After the massive door slammed shut behind her, Marianne remained for a moment sitting dazedly on the straw mattress where her guards had thrown her. It had all occurred so quickly that she could hardly take in where she was or what had happened to her.

There had been that woman, the wretched creature who had used her father's name as an excuse to reach her, to melt her heart and so get money from her! But what was the purpose of this charade? To obtain the money and ensure that she was spared the necessity of paying it back? That seemed to be the only explanation, for it was impossible to think of any other motive for such a diabolical trick. Revenge or feminine jealousy was ruled out since she and Madame de Gachet had only set eyes on one another for the first time in the entrance hall of the hotel. Marianne could not remember ever having heard her name mentioned before and even Jolival, although thinking he had met that devil in female form somewhere, could not recall when or where, or even put a name to her.

As her initial bewilderment passed, Marianne was seized again by the anger which had swept over her as she found herself apprehended like a common thief. With a roaring in her head and a red light before her eyes, she saw again the officer's triumphant expression as he pulled the diamond from her bag, the anger and mortification on the hotel proprietor's face and the gaping wonder of those other inmates of the hotel who had been attracted by the fuss at the sight of the magnificent stone.

"Oh, no!" Ducroux had cried out. "It can't be true!"

It had been open to doubt whether this last remark was called forth to the splendor of the diamond or his own disappointment in his ravishing young guest. But with such evidence against her, how could she deny it? Especially since the devilish countess had taken good care not to show herself. And now what was to become of her?

After a little while, however, she began to take some comfort in the thought that Jolival was still at liberty. He would be bound to learn of this catastrophe as soon as he returned to the hotel and he would hurry straight to the governor to put an end to the dreadful mistake before it could end in a miscarriage of justice. But would he manage to see Richelieu in time to rescue Marianne from her present predicament? It seemed not unlikely, even highly probable, in fact: if the governor were anything like the gentleman his rank implied, he would never permit his old friend's name to be mixed up in such a fearful scandal.

She soon managed to convince herself that they would come for her before long and question her in some language she could understand. Then she would be able to make them listen to her, insist on being confronted with that dreadful woman, and then everything would be all right. They would even have to apologize to her, because after all she was the injured party, it was she who had been cheated out of five thousand rubles and with the most blatant effrontery. Well, they would see which rang clearer, the voice of truth or the voice of lies. How she looked forward to seeing the old harridan take her place in this cell…

Her spirits much restored, she was meditating along these lines when the brooding silence of the old prison was broken by a variety of sounds. There was the thud of heavy boots, the clatter of weapons and raised voices rising above the sounds of a struggle. To her horror, Marianne recognized that one of those voices was Jolival's.

"You have no right," he was protesting furiously at the top of his voice, "I tell you I'm a Frenchman, do you hear, a Frenchman! You have no right to lay hands on me! I demand to see the governor—I wish to see the Duc de Richelieu. Ri-che-lieu! For God's sake, why won't you listen to me, damn you?"

The last words ended in a kind of agonized grunt which told Marianne sickeningly that they must have struck the prisoner to quiet him.

Clearly, the unfortunate vicomte had been apprehended on his return to the hotel, perhaps even without a word of explanation. He must be totally bewildered by what was happening to him.

She flung herself at the door and pressed her face against the grating, screaming out: "Arcadius! I'm here… close by! They've arrested me too! It was that woman, Arcadius, that horrible Madame de Gachet!"

But there was no answer beyond another cry of pain, further away this time, followed by the noise of a door being opened and shut again with a great crashing of bolts. Then a frenzy of rage seized Marianne. She hammered at the thick oaken door with hands and feet, screaming insults and abuse in a variety of languages in the crazy hope that one of the dumb brutes who had arrested them might catch some fragments of what she was saying, and demanding that someone be sent at once to inform the Duc de Richelieu.

The effects of this clamor were not long in coming. The door of her prison was pulled open so suddenly that she almost tumbled into the passage. What prevented her was a hand belonging to a gigantic individual with a completely bald head, as though all his capacity for growing hair were concentrated in the enormous gingery mustache that dropped on either side of his mouth. With one thrust of his great hand he sent her reeling back onto the straw, at the same time shouting at her in words she did not understand but which evidently contained a crude request to make less noise.

After which, the better to drive home his message, he took a long whip from his belt and laid about her back and shoulders with a force that made her scream aloud.

The thought that she was being treated like a vicious animal was the last straw to Marianne's temper. Writhing off the bed, she twisted like a snake and sprang, biting the man savagely on the wrist.

The jailer roared like a slaughtered ox. He tore her off and hurled her bodily across the room, to lie half-dazed by a few more blows from his whip. Then he left her.

She lay for a long while on the floor, incapable of movement. Her back and shoulders hurt abominably and she had a struggle to calm the frantic beating of her heart. Such was the fury and indignation that possessed her that in spite of the pain of the blows she had not shed a single tear.

