Suddenly, the splendid room, the fashionable throng, even the music seemed to melt away and Marianne was as cold as if she had been miraculously transported out of doors into the snow that was beginning to fall. Tears pricked at her eyes. It was no good. She had thought in vain to escape from that dreadful night which had destroyed her life but, mercilessly, inexorably, the night had overtaken her again. The brief, cherished dream of devoting her whole life to singing, of living for herself and doing with her life exactly what she liked, was melting away just when it was almost within her grasp. She had such high hopes of this evening and now, once again, it was a man who would bring it all to ruin. What should she do, she wondered. Throw herself at Talleyrand's feet and tell him her story, her whole story, then beg him to protect her and help her stay in France? Remembering the effect her story had produced on the old duc d' Avaray, Marianne had no great wish to repeat the experience. She could never find a man to believe her because the truth of her story was an affront to their image of themselves.
She cast a fearful glance around, looking for Beaufort's tall figure but did not see him. She did hear Talleyrand's slow drawl, however, not far away in a group which had formed round the university Grand Master, M. de Fontanes, who was once more holding forth upon his favourite subject, M. de Chateaubriand and all his works, and, in particular, his most recent publication, Les Martyrs. The book had met with considerable public success and, at the same time some violent opposition. Attracted by his gentle, academic tones, Marianne drew nearer with some idea of exchanging a quiet word with Talleyrand, who was standing quite close to the speaker watching him with a faint, mocking smile. The prince was accused of being an amoral cynic, with a strong disregard of convention. Perhaps he would be less shocked than she had imagined by the idea that she had killed a man.
'I maintain that Les Martyrs is a fine book and I cannot understand, my dear prince,' Fontanes was saying, 'why you should pour scorn on one of the most remarkable works of our time.'
'My dear Fontanes, M. de Chateaubriand bores me,' Talleyrand drawled. 'The hermit of the Valley of the Wolves seems very much inclined to regard himself as God, or possibly Moses. One would think him the only man capable of telling the world what a martyr was.'
'That is a little hard. I confess to being much moved myself by the beauty and imagery of sentiments. I am particularly fond of the excellent scene where Eudora and Cymodoceus are to be devoured by the wild beasts.'
'So is the book,' Talleyrand said dryly. 'But now, forget your idol for a while, my friend, and come and listen to a little music. Myself, I think it soothes the savage beasts infinitely better than M. Chateaubriand, eh?'
At once a general drift began towards the music room and Marianne was obliged to give up her hope of speaking to the prince. She had no choice but to follow the rest, since she was to sing, but she had the unpleasant conviction that she would not be able to produce a single note. She was bound for irrevocable disaster. But then, since all was in any case lost, perhaps there was no need to add to her troubles with a public execution, and cover herself with ignominy before all these people? Standing by the big double doors, she allowed the crowd to flow past her and then turned away. She would go up to her room first and fetch a cloak, then get someone to call her a cab and order it to take her to the rue de la Grange Bateliére. She would wait there for Dorothée de Périgord, who seemed the one person able to protect her.
But the movement was never finished. The tall figure of the American rose suddenly before her, barring her way to the door.
'And where are you off to?' he said, taking her arm. 'The music room is this way. And it seems you are to sing for us?'
The tone was as natural as if they had met the day before but its very ordinariness struck terror into Marianne, who thought she read into it the most dire threats. She sought to release her arm and tried to bluff her way out.
'I beg you will release me, sir. I do not know you—'
He laughed, showing a glimpse of dazzling white teeth, but his grip on his prey did not slacken.
'My dear Mademoiselle Mallerousse – is it? – where did you learn such falsehoods? And, by the way, where did you pick up that name? It is really quite appalling.'
'Appalling or no, it suits me and I beg you again to release me. We have nothing to say to one another—'
'You think not? It seems to me we have a great deal to say to one another. And so, my dear Marianne I shall not let you go. And while I think of it, if you did not wish to be recognized, there were one or two little things you should have changed, your eyes, your hair, your face, your figure – as I said, I will not let you go except to the pianoforte which awaits you and not even then unless you will give me your solemn promise of a few minutes private conversation.'
'See you alone? Here? But where? That is quite impossible.'
'You have a room—'
'The princess's apartments are close by. My reputation—'
'Ah, yes, to be sure, you cherish it do you not?' Beaufort said with irony. He gave her a wolfish grin. 'Then think of somewhere else. But think fast. People will start to wonder why I'm holding on to you as though I'd caught you picking my pocket.'
Marianne cast desperate eyes at the window. Never had she felt so helpless. The man was a devil! Suddenly, she remembered the little summer-house at the end of the garden. It was known as M. de Matignon's Petit Trianon and was hardly ever used.
