Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  The princess and the couturier embarked on an exchange of gossip while Mam'zelle Minette shook out a wrap trimmed with broderie anglaise and narrow lavender blue ribbon and laid it over her armchair. But, though he chattered on, Leroy was by no means idle. He took careful note of Marianne's measurements and in the interval of a particularly scandalous story, called out the figures to one of his assistants who copied them gravely into a note book. When it was done and Marianne was still dazed by his flow of words, he told her sharply to get dressed and then asked:

  'What should I make for mademoiselle?'

  'A complete wardrobe – and you too, Mademoiselle Minette. She has nothing! And I would have something sent round for this evening. There will be a dinner and an evening party.'

  Leroy raised his arms to heaven.

  'This evening? But it is quite impossible!'

  'I thought there was no such word in your vocabulary, Leroy.'

  'No, indeed, in the general way, your highness. But if your highness would care to remember, I am overwhelmed with orders and—'

  'I want a dress this evening.'

  For a moment, it seemed to Marianne that the couturier would burst into tears but then one of the young ladies bent forward and murmured something into his ear. His face cleared.

  'Ah! Perhaps! Mam'zelle Palmyre reminds me that we have one little white dress, simple but utterly charming, that has been ordered by her grace the Duchess of Rovigo but which perhaps—'

  'Have the white dress sent round,' the princess ordered without more ado. 'I hope you would not hesitate between that woman and myself! Now, let us see your new creations. Fanny, take Mademoiselle Marianne to her room.'

  Marianne found herself trotting breathless and astonished behind the maid, having had no time even to thank the eccentric princess who five minutes after engaging her, was ordering her a complete wardrobe from the most fashionable designer in Paris as though it was the most natural thing in the world. She actually wondered if she could be dreaming and very nearly pinched herself to make sure. But, since the dream was on the whole an agreeable one, she decided to make it last as long as possible. It was all very strange! She had come here, full of shame and dark suspicions, almost fearful of finding herself in the midst of some horrid adventure like those recounted by another of her favourite authors, Mrs Radcliffe, and so far the talk had been of nothing but satins and lace!

  She thought suddenly of the report she was to write for Fouché that very night. A beginning full of vain gossip and furbelows. She wished she could see his face when he read Monsieur Leroy's story about the Marquise Visconti's leg corsets! But, in the long run, if she could make him believe that she was good for nothing but retailing useless patter, it would be all for the best. In that way, she would be betraying no one and Fouché might eventually tire.

  Fanny had gone away, closing the door behind her, and Marianne was left in a small, bright room in a corner of the main building to which her few belongings had already preceded her. As she took possession of her new apartment, she surprised herself by humming a tune which she had heard whistled by a boy in the street that morning. She paused, amazed that all at once she should feel so light-hearted. It was the first time she had sung at all since Aunt Ellis's death. In fact, though, this sudden new euphoria was no more than the normal reaction of a healthy young person, a faithful reflection of the situation of finding herself comfortably settled in this elegant household after the terrors she had lived through and the deadful places in which she had found herself. After the furies of the Channel, Morvan's decaying manor house, the rattling of the diligence and the horrors of St Lazare, these dainty furnishings, painted blue and grey in the style made fashionable by the late Directory, and the walls hung with one of the brand new figured designs from M. Oberkampf's establishment at Jouy-en-Josas, were restfulness itself. Marianne resumed her singing with a clear conscience.

  Outside were the cold, the wet and the mud, and outside also the perilous shades of Morvan and Jean Le Dru. But neither would come to seek her beneath the roof of the vice-grand-elector of the Empire and for that Marianne said a mental word of thanks to Joseph Fouché. Now, of the two of them, it remained to be seen who would prove the shrewder. Since he meant to make use of her, it seemed to Marianne quite fair to pay him back in his own coin. He could hardly force her to pick locks or steam open letters and by the time he finally discovered she was no use to him, she would be far away.

  'Quanto é bella giovinezza

  Che sen fugge tuttavia

  Di doman non v'a certazza…'

  The last words died away from Marianne's lips while the solemn person accompanying her on the pianoforte vigorously attacked the final chords. There followed what seemed to her a frightening silence. The music room was vast. The gathering dusk hid its remoter reaches and all the light was concentrated on the instrument, gilded and illuminated like a missil by the lustre of the great silver candelabra which stood upon it. Marianne's audience was invisible to her. She knew that in the room were Madame Talleyrand and Charlotte, her adopted daughter, a child of eleven whose features were as yet unformed but whose smile held no mysteries, as well as Charlotte's tutor, M. Fercoc. But she could not see where they were sitting. The only one she could see clearly was the sober old gentleman in the white wig to whom she had been presented with such ceremony. He was Charlotte's music teacher but he was also a famous musician, and Director of the Conservatoire. His name was M. Gossec. But this was not particularly comforting since it was his verdict which the princess waited to hear.

  The princess had been anxious to lose no time in trying out her new reader's voice and manner of singing. M. Gossec was to come and give Charlotte her lesson. Advantage had been taken of it to let him hear Marianne. So now, here she was, palms moist with an anxiety that she could not help condemning as idiotic, waiting to hear what would fall from those pursed lips.

