Marianne and The Masked Prince

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'Nothing?' Marianne said rebelliously. 'He is the Emperor! Surely he is sufficiently powerful to provide for the future of his child?'

  'I am not denying his power, although I believe him to have feet of day, but how can you be sure that the future is his to dispose of? What will happen if he should ever fall? And what will happen to you and to the child? Our house will own no bastards, Marianne. You must make this sacrifice to your parents' memory, to the child, to yourself, even. Do you know how society treats an unmarried mother? Does the prospect attract you?'

  'Ever since I realized, I have been prepared to suffer, to fight —'

  'For what? For whom? To keep your hold on a man who has just been married to another?'

  'He was obliged to marry – but I cannot.'

  'And why not?'

  'He would not permit it!'

  The cardinal smiled at that.

  'No? You do not know him. Foolish child, he would be the first to marry you off without delay, the moment he knew you carried his child. When one of his mistresses has been without a husband he has always made it his business to provide one. No trouble and no complications, that has always been his motto in affairs of the heart. He has enough of that at home.'

  Marianne knew that what he said was true yet she was loth to admit the horrifying prospect which he laid before her.

  'But, godfather, think! Marriage is something so important, so serious. Can you expect me to walk into it blindly to trust my whole life to a complete stranger, to put myself wholly in his power, day after day, night after night? Can't you see that my whole being would rise in revolt?'

  'I understand first and foremost that you mean to do your utmost to remain Bonaparte's mistress, against all reason, and that you are no stranger to the realities of love. But it is possible to marry a man and live apart from him. From what I hear, the beautiful Pauline Borghese spends little enough of her time with poor Camillo. But I repeat, within a month you must be married.'

  'To whom? To speak with such certainty, you must have someone in mind. Who is it?'

  'That is my affair. You need not be afraid, the man I will choose for you, have already chosen, will not give you any cause for reproach. You will not lose the freedom you hold so dear, provided that you behave discreetly. But do not think I wish to constrain you. You may choose for yourself if you wish, and if you can.'

  'How can I? You have forbidden me to tell anyone that I am expecting a child and I could not deceive anyone like that.'

  'If there is a man, worthy of you and your name, who loves you enough to marry you in these circumstances, I should not oppose it. I will inform you where and when you are to come to me so that the marriage can take place. If you are accompanied by a man of your own choice, I will marry you to him. If you are alone, you will take the person I offer you.'

  'Who will that be?'

  'No more questions. I will say nothing more. You will have to trust me. You know I love you like my own daughter. Do you agree?'

  Marianne nodded slowly, all her joy and pride evaporating in the face of grim reality. Ever since her discovery that she was pregnant, she had been carried along on the tide of exaltation that came from knowing she carried the Eagle's son within her and for a little while she had believed that this would enable her to hold her own before the world. But now she knew that her godfather had reason on his side, for however much she might scorn the opinion of others for herself, had she the right to force her child to carry the stigma of illegitimacy? There were those in society, she knew, who were not the children of those whose names they bore. The charming Flahaut was the son of Talleyrand and all the world knew it, but he owed his brilliant military career to the fact that his mother's husband had obliterated the stain that would have closed society's doors to him. Had not Marie Walewska returned to the snows of Walewice in order that her husband, the old count, might be able to acknowledge her unborn child? Marianne had sense enough to know that her own heart and her love must bend before necessity. She had, as the cardinal had said, no alternative. Yet at the very moment of acceptance which would seal her fate as surely as that final 'I will', she made one last effort to fight.

  'I implore you, let me see the Emperor at least, speak to him… He may find a solution. Give me a little time.'

  'Time is the one thing I cannot give you. We must act very quickly, and I can tell from your expression that you do not know when you will see Napoleon again. Besides, what is the use? I have told you: when you tell him, he will solve the problem in the only way possible, by marrying you to one or other of his own people, some fellow of dubious lineage, the son of an innkeeper or groom, and you, a d'Asselnat whose ancestors rode into Jerusalem with Godfrey of Bouillon and into Tunis with St Louis, will have to thank the creature humbly for taking you! The man I have in mind will ask nothing of you, and your son will be a prince.'