'After supper, when the gaming tables are set up,' she murmured quickly. 'Meet me at the bottom of the garden.'
'In this weather? You know its snowing?'
'I thought you were a sailor,' Marianne retorted scornfully. 'Are you afraid of snow?'
'Not for myself, only for your pretty feet, my dear,' he answered with a slight bow. 'But if you are prepared to brave the elements—'
'Unless you prefer cards,' Marianne sneered. 'You are a whist player of some skill, I believe.'
She found it gave her courage to be rude to him, although the worst of her terror had already left her. She was beginning to think that all might not be lost. The fact that he should wish to see her alone suggested that he had something more to say. Now, everything would depend upon the price of his silence and what that price might be, Marianne preferred not to think.
But Jason Beaufort had no mind to let her off so lightly. Releasing his grip on her arm, he nicked the ruffles at his throat with a faintly old-world gesture.
'There's a time for everything,' he observed coolly. 'Very well then, we shall meet again after supper, try not to fail. You don't know how much I can enjoy starting off a really good scandal.'
Marianne flushed angrily. He was mocking her. A hateful little spark of mischief danced in his blue eyes.
'Never fear,' she said shortly. 'I'll be there.'
He bowed with a graceful ease surprising in a man of his virile appearance.
'I live for that moment. Your servant, mademoiselle, and, believe me, an admirer determined to applaud you to the echo.' As he straightened up, he added in an undertone: 'You need not look so, pretty child. One would swear you had met with an ogre. I do not eat little girls, I promise you, or not in the way you seem to think.'
He turned on his heel and vanished into the crowd. Marianne brushed her forehead with a trembling hand. It was damp with sweat and she drew out her handkerchief and endeavoured to mop it furtively. It was a relief to know herself safe for the present, but it had been a close thing.
'Come, what are you about?' Talleyrand's voice spoke reproachfully at her elbow. 'Dussek is already at the piano and will begin to play in a moment. It will be your turn next. Let me take you to a seat by Madame de Périgord. She is asking for you.'
He had taken her hand with his cold, aristocratic courtesy to lead her through the rows of chairs where most of the guests were already seated. As they went, he observed suddenly:
'This is, indeed, a small world. And you will agree, I think. Did you expect to meet an old friend here tonight, eh?'
'That he was well acquainted with your family in England, thus confirming my own thoughts as to your origin. He seems to be a great admirer of yours.'
Hypocrite, Marianne thought furiously. The miserable hypocrite! He is not above singing my praises if it will help him to learn more. But aloud she asked: 'May I ask your Highness where you met Jason Beaufort?'
Talleyrand laughed. 'Oh, a long time ago. When I was in America, I was on terms with his father, a perfect gentleman and a man of some substance. At that time, young Jason was only an imp of mischief dreaming of nothing but ships and the sea. He spent his time making boats out of anything that came to hand, even the washing baskets! But their house at Old Creek Town was a place of great beauty.'
'Was?'
'It burned down, shortly after Robert Beaufort's death, which was as peculiar in its way as the fire. Ruin followed and the culprit, if culprit there was, was never discovered. Yes – an odd story. But then, surely you must know it as well as I, eh?'
Marianne lowered her eyes to hide her confusion.
'I was too young to know much of what was said in the drawing room at home. And M. Beaufort was not such a frequent visitor. I, at least, saw very little of him.'
'I'm sorry for your sake. He is a remarkable young man and I am very fond of him. He has worked hard to restore his shattered fortunes and he will succeed. He is one of those who build empires in the teeth of wind and tide. Did you know that a few months ago his vessel went to the bottom with a full load of cotton, everything he possessed in this world and the company's cargo he was carrying? Well, by some magic he has managed to acquire another ship and is at present seeking a cargo for the voyage back to Charleston. Admirable, is it not?'
They had by now reached the front row of the audience and, Marianne thought, not before time or she would have thrown prudence to the wind and said exactly what she thought. She was only too well aware of what magic this 'admirable' young man had employed to repair his shattered fortune. A game of cards and the hopeless passion of a gamester. But as she took her place, still quivering with suppressed anger, on a low stool beside the young countess's chair, she decided to put off any further examination of Jason Beaufort's actions until later, much later, by which time she would know what it was he wanted of her. For the present, the Czech pianist's long pale hands were already moving over the keyboard. It was time to be silent. The stillness spread to her heart and mind for, to Marianne, the soothing power of music never failed. She had to abandon herself totally to it in order to win through to that state of grace which must be hers in a moment. She closed her eyes. The artist began to play.
