Valentina (18 page)

‘My sister's name is Grunowska, Countess Grunowska. She has been abducted by Count Theodore Grunowska—'

‘A relation?' de Lamballe asked.

‘Her husband!' Alexandra snapped at him. He threw his pen down and glanced up at her without smiling this time.

‘Really, Madame,' he said, ‘I think I've heard enough. You come here telling me that this is a political abduction and then say that your sister has been abducted by her own husband! I'm very busy; please excuse me.'

‘Will you for God's sake listen?' Alexandra said; she came round the desk, barring his way. ‘Grunowska—doesn't that mean anything to you? My sister was sent to spy on your officers, to seduce Marshal Murat and report back to the Diet. She was threatened to make her comply. A Colonel De Chavel rescued her and brought her to me for safety. Now her husband has got her back, and God knows what they'll do to her. She was put on the French Intelligence list as a protected person. If you don't believe me, look it up. You must have some record of it!'

‘I don't need a record,' he said. ‘I've heard about the affair. How do you know she's in Warsaw?'

‘Because someone overheard him say he was taking her there—the details aren't important. It must mean she's being held by the Diet and will be put on trial. Major de Lamballe—my sister is under your protection! You must have her released!'

‘I think you had better sit down,' he said. He pulled out the chair beside his own. He turned away and began to walk up and down.

‘When Colonel De Chavel put your sister on our list our position here was very different to what it is now,' he said. ‘You must realise that. We were in command; the war had not begun—our victory seemed certain. They would not have dared do anything against French interests. But things have changed. We haven't defeated Russia; the latest news is confused, and what sense one can make of it is not to our advantage. The members of the Diet are growing bold in the Emperor's absence. I could have gone to the Lubinski Prison—I expect that's where she's been taken—and demand that she be handed over to me. But I can't do it now. I can't do anything to offend the Polish Government or rouse anti-French feeling. I'm very sorry, Madame, but I can't do anything to help you.'

She stared at him, both hands clenched into a fist, and the tears overflowed on to her face.

‘I'll go on my knees and beg,' she said, ‘if that's what you want. Damn you! She left Czartatz where she was safe to look for this Colonel, and that's how she was taken. I don't care what your duties are—you've got to save my sister!'

‘In the eyes of her own people she's an adulteress and a traitor,' he said. ‘It's quite probable that she's been strangled in the Lubinski and no one will ever know. I've told you, I can't do anything.'

‘Well, I can, and I will!' She sprang up, wiping away her tears with a furious gesture; her eyes blazed at him. ‘I'll find my brother-in-law and kill him!'

He considered her for a moment. ‘That would be very foolish,' he said coldly. ‘You will only attract attention to yourself, and then you'll join your sister!'

‘Do you think I'd mind if I were with her,' she demanded. ‘Do you think I'll rest if anything happens to her? You have no heart, no soul; you wouldn't understand.'

‘The ravings of an hysterical woman don't make much sense to me, I must admit,' de Lamballe remarked. ‘If the lady is anything like you, I don't suppose much will go wrong with her.'

‘She's a fool!' Alexandra cried out. ‘A sentimental idiot, throwing her life away. Like me? Ha, if she were do you think she'd be where she is now? She's gentle and loyal—and brave too. I don't know why I say all this to you—I'm wasting my breath!'

‘If you can stop abusing me,' he suggested, ‘I might be able to give you some advice.'

‘To hell with advice,' she flared at him. ‘What advice does a coward give? Go back to Czartatz and save yourself—there's nothing you can do?'

‘Go to the Russians,' he said. ‘You have an influential name. They may do something for you.'

‘Russians? There are no Russians here!'

‘There's Prince Adam Czartorisky and his faction—they're the next best thing.'

She stopped suddenly on her way to the door. ‘Of course. I should have gone there first. Don't expect me to thank you!'

He bowed low. ‘Madame, I expect nothing from you.'

‘Good,' she said bitterly. ‘Then, unlike me, you won't be disappointed!'

