Chernychev did not stir but Marianne could see his eyes glittering in the dimness of the carriage, narrow green slits, luminous as cats' eyes in the dark. Slowly, he stood up, and it felt to Marianne as if some huge bird of prey were hanging over her, filling the small, scented satin-lined interior with its presence. But already, the Russian had opened the door and sprung down into the road. He stood for a moment with his white-gloved hands gripping the door frame, looking up at her, half-smiling. His voice, when he spoke, was infinitely gentle:
'You were right to warn me, Marianne. I will not wound Monsieur Beaufort, I promise you that…' He leapt back and, sweeping off his cocked hat, made an elaborate bow. His voice sank to a caressing murmur: 'Tomorrow morning I shall do myself the honour of killing him.'
'If you dare—'
'Oh, I shall dare… since there appears to be no other way of removing him from your thoughts. With him dead, I shall know how to make you love me.'
In spite of the fear and anger that clutched at her heart, Marianne stiffened, flung up her chin and stared very deliberately at Chernychev from the vantage point of the carriage. She succeeded in summoning up an icy smile:
'Do not be too sure. You will have very little time, my dear Count. For if Jason Beaufort dies tomorrow by your hand, believe me, before I make an end of a life which will have ceased to be of any interest to me, I shall make it my business to kill you with my own hands. I should tell you, perhaps, that I am accounted as good a shot as any man… Good night to you. Home, Gracchus!'
The youthful coachman cracked his whip and the equipage moved off at a fast trot. As it turned into the rue St-Honoré, the St Roch clock struck one, but Marianne did not hear it. When they reached the Tuileries bridge she was still trying to calm herself sufficiently to think sensibly of a way to save Jason from the Russian's murderous intent. With the boundless generosity of love, she blamed herself entirely for what had taken place. She even went so far as to blame herself for Jason's unkindness, by reason of the magic word, alarming yet so obscurely comforting, which Talleyrand had uttered: jealousy. If Jason were jealous, so jealous that he could insult her publicly, it might mean that, after all, everything was not quite lost.
'What can I do?' she asked herself desperately. 'How can I prevent this duel?'
The rattle of the carriage wheels over the deserted streets of the sleeping city of Paris filled her ears like a vast, threatening roar. She stared out at the passing houses, shuttered and silent now, filled with honest citizens lying peacefully in their beds for whom the tempests of the heart were probably matters of very little importance.
The carriage had almost reached the rue de Lille when an idea came to Marianne. By now, she was blaming herself further for wounding Chernychev. Like a fool, she had believed her power over him greater than it was. Instead of reasoning with him, making him understand that it would grieve her to see anything happen to a friend, she had allowed him to divine her love for Jason and had inevitably roused the very natural fury of a man who finds that the woman he desires prefers another. She ought, at least, to make another effort in that direction.
She reached out and gave a little pull on the cord whose other end was attached to the coachman's little finger. Gracchus looked back.
'Turn round, Gracchus. We are not going home just yet.'
'Very good, Madame. Where are we going?'
'Chassée d'Antin, the Russian embassy. You know it?'
'Used to be the Hôtel Thélusson? 'Course I know it.' The carriage was turned neatly and headed back towards the Seine, this time at a gallop. The streets were empty and it was possible to maintain this rapid pace, so that it was not many minutes before the enormous triumphal arch, thirty feet high and as many broad, which served as a gateway to the Russian embassy, loomed up ahead. Beyond lay a glimpse of extensive gardens, dotted with statues and pillars, with the house at the far end, lights blazing as though for a party. But the gate was guarded by a pair of Cossacks in long robes and drooping moustaches who were firm in denying her admittance. In vain did Marianne declare her name and titles and explain that she desired to see the ambassador, Prince Kurakin. The guards remained adamant: no pass, no passage. It was not just anyone who could gain admittance to the Russian embassy, at night especially.
' 'Strewth!' Gracchus exclaimed. 'They certainly guard the place well enough! Makes you wonder what's going on inside to make them so suspicious. It's easier to get to see the Emperor… What do we do now, Your Highness?'