  This harsh reminder of her position struck Marianne like a blow. She had a sudden vision of her father's proud, handsome face, the noble bearing of the portrait in the gilded frame, and then, set against the misty background of childhood, the less handsome but kindlier features of her Aunt Ellis. Surely their ghosts would be justified in turning their backs with anger on a child who could not accept the sacrifices which honour demanded? They had subdued their whole lives to that same sense of honour, even to the ultimate sacrifice. Marianne saw, as clearly as if they had risen suddenly out of the shadows of the library, the long line of her forbears, French and English, all of whom had fought and suffered to preserve intact their ancient name and the principle of honour. In that moment, she gave in.

  'I agree,' she said firmly.

  'In good time! I was sure you would.'

  'Let it be understood clearly,' Marianne added quickly. 'I agree in principle to be married in a month, but between now and then I shall do all I can to find a husband of my own choosing.'

  'I see no objection, providing always that you choose one who is worthy of us. All I ask is that you come, alone or otherwise, at the place and time I shall appoint. Let us call it a bargain, if you like. I will release you from Francis Cranmere, and you will protect your honour or pledge yourself to accept the man I shall bring you. Is it agreed?'

  'A bargain is a bargain,' Marianne said. 'I pledge myself to honour this one.'

  'Very well. In that case I shall set about fulfilling my part of the bargain.'

  He moved to a tall writing desk which stood open in a corner, and taking a sheet of paper and a pen, wrote a few words. Meanwhile, Marianne poured herself another cup of coffee. She had no thought of going back on the words she had uttered, but one disturbing possibility occurred to her which she hastened to put into words.

  'Supposing that I fail to find someone, may I ask one favour, godfather?'

  He looked round at her without speaking, waiting to hear what she would say.

  'If I must accept the husband of your choice, please, I beg of you, think of the child and do not make him bear the name of one who is his father's enemy.'

  The cardinal smiled and dipped his pen in the standish with a tiny shrug.

  'Not even my loyalty to the king would tempt me to anything so base,' he said with gentle reproach. 'You know me well enough. No such thought should ever have occurred to you.'

  He finished what he was writing, sanded it, then folded it and affixed a wafer. He held it out to Marianne.

  'Take this. I shall be leaving Paris in a few minutes and I do not like to leave you in this perilous situation. Tomorrow morning, take this letter to Lafitte, the banker. He will give you the fifty thousand livres which this English devil demands. That will grant you a breathing space, and allow you to recover that foolish Adelaide who seems to have grown no wiser with age.'

  Amazement took away Marianne's breath as nothing else in that extraordinary interview had been able to do. She stared at the letter as if it were something miraculous, hardly daring to touch it. Her godfather's magnificent generosity left her speechless, especially as it forc
ed her to overcome her resentment at his severity. She had thought him to be acting solely from a sense of duty and now, with a stroke of the pen, he had made his protection something warm and real. Her eyes filled with tears because for a while it had seemed as if he no longer loved her.

  'There, take it,' the cardinal said gruffly, 'and don't ask unanswerable questions. You may have known me as poor as a church mouse but that does not mean I cannot find the money to save your life.'

  There was, in fact, no time for any questions. The library door opened to admit a second cardinal. The newcomer, who was dressed in the robes of his office, was as small as the Cardinal San Lorenzo but his face, which was extremely handsome, had a pronounced air of nobility and bore a striking resemblance to the portrait over the fireplace.

  'The coach and escort are at the door, my poor friend. We must go. Your horse is ready in the stable with your saddle-bags and such clothes as you need.'

  'I am ready.' Gauthier de Chazay spoke almost joyously, gripping the newcomer's hands warmly. 'My dear Philibert, I can never thank you enough for sacrificing yourself like this. Marianne, I want to introduce you to Canon de Bruillard who, not content with offering me the shelter of his house, has carried friendship to the point of taking my place tonight.'

