'Aphrodisiac!' Marianne cried, horrified. 'But I don't need those!'
'Don't you?'
Fortunée strolled over to her friend's dressing-table and, carelessly, from among the litter of jars, bottles and gold and silver toilet articles scattered upon it, picked up a large jewel case and opened it. The emeralds Marianne had worn at the ambassador's ball, and which Chernychev had returned on the following day, gleamed in the last rays of the setting sun. Madame Hamelin took out the necklace, dangling it thoughtfully from her fingers and watching the play of light glinting in flashes of brilliant green fire:
'Talleyrand is an old rogue, Marianne… and he knows quite well that the best way to restore your zest for life is to revive your appetite for love.'
'My appetite for love! Well, you have just seen where love has got me…'
'Precisely. Weren't you telling me that your handsome sea rover remains with us for another fortnight?'
'That's not very long! What can I do?'
Fortunée did not answer directly but went on playing idly with the necklace, at the same time pursuing her earlier train of thought:
'It's not very difficult, perhaps, to renounce a woman dawdling invalidishly in bed. To turn one's back on a dazzling beauty who can lead one of the most notorious rakes in Europe by the nose, is a very different matter. Why don't you let Sasha Chernychev take you out driving, or to the theatre one of these days? If half of what I hear is true, he has amply deserved it… if only for not putting these beauties into his pocket! I'm sure I could never have resisted the temptation! But then, when a man's interest in a woman leads him to incur a sword thrust and a knife wound, all in the space of seven days…'
She let the gems slide heavily through her fingers and drop back into their nest of black velvet. Then, as though losing interest in the subject, she sat down at the mirror and began rearranging her dark curls, patting a little powder into her already flawless complexion, touching up the cupid's bow of her lips and finally amusing herself by opening every bottle of scent and sniffing it critically. With her vivacious expression, and the opulent figure so attractively belied by her virginal print gown, Fortunée was such a perfect picture of womanhood at its most glorious that Marianne could not help but be aware of it. Unconsciously, or perhaps not altogether unconsciously, Fortunée was showing her where her real weapons lay, weapons against which the noblest and most determined of men's plans were powerless.
Raising herself on her elbow, Marianne stared for a moment at her friend, watching her dab perfume delicately in the warm hollow of her breasts.
'Fortunée!'
'Yes, darling?'
'I… I think I feel like finishing that chocolate.'
CHAPTER THREE
Britannicus
Four days later, dressed in a robe of flame-coloured muslin with a head-dress of feathers dyed to match, Marianne made her appearance in a first-floor box at the Comêdie Française and caused a sensation. Count Chernychev was at her side.
The second act of Racine's Britannicus had already begun but the couple strolled to the front of the box and, without a glance for the actors on the stage, stood scanning the audience (which, to be fair, was amply returning their interest) with cool insolence. Without other ornament than a fantastic Chinese lacquered fan, trimmed with feathers the same colour as those in her hair, the unrelieved red bringing out all the golden glow of her skin and the brilliance of her great eyes, Marianne was a superb and altogether arresting sight, like some exotic, tropical flower. Her whole appearance was provocative, from the boldness of her deep décolletage to the forbidden fabric of her dress, a silky, smooth-flowing muslin which Leroy had acquired through his own mysterious channels at extravagant cost and which, contrasting strongly with the satins and brocades of the other women present, rendered full justice to every line of the Princess Sant'Anna's magnificent body.
At her side, in a tight-fitting uniform of green and gold, stiff with decorations, Chernychev surveyed the house arrogantly.
They were a striking couple. Talma, playing Nero, had just reached the lines:
'… so fair sight ravished mine eyes,
I tried to speak, but lo, my voice was dumb,
I stood unmoving, held in long amaze…'
The actor's voice died away and he stood, motionless in the centre of the stage, staring, while the audience, struck by the coincidence contained in the words, burst into spontaneous applause. Marianne, amused, smiled down at him and Talma stepped forward instantly, hand on heart, and bowed to the box as if it had contained the Empress herself. Then he turned to resume his interrupted dialogue with the actor playing Narcisse and Marianne and her escort took their seats at last.
But Marianne, who was still not fully recovered, had not come to the theatre that night for the pleasure of seeing the Empire's greatest tragic actor. She was looking round, her face partly screened by her fan, scrutinizing the house attentively in search of the face she had come there to find. The great Talma's performances were always well attended and Marianne had hinted discreetly to her friend Talleyrand that she would like him to invite the Beauforts to share his box for Britannicus.
There they were, in fact, in a box almost directly facing that occupied by Marianne herself. Pilar, looking more Spanish than ever in a gown of black lace, was sitting in front, next to the prince, who seemed to be dozing with his chin sunk in his cravat and both hands clasped on the knob of his stick. Jason was standing behind, one hand resting lightly on the back of Pilar's chair. The other occupants of the box were an elderly woman and a man evidently a good deal older still. The woman retained some traces of what must once have been quite remarkable beauty. Her bright, black eyes still held the fire of youth in them and the red bow of her lips revealed both sensuality and firmness. She, too, was dressed, severely but sumptuously, in black. The man, who was bald-headed except for some few remaining red hairs, had the flushed, slightly bloated complexion of one over-fond of the bottle, but despite his bowed shoulders it was clear that this man had once possessed strength and endurance above the average. He looked like nothing so much as an ancient, riven oak tree that still manages somehow to survive.
With the exception of Jason, who appeared absorbed in what was taking place on the stage, they were all looking at Marianne and her companion. Pilar had even invoked the assistance of a pair of lorgnettes, which she wielded with about as-much cordiality as if she had been looking down the barrel of a gun. Talleyrand smiled his habitual lazy smile, lifted his hand fractionally in greeting and appeared to fall asleep again, despite the efforts of his other neighbour, the black-eyed woman, who seemed to be bombarding him with questions about the new arrivals. Marianne heard Chernychev, at her side, give a soft, mirthless laugh:
'We would appear to have caused something of a stir…'
'It surprises you?'
'Not in the least.'
'You dislike it, then?'
This time, the Russian laughed outright. 'Dislike it? My dear Princess, you must know there is nothing I like better; except, of course, when it would conflict with my duty as an officer. But it's not merely a stir that I should like to make with you, it is a scandal.'
'A scandal! You must be mad!'
'By no means. I say: a scandal – so that you will be bound to me, irrevocably, for ever, with no possibility of escape.'
Underlying the lightness of his words there was a faint suggestion of a threat which shook Marianne. Her fan shut with a click.
'So,' she said slowly. 'This is the great love you have been pouring into my ears ever since our first meeting? You want to chain me to you, make me your private property – and guard me fiercely, I dare say? In other words, you would put me in prison…'
Chernychev showed his teeth in a smile which Marianne could not help comparing with that of a wild animal, but his voice, when he answered her, was smooth as silk:
'I am a Tartar, you know… Once, on the road to Samarkand, where the grass never grew again after it had been
trampled down by the hordes of Genghis Khan, a poor camel-driver found the most beautiful emerald, dropped, probably, from some robber's hoard. He was poor, he was hungry and cold and to him the stone represented a great fortune. Yet, instead of selling it and living in ease and luxury, the poor camel-driver kept the emerald and hid it in the folds of his greasy turban, and from that day forth he neither hungered nor thirsted for he had lost the need for food or drink. All that mattered to him was the emerald. And so, in order to be sure that none should steal it from him, he travelled on, ever farther and farther into the desert, until he came to the deep, inaccessible caverns where there was nothing to look for but death. And death came, very slow and painful, but he watched it coming with a smile because he had the emerald pressed close to his heart…'
'A pretty story,' Marianne said coolly, 'and flattering in its implications, but really, my dear Count, I think I shall be very glad to see you go back to St Petersburg. As a friend, you are too dangerous by far!'
