Marianne and The Masked Prince

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  Marianne gasped. 'Fortunée!' She had recoiled instinctively and was scarlet to the roots of her hair. Her indignation had no effect on the Creole's smiling calm. She only laughed.

  'I keep forgetting your obsession with the idea of a single love and your regrettable faithfulness to a man who, for the present, is doing all he can to get another woman with child. Little fool, when will you learn that your body is a wonderful instrument of pleasure and that it is a crime against nature to neglect it so tragically? It is senseless!'

  'Senseless or not, I will not sell myself!' Marianne declared hotly. Fortunée shrugged her beautifully-rounded shoulders.

  'The trouble with you aristocratic people is that you feel obliged to use grand words for the simplest things. Well, I will see what I can do for you.'

  She went to the wardrobe and brought out a charming white silk dress adorned with huge appliquéd tropical flowers.

  'Put this on, you chaste little guardian of the sacred flame of love, while I go and see whether I can sacrifice myself in your place.'

  'What are you going to do?' Marianne inquired uneasily.

  'Don't worry, I shan't sell myself to the highest bidder. I am merely going to ask my friend Ouvrard to be so obliging as to lend us the twenty thousand that we need. He is shockingly wealthy and I dare say he will deny me nothing. He is downstairs. Moreover, since he has not been in high favour with the Emperor, he will probably be delighted to serve one as close to his majesty as yourself. Sit down and rest. I will tell Jonas to bring you up some champagne.'

  'You are a darling!' Marianne said, and meant it.

  She kissed her hand to the disappearing cloud of yellow muslin, then turned her attention to the dress which Fortunée had bestowed on her. She slipped it on hastily, in case Jonas should come in and catch her unawares, then, finding a silver brush and ivory comb upon the dressing-table, she proceeded to untangle her dark hair. A sense of peace stole over her, divinely restful after the miseries of the preceding hours. Fortunée's morals might leave a good deal to be desired, but her whole personality breathed a vitality and a warm humanity that could cheer the chilliest soul. The beautiful Creole was one of those simple, uncomplicated people endowed by nature with the power of giving without asking for anything in return. She would give of her help, her time, her affection, money and sympathy all with the same generosity and saw not the slightest reason why she should not give as freely of something as natural as her body. She was not one of those women who use their virtue as an excuse for treating men with a coldness and cruelty that could drive them to despair. No one had ever killed themselves for Fortunée. She could not bear to see anyone suffer, especially when that suffering could be eased by a few hours of love. Moreover, she had the rare talent of being able, once love was past, to make faithful friends of her often inconstant lovers. Certainly, in the present instance, Marianne had no doubt that she would use all her charms to extract from her rich lover the huge sum of money needed by her friend.

  Smiling inwardly at the thought of this friendship, Marianne was busy winding her newly-plaited hair in a crown about her head when she heard the door click shut behind her. Thinking it was Jonas bringing the promised champagne, she did not turn but went on with her task.

  'I don't know who you are – ' a voice spoke gaspingly from the other side of the room – 'but for pity's sake – fetch Madame Hamelin.'

  For an instant, Marianne sat rigidly, her arms frozen above her head, then she turned. It seemed to her that the voice was in some way familiar. A man was leaning back against the closed door. His face was very white and he seemed to be struggling against an overwhelming faintness. His eyes were closed and his mouth set in a grim line, his breath came in hoarse gasps, but still Marianne made no move to help him. She sat staring in amazement. The man was dressed in dark blue pantaloons and hessians, with a white shirt. A heavy, black coat was flung over his shoulders and his brown hair was very curly, while to her horror Marianne had no difficulty in recognizing his face. It belonged to her attacker of the rue Cerutti.

  **

  Marianne had been correct in her idea that the man was hurt. The explanation of the bloodstains on her dress was now clearly visible on the white shirt, just below the left shoulder, as the man slid to the floor, unconscious.

  She watched, petrified, as he collapsed and would probably have sat there wondering still, without doing a thing to help him, if Jonas's voice had not sounded outside the door.

  'It is Jonas, mademoiselle. The door is stuck, can you open it?'