  'Good heavens!' Marianne exclaimed. 'I had forgotten. You are to be sent to Rheims. But —'

  'But I am not going. While my friend Philibert, accompanied by the Abbé Bichette, is travelling peacefully to Rheims in the coach, escorted by the Duc de Rovigo's men, I shall be disguised as a servant and riding hard for Italy where the Holy Father is waiting for me to report to him about a certain mission.'

  Still clutching the precious letter which spelled a year of freedom to her, Marianne stood speechlessly staring at the two cardinals, the real and the false, wondering if she had ever really known Gauthier de Chazay. Who was this man who had fought with such determination to save her as a baby, who, although he certainly possessed no fortune of his own, was able with a stroke of the pen to pay out a prince's ransom, and who travelled the roads on horseback dressed as a servant?

  Evidently the one-time Abbé had noticed his god-daughter's bewilderment, for he went to her and kissed her affectionately.

  'Do not try to understand what is outside your comprehension, Marianne. Just remember that you are still my beloved child and that I want you to be happy, even if the means I use to procure your happiness do not meet with your approval. God keep you, my child. I will pray for you as I have always done.'

  He blessed her quickly and then turned away to open the window.

  'This is the swiftest way to reach the stables without meeting anyone,' he said. 'Good-bye, my dear Philibert. Send Bichette back to me, you know where, when you can spare him. I hope you will not have to suffer for our little deception.'

  'Have no fears. The escort will notice nothing. I will hide my face as far as possible, and fortunately neither of us is well known. Your brethren of the Sacred College may be a trifle surprised but I will explain matters to them and in a few days I shall find the means to return here, in my real identity. Have a good journey, my dear Chazay, and convey my filial regards, respect and obedience to the Holy Father.'

  'I will. Marianne, farewell. My regards to that silly creature Adelaide when you find her. We have never seen eye to eye but I have a fondness for her just the same.'

  Whereupon his Eminence threw one leg over the window-sill and jumped down into the courtyard. Marianne saw him vanish swiftly through the darkened doorway of the coach house below the tower. Canon de Bruillard made her a little bow.

  'Do not worry about him. He will leave by way of the Seine. And now permit me to leave you also. The Abbé Bichette is outside and the escort is waiting below.'

  He was donning a voluminous cloak as he spoke, turning up the collar so as to conceal the greater part of his face. Then, with one last nod of farewell, he left the library. As the door opened, Marianne caught sight of the Abbé Bichette, looking more like a frightened chicken than ever. Crossing to a barred window, she saw a large travelling coach with lighted lamps drawn up in the street below, surrounded by a platoon of mounted men in black cocked hats with red cockades, the horses' hooves striking sparks from the ancient cobbles. This display of military strength for the sake of two peaceable servants of God struck her as absurd and at the same time intolerable. But when she remembered the casual way in which Gauthier de Chazay had climbed out of the window and felt the letter in her hand, she thought again. Surely the little cardinal, so frail and harmless to all appearances, represented an infinitely more active and formidable power than she could ever have imagined? He seemed to command men and events like God himself. In a month a man would be prepared, at his command, to marry her, Marianne, a total stranger and pregnant into the bargain. Why? What for? By what authority?

  A dash of arms outside called Marianne from her thoughts and she saw the small, red figure of the pseudo-cardinal climb into the coach, followed by the tall, lean one of the Abbé who crossed himself several times at the sight of the captain in charge of the escort, as if he had seen the devil. She heard the door slam shut in the darkness, the crack of the whip, and then with a thunderous roar the coach and its escort swept away down the rue Chanoinesse. Behind her, Marianne heard the measured tones of the footman who had admitted her earlier.

  'If madame will allow me to see her to her coach? I have to shut the house now.'

  She picked up her cloak, which she had laid over the back of a chair, and put on her gloves, stowing the precious letter carefully in an inner pocket.

  'I am ready' she said.

