Polonaise (29 page)

‘Mr. Jefferson!' Jan emptied his glass at a draught, swayed a little, looked across the table to Glynde. ‘I don't feel quite the thing. Forgive –' As he turned towards Talleyrand, he began to collapse, in slow motion, his legs giving way first.

‘Don't let him fall. That's it.' Talleyrand must have given some signal, for two servants had appeared to gather him up as he fell.

‘I am so very sorry.' Dr. Wylie rose from beside the Prince's bed. ‘I had hoped for a mere cold in the head, an influenza at the worst of it. Believe me, we have done everything we could. Your nursing has been beyond praise.' He looked from the Princess to Jenny. ‘But I am afraid we must face it that we are losing the battle. The Tsar my master will be deeply grieved.'

‘But isn't there any treatment? What should we do?' asked the Princess, and then, as the doctor shook his head, ‘You can't mean …'

‘He should not have got so wet, and then neglected himself. Keep him warm, keep him as comfortable as possible; let nothing agitate him. There could be a miracle, Highness. In this world, miracles are always possible. But: he should see a priest; understand his state; make his arrangements; see his son?'

‘I don't believe it!' But Jenny could see that the very fact that they were talking about the Prince as if he was not there was bringing the truth home to her. ‘There must be something we can do!'

‘You can pray, Highness.' He turned to Jenny. ‘I rely on you to take care of her, Miss Peverel. And to let me know when I am needed.'

‘Yes.' Left alone they looked at each other in silence, remembering.

‘You met him before I did,' said the Princess at last.

‘I thought him the most polished gentleman I had ever seen.'

‘And so he –' She stopped. She had almost said ‘was'. ‘I shall go on believing in Dr. Wylie's miracle, Jenny. But send Lech for the priest.'

Much later, the Prince, who had been semi-conscious all day, woke clear-headed and asked to see the Tsar.

‘It's impossible, I'm afraid.' His wife bent over the bed and
took his hand. ‘He is across the river, in Tilsit, conferring with Napoleon.'

‘Who will betray him! As he has us Poles. Used us and cast us aside. Like Marie Walewska, poor child. Will we never learn? Then I must write to him. Fetch pen and paper.' But he was too weak to hold the pen. ‘I'll dictate it then.' His fierce gaze travelled round the crowded little room. ‘Miss Peverel, you will do me this favour? And you,' to the Princess, ‘will sign each sheet when she has written it. It will not be long. Send for Casimir; he should be here, too. And – who is there of the court still on this side of the river, or have they all gone to fawn on the Corsican?'

‘I saw young Prince Vorontzov this morning.' Jenny volunteered it into a lengthening silence.

‘Let him be fetched. Quickly.' There was no need of the warning. They could all see how he fought for a thread of strength. ‘Give me some brandy, my dear, and while we wait for our witnesses, one small request to you.'

‘Yes?' The Princess was holding the glass while he sipped from it.

‘Miriam. I left her as housekeeper at Vinsk. Let her stay?'

‘Of course I will.' The Princess's eyes met Jenny's. ‘No need to ask it.'

‘Thank you. And – don't think too hardly of me. Ah, here they are. Casimir, come here to me. Vorontzov; it's good of you to come. I shall ask you to witness, with my wife, the letter I am about to dictate to the Tsar.' He raised his voice, not waiting for an answer, and began to dictate so fast and with such certainty that Jenny was hard put to it to keep up with him. He must have been composing it in his head during the lucid intervals of the days he had lain ill. He was the Tsar's faithful and humble servant; these were his last words. He was also a Pole. ‘Let me commend your Poles to you, sire. Just give them hope, and they will serve you far better than they have ever served the Corsican upstart. The world needs Poland. Russia needs it; as a protection, as a barrier, a first line of defence. Let me commend to you, too, my son Casimir, to whom I bequeath all my Russian estates, and may I beg you to join his mother, my wife, in watching over his minority. He will serve you, sire, I am sure, as faithfully as I have. I
only hope, to more purpose.' He paused as Jenny took a new leaf, began writing frantically to catch up. ‘Almost done, Miss Peverel.' The words came with difficulty now. Instructions about his funeral; Casimir was his beloved son; he begged the Tsar's protection for him and his mother: ‘My loyal wife. There.' He lay back among the pillows, looked at his wife: ‘Read and sign, if you please. There is no time for talk. And then you, Prince.'