She pulled the veil down over her face and went out; she closed the door with a violence that rattled the window pains.

He went after her and opening the door called out:

‘Fanchon!'

‘Major?' The Lieutenant came at the double down the passage. He did not dare ask what had happened; his superior was scowling with temper.

‘Have that woman watched—night and day.'

‘Yes, Sir,' the Lieutenant said. ‘Any further orders?'

‘No,' de Lamballe said. ‘Not yet, anyway. It's for her own protection. The orders are, she's not to be molested. By anyone!'

He went back into his office and closed the door, quietly, wincing at the memory of that frightful slam. He spent the rest of the morning studying the records of the police on the Countess Valentina Grunowska.

‘I hope you realise, Countess, that you have nobody to blame for this but yourself?'

Potocki had not meant to show how his prisoner's attitude angered him; he had been cold and restrained, rebuking her in what he considered dignified terms for her betrayal of her country and her infidelity to her husband. A week in the Lubinski had done nothing to soften her resistence. She watched him with supreme indifference; she had not troubled to answer one of his accusations. She was not in one of the lower dungeons; he had refused her husband on that point, and ordered her to be confined in a small room on the upper floor. She was decently housed and fed; she was allowed to wear her own clothes and nobody ill-treated her. He was a cautious man, and he was not going to stand accused of hurting the woman, just supposing anything came to light or by some awful chance she had to be released.

‘I must say,' he said, ‘you're quite incorrigible!'

‘I'm not sure what you expect of me,' Valentina said. ‘You've accused me of adultery and treason. I deny both. If you're going to give me a trial, which is my right—I'll answer to the court. There's no reason why I must make any plea to you. You're my enemy.' She went and sat down, her head half turned away from him. Since she had been in the prison she had been ill with exhaustion; the prison doctor had dressed her wrists which would bear permanent scars, and she had slept the night through into the day and through the night again. Potocki had been her only visitor, and she thanked God that her husband had not been near her. He had brought her to the prison and thrown her on the floor at the chief jailor's feet. When he heard that she was not to be kept in the low level cells he cursed and raged, but the officials were adamant. She was taken away, while his furious protests could be heard echoing down the long stone passage after her. But that was all. She looked over her shoulder at the statesman who had been her guest in the old days, who had kissed her hand and called her a patriot that night during the reception at Dresden when she had agreed to be his spy. There was nothing on his face but hostility; she had failed him, and he could not forgive her. He would punish her with death if he could, and think that it was exactly what she deserved. There was no pity, no revulsion from her vicious husband, no understanding that human love had given her the courage to rebel against what he and Theodore had tried to make her do. If he knew what her husband had done when she refused to sleep with Murat he would not have cared. He would have done the same to a recalcitrant woman himself.

‘Please go,' she said coldly. ‘I'm tired. I've told you. I'll answer your tribunal. I've nothing to say to you.'

He glared at her for a moment, then turned and banged on the door. ‘Guard! Open and let me out!' He paused in the doorway and said: ‘Don't imagine that your French friends will be able to rescue you. The latest news from Russia says they're in headlong retreat. They've lost three-quarters of their troops; undoubtedly your lover is dead, Countess. You'll soon be reunited!'

‘I hope so,' Valentina said calmly. ‘I'm not afraid of death, Count Potocki, or of anything that you can do to me.'

‘Headlong retreat.' She sat down on the narrow bed, and covered her face with her hands; they were cold and they trembled. ‘They have lost three-quarters of their men. Your lover is dead.' ‘It was a worse torture than the rack, and he had taunted her deliberately, conjuring images of De Chavel lying dead or dying slowly of wounds, somewhere in that awful trackless Russian waste, where the weary French army struggled to get back before the winter caught them. It was late October; she knew what the conditions could be like in her own country during the winter; the snows of Russia were part of European legend, they were so deep and so unbearably cold. Nothing could live unprotected in such weather; the Russians themselves built their houses against winter, dressed against it, made provision not to travel more than shortest distance. And now Napoleon's armies were stranded in the heart of the countryside, without proper shelter, marching against time to get to safety. Valentina slipped down to her knees and began to pray. She would never leave the Lubinski alive; there was no hope of mercy from her countrymen or of rescue, now that French power was on the decline. She would be put to death, and she would never see the man she loved again, and she would die without knowing what had become of him. Her prayers were not for herself, for she was lost. They were for De Chavel, dead or alive, wherever he might be.

