"Is he here in Odessa at this moment?"

"Why—yes, I imagine so. I have not heard that he has gone away."

"And what kind of a man is he? Forgive me if I seem to be presuming on your kindness, but I need to know. I heard it said in Constantinople that he is a very formidable man and somewhat difficult of access, that he rules here like a despot and is a hard man to cross. They said also that he hates the emperor Napoleon and everything to do with him."

The smile had faded from the man's face and he was regarding Marianne attentively with a stern, almost menacing expression.

"The Turks," he said slowly," have not so far had much cause to love His Excellency, who dealt them several sharp blows during the war. But do I understand, then, that you have come from the land of our erstwhile enemy? Have you no fear that the governor may require an explanation of what you were doing there? The ink is barely dry on the signatures to the treaty, you know. There is little mutual trust as yet and the smiles are still a trifle forced. I can only advise you to be very careful. Where the safety of his province is concerned, the governor is adamant."

"Do you mean that he will take me for a spy? " Marianne said in a low voice, coloring with a rush. "I do hope he won't because what I have to—" She was obliged to break off because the tall young man had come back at a run and was bending to whisper something in his master's ear with an appearance of unwonted agitation. Their new friend uttered an exclamation of annoyance and began to mutter angrily.

"Fools and half-wits! Nothing but fools and half-wits! Very well, I'm coming. Forgive me"—he turned back to Marianne—"but I am obliged to leave you on urgent business. We shall meet again, I am sure."

Cramming his pipe into his pocket without troubling to extinguish it, he bowed sketchily and was already hurrying away when Jolival called after him.

"Monsieur! Hi, Monsieur! Tell us at least whom we have to thank for saving our lives. Or how are we to find you again?"

The man paused for half a second in his stride and flung back over his shoulder: "Septimanie! I am called Septimanie!"

Then he vanished through the gateway of the arsenal, leaving Jolival staring after him with a look of astonishment.

"Septimanie?" he growled. "Why, that's my wife's name!"

Marianne burst out laughing and came to slip her arm through her old friend's.

"You are surely not going to take the poor man in dislike because of that? It's quite possible for a woman's Christian name to be a perfectly respectable surname at the same time. All it means is that our friend must be a descendant of someone who once lived in the old Gallic province of Septimania."

"I daresay," Jolival retorted, "but it's very disagreeable all the same. Upon my word, if I didn't know her to be so attached to England I'd be afraid of her turning up here… But there, come along now. I can see our guide is growing impatient. It's time for us to find out what a Russian hotel is like."

A good deal to the travelers' surprise, the place to which the boy now led them bore a striking resemblance to one of the better Parisian hostelries of the end of the previous century. Jolival, who had been expecting a dirty, smoky isba, trod with relief across the clean white doorstep of the Hotel Ducroux, which like the majority of Russian inns was called by the name of its proprietor.

It was a fine new building situated not far from the great barracks that were built into the side of the hill, pink-washed with tall white windows, their small panes gleaming in the last rays of the setting sun. The wide doorway with its shining brass fittings, flanked by a pair of orange trees in large glazed pots, stood open at the top of the hill at the beginning of the new town. It was clearly a very well-kept house.

Two maidservants in cap and apron and two men in red shirts—the only Russian note in this thoroughly European setting—rushed to take their baggage, while Maître Ducroux himself, magnificently attired in a dark blue coat with gilt buttons which gave him the appearance of a naval officer, came forward with stately tread to greet the new arrivals. This haughty demeanor melted into an expression of real delight, however, as he took in the elegance of his potential guests and the fact that he had to do with French people.

Antoine Ducroux himself had once been a cook in the employ of the Duc de Richelieu. He had come in answer to a summons when the duke had become governor of Odessa in 1803 to provide the rapidly growing town with a fitting hostelry. Since then the Hotel Ducroux had flourished. The food there was the best in all new Russia and a good part of the old, and it continued to prosper, thanks to the numbers of men of business who frequented the busy port, the newly rich settlers of what had formerly been an uncultivated desert region but was now in the process of rapid development, and to the officers of the military garrison, which was maintained at considerable strength.

As Marianne and Jolival were bowed by their host into an entrance hall charmingly decorated in panels of French gray picked out with gold, they came face to face with a middle-aged woman of striking appearance who was at that moment descending the stairs with a Russian colonel in attendance.

It was not so much her clothes that took the eye, although these were remarkable enough, consisting as they did of a wide-skirted dress of black silk of an extremely old-fashioned design, trimmed at neck and elbow with falls of white muslin, and a very large hat with a black feather set upon an edifice of powdered curls; rather it was the expression of her face, which bore a look of pride and arrogance that almost amounted to a challenge. Her age appeared to be about fifty and she was quite evidently an aristocrat. Judging from the superb earrings of pearls and diamonds that dangled on either side of her painted cheeks, she was also extremely rich.

The lady was by no means unhandsome, only there was a coldness and calculation about her blue eyes and a hard line to her mouth that rendered an otherwise harmonious set of features curiously devoid of charm. Her glance, directed upon the world from behind a delicately wrought lorgnette, left a disagreeable impression. This weapon she now aimed at Marianne, and she continued to stare at her as the two ladies passed one another, even to the extent of turning her feathered head somewhat until she was swallowed up in the bustle of the street, the colonel still trotting meekly at her heels.

Marianne and Jolival had halted instinctively at the foot of the stairs, letting Ducroux get a few steps ahead of them.

"What an extraordinary woman," Marianne said, when the two were out of sight. "Would it be rude of me to inquire who she is?"