  The spell was broken. Marianne saw that the man had fallen in such a way as to obstruct the opening of the door.

  'Just a moment, Jonas, I will do it.'

  She seized the unknown man by the feet and tugged with all her strength to drag him into the middle of the room. He was heavy and it was all she could do to shift him enough to allow Jonas to enter.

  'Leave the tray outside. I can't get it open any more,' she told him, pulling on the handle as she spoke. The butler eased himself through the narrow space.

  'What is the trouble, Mademoiselle Marianne?' Then, seeing the obstacle. 'Monsieur le Baron! Lordy, he badly hurt!'

  'Do you know this man?'

  'Surely. He what you might call one of de family. It is de General Fournier-Sarlovèze. Has Madame Fortunée not spoken of him? He can't stay here. We better put him on de bed.'

  While the big Negro picked up the wounded man as easily as if he had weighed nothing at all and laid him on the bed, Marianne gathered her scattered thoughts. General the Baron Fournier-Sarlovèze? Of course she had heard of him from Fortunée who had spoken of him with a soft, cooing intonation that spoke volumes to anyone acquainted with the Creole. This was the handsome Francois, one of her three accredited lovers, the other two being the no less attractive Casimir de Montrond, at present an exile in Anvers, and the much less seductive but vastly wealthier Ouvrard. But what else was it that Fortunée had said? Why had Marianne never yet met him in her friend's house? Ah yes, that was it: the man was impossible, 'the worst fellow in the whole army' but also the 'finest swordsman' in that same army. He divided his time between dashing feats of arms and interludes on half-pay brought about by his innumerable affairs of honour. This must be one of those times when he had been sent home until the Emperor was pleased to forget his latest indiscretion.

  The thought of Napoleon reminded Marianne of something else her friend had told her and which at the time had shocked her profoundly. Fournier was a child of the Revolution, into which he had thrown himself with enthusiasm, but he hated the Emperor who cordially returned his dislike. Nevertheless, Napoleon continued to offer the hothead employment in his service for the sake of his military prowess, a prowess which had earned him the rank of general and the title of baron. To Fournier, however, these seemed small things beside the fortunes and the honours lavished on the marshals. All in all, especially taking into account her own recent experience, Marianne felt little concern or liking for the man. To some extent, he could even be dangerous and she felt little desire to further her acquaintance with him. It was bad enough to know that Fortunée, for all her devotion to Napoleon, could retain a soft spot for the fellow merely because he was handsome and a tireless lover.

  Seeing Jonas occupied, with many exclamations of grief and horror, in pulling off the wounded man's boots and administering some rough first aid to his wound, Marianne turned away and moved towards the door. She would have gone down to warn Fortunée but hesitated to do so, not knowing how her friend meant to approach the banker. Before she could make up her mind, the door was flung open and Madame Hamelin swept in saying: 'I have done all I can and I think —'

  She broke off as her eyes went past her friend and widened with horror as they fell upon Jonas, busy by the light of a branch of candles beside the bed.

  'François! My God, he is dead!'

  She darted past Marianne and ran quickly to the bed, pushing aside Jonas who, with his sleeves rolled up, was beginning
to clean the wound with lint. With a cry like a tigress, she flung herself upon her lover's motionless body.

  'Gentle Jesus, Madame Fortunée!' Jonas exclaimed protestingly. 'Don't shake him like dat, or you'll kill him right enough. He not dead. He fainted. His wound not grave.'

  Fortunée, who Marianne suspected had a secret fondness for high tragedy, paid no attention and continued to shriek and lament at the top of her voice, covering her lover's face with so many passionate kisses that, coupled with the smelling salts applied by Jonas, they finally persuaded him to open his eyes. This sign of life drew a triumphant scream from Madame Hamelin.

  'Heaven be praised! He is alive!'

  ' 'Course he alive,' Jonas said scornfully. 'He only fainted from exhaustion and loss of blood. Don't you maul him like dat, Madame Fortunée. Monsieur le Ba'on he do ve'y well. You see —'

  The injured man was endeavouring to raise himself on one elbow. He groaned but managed to smile at his mistress.

