'I'm very sorry, milady, I am indeed,' he said awkwardly, 'but I'm afraid you'll have to go.'

'Go?' Jason echoed, once again forgetting his part as the respectable serving man. But the unhappy innkeeper was past the stage of noticing such niceties. He only nodded wretchedly and Marianne could see that there were tears in his eyes.

'Yes, you must go,' he repeated heavily. 'You must quit Moscow within the hour, milady. You are English and the Corsican ogre is coming. You will be in peril if you stay. Go! Go at once! Such a pretty lady as you are, you must not fall into their filthy hands.'

'But – but I thought the soldiers were coming to defend Moscow?'

'No – they are only marching through. They are running away… one of the soldiers told me they are going towards Riazan—' His voice choked suddenly. 'Our army is beaten – beaten! Our city is lost. We are all going, all of us! But you should be gone! We will only put a few things together and be gone also. I've a brother at Kaluga. I shall go to him.'

'You are abandoning your house?' Jason said. 'But what about the wounded men in your bedchambers?'

'They will have to trust in God. It will not help them much if I get myself killed defending them. I've a family to consider.'

It was no use arguing. The three travellers left and found themselves walking along the riverside, where a state of indescribable confusion reigned. The troops were still passing but now, in amongst them, were all those Muscovites who had stayed at home until that moment but were now leaving precipitately. As they passed the doorway to the foundling hospital they caught sight of a group of children about ten years of age, wearing some kind of green uniform, gathered in the porch about a tall fair man dressed like a superior officer but whose round, pleasant face was running with tears and his fists clenched in helpless rage.

The anguish of all these people was so real and poignant that Marianne could not help but be touched by it. However you looked at it and whichever side you were on, war was a dreadful thing, a calamity that people might endure but never really wanted, for even such enthusiasm as patriotism engendered was snuffed out like a light at the first real hardship.

To her awareness of taking part in a tragedy which was not her own was added the anxiety she felt at the thought of her lost friends. If she and Jason went on allowing themselves to be borne along on this flood of humanity they would find themselves outside Moscow, having lost all hope of ever finding Jolival, O'Flaherty and Gracchus again. Possessed by the idea of reaching Red Square and the Rostopchin palace at all costs, they infiltrated a stream of people making for the first bridge across the Moskva in order to be at least on the right side of the river.

'It must be possible to get to the square by cutting down a side street and going round a little way,' Jason said. 'The first thing is to get free of this mass of soldiers.'

But the chaos on the other side of the river was even worse and Marianne and Beaufort found themselves suddenly trapped at the corner of another bridge, or rather in the angle between two bridges, because a tributary, the Yaouza, ran into the Moskva at this point and there were bridges across both. The struggling mass of people was equally thick on each. The first rays of the morning sun shining on the Yaouza bridge showed them the figure of Count Rostopchin. Wearing a military greatcoat with huge gilt epaulettes, he was standing with his horsewhip in his hand flailing indiscriminately at all who came within his reach and shouting at them like one possessed to move along. He was doing his best to clear the way and Marianne soon saw why. Coming towards her, surrounded by the cheers and acclamations of the crowd, was a group of generals mounted on magnificent horses.

Dressed in white or dark green uniform coats and enormous black cocked hats adorned with nodding white plumes or black cocks' feathers, they were grouped about a very stout old gentleman on a little grey horse and might almost have been guarding him like some precious relic, or like a prisoner. The old man had a kindly face, although it looked very sad, and he was modestly attired in an old black military coat, quite free of decorations, with a long scarf wound round his neck and a laced cap on his grey hair. All around the excited crowds were shouting frantically: 'Kutuzov! Kutuzov!'

Then Marianne knew that she was looking at the famous field-marshal, ancient enemy of the young Bonaparte and the man whom the Tsar Alexander, who did not like him, had recalled from his provincial exile a bare two weeks before but in whom all Russia saw a man of destiny and their last hope.

All Russia? Perhaps not, for as the headquarters staff drew near to the narrow bridge on which Rostopchin stood the Count charged like a bull and began hurling a stream of abuse at the marshal, in spite of all that two of the plumed generals could do to restrain him. He had to be hustled away by main force, still roaring that Kutuzov was nothing but a traitor, running like a coward and abandoning the city he had sworn to defend. Kutuzov himself merely shrugged his heavy shoulders, mouthed a brief command and then went on his way, surrounded by his glittering staff.

Jason, whose great height gave him a partial view over the heads of the crowd, caught sight of an empty space behind them and grasping Marianne by the wrist drew her after him.

'Come on,' he cried. 'Now is the time to cross! We'll be able to reach the street just over there.'

They ran for it, still dragging the gipsy after them. The gap turned out to be caused by a troop of cossacks who had drawn rein at the door of a large monastery, where an officer had dismounted and was talking to an old, bearded priest in crow-black, funereal robes.

As ill-luck would have it, just as they reached the other side a sudden movement in the crowd, which was still coming on, jostled the cossacks and Marianne, jerked forward by Jason to avoid being crushed beneath their hooves, crashed hard against the priest and trod on his foot.

He uttered a squawk of shock and displeasure and, seeing that his assailant was a woman, pushed her away sharply but not before the officer had grabbed her roughly by the arm and, shouting at her in words she did not understand, was evidently trying to force her to her knees in order to beg trie man's pardon. Jason would have sprung to her assistance but two of the cossacks forcibly restrained him, while Marianne, still struggling furiously in the officer's grip, found herself suddenly staring into his face. It was no more than an instant, but they knew one another.

'Chernychev!' Marianne gasped.

It was none other. As blond and handsome as ever, and as exquisite also, in spite of the blood and dust that marred the dark green dolman, from which the Legion of Honour had disappeared, and in spite of the lines of fatigue on his pale face. His eyes, too, were the same, the same cruel, cat-like gaze, the green eyes slanting slightly upwards and the high cheekbones hinting at mongol blood. Oh yes, he was the same man, the same attractive, disturbing Count Alexander Chernychev, the Tsar's spy and the lover of half the ladies in Paris, although it was not easy to recognize the nonchalant seducer, so skilled at gathering the secrets of the Empire from the Princess Borghese's arms, in this hard-bitten warrior. But the recollection of their last meeting was enough to make Marianne try desperately to wrench herself from his grasp and escape.

She was wasting her time. She knew already that the slim, white fingers clenched about her arm could be as hard as steel. Besides, he too had leaped at once to the name that went with that passionate face and the huge eyes just then dilated with terror.

'Why, it's my princess!' he cried in French. 'The most precious of all my possessions. The fabulous emerald of the poor camel-driver on the road to Samarkand. By Our Lady of Kazan, this meeting was the very thing I needed to make me believe that God is still a Russian!'

Before Marianne could recover from the shock of this unexpected encounter, he had swept her into his arms and was kissing her in a way that drew a roar of approval from his own men and a shout of fury from Jason.

'Let her go!' he bellowed, casting prudence to the winds. 'Damn you, you filthy cossack! How dare you lay a hand on her!'

Against all expectation, Chernychev released Marianne and turned towards the other man still struggling in the grip of his cossacks.

'I think I have the right to handle my own property,' he said arrogantly. 'As for you, moujik, how dare you even speak to me? Are you jealous? Are you her lover also? Then here is something to make you change your tone!'

He raised the whip he held in his hand and slashed it viciously across Jason's face, so that the trace of the lash stood out in a red weal. The American strained frantically to break free of his captors but only succeeded in provoking their mirth.

'Coward!' he roared. 'You're nothing but a coward, Count Chernychev, who strikes only when he can do so with impunity and bandies insults in the same way! You don't hesitate to defame a woman who is a defenceless stranger here!'

'Defame the Princess Sant'Anna? How do I do that by speaking the truth? In the name of my patron St Alexander, may I die if I lied when I said that she is mine! As for you, I've a good mind to make you pay for your insolence under the knout. It's the only proper treatment for your kind.'

'Look closer! I'm not one of your moujiks. I'm a man who already has one account to settle with you. Have you forgotten the night they played Britannicus at the Comédie Française?'

The Russian's arm, already raised to strike again, fell slowly. He took another step towards Jason and scrutinized him closely. Then he broke into a shout of laughter.

'By God, it's true! The American! Captain – Captain Lefort, is it not?'

'Beaufort, if you please. Now that you know who I am, I am waiting for an explanation, not to say an apology, for what you have just said.'

'So be it! You have my apology – but only for mispronouncing your name.' He favoured Jason with a mocking grin. 'I've always had the greatest difficulty with foreign names. As for this lady—'

Unable to bear any more, Marianne ran to Jason.

'Don't listen to him! He's nothing but a mischief-maker. A spy – a wretch who uses friendship and love alike to serve his own interests—'

'My master's interests, madame! And Russia's!'

He snapped out an order to the men who were still holding Jason and they loosed their grip immediately. The American found his arms free once more and promptly used them gently to put aside Marianne who was trying to cling to him.

'Let be. I want to hear what he has to say for himself. And I must ask you not to interfere. This is a matter between gentlemen. Now, Monsieur,' he went on, turning to Chernychev. 'I am still waiting. Are you going to admit that you lied?'

The Count gave a shrug. 'If I were not afraid of shocking your sensibilities and exhibiting the worst of bad taste, I would have my men strip her clothes off here and now and you would then see that she bears a small scar on her side – my crest imprinted on her flesh after a night of love.'

'A night of love?' Marianne cried, beside herself. "You dare to call it a night of love? The barbarous way you treated me? He got into my bedchamber, Jason, by breaking the window. He knocked me half-unconscious and tied me to my bed with the cords from the curtains and then raped me! Do you hear? He raped me as if he were putting a city to the sack! And as if that were not enough, he wanted to leave some permanent mark upon me and so – and so he – he heated up the seal ring that he wears and pressed it, red hot, into my flesh. That is what he calls a night of love!'

With a cry of wrath, Jason sprang at the Russian with clenched fists raised to strike but Chernychev sidestepped quickly and, drawing his sword, pressed its point against his attacker's chest.

'Not so fast…! I may have been a trifle hasty that night and I acknowledge that "night of love" was a slight exaggeration – at least where I was concerned. It would have been better applied to the man who came after me – the one with whom I fought a duel, my charmer, in your garden…'

Marianne shut her eyes. She felt sick with anger and despair. She seemed to be caught in a web of half-truths more damaging than any insults. Jason's face had taken on a grey tinge. Even his eyes, strangely emptied of expression, seemed to have lost their colour and become as grey as steel.