Valentina (28 page)

‘Your pardon, my lady. I don't remember.'

Irritated, the Baroness had slapped her face, and then forgotten all about it. She knew the story of her lover's unfaithful wife from him and from other sources; it was an unusual story, and her curiosity was whetted enough to try to question the maid. She saw nothing in the ugly face to warn her what it meant to Jana to see the big, blonde woman wearing Valentina's lovely jewels, using her bedroom, giving her Valentina's gold brushes to brush her own coarse yellow hair. Jana did as she was told and said nothing. She had a sense of fatalism which made it easier to hide her feelings. The time was coming; she had a service to her real mistress which was still unperformed. He was alive, and she had not yet managed to get near enough to kill him. She would never be nearer than she was now, acting as body servant to his unsavoury Prussian whore. She had become adept at listening without appearing to hear anything; the Baroness made constant use of her, ringing for her for the most trivial tasks which Valentina would have done herself; it was quite usual to be summoned from the top of the house to the bottom, to pick up the Baroness's handkerchief which had dropped beside her chair.

The Count was so accustomed to Jana's presence in the room or its environs that he had stopped noticing her. He talked to her as if the maid weren't there; on many occasions they had caressed in front of her, as if she were a domestic animal who happened to be in the room. The Baroness was very vain about her hair; she made Jana brush it a hundred and twenty times morning and evening. It was thick and coarse-textured, and hung to her waist, which was very unfashionable, but the Count liked to play with it.

One evening in early July, Jana was carrying out the usual ritual while the Baroness sat in front of her dressing mirror with her eyes half closed, while the brush swept down from her scalp to the ends of her yellow hair; the Count came into the bedroom and Jana stopped.

The Baroness opened her eyes and, seeing her lover, she smiled, and held out her hand. Jana continued as before, and they exchanged a formal kiss, and a few endearments in German which she couldn't understand. ‘My dear, I received this an hour ago, I came up because I thought it would amuse you to know what's in it.'

The Count held a letter in his hand; he didn't read it, but put it back in his dressing-gown pocket; he sat in one of the elegant French boudoir chairs, swinging one leg across the other, and then swinging the foot. Jana kept her eyes down, away from the mirror where the Baroness was reflected, brushing automatically; only the swinging foot and its white stocking and embroidered slipper was within her vision as she listened.

‘My wife and her lover are safe. Incredible, isn't it? Hundreds of thousands die in the retreat, and those two manage to survive! This letter's from him—they're at Czartatz.' The rhythm of the brush didn't change; the maid was counting the strokes under her breath.

‘Extraordinary,' the Baroness said. She scowled at herself in the glass. They had both assumed that Valentina was dead, and she had even imagined that one day the Count might marry her, if she became really indispensable to him. ‘Why does he write to you; what does he say?'

The Count laughed. ‘He says a great deal, my dear. All of it impertinent, much of it insulting. He declares his intention of killing me, so that he can marry my wife! This is a challenge to a duel!'

‘Stop brushing, you idiot,' the Baroness snapped at Jana. ‘Fight with this man? But lieber Theodore, he's a professional soldier—he'll kill you! You can't do it!'

‘I am bound to do it,' the Count said, and his tone was cold. ‘No member of my family has ever been a coward or refused a challenge. Our standards are obviously different from yours. As it happens he will not kill me, so you needn't distress yourself. He says here that he has lost an arm, and must challenge with pistols as the choice of weapons. I was never a swordsman, but I'm an excellent shot. I shall therefore kill him!'

‘Of course you will.' She came over to him and put an arm round his neck. ‘You can do anything. He must be very foolish, this Frenchman, to challenge you when he's a cripple.'

‘Very foolish,' the Count agreed. ‘Or very desperate. I would have said he was desperate.' He had been thinking about the reason behind the letter, the real reason why a one-armed man should risk his life to marry his mistress after living with her for months undisturbed.

The only reason that suggested itself was so unpalatable that he dismissed it at first. But it came back, and even as he talked to the Baroness, he began to admit that it must be the truth. Valentina was pregnant, and her lover had to kill him or father a bastard. She had borne him no children; he had assumed the fault was hers. Now he was sure that she carried De Chavel's child, and his humiliation was complete.

‘I'll kill him,' he said. ‘You can be sure of that.'

‘What about her?' the Baroness asked. ‘What will you do about her?' He stood up so abruptly that she was pushed aside.

‘I shall divorce her for adultery,' he said. ‘There must be a good reason why they have to marry. That reason will be born out of wedlock, publicly disowned by me. With that prospect, and without her lover to protect her, I think my wife will kill herself.'

He half turned at the sound of the door closing; Jana had gone out of the room.

‘When will you meet this Frenchman?' the Baroness asked.

‘As soon as he can travel to Warsaw—about two or three weeks, at the latest, allowing for my reply to get there.'

‘And have you written it?' There were times when he frightened the Baroness, and she hardly dared ask the question. She had never seen any man in such a controlled convulsion of rage. She hoped that he wouldn't require her services that night, or it might manifest itself in an alarming form.

‘I've already sent the answer back,' he said. ‘I've told him to come here at all speed and I shall have the greatest pleasure in killing him and denouncing my wife as a whore before the world. That will bring him running.'

‘I beg of you not to go on with this!' Valentina held out her hand to De Chavel; she had been arguing and pleading with him for days, as soon as he had read her the Count's answer to his letter and told her what he had decided to do. Now his clothes were packed and he was starting out for Warsaw the next morning. He had refused to take her with him.

He took her hand in his and shook his head.

‘Darling heart, you know I must. We've been over this again and again, and nothing else is possible. I won't have our child born a bastard. I won't put you in that position while I can kill that swine and marry you. And I will kill him, I promise you!'

He had been practising for hours every day, target shooting with his left hand, and she had watched him in agony, seeing the clumsiness improving until his natural skill overcame the disability. He was a good shot, better than many right-handed marksmen, but not good enough. Not nearly good enough to fight a master of the duelling pistol like her husband.

‘He's one of the best marksmen in Poland,' she said. ‘I've seen him shoot; he's famous for it. Oh, darling, darling, what does it matter about the baby—isn't it better for us to be together, to wait till we can marry? He's old, he can't live for ever. Don't fight him, I beg of you! I know you'll be killed.' She turned away and began to weep. He had seen her in tears many times, and hardened himself against her; he came over to her and touched her gently.

‘I listened to you before, Valentina,' he said. ‘I left him unchallenged, and lived with you here and compromised you. Now I can't go on and keep my self-respect. I have to do this. If you love me you'll understand that.'

She raised herself slowly, and then the next moment she was in his arms. ‘Forgive me; I know you're right. You wouldn't be happy any other way. Only let me come with you! Please, please let me come with you!'

‘No,' he said. ‘No, my love, I won't. You are to stay here; you're safer here and long journeys aren't in order at the moment. I shall be back before the end of the month.'

‘If anything happens to you I shall die,' she whispered. He kissed the lovely face, and smiled at her.

‘You will set out for France and go to my home,' he said quietly. ‘I've willed everything to you and the child. If things go wrong, and I don't come back to you, you'll do what I ask, my love, and not be foolish. You've promised.'

‘I'll try,' she said. ‘But without you I won't have the strength. Or the will to live.' She left him then and went out, upstairs to her own room. Alexandra was dead, and he was going on a fatal journey, to fight a man who could kill him blindfolded. She would never go to France without him. She had promised, but it was an empty vow that would never be kept. When she woke the next morning he had gone, before dawn, so as to spare her the pain of farewell; his letter and will were on the table by their bed. All his estates and his money were left to her and on trust for any child born to her after his death. He declared his intention to marry her and asked that she be treated as his wife, with the honour due to the widow of a soldier of France. There was another addressed to the Emperor Napoleon, and sealed. In it he had asked that the Emperor would interest himself in the Countess and grant her protection. What he had written to her was a simple declaration of his love; a short letter, expressed in the plain terms of a man who had never practised letter-writing to women as an art:
I love you with all my heart. You are my whole life, and for that reason I know I shall come back to you. Be brave, and pray
.