Prince Adam Czartorisky was a handsome man; he had never lost the romantic air which had made him so successful with women in his youth, or the fiery idealism which bound so many Polish patriots to him in spite of Napoleon's promises. As a very young man he had been the intimate friend of the Czar Alexander, one of a vociferous group of liberals who preached freedom and equality to the most absolute autocrat on earth, and deceived themselves into thinking him at one with them. Adam had loved the Czar with the rare quality of friendship which is possible between two very heterosexual men; he had also obliged Alexander by seducing his wife away from an unhealthy attachment to one of her ladies, because Alexander feared the scandal. Adam had succeeded only too well; the unhappy Empress had fallen deeply in love with him and he with her; Adam's first disappointment in Alexander had been when he forced them to end the association.

But Adam made excuses; he had to make them, because the Czar's affection was his only hope of securing freedom and unity for his oppressed country. Poland and its sovereignty was the one passion in his life, the connecting thread that held all his thoughts and actions together, and they in turn still depended upon his belief in the essential goodness and liberalism of the Czar Alexander.

He had remained firm in his trust, rejecting the overtures of the French Emperor, and proving a valuable contact and propagandist for the Russians in Poland. He had a strong following who argued that Poland should side with the Czar in the conflict in Europe and reject France; they emphasised Adam Czartorisky's personal friendship with Alexander, and repeated the assurances given by him that he would redress Poland's political wrongs. During the first part of 1812 the Czartorisky faction had been ignored, now that French power had been checked by Russia, he was approached by many influential people and the agents of the Czar came out into the open to urge a political alliance at Napoleon's expense. Many important people made the journey to Cracow, where the Prince was staying; Alexandra was given an interview within a day of her arrival because of the illustrious name of Suvarov.

He had listened to her with quiet attention; when she finished she felt sure that he was sympathetic, even profoundly moved by the love-sick folly of her sister. ‘They will kill her, Highness,' she said. ‘She may even be dead already. I dare not show myself to find out or they will seize me too. As I told you, the French will do nothing to honour Colonel De Chavel's guarantee.' She thought of that insufferable de Lamballe and scowled. ‘I have come to you as a last hope. I beg of you, do something to help her!'

The Prince waited for a moment before answering, his petitioner was half Russian, a member of one of the most powerful and illustrious Russian families. The story appealed to him, even though the bias was pro-French. She must be a remarkable woman, this Valentina Grunowska, to risk her life for love. He sensed the desperation of the woman opposite to him; in spite of her abrupt, haughty manners she was suffering visibly. As she waited, her strong horsewoman's hands were tearing her gloves until the seams split.

‘I think I can see a way,' he said at last. ‘I can present this to the Diet as an anti-Russian act, liable to offend the Czar. You are a Suvarov, Princess; if you or your sister are harmed I can threaten them with the Czar's personal vengeance. I think they will release your sister. But the news from Russia is very bad—bad for France, at least. If we don't get to your sister before the news of Napoleon's fate in Russia comes through—they will execute her immediately without fear of French reprisals.'

‘What is the news?' Alexandra said.

‘The winter has come,' Adam Czartorisky answered. ‘The French have no shelter—Moscow was burned over their heads, they had to retreat—you probably know all this?' he asked.

‘I have heard rumours,' she said.

‘All true,' he went on. ‘They are lost—all of them. The snow began falling a fortnight ago. God knows if any of them will survive.'

‘He's probably dead, then' she said, ‘this Colonel De Chavel.'