'You mistake me, Marianne. I am not your friend. I love you and I want you, that is all. And do not rejoice in my departure too soon – I shall return before long. In any case—'
He broke off. A chorus of indignant 'Sshs' was directed at them from all parts of the house while, from the stage, Talma was regarding them with deep reproach. Concealing a smile behind her fan, Marianne turned her attention to the play and Talma/Nero, satisfied, returned to his passionate scene with Junia:
'Ponder it, lady, weigh within your heart
This choice, meet guerdon for a prince that loves you,
Meet for your beauty, too long held in thrall,
Meet for that part which to the world you owe.'
Suddenly, the Russian chuckled under his breath. 'You hear? The piece could scarcely be more apt! You'd think that Nero must have heard me…'
Marianne only shrugged, conscious that the slightest retort would revive the argument and bring the wrath of the audience down on them again. But Racine had no power to interest her tonight and indeed it was not for Britannicus, nor even for Talma, that she had come to the theatre. She had come simply in order to see Jason and, more important, for him to see her. Her eyes resumed their discreet study of the house.
The Emperor and Empress had returned to Compiègne, so that few members of the court were present and the imperial box might well have been empty, but in fact it was occupied by Princess Pauline. Napoleon's youngest sister found the festivities at Compiègne little to her taste and much preferred to spend the summer at Neuilly, where her new chateau was on the point of completion. Tonight, she was radiant with happiness, with Metternich, very handsome in a dark blue coat which suited his slim build and fair hair perfectly, on one side of her and on the other a young German officer, Conrad Friedrich, known to be the latest lover of this most charming of the Bonapartes.
Apart from Marianne, the princess was the only woman present who had dared to disobey the Emperor's command. Her gown of snowy muslin, cut so low in front as to be scarcely decent, seemed to have been designed to reveal more than it concealed of her justly-famous form and to enhance the splendour of a magnificent set of turquoises of a deep and dazzling blue which were Napoleon's most recent gift to one who was not known for nothing as 'Our Lady of the Trinkets'.
Marianne was in no way surprised to see Pauline favour Chernychev with one of her brilliant smiles. The Tsar's dashing courier had long been intimate with the princess's boudoir. However, the smile did not linger but passed on to the stage, where Talma almost forgot a line from sheer rapture. Pauline was another who did not visit the theatre to see the play. She came to be admired and to enjoy the effect, always sufficiently gratifying, which her presence produced on the men in the audience.
Not far from the imperial box, Prince Cambacérès, huge and smothered as usual in gold-braid, slumbered in his seat, sunk in the pleasures of a good digestion, while next to him, Gaudin, Minister of Finance, elegant and old-fashioned at the same time in his coat of the latest cut and bob-wig, seemed to find his snuff-box infinitely more absorbing than what was going forward on the stage. In another, darkened box, Marianne caught sight of Fortunée Hamelin, deep in whispered conversation with an unidentifiable hussar who, in turn, was attracting apparently idle but actually extremely penetrating glances from the exquisite Madame Récamier. Next door, in the quartermaster-general's box, his wife, the beautiful Countess Daru, in a gown of peacock blue satin, was sitting dreamily beside her cousin, a young civil servant by the name of Henri Beyle with a broad, plain face redeemed from the commonplace by a magnificent brow, a bright and piercing eye and a sardonic curve of the lips. Finally, in a large centre box, Marshal Berthier, Prince of Wagram, sat dividing his attentions between his wife, a homely and good-humoured Bavarian princess, and his mistress, the tempestuous, wickedly sharp-tongued and grossly overweight Marchesa Visconti whose long-standing liaison with him was a source of never-failing irritation to Napoleon. Of the remainder of the audience, a great many were strangers to Marianne; Austrians, Poles, Russians and Germans who had come to Paris to attend the wedding celebrations and at least half of whom clearly had not the faintest comprehension of Racine. Among them, the palm of beauty undoubtedly belonged to the dazzling Countess Atocka, handsome Flahaut's latest conquest. These two were sitting in a box discreetly to one side, she radiant, he still a little pale from his recent illness, but neither with eyes for anything but each other.
'Talma does not stand a chance!' Marianne thought, but just then the act came to an end amid thunderous applause as those who had failed to understand or simply failed to listen sought to make amends for their lapse. 'The Emperor has to be here,' she told herself, 'to make them really pay attention. When he is in the audience, no one dares to breathe.'
The curtain came down and at once the auditorium was filled with the noise of laughter and conversation. Good manners demanded that all the men should now become extremely active, paying courtesy calls on the wives of all their friends, who, for their part, sat in their boxes receiving visitors with as much grace and dignity as if they had been in their own homes. Some of the boxes were large enough to have small salons attached to them in which refreshments – sweets, ices and drinks – were served. The theatre was just another excuse for the gossip and idle chat so dear to society's heart.
Marianne was familiar with the custom and as soon as the curtain fell on the bowing actors she found herself waiting feverishly for what would happen. Would Jason come to speak to her, or would he stay in Talleyrand's box with the prince's other guests? She was burning with eagerness to see him close-to, to touch his hand and seek in his eyes for such a look as he had given her during their mad drive to Malmaison. Even supposing that he were to leave the box, would he come to her – or would the precious visit fall to some other woman's share? Perhaps Chernychev's presence at her side would put him off? Perhaps she ought not to have saddled herself with him, after all? But she need not have worried.
Chernychev, like most other men, had risen and was excusing himself with an air of boredom: he must leave her for a moment. Princess Pauline was beckoning to him with a gesture which brooked no refusal.
'Go, by all means…' Marianne spoke absently, her eyes and her thoughts elsewhere, concerned only to conceal her joy as she saw Talleyrand get to his feet with the help of his stick and prepare to leave the box in company with Jason. Marianne's eyes were bright with impatience. If Jason was with Talleyrand, the two of them must be coming to call on the Princess Sant'Anna. She was going to see him!
However, her inattention was not lost on Chernychev. He frowned and said shortly: 'I do not like to leave you alone.'
'I shall not be alone for long. Go now, the princess is waiting.'
It was true. Pauline Borghese was again beckoning to the Russian. Suppressing a movement of irritation, Chernychev made his way to the door of the box but before he could pass through he was obliged to stand aside to permit Fortunée Hamelin to enter. Crisp as a lettuce in a dress of bright gr
een brocade trimmed with tiny crystal beads that made her look as if she had just stepped out from a fountain, Fortunée smiled at him provocatively:
'It seems Her Highness does not care to see her favourite stallions disporting themselves in pastures new,' she said with a chuckle. 'You had better run, my dear Count, or I fear you will get a sad welcome!'
The handsome colonel took her at her word, without pausing to take up the challenge. Fortunée was notorious for the freedom of her language, a freedom which in her was by no means unbecoming. She was smiling brightly as she came forward to greet her friend, and Marianne, turning, forced herself to smile back, hiding her annoyance at this unwanted company. The box was suddenly filled with the scent of roses.
'Well!' Madame Hamelin sank into a chair beside her friend. 'My dear, I simply could not resist coming over to hear all about it. When I saw our American friend in the dear prince's box—'
Marianne glanced at her with somewhat sardonic amusement. 'And what have you done with your hussar?' she inquired.
'Sent him off to drink coffee. He was showing a distinct tendency to fall asleep, and that, I promise you, is more than I can allow! It's a positive insult! But tell me, dearest, is that prune-faced Murillo in the black lace really our fascinating pirate's lawful wedded wife? She reeks of the most Catholic realm of Spain, I grant you that. I should think she probably puts incense behind her ears!'
'Yes… That is Señora Pilar. And Jason is not a pirate—'
'The more's the pity! If he were he wouldn't clutter himself up with a lot of worn-out prejudices that are as dusty as the Spanish sierras themselves. But pirate or not, I do sincerely trust he may be on his way here now to call on you?'
Marianne and the Privateer Page 7
