Valentina (27 page)

‘No! No!' she shrieked above the noise, clinging to him with all her strength. ‘I'm not leaving you—come on, come on!' She pulled him forward and he followed, stumbling, trying to shout to her.

‘I can't protect you—darling love, for God's sake go on without me! I'll never get through that mob!'

The next moment they were flung to the ground, bodies piled on top of them, and a hail of shot swept across the river bank, killing and maiming. She was sobbing now, her ears filled with the agonised screams of the wounded, and it was De Chavel who forced her up and found the strength to push deeper into the throng.

The use of grapeshot turned the chaos on the bank into a blind panic of unimaginable violence. The wounded were trampled down, the traffic on the bridges came to a stop because of the fighting hordes, and the river was dotted with the corpses of those who had tried to cross and fallen in the icy waters.

‘It's no good,' De Chavel gasped, ‘we'll never get through here—we'll try for the other bridge!'

It was almost as difficult to fight their way backwards through the crowds pressing on them from behind; with every fall of shot from the Russian guns, there was a wild surge forward. At last they found themselves on the perimeter of the crowd, and both sank down exhausted in the snow. The second bridge carried guns and transport, and some effort at control was being made by sapper officers to keep the crazy mob back while the guns got across. They were actually firing into their own men to keep them back. ‘That's our only hope,' De Chavel said. ‘They'll have to let the men through soon before they rush the bridge. We'll try to cross there, my darling!'

They ran towards the bridgehead, where another smaller mob was pushing and yelling, and suddenly Valentina stopped.

‘Alexandra! Alexandra! Look—over there!' Her sister was not more than thirty yards from the head of the pontoon to the left; she was sitting upright on the ground, and holding Paul de Lamballe in her arms. Valentina ran ahead to her, calling her wildly.

‘Sandra—Sandra! Come on!'

There was blood on Alexandra's face; there was blood on her clothes and on the snow where she was sitting. She held her dying lover against her breast and seeing her sister she shook her head.

‘He covered me with his body,' she said. ‘He's unconscious now, thank God. He can't feel anything.'

Valentina threw herself down beside her, seizing her arm. ‘You can't stay here! Sandra, I beg of you—oh God, how bad is it?'

‘He's dying,' Alexandra said calmly. ‘My love.' She bent and kissed him, and covered his face tenderly with her hand, stroking the cold cheek. She looked into Valentina's eyes and smiled.

‘Here comes your Colonel, little sister. Take her away, my friend!'

‘My God,' De Chavel groaned, ‘my God, Alexandra—he's shot to pieces! There's nothing you can do for him.'

‘Leave him,' Valentina shrieked. ‘Sandra, I beg of you, he'll be dead in a few minutes—come with us, come with us now!' She caught her sister by the arm and began to pull at her with all her strength.

Fiercely, Alexandra wrenched herself free, wrapping both arms round de Lamballe. ‘I won't leave him!' she cried and the tears were running down her face. ‘You've found your love, leave me with mine! For God's sake, Colonel, get her away from here!'

De Chavel caught hold of Valentina; she was sobbing and hysterical and it took all his strength to drag her away from her sister. From the bridgehead there came a shout.

‘Cross freely—form lines and cross!'

‘They've opened the bridge!' De Chavel cried out. ‘Valentina, for God's sake, come on! Nothing will make her leave him!'

‘Alexandra—Alexandra!' She stumbled after him weeping, looking back to where the upright figure sat, the Major's body cradled close in her arms. She thought she heard her sister's voice above the tumult:

‘God go with you! Be happy!'

