Marianne, greatly entertained by her eagerness, reflected privately that Vania and her dear Fortunée appeared to have a good deal more in common than a fondness for attar of roses. Evidently they shared a passion for soldiers.

'Look!' Vania cried. 'Here come the first of them! It's the Polish hussars, the Tenth, Colonel Uminski's! And after them I can see the Prussians, Major von Werther's Uhlans, and then – I think it's Wurtemberg's chasseurs and behind them several regiments of French hussars! Yes, it's them! I can tell by their plumes. Oh, it's so wonderful to see them again! I know that they have put us all in an impossible situation by coming but, truly, it was worth it and I, for one, can't be sorry…'

Caught up in her companion's infectious enthusiasm, Marianne watched with equal fascination as the mounted columns forded the river in good order. Vania, at her side, leaning over and clutching at the parapet, was almost shaking with excitement. Her eyes were wide and her nostrils quivering. Suddenly, she uttered a cry and threw out an arm.

'Oh, look! Look there! The man riding up the column and crossing the river at full gallop!'

'The one in green with the white plumes almost as tall as himself?'

'Yes! Oh, I'd know him in a thousand! It's the King of Naples! It's Murat – the finest horseman in the Empire!'

Vania's excitement had reached fever pitch and Marianne suppressed a smile. She had long known of Napoleon's brother-in-law's penchant for exotic, not to say fantastic costumes, but this time he seemed to have gone his length. Only he could have had the effrontery to appear in his present extravagant dress of dark green velvet polonaise with massive gold frogs, worn with a sash of gold threadwork and bonnet of the same colour surmounted by a white ostrich plume not less than three feet high. And, strangest of all, was the way he managed not to appear ridiculous in such an outfit.

Vania was suddenly so flushed with happiness that Marianne shot her a glance half-envious, half-amused.

'You seem to have a great admiration for the King of Naples?' she said with a smile.

The singer turned and looked her straight in the eyes, then, with a pride that was not without its greatness, she said simply: 'He is my lover. I would go through fire for him.'

'It would be a pity if you did. No man, however brilliant, deserves to have such a woman as you destroy herself for his sake. Live and if your love is returned, enjoy your happiness.'

'Oh, I do believe he loves me! But there are so many women running after him—'

'Beginning with his wife. Are you not afraid of the formidable Caroline?'

'Why should I be? She is all very well, but had her brother not been an emperor she would never have been a queen and no one would have paid very much attention to her at all. She cannot even sing. Besides, even as wives go, she's not the most faithful.'

Evidently this, to the prima donna, was a fatal flaw, and her argument was not without its logic. Marianne preferred to leave Caroline Murat to her own fate, which was a matter of some indifference to her, for she had never held Napoleon's youngest sister in affection. She had known her for too long for a devious and ill-natured woman.

Consequently, she was able to look on indulgently at Vania's meeting with her royal lover. As the King's white horse burst into the square, the Italian sprang forward almost under its hooves and might easily have been trampled but for Murat's presence of mind. He leaned down with a yell of delight and, grasping her round the waist, swept her up into the saddle. Whereupon, regardless of who might be looking on, the King and the singer embraced passionately, spoke briefly and then embraced once more. Then, as easily as he had caught her up, Murat lowered his mistress to the ground.

'Until tomorrow!' he cried. 'Go to the Kremlin and ask for General Durosnel. He will tell you where my headquarters are.'

He was about to ride on when Marianne ran forward.

'Sire!' she called. 'Can you tell me if the Emperor is coming?'

Murat reined in his mount and stared at her with some astonishment. Then he burst out laughing.

'What? Are you here too? Here's a pleasant surprise for the Emperor! I hope he appreciates it as he should!'

'But will I see him, Sire? Is he following you? I have to speak to him.'

'I hope, for his sake, that you'll do no more than speak. He is at a place called Bird Hill at this moment but I don't expect him to enter Moscow tonight. I must take a look at the city before he comes and gives chase to that old fox, Kutusov. Has he much of a start, do you know?'

'He went through yesterday morning, but his army was passing all night, going towards Riazan. There are some stragglers left even now.'

'Good. Forward, gentlemen! It's for us to catch them up. As for you, Madame, do not try to reach the Emperor today. Tomorrow, he will be in the Kremlin, for they will be making his quarters ready for him tonight. Be patient a little longer. He will be delighted to see you.'

Pulling off his magnificent, if ridiculous hat, Murat swept them a low bow and, handling his horse with consummate skill, set off at a gallop along the Moskva, followed by several troops of horse and Vania's eyes, which were shining like twin stars.

'Tomorrow,' she sighed. 'How long it seems! What shall we do until then? I don't suppose you want to go back to St Louis-des-Français?'

'By no means! I mean to try to find my friends. Would you mind if we went over to the governor's palace? It was there we became separated, two days since.'

As they strolled slowly, arm in arm, in the direction of Rostopchin's mansion, the two women were able to watch Napoleon's troops gradually taking possession of Red Square. Not a moment was wasted as the artillery and the foot batteries moved in and established a park. A few shots were fired from the Kremlin ramparts, whereupon guns were trained on the massive Saviour's Gate while a group of officers, accompanied by a platoon of Polish lancers shouting orders in Russian, set about effecting an entry.