Passing the closely written sheets to the Princess, Jenny was aware of her silent, seething rage. And yet, surely, she had got infinitely more than she might have feared. Suppose he had disowned Casimir. Instead, amazingly, he had made him his heir direct, not in succession to his mother, as she must have expected.

The tired eyes turned to her. ‘Thank you, Miss Peverel.' A whisper now; she bent close to his ear. ‘I know I can trust you to have taken it down, word for word. And to look after –' a straight look from bloodshot eyes ‘– my son, Casimir. Now, promise to do one more thing for me.' A quick glance showed the Princess still angrily reading. ‘That chest in the corner. In the confusion after my death, get rid of its contents for me? I doubt they'll surprise you much.' His mouth tried for a smile. ‘It has been a pleasure to know you, Miss Peverel. Thank you, my dear.' He turned back to the Princess as she signed at the bottom of the letter's two pages. ‘Now you, Prince?' That done, he reached out a hand to encircle a slightly shrinking Casimir. ‘Gentlemen, my son and heir. The hope of Poland!' And fell back on the pillows.

In the chaos that followed, Jenny found it easy enough to open the cedar chest in the corner of the room. Odd to be so little surprised by its contents: the cloak and mask of the Brotherhood, and the insignia that denoted one of their leaders. How long had she suspected that the Prince had been one of the group who interrogated her, that first time, at the hunting lodge, on her way to Rendomierz? There were other episodes that were less easy to understand, suggesting, perhaps, divided leadership in the Brotherhood itself, but there would be time to think about that later. For the moment, she owed it to the Prince – and to the Princess – to get rid of this evidence of his involvement. She sent for Lech. ‘There are
some old clothes of the Prince's in that chest, Lech. He asked me to get rid of them for him. You'll do it, for me? And nothing said.'

‘What have you done to him?' Glynde was on his feet, gazing furiously at Talleyrand, as his servants picked up Jan's lifeless form.

‘No harm, just a small knock-out drop in his wine. He'll wake in the morning with a very sore head, and you and I will convince him that he is suffering merely from my strong burgundy. He's an abstemious young man in the general way, I understand. It should be easy enough. There is really no need to go with him, Mr. Rendel. I promise you, word of a gentleman, that my people are going to put him comfortably to bed in my guest-chamber, where you may join him at your leisure.' He had risen, too, and took one of his awkward steps forward to lay a hand on Glynde's arm. ‘I beg you to indulge me in this. We have to talk, you and I.'

‘I cannot see why.' Still angry, confused and a little afraid, Glynde nevertheless did not feel he could keep the older man awkwardly standing at his side. He moved reluctantly back towards the table, aware of Talleyrand's weight on his arm.

‘Thank you.' Seated again, Talleyrand smiled at him. ‘Where to begin? I've waited a long time for this day.'

‘At the beginning, perhaps? What is it you want of me, sir?'

‘Oh, nothing, nothing at all. It is what I owe you that has weighed on me for the last thirty years or so.'

‘Thirty years?'

‘Rather more, I suppose. How time does pass. Do you remember your mother at all?'

‘I'll never forget her. Oh – what she looked like, no. I was a child when she died.' How strange to remember, in this moment of danger, that Jenny had reminded him of his mother, the fragrance of her. ‘You met her, you say?'

‘Oh yes, I met her.' Talleyrand refilled both their glasses from a new bottle, smiling ruefully at Glynde as he did so, then raised his glass. ‘I drink to her memory. Your beautiful mother. I met her in seventy-five. They were in Paris, she and her husband, for the coronation of Louis XVI, poor man, and his unfortunate wife. I was twenty-one, a wild young student,
disinherited by my father, because of this leg, thinking the world my enemy. They hadn't made a priest of me, yet. But they meant to, and I knew it. I'm making excuses! Disgusting.' He paused for a moment, sipping his wine.

‘But why are you telling me all this?' asked Glynde impatiently. ‘What has this ancient history to do with anything?'

‘Because the past so often explains the present. A lesson you might usefully learn. And because I'm a coward, I suppose. I hadn't thought I was, but it seems I am after all. You're not going to like what I am about to tell you.'

