At once, like an echo, there came the sound of Paer's baton tapping on the desk. Alexandre Piccini at the piano struck up the opening chords, taken up a moment later by the violins. His anguished glance told Marianne that her distress was evident. She caught sight of Gossec in his corner, looking anxious, his face intent, as if in prayer. Surely no one had ever seen the Emperor treat a famous artiste with such contempt?
Fortunately, anger came to Marianne's rescue. Her first song was to be the great aria from La Vestale, the Emperor's favourite. Taking a deep breath to calm the frantic beating of her heart, she attacked the piece with a passionate energy that left her audience gasping. Her voice soared with such a fierce intensity as she expressed the despair of Julie, the vestal virgin condemned to burial alive, that even this worldly audience was shaken. In her determination to make the Emperor attend to her, she sang better than she had ever done. On the final notes, her voice rang with such poignant misery that a chorus of spontaneous, frenzied applause broke out, in defiance of protocol which decreed that the sovereign alone should give the signal for it. But the skill of the singer had electrified her audience.
She looked up at the royal box, eyes sparkling with hope, but no, not only was Napoleon not looking at her, he did not even appear to have noticed that she had been singing. His head was bent towards Marie-Louise, talking softly to her. She was listening to him downcast, a simpering smile on her lips and her face so flushed that Marianne could only conclude with rage that he was making love to her. She nodded sharply to Paer to begin the second piece, an aria from The Secret Marriage by Cimarosa.
Never, surely, was the Italian composer's light and delicate music sung with such grim feeling. Marianne's green eyes were fixed on the Emperor, as if they would force his attention. Her heart swelled with uncontrollable anger, depriving her of all sense of proportion, all self-control. How dared that stupid Viennese sit there smiling like a cat at a cream pot? How could anyone have the nerve to claim that she liked music?
Marie-Louise's love of music must have been confined to the airs of her own country for she was not only not listening but, right in the middle of the aria, she giggled suddenly. It was a childish giggle but too loud to escape notice.
Every drop of blood left Marianne's face. She stopped singing. For a moment, her glittering eyes swept the rows of heads before her, all with the same expectant expression, then with her own head held proudly erect, she marched off the dais and, in the astounded pause which followed, she left the salle des Maréchaux before anyone, even the men at the doors, could think to stop her.
Her head on fire and her hands like ice, she walked stiffly on, ignoring the storm which broke out behind her. The one idea in her fevered brain was to depart for ever from the place where the man she loved had dealt such a cruel blow to her pride, to go home and bury her grief in the old home of her family and wait, wait for what was bound to follow such an act: the Emperor's wrath, arrest, perhaps even imprisonment. But for the moment, nothing mattered to Marianne. So furious was she that she would have walked to the scaffold without so much as a glance.
A voice called after her.
'Wait! Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle Maria Stella!'
She went on down the grand staircase as if nothing had happened. Not until Duroc caught up with her at the foot of the stone steps did she finally stop and turn with an expression of complete indifference to face the Grand Marshal, who seemed on the verge of an apoplexy, his face as scarlet as his splendid uniform.
'Have you gone mad?' He gasped, struggling to regain his breath. 'Such conduct – in the Emperor's presence!'
'Whose conduct was the more shocking, mine or the Emperor's – or that woman's, at least?'
'That woman? The Empress? Oh —'
'I know no empress other than the one consecrated by the Pope, at Malmaison! As for that caricature you call by the name, I deny her right to make a fool of me in public. Go and tell your master that!'
Marianne was beside herself with rage. Her voice rang coldly among the stone arches of the old palace with a clarity that, to Duroc, was highly embarrassing. Was that a shadow of a smile under the moustaches of the grenadier on duty at the foot of the stairs? Forcing a sternness into his voice which he was far from feeling, he took Marianne's arm and began: 'I am afraid you will have to tell him yourself, mademoiselle. My orders are to take you to the Emperor's private office to await his pleasure.'
'Am I under arrest?'
'Not to my knowledge, not yet at any rate.'