"Not at all, Madame. Indeed, I could see by the way she looked at you that she will ask me the same question before long. It is strange the way French people recognize one another."

"That lady is French?"

"Yes indeed. She is the Comtesse de Gachet. She came here from St. Petersburg two days ago accompanied by Colonel Ivanoff, the officer you saw with her. She is, as I have been told, a lady of quality who has suffered much misfortune but who enjoys the special interest of His Majesty the tsar."

"What is she doing here?"

The proprietor spread his hands in a comical gesture of ignorance.

"I am not precisely sure. I believe that she is considering settling here on account of her health, which can support our mild climate better than the rigors of the capital. The financial loans and other advantages, quite apart from the allocations of land, which our governor makes available to those who are willing to come and colonize new Russia may also have something to do with it."

"That woman a settler?" exclaimed Jolival, who had observed the behavior of the woman in the black feathers with a quick frown in his eyes. "I can scarcely believe it. I have a feeling I know her, although her name means nothing to me. But I am sure I've seen those eyes somewhere before… but where?"

"Well, you certainly look as if you'd seen a ghost," Marianne said, laughing. "Don't worry about it. It will come back to you. Now, shall we go and see our rooms? After so many days cooped up on board ship, I can't wait to find myself in a real bedchamber again."

The room to which she was shown looked out over the sea and the confused bustle of the harbor, with its amazing variety of men and nations. There in a dense huddle of huts, tents and houses, each of which bore something of the national characteristics belonging to its owner, dwelt Jews, Armenians, Greeks, Tatars, Turks, Moldavians, Bulgars and Gypsies. Lights were springing up and fragments of song drifted with a strange scent of wormwood on the salty air.

Marianne stood for some time leaning out of the window and forgetting even to take off her hat, fascinated by the fantastic spectacle presented by the bay in the magic of a glorious sunset. The sea was on fire, reflecting the fading beams in great pools of purple and gold, shot with gleams of amethyst that turned to an incredible dark green in the shadow of the great mole. Drums and whistles sounded on board the ships. From every masthead the colors were being slowly hauled down as they were every night at this hour, all together as though in a well-rehearsed ballet. But even from this point of vantage, Marianne was no more able to make out the vessel she sought than she had been from the harbor. Where could the Sea Witch be? And where was Jason? In the citadel, perhaps, or else in some other prison she could not see? This town was like no other she had ever seen. It was disturbing and yet strangely attractive in its intense vitality. Standing there at the window, she felt as if she were on the borders of an unknown world which drew her and yet troubled her at the same time.

"I've asked our good Monsieur Ducroux to have supper sent up to your room for us." Jolival's familiar voice spoke behind her. "I didn't think you'd want to go down to the dining room, seeing that the hotel seems to be so full of men. I should say the best thing for us tonight would be to eat our supper and then get a good night's rest. The beds seem comfortable enough."

She swung around to face him.

"I want to see the governor as soon as possible, Jolival. Can't we go to his house this evening and see if they will let us in?"

Jolival looked deeply shocked.

"My dear, you are a lady of quality. You cannot possibly go to the governor's palace yourself and demand admittance, any more than I can. But don't be alarmed. One of the hotel servants is on his way there at this very moment carrying a very proper note composed entirely by your humble servant, expressing in the most formal terms your earnest wish to call on your father's old friend."

Marianne sighed. "You are quite right, as usual," she said, warming his heart with a contrite little smile. "Then there is nothing for us to do except, as you say, to have our supper and go to bed. I hope word will come from the duke for us to visit him tomorrow."

They spent a quiet, peaceful evening. Seated comfortably in the small sitting room attached to Marianne's bedchamber, the two friends did ample justice to the Hotel Ducroux's admirable cooking. The cuisine throughout was French and recalled to Marianne the delicacies with which the great Carême had been wont to furnish Talleyrand's table.

As for Jolival, in his delight at this temporary respite from eastern cooking he tackled carp à la Chambord, a salmis of duckling and tartelettes aux fraises as though he had not seen food for weeks, breaking off only to savor with the air of a connoisseur the excellent champagne, product of Epernay, which Ducroux was able to procure through the good offices of his former employer and a whole fleet of smugglers.

"You may say what you like," he confided to Marianne as he finished his second bottle, "but there is nothing like champagne for making you see things in a quite different light. I respect the emperor's taste for Chambertin, but to my mind he's a good deal too exclusive. There is simply nothing like champagne."

"I think he knows that," she said, smiling at the candle flame seen through the airy bubbles rising in her glass. "In fact, it was he who introduced me to it."

There was a flicker in her green eyes as she remembered that first night. Was it only yesterday, or hundreds of years ago, that Talleyrand, the old fox, had driven her out through the snow to the pavilion of Le Butard, a young girl in a dress of rose-colored satin, to charm away with her voice the melancholy humors of a certain Monsieur Denis who was said to be suffering from some unexplained misfortune? She saw again the charming, intimate little music room, Duroc's broad face, a trifle uneasy in the role of go-between, the fragrance of flowers everywhere, the bright fire blazing in the hearth, the frozen lake outside the windows. And then the little man in the black coat who had listened to her singing without a word, yet with such a look of kindness in his steel blue eyes… She saw it all and even felt something of the emotion which had stirred her then as the heady fumes of the champagne had cast her all too willingly into the stranger's arms. And yet, at the same time, she found herself wondering if that pleasant interlude had really happened to her, or if it were not just a story she had heard, a fairy tale in the manner of Voltaire or La Fontaine.