Жюльетта Бенцони: Marianne and the Rebels

'His trust? The trust of all Frenchmen? What does it all mean?' Marianne managed to ask.

There was a world of bewilderment in the eyes she lifted to Arrighi's. She was half inclined to think Napoleon must have gone mad. To make sure, she re-read the letter carefully, word by word, under her breath, but this second perusal only confirmed her in the same dismal conclusion, which her companion had no difficulty in interpreting from her expressive face.

'No,' he said coolly, seating himself beside her. 'The Emperor is not mad. He is merely trying to gain time for you, once your husband has made his intentions clear to you. The only way to do that was to enroll you in his own diplomatic service, which is what he has done.'

'Me, a diplomat? But this is absurd! What government would listen to a woman?'

'The government of another woman, perhaps. In any case, there's no question of making you an official plenipotentiary. The service his Majesty requires of you is of a more… secret nature, such as he reserves for those most in his confidence and for his closest friends…'

'I dare say,' Marianne broke in, fanning herself irritably with the imperial letter. 'I have heard a good deal about the "immense" services which the Emperor's sisters have rendered him in the past, in a sphere which I find less than attractive. So let us come to the point, if you please. Just what is the Emperor asking me to do? And, more important, where is he sending me?'

'To Constantinople.'

If the great oak under which she sat had fallen on her, Marianne could not have been more astonished. She stared up at her companion's expressionless face, as though searching for some reflection of the brain fever to which, she was persuaded, Napoleon must have succumbed. But not only did Arrighi appear perfectly composed and self-possessed, he was also taking her hand in a grasp that was as firm as it was understanding.

'Hear me calmly for a moment and you will see the Emperor's idea is not so foolish after all. I might even go so far as to say that it's the best thing for you and for his policies in the present circumstances.'

Patiently, he outlined for his young hearer's benefit the European situation in that spring of 1811, and in particular the relations between France and Russia. Relations with the Tsar were deteriorating rapidly, despite the great maritime reunions at Tilsit. The barque of understanding was adrift. Although Alexander I had practically refused his sister Anna to his 'brother' Napoleon, he nevertheless regarded the Austrian marriage askance, nor had his view been improved by the French annexation of his brother-in-law's grand duchy of Oldenburg and of the Hanseatic towns. He had expressed his displeasure by reopening his ports to English shipping and by slapping heavy duties on goods imported from France, and prohibitive dues on the ships which carried them.

Napeoleon had countered by taking notice at last of the precise activities in which the handsome colonel Sasha Chernychev was indulging at his court, maintaining a satisfying spy network through the agency of various pretty women. The police had descended without warning on his Paris house. Even so, they were too late. The bird had flown. Warned in time, Sasha had elected to disappear, without hope of return, but the papers found there had told their own tale.

These circumstances, combined with the lust for power of two autocratic rulers, made war appear inevitable to attentive observers. Russia, however, had already been at war, since 1809, with the Ottoman Empire over the Danube forts: a war of attrition but one which, thanks to the strength of the Turkish forces, was keeping Alexander and his army fully occupied.

'That war must go on,' Arrighi said forcefully. 'It will keep a large part of the Russian forces busy on the Black Sea while we march on Moscow. The Emperor does not mean to wait until the Cossacks are on our doorstep. This is where you come in.'

Marianne had listened with considerable relish to the tale of her old enemy Chernychev's present troubles, aware that his barbarous treatment of herself had probably played its part in bringing those troubles upon him, but this was not enough to make her bow to the imperial commands without further question.

'Do you mean that I'm to persuade the Sultan to continue the war? But you must have thought that—'

The general interrupted her with some impatience.

'We have thought of everything. Including the fact that you are a woman and that, as a good Muslim, the Sultan Mahmud regards women in general as inferior creatures with whom it is not proper to negotiate. Consequently, it is not to him you go but to the Haseki Sultan. The Empress Mother is a Frenchwoman, a Creole from Martinique and own cousin to the Empress Josephine, with whom she was for some time brought up. There was a great bond of affection between them as children, a bond which the sultana has never forgotten. Aimée Dubucq de Rivery, whom the Turks call Nakshidil, is not only a woman of great beauty but also an extremely active and intelligent one. She has a long memory too, and has never accepted the Emperor's repudiation of her cousin and his remarriage. Since she has great influence over her son Mahmud, who worships her, this has led to a distinct chill in our relations. Our ambassador, Monsieur Latour-Maubourg, is at his wits' end and crying out for help. He can no longer even obtain an audience at the Seraglio.'

'And you think the doors will open more readily to me?'

'The Emperor is sure of it. He has not forgotten that you are in some degree related to our erstwhile Empress, which makes you kin to the Sultana also. It is on those grounds that you will seek and obtain audience. In addition, you will have in your possession a letter from General Sebastiani, who defended Constantinople against the English fleet when he was our ambassador there. His wife, Françoise de Franquetot de Coigny, who died in the city in 1807, was the Sultana's close friend. You will be armed with the best possible introductions and I don't think you'll have any difficulty in gaining admittance. You can mourn with Nakshidil over the fate of Josephine as much as you like; you may even blame Napoleon since you will not be there in an official capacity… but never lose sight of French interests. Your own charm and skill will do the rest. But Kaminski's Russians must remain on the Danube. Are you beginning to understand?'

'I think so. But forgive me if I seem slow – all this is so new to me, and so very strange… this woman of whom I have never heard, yet who is a Sultana! Can't you tell me anything about her? How did she get where she is?'

Marianne's chief object in getting Arrighi talking was to gain time for herself. This thing she was being asked to do was very serious for her since, although it had the advantage that it offered a way of avoiding Prince Corrado's vengeance, for the time being at least, it was also more than likely to make her miss her appointed meeting with Jason. This she would not, could not do at any price.

She had waited too long and with such agonizing impatience for the moment when she would be in his arms at last and could set out with him for the land and the future which fate and her own stupidity had so far denied her. With all her heart, she desired to help the man she had once loved and whom she would always love in a way… but if it meant the loss of her true love and the destruction of a happiness she felt that she had earned…

At the same time, she was listening, with half an ear, to the story of the little fair-haired, blue-eyed Creole girl who had been captured at sea by Barbary pirates, as the culmination of an extraordinary series of adventures, and taken to Algiers, from where she had been sent by the dey of that city as a gift to the Grand Signior at Constantinople. She heard how Aimée had charmed the last days of the old sultan Abdul Hamid I, and had a son by him, and had then gone on to win the love of Selim, the heir to the throne. By means of this love, which for her had gone as far as the supreme sacrifice, and that of her son Mahmud, the little Creole had become a queen.