Polonaise (21 page)

‘Yes.' Jenny smiled. ‘I sometimes wish his command of language was not quite so good. You should have heard what he said to a Prussian soldier he thought uncivil to me in the street. Luckily the man thought it was funny, but …'

‘Was the man uncivil?'

‘Oh, of course. They hardly know they are doing it. He may even have thought he was paying me a compliment, noticing
a plain little creature like me. Words don't hurt. But I'm sorry for the Polish girls, who have no protection whatever. Though mind you,' she smiled, ‘I've heard them give as good as they get. Only, I'm afraid it's not always just words in their case. Sometimes I wish we were safe at Rendomierz.'

‘I wish we'd get some real news. When did you last hear from England, Jenny?'

‘Not since we left Vinsk.'

‘Which could mean anything.' They both knew the Prince perfectly capable of opening or keeping Jenny's letters.

There was a new message from the Brotherhood the next day. ‘They say she is not to think of returning to Rendomierz. I didn't know she was.' Olga was beginning to assume the airs of a confidante. Jenny did not like the way she referred to the Princess and began to wonder how long she would go on feeling her the lesser evil.

‘I wish I knew how they learned we had even thought of it.' She had waited to give the Princess the message until they were alone together in the carriage on the way to the Countess Potocka's soirée.

‘Yes. We must be more careful. I don't know a great deal about the Prince's father, who built the house, but I suppose he may have installed some kind of spying system. We Poles don't seem to trust each other much.'

‘And with cause,' said Jenny. ‘I'm losing count of the number of family feuds I hear about! I do sometimes long for Rendomierz, don't you?'

‘Yes. But I think we had best stay here, since both the Prince and the Brotherhood wish it. And it's good to meet so many old friends. I really begin to look forward to quite an agreeable winter. Besides, it's good for Casimir to mix with other children of his own class. He was getting a little spoiled at Rendomierz.' She paused as the carriage drew up outside the Potockis' town house, where Anna Potocka and her husband lived with his parents. ‘I'm glad I have no in-laws to share with.'

Entering the crowded rooms, they were at once aware of an electricity in the air. ‘Something's happened!' Isobel pushed ahead of Jenny up the crowded stairway. ‘Pray God it's good.'

The first greetings over, they looked about for information. ‘There's Prince Poniatowski,' Isobel said. ‘Warsaw's most
eligible bachelor; Anna Potocka's cousin. Mine, too, remotely, but he's related to the last King, like her.'

‘The Prince Poniatowski, who fought under Kosciusko? But he's a great hero, surely? And living peacefully here?'

‘It was the Russians he fought against; not the Prussians. Besides, he's kin to the King of Prussia.' They had been talking English, now switched to French as the Princess greeted Josef Poniatowski as an old friend and introduced Jenny.

He was a striking figure of a man: dark, handsome, upright, though older than Jenny had expected, perhaps as much as forty, with a carriage that cried out for the uniform he could not wear. ‘A young English lady?' He bent over her hand. ‘You are not afraid to be here?'

‘Afraid?'

‘Why should she be?' asked Isobel.

‘You've not heard, Princess? Had you not noticed that there are no Prussians here today? They are all packing their traps; awaiting the order to leave. Their King suddenly lost patience and demanded that the French move back across the Rhine. An ultimatum to Napoleon! Madness. He's learnt his lesson already, my poor cousin, in two defeats by Napoleon himself. At Jena; and somewhere else. Napoleon's moving east like lightning. God knows where he will stop. We must hope that it is good news for us.'

‘Has Napoleon said anything?'

‘About Poland? Not yet. There's talk of Kosciusko coming from Paris to lead a new Polish army of liberation. Pamphlets in his name are being scattered in the north. The people are rising like lions, turning on their oppressors. It's a great moment, Princess. Perhaps the dawn of a new day for Poland.'

‘You think the French might come here?'

‘If they do not, we will liberate ourselves. But nothing seems impossible to Napoleon.' He turned to Jenny. ‘That is why I asked if you were not afraid. The Emperor has not been good to such of your countrymen as he has captured.'

‘You think I should send her away?' asked the Princess. ‘To Rendomierz?'

