Marianne and The Masked Prince

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'No, really. I don't want to see anyone except yourself, and I don't feel frivolous. Come again soon.'

  While Arcadius was seeing Madame Hamelin to her carriage, Marianne threw a cushion on to the floor in front of the fire and sank on to it with a weary sigh. She felt chilled and wondered if from pretending to be ill she was really becoming so. But the sickness was all in her heart, racked by doubts, anxieties and jealousy. Outside, a cold, wet night was setting in, so much in tune with Marianne's own mood that for a moment she glanced almost gratefully at the dark windows framed in gold damask curtains. Why must they talk to her of work? She was like a bird, only able to sing when her heart was light. Besides, she had no wish to fall into the conventional pattern of opera singers. Perhaps the truth was that she had no real vocation for the theatre. The offers made to her held no temptation. Or was it the absence of the man she loved that had caused this curious reluctance to accept?

  Her gaze wandered from the window to the hearth and came to rest on the portrait that hung above it. Again, she shivered. All at once she seemed to read in the handsome colonel's dark eyes a kind of ironic pity, not unmixed with contempt for the wretched creature sitting at his feet. In the warm glow of the candlelight, the Marquis d'Asselnat seemed to be stepping out of his smoky background to shame his daughter for proving unworthy of him and herself. The silent condemnation of the portrait was so clear that Marianne blushed. Half in spite of herself, she muttered: 'You cannot understand. Your own love was so simple that I dare say to die together seemed to you a logical conclusion, the perfect consummation. But for me —'

  Her attempt to justify herself was interrupted by the sound of Arcadius's soft footfall. He stood for a moment watching the slim figure in black velvet, a dark spot in the bright room, even lovelier perhaps in melancholy sadness than in the fullness of joy. The firelight fell on her high cheekbones and awakened a gleam of gold in her green eyes.

  'You must never look back,' he told her softly, 'or look to the past for counsel. Your empire lies before you.'

  He trod briskly over to the writing-table, picked up the letter he had brought with him and held it out to Marianne.

  'You should at least read this one. A courier, mud to the eyebrows, was handing it to your porter when I came in. He said it was urgent. He looked as if he had travelled a long way in bad weather.'

  Marianne's heart missed a beat. Could this be news from Compiègne at last? Snatching the letter she glanced hurriedly at the superscription. It told her nothing. The writing was strange to her, and the seal was plain black. Nervously, she slipped her finger underneath the wafer and opened the missive. It was unsigned and contained only one short paragraph.

  'If the Signorina Maria Stella will condescend to come on the night of Tuesday the twenty-seventh to the chateau of Braine-sur-Vesle she will be conferring untold happiness upon her ardent admirer. The name of the domain is La Folie and folly perhaps is the presumption of him who will await her there. Prudence and discretion.'

  The letter was strange and stranger still the appointed meeting place. Without a word, Marianne handed the letter to Arcadius and watched him raise one eyebrow as he glanced at the contents.

  'Odd,' was his comment, 'but not incomprehensible.'

  What do you mean?'

  'That now that the Archduchess is actually on French soil, the Emperor is obliged to exercise the utmost discretion. And that the village of Braine-sur-Vesle is on the road between Rheims and Soissons – and it is at Soissons that the new Empress is to spend the night of the twenty-seventh.'

  'You think the letter comes from him?'

  'Who else would ask you to meet him in that way in such a place? I think—' Arcadius paused, reluctant to name the man whose identity must be concealed. 'I think he means to give you the final proof of his love by spending a few moments with you at the very moment of arrival of the woman he is marrying for reasons of state. That should allay your fears.'

  Marianne needed no further persuasion. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks on fire, her whole being absorbed in her love, and she could think of nothing but that in a little while now she would be in Napoleon's arms again. Arcadius was right. In spite of all his elaborate caution, he was giving her this one, great, wonderful token of his love.

  'I will set out tomorrow,' she announced. Tell Gracchus to have my horse ready.'