It was the last she saw or heard of her; the next twenty minutes were spent inching along the bridge, forcing their way past the creaking guns, pressed so hard against the low sides that they almost fell into the swirling river; many did, and died clinging to the supports, too weak and cold to wade ashore or climb up. There was a moment when she and De Chavel were wedged tight and could not move; they turned as one and looked back to the bank, where the ground was thick with casualties and there were fighting masses everywhere, ploughed into by the Russian cannon, mowed down by withering blasts of grapeshot. The noise of screaming was continuous, it almost drowned the rumbling roar of Wittgenstein's murderous artillery. There was a sudden movement under their feet, and Valentina shrieked as she almost lost her balance. De Chavel clung fast to the shafts of a wagon which was at a standstill in the middle of the bridge; she held on to his waist and saved herself from falling. The wooden planking was sagging and bending under their feet. ‘It's collapsing,' De Chavel shouted. ‘The weight's too much!' All around them there arose the most frightful shriek of terror; in the moment's paralysis that held the crowd as the bridge creaked and dipped under them, De Chavel pushed forward holding fast to Valentina's hand; they found themselves twenty yards only from the opposite bank, and then the onrush from behind swept them further still as those on the centre of the bridge realised what was about to happen.

There was a final splintering noise, a groan of breaking wood, and then a roar, as the supports gave way, and the pontoon collapsed, pitching hundreds of men, women and children into the river, while the guns toppled after them and the wagons lurched and crashed over the sides. A Russian General later described the cry of agony and despair that followed the destruction of the bridge as the worst sound he had ever heard in his life, and the Czar Alexander was so moved by eye-witness account of his artillery's carnage on the banks that he turned away and wept. Safe on the opposite bank, Valentina collapsed, weeping and spent, with De Chavel beside her, not knowing how they had run the last few yards across the planks to safety, or that men had dragged them on to the bank and tried to rescue some who clung to the wreckage in the river. She knew very little of what happened after that crossing. Her strength was exhausted; she called her sister by name, and clung to De Chavel, weeping and terrified. He begged a place for them on one of the supply wagons, and for two days and nights they travelled towards Vilna, while Oudinot and then Ney fought their last battles with the pursuing Russians. She did not see the thick smoke spirals rising from Studianka ford, where Elbe had fired the bridges to prevent Wittgenstein from following, or know of the thousands who were left behind to perish. She knew nothing and felt nothing beyond the presence of De Chavel, who nursed her and held her through the nights on the journey until the dreadful dreams subsided, and she could sleep in peace at last. It was not until they reached Vilna, the city from which she and Alexandra and the Major had set out to find Napoleon's army, that Valentina came to herself and realised that she and De Chavel were safe.

Until June 1813 France was still fighting; Prussia had turned on Napoleon and signed a treaty with the Czar, Austria was so hostile that her active participation against him was only a matter of time, and the loss of eighty thousand cavalry horses in Russia seriously impaired the effectiveness of his troops. Miraculously, Napoleon had found troops; men were brought back from Spain, men were conscripted, the National Guard was placed at his disposal, and he could boast of six hundred thousand troops ready for the new campaign. But most were young and untried recruits; brave and enthusiastic as they were, they lacked the toughness and experience of the marvellous fighting force which had vanished in Russia. Without his cavalry and with unseasoned men, Napoleon could not inflict the decisive defeat he needed, and in June he suspended hostilities to negotiate at the Peace Congress of Prague. News of what was happening in the world came slowly to Czartatz. The countryside was green and thick with flowers. Spring was the best season, and the old fortress house grew warm in the sunshine, surrounded by the magnificent trees in their first leaf. Valentina and De Chavel had been living there for nearly six months; their life had been a quiet idyll of recovery, cared for by the household, untroubled by the outside world. He couldn't bear her out of his sight; and her love for him helped to ease her grief for Alexandra. He had recovered much of his strength, in the fine weather they went riding together, and drove out for picnics as it grew warm. They read by the fire in the evenings, and played cards, sitting together holding hands, and they lived as husband and wife. Valentina's people accepted the situation without question; there was nothing to remind them of the flagrant love affairs of the dead Princess in the sublime devotion of their mistress and the Colonel for each other.

Happiness enveloped them, and grew with every day; they shared a tranquillity which had its roots in the terrible experiences both had suffered in the death of de Lamballe and Alexandra, whose living monument was the wild stallion that nobody could ride, in suffering and despair and incredible endeavour. They lived, when so many had died, and they recognised life as a gift which must never be wasted. Passion, interest, memories—there was everything between them and a perfect tenderness irradiated their relationship until the most cynical hesitated to label them mistress and lover.

