'Possibly…' Marianne smiled faintly. 'But don't count on it.' It seemed to her that the two men were taking a very long time to pass through the intervening corridor.
'Gracious! Talleyrand is no fool and if he has him in tow we're sure to have them here at any moment. And don't worry—' She patted her friend's knee reassuringly. 'I don't mean to play gooseberry, you know. I've a host of things to say to the dear prince. So you may have your little talk…'
'With that pair of black eyes glaring at us? Have you seen how the Señora looks at me!'
'Black eyes, black looks!' the Creole said philosophically. 'Personally, I think I might find it rather amusing. You can't think what fun it is, teasing a jealous wife.'
'Talking of black eyes, who is the woman in black sitting on the Prince of Benevento's other side? Elderly, but still rather striking…'
'What? You don't know her?' Fortunée exclaimed, genuinely surprised. 'Why, she and her husband, that gingery old Scot who looks like a heron asleep on one leg, are close friends of Talleyrand's. Have you never heard of Mrs Sullivan? The beautiful Eleonora Sullivan and the Scotsman Quintin Crawfurd?'
'Oh! Is that who she is?'
Marianne remembered now a bitter little confidence she had received from Madame de Talleyrand at the time when she had been acting as her companion. The princess had spoken angrily about a Mrs Sullivan as an adventuress who had been the morganatic wife of the Duke of Würrtemberg and implicated in innumerable conspiracies: she had lived with an English agent, Quintin Crawfurd, whom she had finally married for the sake of his great fortune. Marianne recalled also that the princess's antipathy had been motivated chiefly by the fact that Mrs Sullivan, although very far from young, retained a singular power to fascinate men, and in particular Talleyrand, whose relations with her were a source of anxiety to the princess because they appeared to be compounded of a curious mixture of physical attraction and business dealings. It was the Crawfurds who had sold the magnificent Hôtel Matignon to the prince and they now lived in his old home in the rue d'Anjou.
'I don't like to have that woman here,' Madame de Talleyrand had said. 'She reeks of underhand affairs.'
Madame Hamelin, however, waited patiently while her friend studied Mrs Crawfurd, who seemed to exert a considerable fascination for her. She, like Pilar, was dressed in black but in a heavy, dull black silk which had the austerity of mourning.
'Well?' Fortunée asked quietly. 'What do you think of her?'
'Strange! Still beautiful, to be sure, but she would appear to greater advantage in a less gloomy colour…'
Fortunée gave a little gurgle of laughter. 'She is in mourning, for her favourite lover. Not quite a month ago, if you remember, the Swedes killed Count Fersen, poor Marie-Antoinette's cavalier.'
'He was that woman's lover?'
'Yes, indeed. The poor queen had a rival, although she did not know it. At one time, let me tell you, they made a very pretty ménage à trois: Eleonora, Fersen and Crawfurd, but it was a ménage of conspirators and both Quintin and Eleonora were deeply involved in the affair at Varennes. I am sure they did all they could to help the royal family to escape from Paris. So, I need hardly tell you that the Emperor is not very popular in the rue d'Anjou.'
'And he allows it? And that man is English?' Marianne said in horror.
'And a long-standing agent of Pitt's. Yes, my sweet, he allows it. It is part of the magic of our dear prince's personality. He answered for them. It is true, of course, that just at this moment he could do with someone to answer for him, but that is life…'
It seemed as if Marianne could not tear her eyes from the box where the two black-clad women sat on either side of the empty chair as if keeping some ominous vigil. At last she said softly: 'How she stares at me, that Mrs Crawfurd. She might be trying to learn my face by heart. Why is she so interested in me?'
'Oh, as to that…' Fortunée opened her reticule and took out one of her favourite violet-scented chocolates. 'I think it is the Princess Sant'Anna who interests her. Her maiden name, you know, was Leonora Franchi and she was born at Lucca. She probably knows all about your mysterious husband and his family.'
'Yes, perhaps she may…'
All of a sudden, the strange woman seemed to take on a new dimension. Once connected with the irritating aura of secrecy surrounding Corrado Sant'Anna she ceased to appear suspicious to Marianne and became only desperately interesting. Too many times, since losing the child, she had asked herself what Prince Sant'Anna's reaction would be, so that she could not but feel the temptation now to approach anyone who might be able to help her unravel the enigma he represented. There were moments when in spite of the dread which had driven her from the villa, she still blamed herself for cowardice. The terror she had gone through in the little temple had grown blurred with time. Very often, in the long hours while she lay ill, and especially in the endless nights, her mind had gone back to the fantastic figure of the rider in the white mask… He meant her no harm, had in fact saved her from the criminal madness of Matteo Damiani. He had carried her back to her own room, tended her, perhaps… put her to bed… and at the recollection of how she had woken to find her bed strewn with flowers, Marianne's heart beat wildly once again… He loved her, perhaps, and she had run away, like a scared child, instead of remaining there to drag from the masked Prince Sant'Anna the secret of his hermit-like existence. She should have – yes, she should have stayed! She might even have left there a chance to find peace and, who could tell, even a kind of happiness?'
'Dreaming?' Fortunée's voice sounded teasingly in her ear. 'What were you thinking of? You were staring at the Sullivan as if you meant to hypnotize her.'
'I'd like to meet her…'
'Nothing simpler! Especially as the wish is undoubtedly mutual. But—'
Before she could finish, the door opened and Talleyrand, with Jason at his heels, made his way into the box. There was an interlude of bowing and of dainty fingers raised to masculine lips before the incorrigible Creole, having first favoured Jason with a smile so dazzling that it could not fail to contain a strong element of flirtatiousness, laid her hand compellingly on the prince's arm and guided him inexorably from the box, announcing that she had something of the very greatest secrecy to impart to him. Marianne and Jason were left alone.
Instinctively, Marianne had pushed her chair back into the comparative shadow of the back of the box. Out of the direct light, she felt less vulnerable and it was easier to forget Pilar's black gaze fixed on her. It was so little to ask, a moment alone together in the midst of this great chattering throng, but for Marianne everything to do with Jason, everything that came from him or related to him, had become infinitely precious. Their surroundings vanished in an instant: the red and gold furnishings, the glittering crowd of people with their idiot noises, the refined artificiality of it all. It was as if Jason possessed some strange power of breaking down any setting in which he found himself, however civilized, and substituting for it his own world, made to his own size and with the strong, sea-scent of adventure blowing through it.
Speechless, she sat gazing at him with eyes luminous with joy. She had forgotten everything, even the very presence in the theatre of Chernychev, whom she had nevertheless deliberately chosen as her escort for the evening. Because Jason was here beside her, all was well. Time could stand still, the world come to an end, nothing else mattered.
Looking at him, she was conscious of a deep feeling of happiness and she tried vainly to understand how she could have failed to guess, how she could have missed the impalpable signs by which two beings who love each other are bound together secretly and which would have told her that she could never love any other man.
And even the knowledge that he belonged to another woman could not quench that happiness, as if the love she felt for Jason were of a kind that nothing human could touch.
Jason, however, did not appear to share her speechless happiness. His eyes had barely rested on her as he made his bow, and then had s
lipped away towards the far corner of the auditorium, as if he had indeed nothing to say. He stood with arms folded, his lean face turned in the direction of the royal box as if to find there the answer to the problem that made his fine-drawn face look sterner than ever and brought that dark, brooding look into his eyes…
To Marianne, this silence soon became unbearable, unbearable and insulting. Had Jason come to her box for no better reason than to show the world how little he cared for her? When she spoke, it was with unconscious wistfulness:
'Why did you come here, Jason, if you can find nothing to say to me?'
'I came because the prince asked me to go with him.'
'Is that all?' Marianne's heart contracted. 'Do you mean to say that but for Monsieur de Talleyrand you would not have come to see me?'
'Precisely.'
The curtness in his voice stung Marianne and she began to ply her fan with quick, nervous movements.