  Will you not take a carriage? The distance is nearly a hundred miles and the weather appalling.'

  'I am advised to be discreet,' she smiled. 'A single rider will attract less attention than a smart carriage with a coachman and outriders. I am an excellent horsewoman, you know.'

  'So am I,' Jolival retorted. 'I will tell Gracchus to saddle two horses. I am going with you.'

  'Is there any need? You don't think—?'

  'I think you are a young woman and the roads are none too safe. Braine is only a village and this rendezvous of yours is to take place after dark in a place not known to me. You must not be thinking I suspect – well, you know who – but I shall not leave your side until I see you in good hands. After that, I shall find a bed for myself at the inn.'

  His tone admitted no argument and Marianne did not insist. All things considered, she would be glad of Arcadius's company on a journey that would take three days there and back. But she could not help thinking that it was all rather complicated and would have been much easier if the Emperor had taken her to Compiègne and installed her in a house in the town. However, rumour had it that the Princess Pauline Borghese was at Compiègne with her brother and that she had with her her favourite lady-in-waiting, the very same Christine de Mathis who had preceded Marianne in Napoleon's affections.

  What am I thinking?' Marianne asked herself suddenly. 'I am seeing rivals everywhere. I must be jealous. I will have to watch myself.'

  The sound of the front door slamming shut came to give her thoughts another turn. It was Adelaide returning from the evening service which she attended on most days, less out of piety, in Marianne's secret belief, than to take a good look at her neighbours. Mademoiselle d'Asselnat had a cat-like curiosity which ensured that she always had some titbits of gossip and observation to bring home which proved that her Maker had not held her undivided attention.

  Taking the hand Arcadius held out to her, Marianne got to her feet and smiled.

  'Here is Adelaide,' she smiled. 'We shall have all the latest gossip while we dine.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Little Country Church

  Some time the next afternoon, Marianne and Arcadius dismounted before the inn of the Soleil d'Or at Braine. The weather was horrible: a steady downpour had been drowning the country round about since daybreak, and in spite of their heavy cloaks the two riders were drenched to the skin and in urgent need of shelter and something hot to drink.

  They had been travelling since the previous day, making as much speed as possible; Arcadius wanted to see the lie of the land before the time set for the strange meeting. They took two rooms at the inn, the one modest hostelry the village boasted, and then made their way to the coffee room, empty of customers at this hour, to partake respectively of a bowl of soup and a cup of mulled wine. In a little while, an hour or two at most, the new Empress of the French was to pass through Braine on her way to Soissons where she was to dine and stay for the night.

  Rain or no rain, the whole village was out of doors, dressed in its holiday best, gathered under the garlands and the fairy lights that were sizzling out one by one. A dais draped in the colours of France and Austria had been set up near the church where the local dignitaries would be taking their places under umbrellas to address the new Empress as she passed through. Through the open door of the fine old church came the sound of the choir practising its hymn of welcome to the cavalcade. Only Marianne felt more miserable than ever, although her gloom was shot through with curiosity. When the time came, she would go out with the rest to catch a glimpse of the woman she could not help thinking of as her rival, that daughter of the en
emy who, simply because she was born on the steps of a throne, dared to steal her place beside the man she loved.

  Unusually for him, Arcadius was as silent as Marianne. He leaned his elbows on the coarse-grained wooden table, polished by generations of other elbows, staring into the deep purple wine steaming in the pottery bowl before him. He seemed so abstracted that Marianne was impelled to ask what he was thinking.

  'About your assignation for tonight,' he told her and he sighed.

  'Now that we are here, it seems stranger than ever. So strange that I am beginning to wonder if the message can have come from the Emperor.'

  'Who else? And why not from him?'

  'What do you know of the chateau of La Folie?'

  'Why, nothing. I have never been here before.'

  'I have, but so long ago that I had almost forgotten. The landlord refreshed my memory just now when I called for our order. The chateau of La Folie, my dear, is the charming pile you may perceive from where we sit. It seems to me a rather sombre setting for an amorous tryst.'

  As he spoke, he pointed to a wooded eminence rising steeply from the far bank of the River Vesle where the massive, half-ruined shape of a thirteenth-century castle loomed in medieval decay through the grey curtain of rain. Walls blackened by time and warfare presented a sinister appearance which the budding green of the surrounding trees was powerless to dispel. Marianne frowned, conscious of a strange wave of foreboding.

  'That Gothic ruin? Is that the castle I am to visit?'

  'That and no other. What do you think of it?'

  For answer, Marianne stood up and swept up the gloves she had placed on the table by her place.

  'That it may well be a trap. I have seen them before. Remember the circumstances of our first meeting, my dear Jolival, and our tender treatment at the hands of Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis in the quarries of Chaillot. Will you go and fetch the horses? We'll pay a visit to this unlikely love nest here and now, although I would give much to be mistaken.'

  She had been in a strange mood ever since leaving Paris. All along the road that was bringing her nearer her lover, Marianne had been unable to repress a sense of reluctance and uneasiness which may have been because the all-important letter had not been written in his own hand, and because the place appointed was on the very road the Archduchess must take. This last objection had been partly done away with at Soissons where she learned that the place where the Emperor was to meet his betrothed for the first time, on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth, was at Pontarcher, some seven or eight miles from Soissons on the road to Compiègne, yet not, after all, so very far from Braine. Napoleon would have plenty of time to rejoin his suite early in the morning.

  Now, the prospect of activity was doing her good, dragging her out of the slough of uncertainty and vague disquiet in which she had wallowed for the past week. While Arcadius went for the horses, she drew from her belt the small pistol which she had taken the precaution of bringing with her from Paris. It was one of those which Napoleon himself had given her, knowing her familiarity with fire-arms. Coolly, she checked the priming. If Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis, the Chevalier de Bruslart or any of their unpleasant followers were waiting for her behind the ancient walls of La Folie, they would be in for something of a surprise.

  She was about to leave the table which stood near the room's only window when something drew her attention to the other side of the street. A large, black travelling coach, bearing no arms on the panel but drawn by a team of very fine greys, was drawn up outside the blacksmith's shop. The coachman, muffled in a vast, green overcoat, was standing with the smith by one of the lead horses and both men had their heads bent over what was no doubt a faulty shoe. There was nothing unusual in this sight but it held Marianne's attention. It seemed to her that the coachman was familiar.

  She leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the occupants of the coach but could see nothing beyond two vague, but undoubtedly masculine, figures. Then, suddenly, she bit back a cry. One of the men had leaned forward for a second, probably to see how the coachman was getting on, revealing through the window a pale, clear-cut profile surmounted by a black cocked hat, a profile too deeply engraved in Marianne's heart for her to fail to recognize him. It was the Emperor.

  What was he doing in that coach? Was he already on his way to the rendezvous at La Folie? If that were so, why was he waiting in the coach for the shoe to be repaired? This struck Marianne as so improbable that her sudden gladness at seeing him, at the very moment when she was losing faith in this mysterious meeting, was shortlived. She had seen Napoleon in the coach make a quick, frowning movement, the gesture of a man in a hurry. But where was he going at such speed?

  Marianne had no time to ask herself more questions. The smith stepped back, the coachman climbed back to his box and cracked his whip. With a clatter of harness the vehicle was away. In a moment Marianne was outside and found herself face to face with Arcadius who was leading out the horses.

  Without a word of explanation, Marianne sprang into the saddle, rammed the felt hat which covered the coiled mass of her hair hard down over her eyes, and shot away in pursuit of the travelling coach which was already disappearing into the muddy spray thrown up behind it. Arcadius followed automatically but when he realized that they were travelling in the opposite direction from La Folie, he spurred his horse to catch up with the girl.

  'Hey! Where are we off to?'

  'That coach —' Marianne flung into the wind over her shoulder. 'I want to know where it is going.'