Both had resigned themselves readily to living at Czartatz and abandoning the world, where their irregular position made life together impossible. De Chavel would not return to France to his own small estate because he could not introduce Valentina as his wife; he dismissed it permanently from his mind and wrote appointing his bailiff in full responsibility for its management. Polish society was closed to them for the same reason, and neither regretted the loss. They were exiles and perfectly content; Valentina had persuaded De Chavel to leave his challenge to her husband undelivered. He was still too weak to fight a duel, and if he lost—the prospect made her cry until he gave in and promised to do nothing. She could not bear the thought of losing him; he could not endure that she might be left. They withdrew from the world and settled for each other. Then, towards the end of that beautiful June month, Valentina realised that she was going to have a child.

‘Are you pleased? Darling, are you happy about it?'

He looked into her face and smiled; the beautiful eyes gazed up at him full of anxiety. He kissed her.

‘Of course I'm pleased. I'm the happiest man alive. I never had a child—I always longed for one. And now you're giving me that too.'

‘I'm glad,' she said simply. ‘I wanted one; I wanted your son to grow up with us. I don't care about anything else. We'll be so happy together! Theodore always said I was barren and I believed him—I can't tell you what this means to me, to be pregnant at last. And by you, sweetheart; that's the most important thing of all.'

She had waited until the evening to tell him; they sat side by side in the small library where they had held their celebration dinner, after he had brought her back to Czartatz, on the sofa where he had almost seduced her at her pleading. Now he turned her to him and caressed the beautiful body which immediately offered itself, and kissed the warm mouth till she begged to be possessed. She had become more beautiful than ever; her skin was smooth and blooming with health, her breasts were fuller, more perfect. She was carrying his child, perhaps his son, the heir to his ancient name and family home. And the child would be born a bastard, without rights and without inheritance. They made love that night, and it was more passionate, more satisfying, than it had ever been before. Pride and a fierce joy heightened both their powers; he awoke the next morning before Valentina and having gently kissed her while she slept, De Chavel went to his own study and began a letter to Count Theodore Grunowski, challenging him to a duel.

Chapter 10

Count Grunowski had returned to his house in Warsaw since April; there seemed little reason to continue his exile when French power was in flight, and the Russians had not yet committed themselves to an invasion of Europe. He had been bored at Lvov, and permanently in a bad temper; his servants had many floggings to remind them of their master's state of irritability. Celibacy had become a cross to carry, and having made use of one or two of the young girls on his estate, he had thrown them out in disgust. He needed a woman of some refinement, not these stuttering country clods with their thick legs and ugly hands, too terrified of him to do more than lie in dumb submission.

He packed up, closed down the house and set out for Warsaw. The city was in tumult, everyone carrying rumours about the new campaign which was opening, and the defection of the King of Saxony, Grand Duke of Warsaw, to the Prussian side. Life was uncertain but it was gay and interesting. The Count formed a liaison with an elegant Prussian Baroness, Natalie Von Roth, who was neither beautiful nor rich, but very experienced in the less attractive amatory arts. They got on so well together that the Count suggested a permanent liaison. The Baroness moved into his Warsaw establishment; she was a well-known demimondaine, and impervious to scandal. Her lover was immensely rich; he gave her expensive jewels and a large dress allowance, and he also gave her his wife's maid out of some vindictive quirk. Jana had come with the household from Lvov. She had worked well and unobtrusively during their stay there, and made herself indispensable to the comptroller who brought her to Warsaw as a matter of course. She had never been in direct contact with the Count until he suddenly gave her to his mistress. She served the Baroness so efficiently that she could find no fault with her. She wasn't interested in servants; she accepted the plain little peasant at her face value as a skilled needlewoman, and an experienced lady's maid, and only boxed her ears once, when she refused to discuss the Countess Valentina with her.