He thought about it for a moment. ‘Best not, I think. Too late! The Russians are on the move too; the Tsar is treaty-bound to his Prussian friends. They've been slow
enough about it, so far, under their ailing old General Kamen sky, but they were at Vilno when we last heard of them. Probably much nearer by now. I think it safer for Miss Peverel to stay here in Warsaw than to risk falling into their hands. An army on the march!'

‘The Russians may come here?' Isobel was white.

‘Of course!' Impatiently. ‘Poland's always been the debatable ground between east and west. You may see your husband sooner than you expected, Princess. Though, mind you, I think the chances are that the French will get here first. And if they do,' he turned to Jenny, ‘you may rely on me for any help you need.'

A few days later, the last of the Prussians marched away and a strange hush fell on Warsaw. A belated letter from the King of Prussia himself begged Prince Josef Poniatowski to take command of the abandoned city. ‘He must know I would rather fight the Russians than the French.' Poniatowski had called to reassure Princess Isobel. ‘But I doubt if there will be any fighting. Napoleon is carrying all before him. He has taken Berlin and moved on to Poznan. All Prussian Poland is behind him. If only our late masters had left us any arms!' he exclaimed. ‘But we're arming ourselves as best we may. We'll give a good account of ourselves if it comes to it. We Poles are always at our best in an emergency.'

A Russian skirmishing party actually entered the undefended city a few days later, but Warsaw had not forgotten the Russian massacre at Praga and the raiding party soon found the place too hot for them, and withdrew. But a note had been thrown on to the step of the Ovinski house. ‘It's from my husband,' Isobel said. ‘Unsigned. But I'd know the hand anywhere. He says we are to stay and make the best of things. I wonder just what he means by that.'

‘I expect he likes the idea of having a foot in both camps,' said Jenny. ‘Prince Poniatowski seems certain that the French will be here any day now.'

‘He's a good friend.' The Princess smiled at herself in the looking-glass. ‘No need to fret, Jenny. He'll see to it that no one in my house comes to harm.'

Napoleon's flamboyant brother-in-law, Prince Joachim Murat, led the French troops into Warsaw that late November afternoon of 1806. Hoping to be their King, he had dressed, he thought, like a Polish nobleman. His green velvet cloak was lined with sable; his matching velvet hat sported white ostrich plumes, his leather breeches were impeccably white. Waiting to greet him, Prince Josef Poniatowski was comparatively austere in his old uniform as Lieutenant General of the Polish army.

‘What a striking figure!' said the Princess, looking down at Murat. She and Jenny were watching the procession from the balcony of a friend's house.

‘Yes, and doesn't he just know it.' Jenny's tone was dry. ‘But the people seem to love him. He's getting a hero's welcome. They all are.'

‘They are our friends. We will have one billeted on us, and you will be civil to him, Jenny.'

‘Yes, Highness.'

All Warsaw turned out to fete the French. Nothing was too good for the conquering army, who were welcomed as liberators. Festive tables were set out for them in the streets; families begged them to come and live in their best rooms; money and provisions that had been hidden from the Prussians appeared as if by magic and were lavished on them; young men flocked to join the Polish army that Josef Poniatowski was raising.

Prince Murat had accepted what he called the hospitality of the Potockis, who had moved out of their own apartments to give him the luxury he expected. ‘Who do you think we will get?' The Princess was adjusting her furs, ready to go and call on Anna Potocka. ‘You're sure you won't come, Jenny? Anna always says how much she enjoys talking to you. Your fresh English mind, she speaks of.'

‘I think today, and for as long as this French occupation lasts, my fresh English mind is best at home. Do ask Madame Potocka if anything has been heard yet about where the patriot Kosciusko stands in all this. It seems so strange that he's not here, or at least known to be coming.'

‘Oh, Jenny, for the love of God stop your croaking!' The Princess pulled up her sable hood. ‘They say the Emperor Napoleon himself is coming any day now. This is our day of glory; don't spoil it for me.'