  The whole thing was utterly ridiculous! She had sung just as she had been used to do at Selton and quite as naturally. Yet, here she was waiting for the verdict as if her life depended on it.

  Gossec, indeed, seemed in no hurry to deliver his opinion. He was sitting, round-shouldered at his instrument in a pool of yellow light, hands resting lightly on his knees. The others must be holding their breath because they could not be heard any more than they could be seen. Perhaps they were afraid to hazard an opinion before the master had given his.

  Marianne's nerves were stretched to such a point that she was ready to forget her place and break the holy silence herself when Gossec swung round suddenly. His broad face with its roman nose, looked up at her.

  'I do not know what to say to you, mademoiselle. Words fail me! I am an old man and I have heard many singers in my time – but never one with such a quality as yours. You have the finest voice that I have ever heard. Such rare beauty! Especially in the lower registers. Already, you sing contralto and you are just how old?'

  'Seventeen,' Marianne murmured dazedly.

  'Seventeen!' He sighed ecstatically. 'And such depth already! Do you know, mademoiselle, that you have a fortune in your throat?'

  'A fortune? You mean that—'

  'That should you decide to sing for the theatre, I can procure you an engagement on any of the greatest stages of Europe! Say the word and you shall become the greatest singer of the age – with a little work, of course, for your voice is not yet used to capacity.'

  The northerner, who was ordinarily so cold and measured in his speech, was clearly transported by love of his art. Marianne was too dumbfounded to believe her ears. She was used to hearing her voice praised but had always assumed that this was common politeness. Now, here was this man telling her that she could become the greatest singer of her time! A deep and almost overwhelming joy surged up in her. If the musician spoke the truth, if he could really procure her engagements in the theatre, this would be her chance to escape from the somewhat degrading position of dependence forced on her by Fouché. She would be able to live her own
life, free and independent. It was not usual, of course, for young women of noble family to tread the boards but she was no longer an aristocrat, merely a fugitive, and what was forbidden for Marianne d'Asselnat was not so for Marianne Mallerousse. In an instant Gossec had ripped apart the misty curtain which had hidden the future from her eyes. She gave him a look brimming with gratitude.

  'I should like to work, if that were possible. And sing too, since you tell me I can.'

  'Tell you you can! My child, you should say rather that it would be a crime not to sing. You owe to the world the pleasures your voice holds and it will make me very happy to be the one who should discover you. I am prepared to make you work every day!'

  Both of them had forgotten everything in the world but their glorious dream. Then, suddenly the dream was broken by the gushing voice of Madame Talleyrand and her purple cashmere dress appeared suddenly in the candlelight beside the instrument. The rings on her fingers glittered as she clapped her hands, all the more enthusiastically from having waited rather a long time to begin.

  'Exquisite,' she exclaimed, 'quite exquisite! I must write to Madame Sainte-Croix to thank her for sending us such a treasure. The dear child shall lack no occasion of being heard here. The prince is devoted to music and we shall have much pleasure in presenting so charming a voice to our guests.'

  'I understand your feelings, madame,' Gossec demurred. 'But this is too great a voice for the confined space of a drawing room or for light, fashionable songs. This is a voice worthy of a cathedral! She can, she must sing opera—'

  'Very well, and so she shall! You shall come every day, my dear friend, and give her as many lessons as you like. Then, she shall sing in our little theatre and in the chapel at Valencay! It will be quite charming, for she is much prettier than that fat Grassini the Emperor was so infatuated with.'

  Gossec was beside himself at the princess's evident incomprehension. Marianne, highly amused, saw him turn gradually brick red with the force of his passion.

  'Your serene highness!' he cried. 'It would be a crime unprecedented—'

  But her serene highness clung firmly to her idea.

  'No, no. You shall see, we will perform wonders! We might present a Spanish entertainment to amuse those poor infantes. They are so dreadfully bored. We'll discuss it later. Now, you must come and let me show you the wonderful flower pieces I have ordered for tonight. You will be enchanted—'

  'Madame!' Gossec protested stiffly. 'I am a musician, not a florist.'

  The princess gave him a bewitching smile and, slipping her arm affectionately into his, bore the old man irresistibly to the door.

  'I know, I know! But you have such taste! Come with me, Charlotte, and you too, M. Fercoc. Put away the music, child, and then you may go up and prepare for this evening. I will arrange the matter of lessons with M. Gossec.'

  The latter part of this short speech was clearly addressed to Marianne, bringing her down abruptly from the heights of music to her position as a mere dependant. It hurt, like a small but irritating scratch. The little girl, Charlotte, emerging from the shadows where she had been sitting quietly, made a move as though she would speak to her but instead, docile and obedient, she followed her mother in silence. The tutor's rather solemn figure wound up the procession. Marianne found herself alone in the big room, feeling a little dazed by all that had just happened. Was this fate's answer to her desperate questioning?

