She was so lost in her own dreams that she did not notice that Solomon had stopped speaking and was looking at her, obviously expecting her to say something.

'Well?' he asked, when she still gave no sign. Marianne started and stared at him blinking like someone only half-awake. Then she smiled.

'It's wonderful,' she breathed. 'How can I ever thank you for what you are doing for us? Why are you so generous?'

The old Jew's shoulders lifted a little under his faded robe. He went to the far end of the room and a small panel in the wall, perfectly concealed by the pattern of the hanging, opened as if by magic under his agile fingers. He took out a package wrapped in a dirty cloth and, after first shutting the cupboard again with the same conjuring trick as before, brought it to the table. A second later, the package had passed from his hands to Marianne's. She stared at it without understanding.

'Give that to Ishak. Tell him to lay out half of it as he knows and return the remainder to me in the form of merchandise, of which he also knows.'

Automatically, Marianne undid the cloth and looked, with Barbe craning over her shoulder. They uttered a simultaneous gasp of amazement. There, nestling in the folds, gleamed six flawless pearls as big as quails' eggs.

As Marianne looked up at him with a question in her eyes, the old man coughed a little and pulled vaguely at his wispy grey beard. His eyes twinkled suddenly as he murmured: 'I – er – found them, during the fighting, in the Church of the Assumption. If they were found here, I should hang for it.'

'And if they're found on us?' Marianne asked.

'Ah, well – then I suppose you would be likely to hang too, but it will at least release you from the intolerable burden of gratitude. If those things get to Ishak, we shall be quits.'

There was nothing particularly funny in it, yet Marianne was beset by a sudden urge to laugh, as she thought of the brilliant still lying on her breast. The diamond taken from a notorious thief – and now these pearls got from a Virgin who, in Russia, must amount to much the same! If she died in this adventure, those who came to strip her corpse would surely make their fortunes. But she had never been afraid of danger, especially when she saw beyond it the way out of a desperate situation.

'Very well,' she said gaily. 'I'll undertake this commission for you. And in spite of it, I'll still say thank you!'

An hour later, when Marianne and Barbe were up in their attic sleeping the sleep of the just, Solomon Levin, enveloped in an immense furred gown that made him look as broad as he was long, slipped cautiously out of his house and through the snowy streets to the city wall. He passed through, by way of a breach made earlier by the French guns, and made his way swiftly to the Jewish cemetery. As he walked, he smiled into his beard and now and then he rubbed his hands together, perhaps to warm them.

CHAPTER NINE

The Last Bridges

There were a dozen of them barring the road where the snow was trodden hard by horses' hooves. But more could be seen, patrolling in small groups, among the trees that clothed the sides of the valley. Cossacks! Straight-legged in their long stirrups, they looked like barbaric statues, no different, except in the colour of their clothes, from those that Marianne had seen on the banks of the Kodyma: bearded men with fierce eyes, dressed in coarse red or blue wool. They wore shaggy fur hats or flat caps and carried long, red lances and their little spirited horses seemed swamped under the high painted wooden saddles.

Motionless, in spite of the fierce wind from the north that drove the powdery snow at them in great gusts, they watched the approaching vehicle. Barbe, who was driving, gritted her teeth so hard that the line of her jaw showed clearly through the white skin but she said nothing, and went on. Only the snowlight reflected back from her eyes with a harder brightness. Sensing danger, Marianne coughed to hide her anxiety and jerked her head at the river whose grey and swollen waters, flecked with fragments of ice, hurried past to the left of them.

'The bridge? Is it far?'

'Three or four versts,' Barbe answered, her eyes still on the riders ahead. 'We want to get over quickly. There's a storm coming up. But with those—'

The weather was certainly threatening. Thick, black clouds were rolling up at frightening speed, driven by the north wind that froze the skin and brought tears to the eyes.

It was an hour since the two of them had left the little town of Borisov, on the right bank of the Berezina, where they had found shelter for the night in the home of a dealer in second-hand clothes. For the first time in the ten days since they had left Smolensk they had had some trouble in finding a lodging, for the troops of the Russian Admiral Chichakov were billeted there, moving into position to deal the final blow to Napoleon.

The whole town was overrun with soldiers and even the secondhand clothes dealer, Jew though he was, had little more than his shop for himself. If it had not been for Solomon Levin's letter, he would probably have rejected his unwanted visitors out of hand, since they were not even of his own race, but the merchant of Smolensk seemed to possess great influence among those of his faith. Out of deference to him, the second-hand clothes dealer had allowed the travellers to spend the night in his woodshed, along with their horse and cart. They had slept badly but at least they had been sheltered from the cold.

As far as Borisov, things had gone better than they could possibly have hoped. The cold had not been unbearable, two or three degrees below zero at most, and thanks to Solomon their travelling arrangements were both sound and unremarkable. Their little kibitka, although it needed a coat of paint and looked shabby enough to attract no covetous eyes, was equal to the worst roads, while the little, shaggy horse that drew it was strong and sturdy and well shod for going on ice. What was more, they carried with them oats, food and blankets and even weapons, a gun and two hunting knives, intended chiefly for defence against wolves, made bolder by the winter and the snow.