'I don't know,' Marianne said miserably. 'I must get in or—Listen, Gracchus. Go and ask them whether Count Chernychev has returned yet. If he has not, we will wait for him. If he has…'
'What then?'
'Oh well, go anyway. We will think of that later.' Obediently, Gracchus clambered down from his box and strolled over to the Cossack on the left, whose face looked rather the less forbidding of the two. There began an animated dialogue in which gestures seemed to play a more important part than words. In spite of her anxious state of mind, Marianne could not help being diverted by the contrast between Gracchus's stocky figure, as broad as it was high in the huge, caped coachman's overcoat, and that of the gigantic Russian, with his huge fur hat and splendid whiskers, bending down towards him. The conversation continued for a minute or two, after which Gracchus came back and informed his mistress that the count had not yet returned.
'Good,' Marianne said. 'Get back on the box. We'll wait for him.'
'Are you sure that's a good idea? Seems to me as you didn't altogether part friends…'
'Since when have you been in the habit of questioning my orders? Draw up the carriage by the gate and wait.'
But before Gracchus could carry out this command there was the sound of a vehicle approaching through the embassy grounds. Marianne promptly told her driver to stay where he was, with the carriage blocking the gateway so that nothing could leave the embassy. With luck, the person coming might even be the ambassador himself…
In fact, it was Talleyrand. Almost at once, Marianne recognized the livery and the great English Arab horses which were the prince's pride. Talleyrand, for his part, had caught sight of Marianne's carriage and given his coachman the word to draw up alongside. His pale head and sapphire-blue eyes appeared at the window.
'I was going to call on you,' he said with a smile, 'but since you are here, I may go home to my bed with the satisfaction of knowing my duty done – and so may you. I don't think there's much more you can do here now, eh?'
'I don't know. I was going to—'
'See the ambassador? Was that it? Or see Chernychev, at any rate? Then I was right and you may go home and sleep with no fear of bad dreams. Count Chernychev leaves for Moscow tonight with… er… urgent despatches.'
'He was to go tomorrow…'
'Well now he goes in an hour. Prince Kurakin was very ready to understand that some messages are too urgent to be delayed – or possibly endangered by the turn of a sword. Our friend Beaufort handles his weapon quite as skilfully as the handsome colonel, so the chances were equal. Now it seems that just at present, the Tsar requires his favourite courier's presence urgently… You need have no fear. Chernychev will do as he is told.'
'And… the duel?'
'Put off for a month of Sundays – or at least until the two gentlemen in question find themselves face-to-face again, which will not be for a very long time, since Beaufort is due to return to America in a week's time.'
Marianne's chilled heart melted in a rush of warmth. So great was her relief that tears started to her eyes. Impulsively, she held out her hand to her old friend, through the open window.
'How can I thank you? You are my good angel.'
But Talleyrand shook his head, his face suddenly grave. 'No, I am afraid not. I fear I must bear a large share of the blame for the troubles which beset you. Today is not the first time I have regretted that I ever introduced you to – to you know who. If it had not been for that ill-conceived idea, you might have been happy today. I ought to have realiz
ed – that night when you met Beaufort in my house. Now, it is too late, and both of you are married.'
'I shall never give him up! I, too, should have realized it sooner, but I will not listen when you tell me it is too late. It is never too late for love.'
'Oh yes, my dear… when you are my age!'
'Not even then!' Marianne cried so passionately that even the cynical statesman was shaken. 'If you really wanted it, you could still love – really love! Who knows, perhaps it might even be the great love of your life.'