‘Will you be dining out this evening, Madame?' Jana asked. The Baroness sometimes changed her mind at the last moment and made a completely different toilette to the one she had told Jana to prepare.

‘Not tonight,' the Baroness said. ‘The Count wishes to go to bed early. He has an appointment at dawn tomorrow.'

‘Is it the duel, Madame?' Jana said. Her round eyes were blank and she asked the question as if it were something very commonplace.

The Baroness looked up in surprise. ‘Why yes, it is. How did you know about it?'

‘There's been some talk in the house,' Jana said. ‘Some gossip about a duel the Lord was going to fight. May God protect him!'

‘He will, don't worry. I've seen him shoot; he's unbelievable! Now put out my green brocade—the loose gown, not the dark green with gold bodice—and bring me the emerald necklace. Hurry up!'

Jana laid out the clothes and brought Valentina's beautiful emeralds to fasten round the Baroness's neck. The Count had given her all his wife's jewellery and she was so overcome with pleasure she wore them even when they spent the evening quietly at home.

He was going to fight the Colonel tomorrow morning. Her hands shook a little as she closed the fastening. And he would certainly kill him; all the servants were talking about his target practice in the grounds; she had seen him shoot herself, and he could knock the middle out of a kroner piece at twenty paces. Madame's Colonel wouldn't have a chance. She stayed up to undress the Baroness, who was in a very good humour, and instead of going to bed, she hid in the ante-room, waiting to see where the Count chose to sleep that night. He did not come to the Baroness's room. It was well past midnight, and the house was in darkness. Everyone slept, and only the footman on duty by the front door dozed in his chair; a single candle burning near him. Jana came out of her hiding place; she had spent some time praying, asking God not what must be done, but how best to do it, and she felt that a Divine direction sent her to the Count's suite of rooms. His valet was asleep in a tiny closet leading off his bedroom. She opened the door of his dressing room very slowly, turning the handle so that the lock did not click. She knew where the candles were kept, and she found them and lit a single chamberstick. The Count's clothes were laid out for his appointment in the morning; his white frilled shirt, his black silk cravat, breeches and soft boots and a green soft cloth coat with gold buttons. His cloak and silk hat were laid out on another chair, with his gloves. What she was looking for was on the chest, and as she moved towards it, the little flame glinted on the fine chased steel of the Count's duelling pistols. They lay in their case on a bed of dark blue velvet; oiled and shining, with their long snake barrels gleaming in the light as she bent over them. She put out a hand and then hesitated. She had never touched a pistol in her life. She didn't know if they were primed, if they might go off with clumsy handling. But they were ready for tomorrow morning.

Jana moved quietly across the floor towards the valet's closet; the door was half open, and she could hear him snoring inside. The Count's bedroom led off the dressing room; that door was shut and there was no sound from behind it. Very carefully she closed the closet door, holding the handle tight until it was safe to let it gently slip back into place. There was the tiniest click, but that was all. There was no key or bolt. She lifted a chair and wedged it under the handle. That would keep the valet inside for several minutes. Then she went back to the chest and took one of the pistols out of its case, holding it barrel downwards as she had seen the Count do when he was practising. When she opened the Count's bedroom door she stopped and listened; she could hear him breathing and it was the heavy, regular sound of someone sleeping deeply. She put her candle down where it threw enough light to show the shape of him under the bedclothes and then walked towards him, a smile of gentle purpose on her ugly face, the pistol held in both hands. She aimed the barrel a few inches from his head and pulled the trigger.

The Count had named a deserted public park on the outskirts of the city as the duelling ground. When dawn broke a group of four men were waiting under some trees, walking about to keep themselves from getting chilled; it was cold for July, at that early hour. De Chavel had chosen two members of the French Embassy to act as seconds; one was a friend of his whom he had seen occasionally during the previous year, the other was a stranger, chosen by the friend. Both had spent the best part of their journey to the park trying to persuade him to apologise to the Count and save his life.