The implication of this was not reassuring but Marianne did not care. She expected to pay dearly for her outburst but if she were to be given the chance to unburden herself to Napoleon once and for all, she meant to do so without mincing words. If she were going to prison, it might as well be worth while. At least it would save her from the machinations of Francis Cranmere. The Englishman would have to wait until she was released to pursue his plans, since he would gain nothing by destroying her altogether. There remained Adelaide, but here Marianne was confident she could rely on Arcadius.
It was, therefore, with a degree of serenity that the Emperor's rebellious subject entered the familiar room, calmed for the moment by the prospect of an interview with its owner, and heard Duroc give orders to Rustan, the Mameluke guard, to permit no one to enter, nor to allow Mademoiselle Maria Stella to communicate with anyone. This last recommendation even drew a smile from her.
'I am a prisoner, you see?' she said gently.
'No, I have told you. But I would rather not have young Clary yapping outside the door like a lost lapdog. I must warn you to be prepared for a long wait. The Emperor will not come until the reception is over.'
With no other response than a faint but highly impertinent shrug of her shoulders, Marianne sat down on the little yellow sofa drawn up to the fire where she had first set eyes on Fortunée Hamelin. The thought of her friend succeeded in finally calming Marianne. Fortunée was too experienced in the ways of men ever to have feared Napoleon. She had convinced Marianne that to show fear was the worst mistake she could make, even, or indeed especially, if he were in one of his famous rages.
A deep silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire, descended on the room. It was warm and cosy, in spite of its absence of luxury. This was the first time Marianne had been alone there and feminine curiosity impelled her to take stock of it. It was comforting to be there, where every object reminded her of the Emperor. Passing over the files of documents, the red morocco folders with the imperial arms stamped on them, the large map of Europe flung down on the desk, she took pleasure in handling the long white goose quill that stood in the porphyry inkstand, the ormulu watch-stand in the shape of an eagle, and a chased gold snuff-box with an ill-fitting lid from which the fragrance of the contents escaped. Each object proclaimed his presence, even the crumpled black cocked hat thrown down in a corner, in a temper probably, and not long ago either, since Constant had not yet retrieved it. Was it the matter of the carriage which had provoked that outburst? For all her courage, Marianne could not help feeling an unpleasant tingling sensation up her spine. What would he be like later?
The time began to seem suddenly very slow. Marianne had the scent of battle in her nostrils and she wanted it to begin. Tired of roaming about the padded silence of the room, she picked up a book that lay on the desk and returned to her seat. It was a much worn copy of Caesar's Commentaries, bound in green leather stamped with the imperial arms. It was so thumbed and annotated, the margins so heavily scored and filled with a cramped, nervous hand, that it had become wholly unreadable for anyone but the author of those notes. Marianne let it fall on to her lap with a sigh, although her hand continued to caress the worn leather, as though unconsciously searching for the trace of another hand. The cover grew warm, almost human under her touch. Marianne closed her eyes, the better to savour the feeling.
'Wake up.'
Marianne started and opened her eyes. Candles had been lighted in the room and outside it was d
ark. Napoleon stood before her with folded arms, a brooding anger in his eyes.
'I congratulate you on your courage,' he said with heavy irony. 'You were very sound asleep. Apparently the knowledge that you had incurred my displeasure weighs little with you.'
The tone was loud and bullying, clearly calculated to overwhelm someone starting out of sleep, but Marianne possessed the faculty of coming instantly and completely awake, however deeply she had been sleeping.
'The Grand Marshal warned me I should have a long wait,' she said quietly. 'Sleep seems the best way of shortening a period of waiting.'
'It seems to me decidedly impudent, madame – moreover I have not yet seen your curtsey.'
Napoleon was clearly seeking a quarrel. He had been prepared to find Marianne agitated and alarmed, trembling and red-eyed perhaps. The woman who woke so calmly could not fail to rouse him to annoyance. Ignoring the ominous spark in the grey eyes, Marianne risked a smile.
'I am ready to fall at your feet, sire, if your majesty will step back sufficiently to permit me to rise.'
He turned on his heel with an exclamation of fury and marched over to the window as if he meant to go straight through it.
Marianne slipped from the sofa straight into the deepest and most respectful of curtseys. 'Sire.'
There was no response. Napoleon continued to stare out of the window in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, for what seemed to Marianne an eternity, obliging her to remain in her uncomfortable, semi-kneeling position. Realizing that he was deliberately seeking to humiliate her, she gathered her courage for what was to come, knowing that it was bound to be unpleasant. She had only one desire, and that was to save her love.
Abruptly, without turning, Napoleon spoke.
'I await your explanation, if you have one to offer, of your astounding conduct. Your explanation and your apologies. It would appear that you were suddenly bereft of your senses, and of the most elementary notions of respect towards me and towards your Empress. Have you gone mad?'
Marianne was on her feet at once, the blood rushing to her cheeks. The words 'your Empress' had struck her like a blow.
'Apologies?' she said clearly. 'I think it is not I who should apologize.'
He did turn round at this, his eyes alight with anger.
'What did you say?'
'That if anyone here has been insulted, it is I! What I did was for the sake of my own dignity.'
'Your dignity? You are ridiculous, madame. Do you forget where you are? You forget that you came here at my command, by my good pleasure, with the sole object of providing entertainment for your sovereign.'
'My sovereign? If I had thought for one moment that you had brought me here for her sake, I would never have crossed this threshold.'
'Indeed? In that event, I should have had you brought here by force.'
'Maybe. But you could not have forced me to sing! Besides, how edifying for your court to see your mistress dragged on to the stage under guard! A spectacle to match the one you presented to them earlier of eminent churchmen dragged through the dust, exposed to vulgar mirth – as if it were not enough to have laid hands on the Vicar of Christ himself!'
In a couple of strides the Emperor was on her and Marianne knew from his dreadful pallor that she had gone too far, but it was not in her power or her nature to draw back now. She tensed to meet his wrath as his face was thrust into hers.
'You dare to say that!' he flung at her. 'Those men insulted me, mocked me, should I have spared them? You should be on your knees in gratitude for my forbearance and mercy. I could have flung them into prison, or worse, you know that!'
'And given more substance to your own legend? No, you did no worse because you dared not and you are angry with me because, by offering a carriage to my godfather, I refused to take part in your petty revenge!'
For a second curiosity overcame the Emperor's fury.
'Your godfather? That Italian cardinal —'
'Is no more Italian than I am. His name is Gauthier de Chazay, Cardinal San Lorenzo. He is my godfather and I owe him my life because it was he who saved me from the hands of the Revolutionaries. In helping him, I was doing no more than my duty.'
'That's as may be. But my duty is to put down all opposition to my throne, my family, my marriage. I command you to go to the Empress and beg pardon on your knees.'
The picture he conjured up succeeded in casting Marianne into a rage equal to Napoleon's own.
'No,' she said flatly. 'Have me thrown into prison, executed if you like, but such an abject submission you will never get from me, never, do you hear! I, on my knees to that woman…'
Transfigured with fury, rigid with all the accumulated pride and rebelliousness of her race, it was she who dominated now. Unable to bear the sight of her arrogance and disdain, Napoleon let out a growl of rage and seized her by the arm, twisting it in a cruel grip that made her cry out with pain.
'More of this and you will be on your knees to me, you crazy vixen! On your knees begging my forgiveness! I was right, you are mad —'
He made a move to throw her to the ground. Fighting desperately to keep her balance and stave off the pain, Marianne managed to gasp out: 'Mad? Yes, I am mad – or I was! Mad to have loved you as I did! Mad to have believed in you! To think I trusted your love! It was all words, smoke! Your love is given to the newest. That fat, red-faced creature had only to appear to make you her slave, you – the master of Europe, the Eagle – at the feet of that cow! And I hid my grief because I believed the things you said to me! A political marriage, indeed! When you flaunt your love openly in the eyes of all, a love which kills me, tears me apart! Well, you have played with me enough. You are right, I was mad – and I am mad still because in spite of this I love you. I wish I could hate you, yes, hate you, as so many others do! It would be so easy, so wonderfully easy…'
Overcome by her grief and the pain of her bruised arm, she fell to the ground, collapsing with the abruptness of a summer storm, and buried her head in her hands and wept. It was all over, she had said it all and now she wanted nothing but final, blessed oblivion. The terrifying anger which had lifted her out of herself and driven her to defy the Master with such insensate daring had gone, leaving only a horrible wretchedness. Careless of what he might do to her now, Marianne wept over the ruins of her broken love.