The prince did not answer. Hands clasped on the gold knob of his stick, chin resting on his hands, he appeared to be lost in a kind of daydream. Marianne saw that there was a sparkle in the pale eyes, usually so cold, and wondered if perhaps her words had conjured up for him a figure, a face… a love, perhaps, which he had not allowed himself to dream of, believing it impossible. Softly, as if he had spoken, but really in answer to her own thoughts, Marianne said: 'Impossible love is the only kind that I believe in, because it is the only kind that gives a savour to life, the only kind worth fighting for…'
'What do you call an impossible love, Marianne? Your love for Jason – for you do love him, don't you? – is not what one would call impossible. Difficult, merely…'
'I am afraid not. To me, it seems every bit as impossible as if…' she groped for a moment and then went on, very fast: '… as if you, for example, were to fall in love with your niece, Dorothée, and wish to make her your mistress—'
Talleyrand's gaze shifted to meet Marianne's. It seemed to have grown colder and more inscrutable than ever.
'You are quite right,' he said gravely. That is, to be sure, an excellent example of impossible love. Good night, my dear Princess. I do not know if I have ever told you this, but I am very fond of you, you know.'
The two carriages moved apart and Marianne, with a sigh of content, let herself slide back among the cushions, closing her eyes, the better to enjoy her wonderful relief. She felt suddenly terribly sleepy. The relief from nervous tension had left her feeling drained, longing for nothing but the peace of her own room, her own cool sheets. She could sleep so well now that Talleyrand had averted the results of her stupidity and Jason was no longer in danger.
She was still basking in the same sense of gratitude when she reached her own house, and she was even humming a little as she went lightly up the great stone staircase to her room. When she was able to think more clearly, she would find some way of making Jason listen to reason, so that he would understand that he could not insist that they must part for ever. Perhaps when he saw how much she loved him…
The first thing she saw when she opened her door was a pair of shoes, gleaming man's shoes, resting on a low stool covered in sea-green silk.
'Arcadius!' she cried, thinking the owner of the shoes must be her old friend Jolival, come home unexpectedly. 'Oh, but I am so sleepy—'
The words died on her lips as the door swung wide open under her hand, revealing the man who sat, very much at his ease in a deep armchair, waiting for her. And all at once, Marianne knew that there would be no sleep for her yet, for the figure which was already rising nonchalantly to greet her with a deep, profoundly mocking bow, was that of Francis Cranmere.
CHAPTER FOUR
Night – and an Open Window
Marianne's nerves had suffered too much that night for the sight of her first husband to awaken any feeling in her other than one of profound boredom. However dangerous he might be, and whatever her own reasons to fear him still, she had reached a degree of indifference where she was wholly beyond fear. It was therefore without the slightest trace of feeling that she closed the door behind her, and, according her untimely visitor no more than a single chilly glance, walked coolly over to her dressing-table, dropped her wrap on to the velvet stool and began stripping off her long gloves. Nevertheless, her eyes continued to survey his reflection in the tall mirror.
She was conscious of a certain satisfaction as she observed that Francis seemed disappointed. No doubt he had expected a movement of recoil, a cry. This cold silence must be disconcerting for him. Deciding to continue the game, she patted her curls idly into place, then picked up one of the many cut-glass bottles cluttering the table and dabbed scent on her neck and shoulders. Only then, did she ask: 'How did you get in? My servants cannot have seen you, or I should have been told.'
'Why? Servants can be bribed…'
'Not mine. Not one would risk his place for a few coins. So?'
'The window, of course.' Francis settled himself back into the armchair with a sigh. 'Your garden walls are not insurmountable, and, as it happens, I have been your neighbour for some three days past.'
'My neighbour?'
'You did not know you had an English neighbour?'
Yes, Marianne had known that. She was, in fact, on quite good terms with Mrs Atkins who had once provided her cousin Adelaide with a refuge when she was being sought by Fouché's police. She was a former actress from Drury Lane whose stage name had been Charlotte Walpole, and had acquired a reputation and the right of residence in Paris by risking her life and fortune in an attempt to assist in the escape of the royal family from the Temple after the death of Louis XVI. What chiefly astonished Marianne was that a woman so sweet-tempered, ladylike and eminently kind should be on friendly terms with such a man as Francis, and she made no attempt to hide her thoughts. Lord Cranmere laughed:
'I might even say that dear Charlotte has a great affection for me. Do you know, Marianne, you are one of the very few women who do not like me? The majority of your contemporaries find me altogether charming and delightful.'