'Charming!' she said, with a tiny laugh. 'I suppose you are anxious not to offend your wife who, I see, has her eye strictly upon us? Well, I would not wish to detain you. Pray return to her.'
'Don't talk such nonsense,' Jason ground out through his teeth. 'Mrs Beaufort has nothing to say to what I may do or not do, nor would she dream of it. I should not have come because you had no need of my presence. I think you made your feelings abundantly clear tonight.'
'Did I indeed?' Marianne said furiously. 'Is that what you think? And, pray, where am I at fault in appearing in public escorted by a very gallant gentleman to whom I owe my life?'
This time their eyes met, Jason's dark with anger and contempt, Marianne's glittering with rage. He gave a harsh crack of laughter:
'That is something you should ask your husband, my dear! Your latest husband, I mean. This Tuscan prince who seems to fill so negligible a place in your life! You have not been married three months and far from staying at home like any decent woman on your own estates, you flaunt yourself half-naked in that ridiculous costume in the company of the most notorious rake in two hemispheres, a man who boasts that no woman has ever denied him!'
'If I did not know that America was a land of barbarians,' Marianne flung back at him, crimson as the feathers in her hair, 'that would have taught me! Not content with being a pirate, or sea rover or whatever, and then a special, and my goodness what a very special, envoy! Now you must needs turn preacher! The Reverend Beaufort! It sounds very well, to be sure! And I can assure you that with a little practice your sermons will be admirable! But then of course when one numbers among one's forebears—'
'At least I number some respectable women! Women who knew enough to stay at home!'
Jason's face might have been carved out of stone and there was a saturnine twist to his mouth which made Marianne want to hit him.
'To hear you, anyone would think I chose my own fate! As if you didn't know—'
'I know all right. All of it. While you were obliged to struggle for your life or liberty you had right on your side – and I admired you for it. Now, you have one right only: to repay the man who gave you his name by at least showing some respect for that name.'
'And how have I failed to respect it?'
'Not three months ago you were known to be the Emperor's mistress. Now you are generally regarded as the mistress of a Cossack famed more for his valour in the boudoir than on the battlefield.'
'Aren't you exaggerating a little? Let me remind you that the Emperor decorated him with his own hand at Wagram, and Napoleon is not in the habit of handing out decorations to all and sundry.'
'I appreciate the ardour with which you spring to his defence. What better proof of love could he ask.'
'Love! I love Chernychev?'
'If you do not love him you are giving a fair imitation of it. But I begin to think imitations are your stock-in-trade. Did you do another for your mysterious husband?'
Marianne sighed wearily. 'I thought I had told you all about my marriage. Must I tell you again? Except in the chapel where the service was performed, and where I saw nothing of him beyond one gloved hand, I have never met Prince Sant'Anna. And let me remind you, if you had received a certain letter in time, there would have been no wedding to the prince…'
She broke off as Jason began to laugh, hard, painful laughter, rasping like a false note on a violin:
'After what I have seen here tonight, I may thank heaven that letter did not reach me. Because of it, I have been able to save Pilar from a fate she had done nothing to deserve, while as for you, I think you are best left to a future which does not seem altogether repugnant to you, and which seems to me, considering the ease with which you are able to transfer your affections, to be no more than you deserve.'
'Jason!'
Marianne sprang to her feet. Her face changed from crimson to white and her fingers clenched on the fragile sticks of her costly fan. There was a pathetic little cracking sound as the sticks snapped. She fought with all her strength to keep back the tears which started to her eyes from a heart overflowing with unhappiness. Whatever happened, he must not be allowed to see how deeply he had hurt her… For she was too much hurt to see that his words had sprung from a bitter, yet reassuring, jealousy. She groped briefly, but in vain, for a biting reply, to give back blow for blow, hurt for hurt and blood for blood. Before she could speak, a tall, green-clad figure had interposed itself between herself and Jason:
'You have just insulted both Her Serene Highness and myself. It is too much. I regret only that I am unable to kill you more than once.'
Chernychev's accent sounded a little thicker, his manner was a little more dramatic, but he was making a visible effort to control his temper. Jason faced him with a faint, contemptuous smile which only added to the Russian's rage:
'It does not occur to you that I might possibly kill you?'
'Never,' Chernychev said simply. 'Death is a woman. She will do as I wish…'
Jason laughed. 'If you rely on a woman, you will be disappointed. Nevertheless, I do not go back on my word. I am at your service, Sir. Although I was not aware it was your habit to listen at keyholes.'
'No!' Marianne stepped quickly between the two men. 'No! Please! I won't let you fight over me!'
Chernychev took the hand which she had laid instinctively on his arm and dropped a swift kiss upon it:
'Permit me to disobey you for once, Madame.'
'And suppose I were to add my entreaties, eh?' Talleyrand had entered the box hard on the Russian's heels and now he continued in his leisurely tones: 'I do not care to have my friends slay one another…'
This time, it was Jason who answered:
'Just so. You know us both too well, Prince, not to have known that this was bound to happen, sooner or later.'
'That may be so, but I should prefer it to be later.' He turned to Marianne as he added: 'Come, Madame, I am sure you cannot wish to remain here. I will escort you to your carriage.'
'Will you wait for me?' the Russian interposed quickly. 'Give me a moment to settle this affair and I will be with you.'
In silence, Marianne allowed him to place the great wrap of dull red velvet which had lain over the back of her chair around her shoulders, then, placing her hand on the Prince of Benevento's arm, she left the box, without a glance for either of the two prospective adversaries. The curtain was just rising on the next act and her exit was therefore accomplished without attracting more than a minimum of attention.
As she made her way slowly down the great staircase, empty except for the footmen standing rigidly between the tall torcheres, Marianne gave way to her misery and anger.
'What have I done?' she cried. 'Why is Jason so angry with me? Why does he despise me so? I thought…'
'One must be very old or exist in a very rarefied atmosphere to be immune from jealousy. Quite between ourselves, wasn't it really what you wanted? If not, what devil prompted you to show yourself here tonight alone with Sasha?'
'You are quite right,' Marianne admitted. 'I did want to make Jason
jealous… He is so changed since this senseless marriage to Pilar…'
'And changed you, also, it seems. Come, Marianne. Stop tormenting yourself. We have to learn to take the consequences of our actions, eh? In any event, Chernychev may be an experienced duellist, but this time I think that he may well find he has met his match.'
Stop tormenting herself! Talleyrand was an optimist! Alone in the cushioned darkness of her carriage, Marianne abandoned herself to her fury. She loathed them all: Chernychev for, in her view, meddling in what did not concern him; Jason for treating her so unkindly when she had longed for a kind word, a look, such very little things; all those people who must have been following every moment of the quarrel with eyes agog at the prospect of a juicy scandal to relate; but most of all she loathed herself for the childish vanity which had caused so much trouble…
'I must have been mad,' she told herself. 'And yet, I did not know then that love could hurt so. And now what if Chernychev should wound Jason or even—' Her mind shied away from the thought. Then it occurred to her that she was even then sitting there like a fool waiting for the Russian when she hated him at that moment with her whole heart, and she leaned forward to give Gracchus the word.
'Home, Gracchus. And hurry!'
As the vehicle began to move, Chernychev emerged from the pillared entrance to the theatre, gained the step with one bound and fell rather than jumped inside.
'You were leaving without me! Why did you do that?'
'Because I did not wish to see you again tonight. Please get out.' She raised her voice: 'Gracchus! Stop!'
Half-kneeling on the floor at her feet, Chernychev looked up at her in surprise:
'You want me to get out? But why? You are angry with me? Yet by challenging the man who dared to insult you I was doing no more than my duty.'
'Your duty did not require you to interfere in a private conversation. I have never needed any assistance in defending myself! But just remember this: if Jason Beaufort is even wounded I shall never forgive you, and I will never see you again as long as I live!'
Marianne and the Privateer Page 8