  'I must be getting old,' he said. 'Dupont got me this time, damn him, but I'll be even with him.'

  'Dupont again!' Fortunée exclaimed wrathfully. 'You never set eyes on the man but you must fight him! How long is it? Ten years? Twelve?'

  Fournier grinned. 'Fifteen. And since we are well matched with swords, this will not be the last. Haven't you anything to offer a wounded man who —' He broke off as his gaze went past Madame Hamelin to where Marianne was standing with folded arms staring into the fire, waiting for these first transports to be over. 'But – I know you!' he said, clearly searching his memory for a recollection which could not be long in coming. 'Surely, you are —'

  'Well, I do not know you,' Marianne declared firmly. 'But I should be grateful if you would spare Fortunée to me for a moment, since I ask nothing better than to leave you to one another's company.'

  'Oh my God, my poor darling, I was forgetting you! The shock —' She sprang up and fled with equal impetuosity back to her friend and flung her arms about her. 'I have spoken to Ouvrard,' she whispered. 'I think he will agree but he wants to talk to you. Will you go down to him? He is waiting in the little drawing-room. Jonas, go with Mademoiselle Marianne and bring me a decanter of brandy for the general.'

  Without further urging, Marianne turned on her heel, glad to be out of range of Fournier's gaze, in which she could now read a very evident mockery. It seemed that he had recognized her and felt not the slightest shame at the memory of his unforgivable effrontery. As she left the room, she heard him remark thoughtfully to Fortunée: 'I am not acquainted with the name of your charming but strait-laced friend, and yet, I don't know how it is, but I have a vague feeling that I stand somehow in her debt…'

  'You are feverish, dearest,' cooed Fortunée. 'I can assure you, you have never met my dear Marianne before. You can't have done.'

  Marianne restrained herself from comment with an effort. The wretch knew very well that she could never bring herself to tell her friend the truth about their stormy meeting and, besides, it was of no importance because she was determined that matters should go no further between them. It was not necessary for her to know that this man, with his odious self-assurance, hated the Emperor. She had already ranged him among the people she had no wish to meet again, and she was determined that it should be so. Curiously, as if he had read her thoughts, Jonas murmured in her ear as they went down the stairs: 'If de general stay here some time, Mademoiselle Marianne, we not see much of madame. De last time she and de general not leave their room for mo' dan a week.'

  Marianne frowned but said nothing. She was not shocked by the length of time itself, but it seemed to her that such behaviour could not be much to the taste of the banker Ouvrard, Fortunée's lover of the moment. It would be disastrous for her, Marianne, if the man on whom she depended should take serious offence in the days to come.

  Sighing, she made her way to join the banker in the little room that was already familiar to her as one of Fortunée's favourite apartments because it was lined with tall Venetian mirrors set in moulded frames of grey and gold in which she could contemplate her own charming image multiplied to infinity. Pleasantly reflected likewise were the dull pink drapes and the soft glow of the delicate directoire furnishings, and the single note of brilliant colour in the room, the huge turquoise-blue Chinese vase filled with tulips and irises. The presence of the mistress of the house lingered in the faint scent of roses that mingled with the smell of a wood fire.

  Coming into the room and seeing Ouvrard leaning against the chimney-piece, Marianne reflected that, for all his fortune, the man did not fit into his surroundings. Apart from his money, she could see little in him to attract women. He was in his early forties, short, foxy-faced and greying, dressed with extreme care and rather exaggerated opulence. Yet Gabriel Ouvrard was popular with women, and not only with Fortunée, who made no attempt to conceal her love of money. It was rumoured that the divinely languorous Juliette Récamier herself had bestowed her favours on him, and other beauties besides.

  Although feeling herself no more drawn to this second lover of Madame Hamelin's than she had to the first, Marianne forced herself to smile in a friendly fashion as she advanced to meet the banker, who had turned at the sound of the door. With a satisfied 'Ha!', Ouvrard took both her hands in his and placed a kiss on each before leading her over to the pink sofa on which, when she had nothing better to do, Fortunée was in the habit of lying for hours at a time nibbling sweets and devouring the few novels which passed the strict imperial censorship.