'They'll not have much trouble,' Vania remarked. "There's only a rabble inside. They won't make it a regular siege. They couldn't.'

Temporarily losing interest in the matter, she drew her companion off in the direction of the governor's palace, where a few people had gathered to watch the entry of the invaders. A smartly-dressed female, accompanied by a number of much younger ladies attired in a much simpler style, detached herself from them and began hurrying towards a group of horsemen, seen by their plumes to be senior officers of some kind, who were dismounting before the doors of St Basil's cathedral.

'Come, Mesdemoiselles!' she called. 'Do not be afraid. These are our own people. They will surely be able to restore my poor husband whom these savages have taken away!'

'It seems to me that the Russians took more hostages than we thought,' Vania remarked. 'That is Madame Aubert, the celebrated French dressmaker. She has been too careless recently and made no effort to conceal her joy at the news of the war. Rostopchin must have paid her by taking her husband.'

But Marianne was no longer listening. Among the people outside the palace, she had just caught sight of Craig O'Flaherty. He was strolling slowly up and down, with head bent, hands clasped behind his back and a dejected expression, like a man waiting for something but who had almost given up hope.

Uttering a joyful cry, Marianne literally threw herself into his arms, quite forgetting her wound. She was reminded of it brutally enough and her cry of joy ended in a squeak of anguish which O'Flaherty scarcely seemed to notice.

'Here you are at last!' he cried, lifting her at arms' length as if she had been a doll. 'By St Patrick, I was beginning to think that you were gone for good. Where's Beaufort?'

Marianne gave him a rapid account of her adventures since they had last seen one another and presented Vania, who seemed to make a considerable impression on the Irishman. Then, without pausing for breath, she went on: 'Now you know as much as I do. I hope to get news of Jason very soon. But do you know anything of Gracchus and Jolival?'

'Gracchus is scouring the town for you. As to Jolival, he's in there.' He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Rostopchin house behind him. 'After the mob had passed the other day, some of those young fellows practising their swordplay here recognized him for a Frenchman and gave chase. In running from them he had the ill-luck to fall and break his leg.'

'Is he – oh, my God! They did not kill him?'

'No. I managed to disarm one of them and get his weapon and so brought our friend off safe enough. Sure, he was a trifle under the weather but the luck was ours in that we fell in with a medical man, another Frenchman and the governor's personal physician, which gave him the more reason for making himself scarce, for fear of what might be coming to him from that quarter. He saw Jolival fall and by the mercy of God his Hippocratic oath proved stronger than his fears. He came to our assistance and we carried the poor fellow into the palace stables where he had been hiding. The horses had all gone by that time. Then, when Rostopchin and his people departed some hours later, we were able to move quietly into the house itself.' He laughed. 'At this very moment our dear Vicomte is probably lolling in the governor's own bed. Come in and see him. The sight of you will be the best medicine he can possibly have.'

They found Arcadius ensconced like a king in a vast wing armchair full of cushions, set in the window of a large, luxuriously appointed bedchamber, with his splinted leg propped up before him on a stool, supported by a pillow. There was gilding everywhere but the fact that the decorations consisted almost exclusively of battle scenes and military trophies, together with a complete absence of carpets, combined to make the place about as cosy as a throne room.

Clearly, it had been getting the Vicomte down. That much was evident from the way he welcomed them, hailing Marianne's arrival with cries of joy and treating Vania to an almost princely courtesy. As a result of his instructions and the more practical endeavours of Dr Davrigny, now left sole master of the house, the two women found themselves in possession of a fine apartment adjoining his which had formerly belonged to the Countess Rostopchin.

After that Vania departed with Davrigny in search of news, tactfully announcing that she wished to try and locate her companions from the theatre, and Marianne was left alone with Craig and Jolival.

Seated on either side of the Vicomte's chair, they held a council of war. The time for secrecy was past and in any case the Irishman had given sufficient proof of his friendship and loyalty to be trusted with anything that concerned his friends.

Marianne described in detail all that had befallen her and Jason and went on to tell of the night she had spent in the Abbé Surugue's house and her strange encounter there.

'I still cannot understand this danger which is supposed to threaten us and which made the cardinal insist on my promising to leave Moscow before tomorrow night,' she finished with a sigh. 'On the contrary, it seems to me that once the Emperor is here we should have nothing more to fear.'

It was clear, however, that Jolival did not share her optimism.

Indeed, the more Marianne said, the deeper grew the frown between his brows.

'The cardinal is better informed than any man of my acquaintance,' he said darkly. 'And with good reason. If he tells you to go, then go you should. Moreover, Dr Davrigny has heard some strange rumours also, although it's fair to say that he paid scant attention to them, knowing the Russian love of high drama. But added to what you have just told us…"

'What are these rumours?'

'They say that the chief men of the city, including, of course, the governor, have determined, in their patriotic fervour, to sacrifice Moscow for the sake of the Empire.'

'Sacrifice Moscow?'

'Yes. In the biblical meaning of the word. Moscow is to be the pyre on which Napoleon's army will be offered up as a holocaust to the Tsar's injured pride. People are saying that for several weeks past a kind of arsenal has been set up on Prince Repnin's estate at Vorontsovo, some six versts from Moscow, where they are manufacturing rockets and bombs and such to be placed in an enormous balloon, like that of the Montgolfier brothers, which is to be exploded over the city.'