Anne stared. ‘And how can you know that?’
‘I have a good friend within the Depot de la Guerre,’ he shrugged.
‘But – surely – if it’s true, shouldn’t you tell someone, try to stop Lauriston? If Bonaparte has maps of Moscow and Petersburg…’
He put down his cup. ‘Listen, Anna, listen! There’s no chance in the world of Napoleon’s defeating Russia. He has no concept of how great the distances are, how short the summer, how bitter the winter! He’s given no orders for winter clothing for the army, you know, or extra footwear for the infantry.’
‘Perhaps he means to be finished before winter starts.’
‘He can’t begin the campaign – and he knows this – until the field crops in Russia have ripened, because he’ll need them to feed the horses as he advances. That means he can’t begin until June at least. That gives him a maximum of five months before his army is hopelessly trapped by the onset of winter, and it will take him four months – with an ever-lengthening chain of supply – to get his army from the borders to Moscow.’ He gave a curious grimace. ‘If he ever gets that far. He hasn’t taken the Cossacks into account. Oddly enough, no one’s told him about them; and if they had, he wouldn’t have believed them. Napoleon is a great man in his way – he can perform miracles on the field of battle by his sheer presence – but like all dictators, his vision is very narrow. He has no imagination, and that is one thing you cannot do without when you are dealing with Russia. He doesn’t understand the country or the people – and he doesn’t want to.’
‘You want him to invade Russia? You think we can beat him?’
If he noticed that tell-tale ‘we’, he didn’t refer to it. ‘We won’t need to. Russia will defend herself, as she always has. Nothing – nothing – can destroy Russia. She cannot die, unless she loses the will to live. And as to wanting the war – don’t you see, this is the only chance there may ever be of destroying Napoleon? He has been growing year by year, swallowing whole nations, swelling up into monstrous proportions. Your own country has been at war with France for almost twenty years!’
‘Undefeated,’ Anne said quickly, stung by the implication.
‘But without defeating him,’ the Count pointed out. ‘Now he is about to overreach himself. He will defeat himself – all we have to do is to let him.’
‘But men will die!’
‘They are dying already, by the thousand. How many lives have already been sacrificed to Napoleon’s ambition? Only God could count them.’
There was a silence. Anne contemplated the prospect of war between Russia and France, of an invasion, of battles and bloodshed and death.
‘When, do you think?’
‘Next year. It is too late now, to begin this year. By next summer he will be ready.’
‘Oh God,’ Anne said, and reached out for his hand. ‘It’s like the end of the world.’
His strong, warm fingers closed round hers. ‘No, dushenka, not the end, the beginning! God, I’m weary of this war. Since I met you eight years ago – eight years, little Anna – I have been longing for peace.’ He transferred his grip to her wrist and pulled at her gently, drawing her from her seat and on to his lap, and she came, half reluctant, half longing, feeling how natural it was to be in his arms, knowing it was wrong. She trembled as he closed his arms round her, folded her close, resting his face against her hair. ‘Peace, Anna – to stay home, and watch my crops grow, and be with those I love…’
He stopped, realising where that sentence led. There was a long silence as they both contemplated the impossibility of the situation. Suddenly he cried out, ‘Oh Anna, why did you do it? Why?’
‘You know why,’ she said, muffled, against his neck.
‘There was no need! My love, my love, I would never have harmed you! Why didn’t you trust me?’
She raised her head to look at him, a long, clear look which cut to his heart. ‘Trust you to do what? There was nothing you could do. If I had not married, we would be no better off. You are married – or had you forgotten?’
He looked broodingly into her eyes. ‘No, I hadn’t forgotten. But it does make a difference – two barriers instead of one.’ He tightened his arms around her convulsively. ‘I can’t bear you to belong to anyone else! Oh Anna, mylienkaya, you do love me, don’t you? Say you love me.’
‘Yes, I love you, Nikolasha.’
He kissed her then, brow and cheek and lips. ‘Yes, yes, you love me,’ he murmured, punctuating the words with kisses. ‘It’s been so long since I was with you – so hard to be away from you – and yet I never felt separated from you. Is that foolish? But you are so close to me in my mind -1 understand you as no one else in the world – and minds cannot be separated by mere distance. Do you feel it too?’
She understood what he meant, but it was different, always different, for a woman. A woman, her being so much more closely tied to the earth and the seasons, the rise and fall of the tides of life, needed the physical reassurance of love’s presence. And a woman had not a man’s activity in the world to fulfil her days. He could say that he never felt separated from her and she knew he meant it; but she would never be able to make him understand her own isolation, and the loneliness of being married to the wrong person.
Yet there was something still to say that he would understand. ‘I needed you,’ she said. ‘And yet as soon as you were near me again, I felt as if we had never been apart.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s it! Oh, Anna, we belong together.’ He kissed her again, and this time his lips lingered on hers, and her mouth yielded to his as their hunger suddenly flowered. She clung to him, and they kissed more and more avidly, until the moment came when she knew that this time there could be no drawing back. And she didn’t want to. She was coming alive after the long dead season, feeling things she never thought to feel again. She wanted everything – all there was – all she could have – no matter what the cost. If there were suffering afterwards, so be it. She wanted it too much now to turn back, and she shut her mind resolutely to everything but the sensation of his mouth and his hands and his warm body and breath.
He knew: sensitive to her every reaction, he knew when – and what – she had yielded. He drew back his head to look into her eyes, but it was only for confirmation of what he already knew.
‘Now?’ he asked softly.
‘Is it safe?’ she asked; but she would not draw back, whatever his answer.
‘No one will disturb us. The servants will not come until we call them,’ he said. He set her gently on her feet, took her hand, led her into the house, and she followed, trusting beyond thought, feeling his strength and resolve in the grasp of his hand. The things from which he could not protect her were the only important things; yet she trusted him all the same, with her self, with her life. It was what she was for.
Along the passage, up a flight of broad, carpeted stairs, into a bedroom. The furniture was shrouded, the bed curtainless, but covered by a gold silk counterpane. The air was stuffy, for the sun was still slanting against the window, its strength hardly impeded by the white blind, which made a curious muted daylight in the room. He led her to the bed, and then took her in his arms again, to look down at her face and be sure. For answer she lifted her hands and took out the pin from his neck-cloth, and loosened the starched muslin. She could feel the urgency of his need pressing against her, and was beginning to be light-headed with desire. She wanted no delay. She must have him, and now.