  'My dear, dear lady,' he said on a note of earnest familiarity filled with reproach, 'why did you not come to me at once. You should not have troubled our friend with such a trifle.'

  Marianne appreciated the mention of a 'trifle'. Twenty thousand livres seemed to her a considerable sum and she supposed that only a banker could talk so airily, yet it gave her fresh heart. However, Ouvrard had not finished.

  'You should have come to me, to my house, at once. It would have saved a great deal of trouble.'

  'Indeed – I should not have dared,' Marianne confessed, endeavouring to extricate her hands from the banker's kneading grasp.

  'Not dared? A pretty woman like you? Surely you have heard that I am a slave to beauty? And who in Paris is more beautiful than the Emperor's Nightingale?'

  'The Emperor's Nightingale?'

  'But yes, adorable Maria Stella, that is what they are calling you. Did you not know?'

  'No, indeed,' Marianne said, feeling that her companion was lavishing all too fulsome praise on someone preparing to borrow a large sum of money from him. But Ouvrard was continuing.

  'I was present at your performance at the Feydeau. Ah, a miracle indeed! Such a voice, such grace, such beauty! I can truthfully say I was in transports! I fell beneath your spell! The exquisitely moving tone, the purity of the sounds that sprang from that delicate throat, those rosy lips! Who would not be at your feet? Myself—'

  'You are too kind,' Marianne said quickly, beginning to feel some alarm in case the banker should suit the action to the words and go down on his knees before her, 'but I beg you, say no more about that evening, it – it was not all I could have wished.'

  'Ah, to be sure, your accident! That was —'

  'Extremely disagreeable and the consequences are by no means finished. I ask you to forgive me if I seem rude and impatient, but I have to be sure. You can imagine how reluctantly I have been compelled to appeal for assistance —'

  'From a friend – a loyal and devoted friend. I hope you do not doubt that?'

  'I should not be here else. And so – I may count on such a sum, the day after tomorrow perhaps?'

  'Indeed you may. In the afternoon, shall we say?'

  'No, that will not be possible. I am to sing at the Tuileries before – before their majesties.'

  She stumbled on the plural but she got it out somehow. Ouvrard listened with a beatific smile.

  'In the evening, then? After the reception? I will expect you at my house. That will be eve
n better. We can talk – get to know one another.'

  The colour flamed in Marianne's cheeks. She rose quickly, snatching back her hands which the banker still held. It had dawned on her suddenly on what conditions Ouvrard was prepared to advance her the money. Quivering with anger, she burst out: 'Monsieur Ouvrard, I do not think we understand one another correctly. This is a loan merely. I will repay you the twenty thousand livres within three months.'

  The banker's pleasant face was crossed by a momentary frown. He shrugged.

  'Who spoke of a loan? A woman such as you may make what demands she pleases. I will give you more if you wish.'

  'I do not want any more – and that only as a loan.'

  The banker sighed and getting to his feet moved heavily to where Marianne had prudently retreated to the chimney-piece. His voice had lost its honeyed tones and there was a strange flicker in his eyes.

  'Leave such matters to men, my dear, and take what is offered you in good faith.'

  'In return for what?'

  'For nothing – or nothing to signify. A little friendship, an hour of your company, the right to look at you, breathe in your fragrance…'

  Again his hands groped towards her eagerly, ready to hold and caress. The banker's sallow face had turned brick red above his snowy cravat and his eyes rested greedily on the beautiful, bare shoulders before him. A tremor of disgust ran through Marianne. How could she have been such a fool as to apply to this man with his dubious history, and who had barely emerged from prison? It was madness!

  'What you ask,' she said hastily, in a desperate attempt to frighten him, 'is impossible. The Emperor would never forgive either of us. You must know that I am – an imperial perquisite.'

  'Perquisites cost money, signorina. Those who enjoy them must be aware of this and take steps to see that no one can outbid them. In any case, think about it. You are tired tonight, and clearly under some stress. Today's wedding must have been very trying for a – perquisite! But do not forget that twenty thousand livres, or more, will be waiting for you at my house the day after tomorrow, all night if need be, and all the next day.'