  'What for?'

  'The Emperor is inside…'

  It took Jolival a moment to assimilate this news, then, abruptly leaning forward in the saddle, he seized hold of Marianne's bridle and, with a strength surprising in a man of his slight build, succeeded in bringing her horse to a walk while at the same time retaining control of his own mount.

  'What do you think you're doing?' Marianne flung at him furiously. 'Are you mad?'

  'Do you want his majesty to see that he is being followed? On a straight road we can hardly miss him. If, on the other hand, we were to take the path you see there on the right, we should be on a short cut which will get us to Courcelles before the Emperor.'

  'What is Courcelles?'

  'Merely the next village. But if I am not mistaken, the Emperor is simply going to meet his bride, which he will do before very long.'

  'Is that what you think? Oh, if I could be sure —'

  Marianne had gone white to the lips. The frightful pangs of jealousy returned, more fiercely tormenting than ever. Arcadius nodded with a small, unhappy smile.

  'But you are, quite sure. Be honest with yourself, Marianne. You know where he is going and you want to see her for yourself first, and then witness their meeting.'

  Marianne gritted her teeth and looked away, turning her horse's head at the same time towards the narrow lane. Her face had hardened but she did not contradict him.

  'Yes, it is true. And nothing and no one shall stop me.'

  'I did not think of stopping you. Come if you must, but you are making a mistake. It can only bring you useless suffering.'

  The two riders resumed their gallop, regardless of the mud and rain. They followed the track along the course of the Vesle, now swollen to twice its normal volume by the torrential rains. The weather seemed to get worse as they advanced. The fine drizzle had become a solid downpour, out of a dismal, lowering sky. The riverside track proved quicker, even so, and it was not long before the first houses of Courcelles came in sight.

  Marianne and Arcadius emerged on to the high road in time to see the coach racing towards them, its great wheels throwing up fountains of spray.

  'Come,' Arcadius said. We must not stay here, unless you want him to see you.'

  He was trying to draw her aside into the little church which stood close by but Marianne would not be drawn. Her eyes were riveted on the approaching vehicle and she was conscious of a dreadful urge to stay where she was and let him see her, to meet that masterful gaze and
read in it – just what precisely, she could not have said. But there was no time for further thought. The coach swerved suddenly, it may have been on account of the already faulty shoe, and the off-side fore wheel caught the steps of the small shrine erected at the entrance to the village. The wheel was wrenched off and Marianne cried out involuntarily, but the coachman, acting with great skill, managed to bring his horses under control and stop the coach.

  Two men jumped out. One was tall and dressed with a degree of finery strangely out of keeping with the weather. The other was all too easily recognizable. Both were furiously angry. Marianne saw the taller of the two men point towards the church, then both began to run quickly through the rain.

  Arcadius seized her arm. 'Now come,' he told her firmly, 'or you will come face to face with him. They appear to intend to take shelter here while the coachman goes in search of a wheelwright.'

  This time she suffered him to lead her where he would. Jolival hurried her out of sight round the back of the church. Here there was a clump of trees, to one of which they tethered their horses. Arcadius guessed that since the Emperor was stranded here, nothing would persuade Marianne to ride on. She had already spotted a small door in the side wall of the building.

  'Come inside,' she said. We shall be able to see and hear without being seen.'

  Inside the little chapel the air was cold and damp, smelling strongly of mildew. It fell about their wet shoulders like a leaden cloak.

  'We'll catch our deaths in here!' Jolival muttered but Marianne took no notice. The place was in semi-darkness and seemed to have fallen into almost complete disuse. Numerous broken window-panes had been replaced with oiled paper. In one corner there was a heap of broken pieces of statuary; only two or three pews remained and the pulpit and churchwardens' pew were draped in cobwebs. But the main door beneath the tiny gallery was slightly open, allowing a view of what was happening in the porch as Napoleon and his companion hurried in out of the rain. A dipped, impatient, all-too-familiar voice broke the silence of the little church.