On those nights when there was no town for them to stay in, Barbe made sure that they pulled up to sleep in a wood, where they were sheltered from the wind. Then she would light a fire, to keep off wild animals. She was used to camping and her knowledge was precious to them now. She had the strength and courage of a man, and with it a placidity that was a great comfort. What was more, ever since officially entering Marianne's service in Moscow, she seemed to have given up drinking. It was true that little opportunity to do so had come her way, but it was she who had insisted on the careful rationing of the little cask of brandy Solomon had placed in the cart: a thimbleful for each of them every night for warmth. And so, little by little, a kind of friendship was growing, with no word spoken and no outward sign, between the one-time camp follower and her aristocratic mistress.

Until now, they had encountered no serious unpleasantness. The worst moment had been when they were leaving Orcha and some stones had been thrown at them by Christians in the town as they came out of the house of the money-changer, Zabulon. But neither had been hit.

Now and then they had caught a glimpse of a line of cossack horsemen etched against the clear line of the sky. Then the wind sweeping over the plain had brought to them the disturbing strains of a wild singing, matched to the beat of the horses' hooves, quickening as they passed from a walk to a trot and swelling tempestuously at the gallop. For all their terror at the sight, Marianne and Barbe could not help listening with an involuntary stir of pleasure to the beauty of those voices, their harmonies as deep and solemn as the age-old Russian earth, but it was a pleasure that only showed itself when they were sure that they themselves had not been seen. Then the bearded horsemen would vanish like a dream beneath the lowering sky as the echo of their warlike singing died away.

But there was nothing dreamlike about these waiting here by the river. Silent and still as statues, they looked menacing and very far from poetic.

'Get ready,' Barbe said softly.

Marianne was already doing so. Rachel Levin had taught her how to cover her face and hands swiftly with the fine, alarmingly coloured membranes which had once formed part of the stock in trade of many a cunning beggar. Marianne had become adept at the horrid game and within seconds she was lying flat on her back in the bottom of the cart, wrapped from head to foot in a grubby blanket and with her eyes closed and her face dramatically covered with dark, purplish-red blotches. The effect was positively frightening. As the cart drew up she uttered a groan worthy of any actress.

One of the cossacks had the horse by the bridle and Barbe launched immediately into a flood of cringing speech. Marianne naturally understood not a word of this, but she did catch the sound of the borrowed names Solomon had bestowed on them. They were Sara and Rebecca Louria of Kovno, going home so that Rebecca might die in peace.

Rebecca, of course, was Marianne. She had chosen that name for herself in memory of the woman in Constantinople who had saved her life when her son was born. It had seemed to her that it would bring her luck.

Just at that moment, however, she was beginning to have doubts about this because the voice that alternated with Barbe's sounded very violent and aggressive. Things did not seem to be going according to plan.

'Watch out!' Barbe's whisper came suddenly in French.

The supposed invalid caught her meaning and moaned industriously, letting her head roll from side to side on the sack of oats that served her as a pillow. All at once, she saw through half-closed eyes a hairy head thrust into the body of the wagon an inch or two from her face. The kibitka was filled with a reek of stale tobacco and rancid fat, so nauseating that it made her retch most convincingly. Then the man poked the butt of his gun inside and jabbed her in the ribs with it so that she screamed aloud, while Barbe broke into a fresh spate of tears and entreaties.

The cossack withdrew almost at once, muttering what was evidently a stream of fierce profanities. The next moment, the vehicle was moving again and Marianne was on the point of sitting up to nurse her aching ribs when Barbe hissed at her: 'Don't move! They're coming with us.'

'What for?'

"They say this is a military area and we are breaking the law. They say we must go with them.'

'Oh my God! Where to?'

'How should I know? To their camp, I expect.'

'But – but what about our permit?'

'They don't care for that. Or for your sickness either. All that interests them is the horse and what's inside the wagon. I think – they're going to kill us.'

Barbe did not sound in the least frightened as she said it. It was a simple statement of fact, a little sad but resigned. Marianne gulped and shut her eyes. Even the sight of the way Barbe's broad shoulders had drooped suddenly was depressing. And once again Marianne was determined not to die.

She felt with an icy hand for the hunting knife at her belt, hidden under her many shawls, and made up her mind to use it to sell her life dearly at least. The wind rose in a sudden squall, roaring along the valley and sending a wet, snowy blast into the kibitka. Crows lifted their harsh voices from somewhere near at hand and the sudden dreadful feeling came to Marianne that she was lying in a hearse and it was bearing her inexorably to her grave. It was then that she began to pray under her breath.

Escorted by four cossacks, the kibitka continued on its way along the Berezina until it came to a primitive bridge made of tree trunks and beaten earth and, looking down on it, the hamlet and little castle of Studianka. Barbe let out a groan.

'Saint Casimir! There are more cossacks there, hacking the bridge down. We'll never get across, even if these should let us go.'

Meanwhile, the men with the kibitka had begun shouting.

'What are they saying?' Marianne whispered.

'It's very strange. They're telling them to stop a moment as they want to get the wagon across before the bridge is down. I don't understand it at all.'

She was not given long to wonder. Both the cossacks and the wagon had come to a standstill and in an instant two huge, bearded giants had snatched Barbe from her seat, ignoring her screams of protest. Two more took hold of the supposedly sick woman by her head and feet and pulled her out of the back. Playing her part to the end, she made no attempt to resist but only groaned more loudly, thinking they would lay her down in the snow.