‘Then cut the roundaboutation and tell me. Something about my mother? Nothing you tell me can make me love her less. She loved me. The only person who did.'

‘Ah? Your father?'

‘Never has. Never will.'

‘But he gave you his name.' Elbows on table, Talleyrand met his eyes steadily. ‘He had every right not to.'

‘What?' He was on his feet, knocking over his glass. ‘What are you daring to say!'

‘That I loved your mother. The only woman, I think, I ever truly loved. And she loved me. But we didn't talk enough, she and I. Oh, she told me how unhappy she was with your father, of his blatant unfaithfulness since the birth of your brother; what she failed to make me understand, can you blame her, was how totally he neglected her.'

‘What are you saying?' Red wine seeped across the damask cloth.

‘That I did not see soon enough, how completely she and your father lived apart, what a disaster your birth would be for her. If I had – I wonder – We students knew a great deal, much of it bad. I might have prepared your death for her. I am glad I did not.'

‘You're saying –'

‘That I am your father. Like it or not, you have to live with it. Personally, I find I like it.'

‘Like it! So that was why – is why! You're right; he gave me his name. Nothing more. But I owe him everything. Now tell me what I owe you, Monsieur Talleyrand? Except this shame!'

‘Nothing. I have said so already. But I do allow myself to
hope that perhaps, when you have come to terms with it a little, we might be friends.'

‘Our countries are enemies. Don't think I shall ever forget it.'

‘Admirable, Mr. Rendel. Do you know, I believe I shall indulge myself by calling you Glynde. I hope you now recognise what a gesture it was on Lord Ringmer's part to give you one of the family names.'

‘You make me sick.'

‘I hope I am making you rethink your entire personal history and then, perhaps, if I have not overestimated you, you will move on from there to consider with me, for a minute or two, the history of the world. Your future, and its.'

‘Soft talk!'

‘More productive than abuse. And – are you so very much holier than your mother and I were, all those years ago? She was twenty, already neglected, forced to leave her only son behind and come abroad with a husband who made no pretence at loving her. I was twenty-one, with my own misery. We were the greatest comfort to each other. I have never forgotten her. I shall never be able even to dislike you, however much you may find it in your heart to hate me. I see her in you, but I see myself too. What is your father? A country English gentleman with not a thought in his head but of hunting and smuggled brandy, and maybe still a woman or two. And your brother cut straight from the same cloth, by what I hear. They were bound to dislike you … Does your brother know, do you think?'

Infuriating to be asked the question that was racking his own brain. But, ‘I don't think so,' he said slowly. ‘He's never liked me, you're right about that, we're as unlike as chalk and cheese, but – he's a straightforward man – if he had known, I think he'd have showed it.'

‘Precisely. Your father's son. Another Whig squire. And you're a diplomat, like me.'

‘What makes you think so?'

‘My dear Glynde, give me credit for a little common sense and a certain access to information. You've been reporting to your friend Canning since you first came to Europe after Amiens. What other reason could have kept you apparently
idle here for so long? And very good letters they are too, the ones I have seen. They have made me quite long to meet you. So, here we are! Two wise old spies confabulating.'

‘I'm not a spy!'

‘I cry your pardon. Gatherers of intelligence, then. You will find, as you grow older in the business, that the line is a fine drawn one. Now, you are to learn the advantage of having a friend in the enemy's camp. Better than a friend! A father.'

‘You're not suggesting we betray our respective masters?' He had not thought he could grow angrier.

‘On the contrary, I am suggesting that the better we understand each other, the better we can serve them. To understand all is to be master of all.'

‘You'll never master Napoleon!'

‘Congratulations! Precisely the conclusion I had reached myself. I'll never master him, but, well enough informed, I may be able to steer him in directions that are equally good for him, and for Europe.'

‘You pretend to care about Europe?'

‘I do care about Europe. Believe that, or we will never understand each other. I care more for Europe than any of you insular Englishmen will ever do, and understand more of her problems. You have your Channel to defend you; we are all part of each other. I have always hoped to weave Napoleon into the fabric of Europe. Soon now, he'll divorce that poor Josephine and make the marriage he needs.'