What kind of people were these who maltreated their prisoners like that? Out of the depths of her memory she recalled things Princess Morousi had told her while she had been staying in her house. Justice, in Russia, was swift and summary. Often, those unfortunate enough to offend the tsar or his representatives would simply disappear. They would be sent in chains to the farthest reaches of Siberia to rot in the mines. They never came back because cold, hunger and ill-treatment very soon opened for them the way to what could only have been a better world.

Perhaps that was the horrid fate which awaited her and Jolival. If the Duc de Richelieu, that dedicated enemy of Napoleon, were ever to discover who she really was, then certainly nothing could save them from living death, unless the despot of new Russia should prefer to follow the fashion of his Turkish neighbors and drop them in the Black Sea with a stone around their necks.

At the thought of the governor, all her earlier anger revived. What kind of man must he be to permit such savage customs in the land where he was master? Surely the most hateful and contemptible of beings. How dared he bear the name of the greatest enemy of feudalism whom France had produced until Napoleon and suffer himself to play the lackey to a Muscovite tsar, the ruler of a race of men more barbarous even than the rudest savages, at least if her own galling recollections of the handsome Count Chernychev were anything to go by!

Painfully, she dragged herself to her feet at last, but only to collapse once more helplessly on her bed. Her back was hurting her and she was beginning to shiver violently in her thin silk dress, now rent and torn by the jailer's whip. She was cold in her dank cell. She was thirsty too, but the water in her pitcher, when she succeeded in lifting it with an effort to her lips, tasted horribly brackish and slimy, as if it had not been renewed for many days.

In an effort to obtain some meager warmth, she huddled as best she could into the straw, trying to avoid hurting her sore back more than she could help. And to steady her fast-waning courage she tried to pray. But the words did not come easily, for it was hard to pray when she was full of anger, but at least that underlying rage helped to stave off fear.

How long she lay like that, with eyes wide open and staring, as still as the dead in the oppressive silence, she did not know. The hours passed slowly and the gray light that filtered through into the prison became dusk, but the girl on the pallet did not seem to notice. All her thoughts were with her friends, with Jolival, who must be enduring similar treatment to herself, and with Jason, who would never now receive the help that he must need so sorely… To think that he might be only a few yards away from her, sick, perhaps, and in despair. No amount of whipping or ill-treatment would ever overcome his fury of resistance. God alone knew what these brutes might have done to him.

She did not hear the judas in her door open. Nor did she move while a thin pencil of light entered the cell by the same way and move across until it fell on her pale figure lying in the straw.

"Dear God, it is she!" murmured a voice. "Open this door at once!"

The pencil beam grew until it became the bright light of a lantern carried by a jailer. It filled the cell, banishing the shadows, and only then roused the girl from her torpor. She sat up blinking just as a small man in a black soutane, with a halo of white hair, darted into the cell.

At the sight of that black robe, Marianne uttered a gasp of terror, for to a prisoner the arrival of a priest could scarcely be held a good augury. But it was only for a moment. A second later the newcomer was hurrying across to her with outstretched arms.

"Marianne! My little one! What are you doing here?"

She gave a cry of recognition, feeling as if the heavens had opened for her.

"Godfather! You—?"

But the shock of joy breaking in on her wretchedness was too much for her. Her head swam and she had to cling to the old man, who was hugging her in his arms, laughing and crying at once.

"Godfather! It can't be true… I must be dreaming…" She was stammering incoherently, still unable to believe that he was real.

By this time Cardinal de Chazay had been able to appreciate his goddaughter's condition, her torn dress and pale face, with the imprint of fear still in her eyes, and the angry words burst out of him.

"What have these savages been doing to you?" He rounded on the jailer and continued his tirade in Russian. The man had been standing by watching in blank amazement while a prince of the Roman Church cradled a common thief in his arms as tenderly as a mother. Now he vanished in response to an authoritative command and Gauthier de Chazay turned his attention to calming his goddaughter's sobs. Her shattered nerves had given way and she was weeping like a fountain into his shoulder, gasping out apologies.

"I was so frightened, Godfather! I—I thought they would do away with me w-without even a hearing…"

"And not without reason. I shall never be sufficiently grateful for the providential chance that brought me to Odessa just at this time! When Richelieu told me a female traveler who arrived at Ducroux's yesterday had been arrested for theft and was claiming on the strength of some slight resemblance to be your father's daughter, I felt I had to make sure and I hurried here at once. I'd no idea what could have brought you to this place, but I knew of only one person who looked like your father, and that was you, yourself. Although the business of the theft still worried me—"

"I stole nothing, I swear to you! That woman—"

"I know, my child, I know. Or rather, I guessed as much. You see, I know the woman of old. But come, we must not remain here. The governor came with me and is waiting for us in the commandant's office."

The jailer returned bearing an army greatcoat and a steaming glass. The coat he handed nervously to the priest, the glass he set down by Marianne.

"Drink it," the cardinal told her. "It will do you good."

It was a glass of milkless tea, strong and very sweet, and it filled the void in her empty stomach and, with its warmth, restored some life to her. While she drank the priest put the vast overcoat around her shoulders, hiding her tattered dress and bruised flesh. Then he helped her to her feet again.