Fortunately, she left the room before Jenny could tell her just how she felt about the arrival of the man she still looked on as the Corsican upstart. She sat for a while, most unusually, hands in her lap, doing nothing. Her own position appalled her. How had she let it happen? She was here, in Warsaw, God knew how many miles from home, in the hands of the French, her country's enemies. Outside in the streets, the rejoicings went on noisily as liberated and liberators drank together, but stories of the other side of liberation were beginning to creep in by way of the servants. A scullery maid had been raped by five French soldiers; the groom who tried to come to her aid was in gaol, lucky to get away with his life.

‘Yes?' She looked up as Grucz, the Prince's steward, came timidly into the room.

‘It's a French gentleman, ma'am. Says he's to live here. Oh Lord, Lord, what would the master say?'

‘He would expect us to receive the man. Show him in, Grucz, and stay, please, while I speak to him.' She rose. One should meet one's enemies standing. Had Giles been standing, when he got his death wound? Or, more likely, bending over the guns he loved?

‘Good-day.' She looked the young Frenchman up and down, and dismissed him as small, dark and inconspicuous in a uniform so creased and dirty that she was tempted to refuse to receive him. But what was the use? ‘You are come to live here, Monsieur –?'

‘Genet, Highness. Paul Genet, most absolutely at your service. And most grateful …'

‘Spare me your speeches, Monsieur Genet. I am not the Princess Ovinska, as the servant should have told you, but I speak for her. She would wish you made welcome. The steward,
Grucz here, will show you to your apartments. Your wishes, of course, are our commands. You have only to make them known.'

‘Thank you, mademoiselle. But to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking? You do not speak French as the Poles do.'

‘How should I? I am English, monsieur. Your enemy.'

‘
Tiens
, he said. And then, in surprisingly good English, ‘I ask your pardon, ma'am, for being, as you think, your enemy. I hope I can persuade you that we do not make war with women, we French.'

‘That's what everyone says.' It was a surprising relief to lapse into English. ‘There is a scullery maid here in the house would not agree with you.'

‘
Tiens
,' he said again. And then, ‘You had best tell me about it, Miss –'

‘Peverel,' she said bleakly. ‘Jenny Peverel. My brother was killed at Aboukir Bay, but you will not know about that either.' And why in the world had she said that?

‘My father died at Aboukir, Miss Peverel. It may not make us friends, but it gives us something in common, just the same. Please tell me about the girl who was attacked by our soldiers. Is there anything that can be done for her?'

‘Not much for her, poor Klara, she'll do well enough, as long as there is no child, but her fiance was beaten and arrested for trying to save her.'

‘Do you know where he is held? Never mind, give me his name; I'll see what I can do for him. There have been some regrettable incidents, I am afraid. Soldiers are the same all the world over, Miss Peverel.' He crossed the room to the Princess's own writing-table, perched astride the gilt-backed chair, helped himself to pen and paper and wrote rapidly. ‘There!' He handed her the paper. ‘That should protect you if anyone else should recognise that English voice and look of yours.'

‘Thank you.' Her tone was icy as she stood over him to make sure he did not tamper with the Princess's papers.

‘I think you should. You perhaps do not know that our Emperor has announced, in his Decrees dated from Berlin, that any Englishman we capture will be treated as a prisoner
of war. He probably did not intend it to apply to ladies, but just the same …'

‘Your Emperor makes war like a barbarian, sir –'

‘War is a barbarous business, ma'am. Anyone who pretends otherwise is a fool.'

‘Thank you.'

‘And I'm a boor?' Still sitting casually astride, he looked up at her, his smile made lop-sided by a missing tooth. ‘Sitting in a lady's presence. Disgraceful. But remember, Miss Peverel, that I am a nobody, member of a citizen's army.'

‘You said you served an Emperor.'

‘
Toucheé
.' He laughed, and pulled himself to his feet. ‘A thousand pardons, Miss Peverel.' His tone was mocking as he changed to French, the language of gallantry. ‘Forgive my military barbarism, and be so good as to have your man show me to my quarters. Perhaps I may prove more fit for a lady's company when I have had a bath and maybe even some sleep.' He yawned enormously and she was aware of dirt ingrained in fatigue lines creasing the sallow face. ‘But, first, your man – what was his name? I'll write you an order for his release. Have I your permission to sit down again?'