  Now that her godfather had gone and she was alone Marianne felt the full weight of her misery. A month! In a month she would be married – to a complete stranger perhaps. It was true that she was free to choose for herself if she wanted to avoid giving her hand to the unknown man whose name, true to the love of mystery which she had always found in him, her godfather had refused to divulge. The Abbé de Chazay had been the most secretive of men and it seemed that the Cardinal San Lorenzo shared his uncommunicative habit. No, at all costs, she must find someone, someone who did not fill her soul with loathing, a man for whom she might feel, if not love, at least respect. She had always known that girls of her station married, more often than not, without meeting their betrothed. It was a matter for their families. It might have been expected, after all, that this would be her own fate, but the independence she had acquired through the blows fate had dealt her made it impossible for her to yield without a struggle. She wanted to choose for herself. But who?

  As she followed the footman with his heavy candlestick through the darkened rooms, Marianne was mentally reviewing the men to whom she might turn. Fortunée had told her that the whole of the Imperial Guard was in love with her but she was unable to identify a single face, a single person to whom she might turn for help. She hardly knew them and there was no time now to further an acquaintance. Moreover, some were no doubt married and others had no desire to be, especially under such conditions; Marianne was wise enough to know that it was a long way from paying court to her to marriage. Clary? The Austrian prince would never marry an opera singer. In any case, he was already married to the daughter of the Prince de Lignes, and even if he were not, Marianne would never willingly become a fellow-countrywoman of the hated Marie-Louise. What then? It was out of the question to ask Napoleon to find her a husband, for the reasons put forward by the cardinal, and besides her feelings revolted at the idea of being bestowed by the man she loved on someone who could only be a complaisant husband. Better the unknown chosen by her godfather, who had at least promised that he would be irreproachable.

  It occurred to her momentarily that she might marry Arcadius but even in her misery the idea was enough to make her smile. No, she could not imagine herself as Madame de Jolival. It would be like marrying her own brother, or perhaps an uncle.

  Then, when she reached the street and saw Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche in
the act of letting down the steps of her carriage the answer came to her in a sudden, blinding flash. Side by side with the boy's chubby face and thatch of carroty hair she saw, by association, another face. The vision was so clear that she said out loud: 'He! He is the man I need.'

  Gracchus turned, hearing her voice. 'What is it, Mademoiselle Marianne?'

  'Nothing, Gracchus. Tell me, can I count on you?'

  'Need you ask, mademoiselle? Only tell me what I must do.'

  Marianne did not hesitate. She had made her choice and she felt a sudden sense of relief.

  Thank you. Indeed, I did not doubt it. Listen, when we get home I want you to change into travelling clothes and saddle a horse. Come to me then and I will give you a letter which I want carried as quickly as you can.'

  'I will stop for nothing but to change horses. Is it far?' To Nantes. But first, home, Gracchus, as fast as you can.'

  ***

  An hour later, Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche, heavily booted and enveloped in a thick riding cloak that would withstand the heaviest downpour, a hat pulled down over his eyes, clattered through the gates of the Hôtel d'Asselnat. Marianne watched him go from an upstairs window and it was not until Augustin, the porter, had shut the heavy gates behind him that she left her post and made her way back to her own room where the smell of hot wax still hovered in the air.

  Automatically, she went straight to her small writing-table and closed the blue morocco folder, first carefully extracting the single sheet of paper, signed only with an 'F', which had lain there. This letter, which had been waiting for her when she returned from the rue Chanoinesse, appointed a meeting for the following evening to hand over the fifty thousand livres. Marianne had an impulse to burn it but the fire in the hearth had gone out and then it crossed her mind that she should perhaps show it to Jolival, who at that late hour had still not come in. She thought he was probably trying to find the money for the ransom. The few words in Francis's handwriting had no power to wrest a shiver from Marianne. She read them indifferently, as though they did not really concern her. All her thoughts, all her anxieties, were concentrated on the letter she had just written and which Gracchus was at that moment carrying on its way to Nantes.