  The servants had drawn the gold damask curtains. For all its great size, the room seemed close and intimate. The great gilded harp slumbering by a window, the richly glowing music stand, the gold of the piano, lay like precious jewels in a casket. The whole house had taken on a magical, unreal atmosphere. Still somewhat bewildered, Marianne began thinking of the man who had commanded and inspired all this. The princess was only a beautiful goose cap, kind and generous but empty headed. She liked splendour and pretty clothes but she was hardly capable of appreciating the grace of that translucent alabaster figure, the youthful form draped modestly by the sculptor's art in what seemed diaphanous draperies, or of displaying it to such perfection against just that background of dark velvet. Everywhere, the decorations had a kind of sober magnificence, revealing the presence of one guiding hand which Marianne was conscious of a sudden wish to know. Perhaps the owner of that hand would also like her voice and help her to put it to its proper use.

  Drawing out this moment of quiet and solitude, Marianne did not hurry to gather up the music. Instead, she went slowly over to the piano and stroked its polished wood, softer than satin. At Selton Hall she had had her own pianoforte, not as beautiful as this one, but she had loved it and had much pleasure from it. An unexpected pain smote her heart suddenly. She saw herself again sitting at that piano, singing to Francis an Irish ballad which had been his favourite. She had learned it especially for him. How did it go?

  Slipping on to the stool, Marianne let her fingers roam over the keys, seeking out the notes which her memory at first refused to give up. The ache in her heart became more than she could bear. She had loved Francis then, and had longed with her whole being to win his love. Memory claimed her. She closed her eyes and instantly Francis' face appeared on the screen of her closed lids with such terrifying clarity that Marianne found herself trembling. She had tried so hard to wipe out Francis from her memory as she had wiped him from her heart. She had hoped that his very features would have become strange to her. But no, she remembered too well even now not to be conscious of the pain.

  She saw again the grey eyes with their eternal weariness, the handsome, disdainful mouth that could yet smile with such bewitching charm, the thick fair hair and perfect features – the picture was so clear that Marianne opened her eyes to make it go away but they were misted with tears and she seemed to see him still in the shimmering candlelight, she even thought she heard him laugh as though, having sent him to his death, he still returned defying her to drive him from her mind. Yet Marianne felt no remorse for having killed him. She would do it again if she had to because she could not bear the shame he had brought on her, but she had loved him as a child loves and her heart would not forget.

  'You must not cry.' A cool, drawling voice spoke suddenly. 'No one here will hurt you.'

  It came to Marianne then that the face she had half glimpsed in the light and taken for the ghost of Francis was quite real. She brushed the tears quickly from her eyes and was able to see him more clearly. He was a man with light-coloured hair which he wore rather long, making a frame for his face. He was very tall with a strong chin and a scornful curl to his lip which gave him a somewhat proud and insolent appearance. High cheek-bones, an impudent retrousse nose and strongly sensual mouth added to the enigmatic character of his face. His skin was very pale and so were the hard, sapphire eyes, seemingly half asleep beneath heavy lids. He was dressed in black which threw up the whiteness of his high cravat and had about him an extraordinary air of quiet power.

  Marianne sprang to her feet so quickly that she almost knocked over the candelabra. The man came forward, leaning on the gold-knobbed cane he held. Marianne saw that he walked with a limp and knew, at last, who was before her.

  'My lord!' she stammered and then stopped, unable to think of anything to add to this ceremonious beginning.

  'You know me then? That is more than I can say of you, eh, mademoiselle?'

  He spoke in a slow, deep voice essentially undramatic. It was a voice that seemed to remain always on one level and that, more than anything else, conveyed the perfect measure of its owner's self control.

  'Marianne, my lord, Marianne Mallerousse.'

  'Marianne? A pretty name, and one that suits you But with your face – and your voice, one is not called Mallerousse, eh?'

  Talleyrand had a habit of punctuating his remarks with this interjection It was not so much a question as a little trick acquired in the course of his long career as a diplomat, and one which had the advantage of provoking in his unsuspecting listener a disposition to agree with his pre
vious remark.

  'My voice?' Marianne said in a low voice, feeling her heart beating fast.

  A wave of the gold-knobbed cane towards a pillar at the shadowy end of the room.

  'I have been standing there for some time, listening. As I was passing, just now, I heard you singing but was careful not to show myself. I like to be alone to indulge my admiration.'

  He had come very close now and stood a head taller than she, bending on her the hypnotic glance whose power had been felt by so many women. Marianne sank respectfully into a deep curtsey, deliberately pointing the distance that lay between the prince and herself.

  'Your serene highness is too kind.'

  Her confidence was slowly returning. Far from being overawed by Talleyrand's presence and by the danger which lay in wait for her each moment, Marianne was aware of a sensation of release and a relaxation of tension in finding herself at last face to face with him. He was very much the grand seigneur, a true nobleman. With all due allowances, he belonged to her own class and her own kind, in whose veins ran the best blood of France and England. All the rest, his wife included, were mere puppets dressed in the trappings of nobility, but he was different. Behind that mild hauteur and simple elegance lay centuries of history. What was Fouché next to him? A backstairs spy seeking to drag her down to the same level as himself. And now, this man too had been struck by her voice, although expressing his delight with less outward enthusiasm than Gossec.

  He did not bow but gave her his hand to rise before asking softly: