you’ve failed,’ Valentina said. ‘I do so want to go home; how much longer will he be?’
‘Not too long,’ the Colonel said. ‘The Emperor doesn’t linger at the table; he eats as a necessity. I see Madame Walewska has already finished.’
Valentina glanced across the table where Napoleon was sitting; Murat was leaning forward saying something to him, and the Countess was clearly in their view.
‘She looks so terribly sad,’ Valentina said suddenly. ‘Poor woman. I wonder if he cares for her?’
‘I doubt it,’ the Colonel said. ‘He only loved one woman, and that was Josephine. It’s a pity, because Walewska is the only one that’s ever been true to him, and God knows, that’s a miracle itself!’
‘You have a low opinion of my sex, Colonel,’ she said coldly. ‘There are more virtuous women in the world than there are men worthy of them!’
‘I assure you,’ he said, ‘I adore women, Madame. I think you are all the most delightful creatures. It seems that everything I say annoys you—how can I make amends?’
She shrugged, without answering. She found this man’s blend of cynicism and mockery infinitely disturbing; it made her want to cry; it was ridiculous to be affected by a perfect stranger, and she despised herself. With an effort she turned back to him.’Colonel De Chavel, I see the Emperor is about to leave. Will you escort me to Count Potocki, so that he can take me home? I hate to impose myself on you, but I’m not accustomed to being alone in public gatherings, and the Count promised to take care of me …’
‘I’m sure he did,’ the Colonel said. ‘And we will find him. Have you never been alone before, then? Your husband doesn’t usually abandon you?’
‘He hasn’t,’ she said quickly, and then stopped, because it was useless lying to the man sitting opposite her, and he would mock her if she tried.
‘He didn’t know that I would be left …’ she said, and he finished the sentence for her:
‘With a boor like me, Madame. I understand. Let me give you some wine; you look quite pale.’ She drank it quickly, aware that he was still watching her, but that his eyes were kinder suddenly. ‘May I ask a question, Madame? How old are you?’
‘Twenty-two,’ Valentina said.
‘The Emperor’s leaving,’ De Chavel said. He held out his hand to help her rise and unwillingly she put hers into it. It was warm and strong, and it grasped her fingers firmly. As Napoleon left, the company bowed and curtsied, and she saw Murat look over his shoulder at her and make a grimace of apology. ‘The Marshal won’t be coming back,’ the Colonel said. ‘I’m afraid you are left with me, Madame.’ They faced each other across the table; he was a head taller than she was, and in spite of the sabre scar he was one of the best-looking men she had seen in her life. He smiled, and it was the first time he had done so that evening. ‘Poor lady,’ he said, ‘you’ve had a dismal supper. You’ve lost your husband, and your handsome Marshal, and been burdened with me instead. Can’t we make the best of it? I feel you will never speak to me again.’
‘I doubt I’ll have the chance,’ Valentina said. ‘Besides, Colonel, to be fair to you, you were ordered to look after me. You didn’t volunteer.’
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you are mistaken. I have been following you the entire evening, hoping for a chance to meet you. Nothing less than a Marshal and a King to boot would have kept me away. Were you expecting to meet Murat tonight?’
‘No, of course not. Count Potocki said he had asked to meet me. I was flattered, but quite surprised. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m curious,’ he said. ‘People interest me; how long have you been married?’
‘Five years.’
He held out his arm and she placed her hand upon it; they moved to the door together. The orchestra had begun playing a waltz in the main reception room; she paused for a moment; the scene was beautiful to watch as the circling couples swept past them, the brilliant dresses of the women and the scarlet, green and blue of the French uniforms making a gorgeous pattern of colour in the candlelight.
‘Dance with me,’ he said. ‘Just once, before you leave.’ He had turned to her, and taken her into his arms while she was trying to refuse.
‘I should find the Count,’ Valentina said. ‘I should go home …’
‘One dance, Madame,’ he said quietly, and he began to move with her on to the floor. He held her with same firmness that had kept her in her chair, and she relaxed and let herself be guided. The Count didn’t approve of the waltz; in conservative society it was still regarded as a very daring dance. Valentina found the rhythm irresistible; it swept her on like the strange, commanding man who held her, and she had a sensation of belonging to him at that moment which was quite insane, as if her body had lost its independent power of movement and her will had been stolen from her. They didn’t speak, they danced not once but many times, until the couples thinned to a few, and suddenly he led her to a seat near one of the tall windows overlooking the square.
‘I’ll get you some champagne. You look happier, Madame. I dance better than I make conversation. Wait for me here.’
He was back in a moment with two glasses, and he sat beside her. He thought dispassionately that she was the loveliest woman he had seen for many years, lovelier still when she smiled, and she smiled rarely. And she was not what he had suspected. She was not only a tool of the Polish faction but a dupe. He had danced with her for two reasons: to see if she would try to pump him, and because she attracted him. It was a pity she had this vulnerable quality; it made her very dangerous.
‘Good heavens,’ Valentina said. ‘Listen, it’s chiming two o’clock! Colonel, it’s terribly late! I must find the Count at once.’