'Perhaps they have not had the pleasure of being married to you. That is the difference. Now, I should be glad if this conversation could be brief. I am very tired.'
Francis Cranmere placed the tips of his fingers together and studied them attentively:
'To be sure you did not stay long at the theatre. Do you not care for Britannicus?'
'You were there?'
'Most certainly, and, as a connoisseur, I greatly admired your entry with that magnificent creature Chernychev. Really, there could hardly be a more perfectly matched couple – unless, perhaps, it were you and Beaufort. But I gather that things are not going too smoothly in that direction. It seems the two of you are still at daggers drawn? Is it still the old business at Selton? Or don't you care for his Spanish bride?'
The deliberately airy flow of talk was beginning to irritate Marianne. Swinging round suddenly to face Francis, she interrupted brusquely:
'That will do! You did not come here tonight for idle gossip. Say what you want and go! What is it? Money?'
Lord Cranmere looked at her with a broad grin, then he laughed outright:
'I know you are not short of it. It means nothing to you now. For me, I must confess, matters are a little different, but that is not what I came to talk about…' He stopped smiling and, getting to his feet, moved a few steps nearer to Marianne. His beautiful face wore a serious expression unlike anything Marianne had seen there before, for it was unmarred by either pride or menace.
'In fact, Marianne, I have come with an offer of peace, if you are willing to accept it.'
'An offer of peace? You?'
Francis walked slowly over to a small side table on which Agathe had left a small cold collation in case her mistress should happen to feel hungry on her return from the theatre. He helped himself to a glass of champagne, drank about half of it, sighed contentedly and resumed:
'Yes. I think we both stand to gain something. On the occasion of our last meeting I went very badly to work with you. I should have been gentler, more adroit… It did me no good—'
'No indeed! And to be honest with you, I believed you dead!'
'Again!' Francis looked pained. 'My dear, I do wish you would rid yourself of this habit of continually numbering me among the departed. It becomes a trifle depressing after a while. However, if you mean to allude to the bloodhound whom the police put on my tail
, I had better tell you that I lost him without the slightest trouble. But there, even the best hounds may be thrown off the scent when the fox knows what he's about. But where was I? Ah, yes… I was saying how much I have regretted my somewhat unsubtle conduct towards you. It would have been infinitely preferable to have reached an understanding.'
'And what kind of understanding had you in mind?' Marianne asked, simultaneously irked and comforted by this reference to her friend Black Fish and his quest: irked because the agent had evidently allowed his quarry to slip through his fingers and comforted because, if Black Fish had merely lost Francis, then at least it meant that he was alive. When she had first recognized the Englishman, she had seemed to hear in her head the Breton's furious voice declaring: 'I swear I will kill him, or die in the attempt,' and her heart had contracted at the thought of what Francis's living presence must mean. Her fears had been groundless. Well, so much the better. Even the best-laid plans could go astray.
Francis, meanwhile, had calmly drunk the rest of his champagne before turning his attention to the small writing desk which stood between the two windows, open on to the dark garden. From among the papers that littered the table top, he picked up a gold and jade seal which Marianne used to seal her letters, and stood for a moment, contemplating the device engraved upon it.
'A cordial understanding, naturally,' he said at last. 'And also something in the nature of a defensive alliance. You have nothing more to fear from me, Marianne. Our marriage is over. You have a new husband and the name you bear now is among the greatest in Europe. I can only congratulate you. To me, fate has proved less generous. I am obliged to live like a hunted man, hidden in the shadows, and all in the service of a country which pays me very ill for my pains. My life is—'
'The usual life of a spy!' Marianne cut him short. This new, mild and strangely generous Francis made her nervous and deeply suspicious. He gave a little smile that did not reach his eyes.
'You are not easily softened, are you? Well, so be it. The life of a spy. But it is one which enables me to find out many things, hear of many secrets which may, I think, be of some interest to you.'
Marianne and the Privateer Page 9