Napoleon stood rigidly staring at the figure in blue and silver lying in a crumpled heap on the carpet, hearing the heartbroken sobs. Perhaps he was wondering how to react, or trying to maintain his anger in the face of this dreadful display of grief, these cries of love which strove to transform themselves to cries of hate. Perhaps, too, his private love of the dramatic made him secretly relish the theatrical aspect of the scene. But suddenly the door opened and a plump, pink female form appeared. A childish voice with a pronounced German accent lisped complainingly:
'Nana! Vot are you doink? I am lonely vizout mein naughty lover! Come to me, Nana!'
The effect of this voice on Marianne was like acid on an open wound. She jerked up her head and stared at the Emperor and his wife. The Habsburg was looking at her in surprise.
'Oh, Nana!' she lisped. 'You beat ze vicked voman, Nana?'
'No, Louise. I have not beaten her. Leave me, sweet, and I will come to you soon. Go now…' He led her to the door with a smile that sat badly on his drawn face, and kissed her hand as though embarrassed by the domestic interlude which had fallen like a bucket of cold water on the fires of tragedy. Marianne herself was too dazed even to rise to her feet. Nana! She called him Nana! It was funny, if Marianne had had the heart for laughter.
But now they were alone again. The Emperor turned slowly back to his desk. He was breathing hard, as though with difficulty. The gaze that fell on Marianne was blank, as if all life had vanished with his anger. He leaned with both hands on the massive table and hung his head.
'Get up,' he said dully. He raised his head again and looked at her with unexpected softness but when, surprised by the chang
e in his tone, she opened her mouth to speak he stopped her and, taking a deep breath, continued: 'No, don't speak. You must not say any more, you must never anger me again as you have done. It is too dangerous. I – I might have killed you and I should have regretted it all my life. It may be hard for you to believe it but – I do love you. There are some things you cannot understand.'
Marianne got to her feet, as slowly and painfully as if she had been fighting. She was obliged to hold on to the sofa for support. Every muscle in her body ached. Even so, she tried to go to Napoleon, but he restrained her with a gesture.
'No. Stay where you are. Sit down and rest. We have hurt one another cruelly tonight, have we not? It must be forgotten. Listen, I am leaving Paris tomorrow for Compiègne. From there, towards the end of the month, I go to the northern provinces. I have to show my – the Empress to my people. It will give us time to forget – and I shall not be obliged to send you away, as I should be if I were to remain here. I will leave you now. Stay here a while. Constant will come for you and take you to the carriage.'
He turned to the door, his step curiously heavy. Unable to help herself, Marianne held out her arms to him, her eyes full of tears, trying instinctively to hold him back. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and pleading.
'Do you forgive me? I did not mean —'
'You know you meant every word, but I have forgiven you because you were right. But do not come near me. I must not touch you or I shall fail the Empress. We shall meet again.'
He went out, quickly, and Marianne returned to her seat by the fire. Her heart and mind felt empty, and she was suddenly chilled to the marrow. Something told her that things could never be the same again between them. There were the words which had been spoken, words which would be followed by absence, and silence. She experienced a piercing regret for the miraculous days at the Trianon when all quarrels had been dissolved at last in kisses. But nothing could bring back the Trianon. From now on, love would have a bitter taste of loneliness and renunciation. Would there ever be a return to the state of pure happiness which had been hers for those few weeks? Or must she learn from now on to give without looking for anything in return?
Marianne and The Masked Prince Page 14