Two hours later, with a black cloak flung over her thin dress and pattens on her feet, Marianne left the house by means of a french window and, crossing the terrace, set off across the empty garden. It had stopped snowing but a thick blanket of white lay over everything, stretching like a huge carpet over the grass to the distant line of trees, turning shrubs and statues into strange white ghosts that loomed up out of the darkness. Marianne did not know whether to be afraid of the dark or of the elements. She set out boldly across the white expanse, hurrying to leave the patches of light thrown from the tall windows of the house. The temperature had risen with the snow. The cold was not so fierce. It was not long before Marianne reached the far end of the grounds and, turning to her left, approached the little octagonal summer-house. A little light filtered from behind the drawn curtains. Jason Beaufort was waiting for her.
He was seated in the circular parlour, warming his hands at the fire which was always kept laid and which he must have set light to on arrival. Marianne was struck by his stern profile outlined against the golden glow of the flames. For the first time, she saw a kind of beauty in it but as quickly dismissed the thought. It was out of keeping with the interview about to take place.
She went forward, closing the glass door behind her. Her pattens clattered on the tiled floor of black, white and grey marble but Jason did not turn his head. Without looking at her, he pointed to a chair on the other side of the hearth.
She threw back the hood of her cloak on to her shoulders and obeyed him mechanically. The light fell on her small, proud head with its crown of shining curls but still he did not look at her. Instead, he stared intently into the glowing heart of the fire and began to hum the air which Marianne had sung a little while before. He sang tunefully, in a deep pleasant voice but Marianne had not come just to hear him sing.
'Well?' she said impatiently.
'Are you in such a hurry? Tell me, what is the name of this song? I like it.'
'It is an old song, called 'Plaisir d'Amour'. It is a setting by Martini of a poem of Florian. Does that satisfy you?' Marianne said snappishly.
Jason turned for the first time and looked at her. His eyes were as calm as the sea on a fair day. He shrugged.
'Don't be so agressive,' he told her quietly. 'We came here to talk, not to argue. I've lost all desire to quarrel with you – supposing I ever had any.'
Marianne laughed shortly. 'A miracle!' she said. 'To what do we owe it?'
He stirred impatiently. 'Don't nag. It makes you sound hideous, like a shrew! Can't you see you're breaking the spell?'
'The spell?'
'Yes,' he said bitterly, 'the spell you put on me just now, when I heard you sing. For a moment, hearing your voice, I was in paradise. So warm, and pure! For me, it was—' he fell into a momentary dream, his eyes fixed on some distance a long way beyond the dainty rustic artificialities of the woodwork.
Marianne looked at him in surprise, holding her breath and flattered, in spite of her dislike, by his obvious sincerity. But, coming abruptly back to earth, Jason only said harshly:
'No – nothing. I beg your pardon. You could not understand.'
'Am I so stupid?' she said, disappointed, but with a gentleness that surprised herself.
The American smiled suddenly, his strange, crooked smile. His deep blue eyes danced.
'Still more curious than agressive, mm? You are still very much a woman, Marianne. But, after all, I wonder whether you'd be very flattered if I told you your voice reminded me of another that I loved to hear as a child.'
'Why not?'
'Because it belonged to my nurse, Deborah – a magnificent black slave from Angola—'
Seeing Marianne spring indignantly to her feet, her cheeks on fire and her eyes flashing, he laughed and went on: 'Just as I thought. You are not flattered. But you are wrong, Deborah's voice was wonderful, like dark velvet – oh, the devil's in it! Didn't they teach you as a child that curiosity killed the cat?'
'That is enough!' Marianne cried, shaking with anger. 'Have the goodness to tell me, once and for all, the reason for this interview and let us make an end. What have you to tell me?'
He too had risen and came towards her.
'A question first, if I may. Why did you run away from England?'
'Are you unaware of what took place at Selton Hall on my wedding night?'
'No – but—'
'Then, how dare you ask me why I fled,' Marianne cried passionately, 'when you must know quite well that on that night I killed my husband and his cousin and set fire to the house! You know it so well in fact that you gave chase with the firm intention of delivering me up to the law.'
'I? Gave chase? I meant to deliver you up to the law?' Beaufort echoed with such evident bewilderment that Marianne began to feel a trifle foolish. However, she did let this deter her.
'Yes, you! I heard you talking, one night on the quay at Plymouth! You were with a little man in black and you said that at all events I could not get far and that the gallows awaited me!'
'What? Were you there? The devil, Marianne, have you some magic potion to make you invisible?'
'It does not matter. Did you say it or not?'
Jason was laughing now with real amusem
ent. 'I certainly did! But just as certainly it does you no good to listen at keyholes, even when there aren't any. You little fool, I wasn't talking about you! That night I still knew nothing of your exploits!'
'Then who?'
'A wretched creature called Nell Woodbury, a trull from the back streets of London who killed my best topman and robbed him – one of the only two saved from the wreck of the Savannah Belle. It was she I was after. She had been traced to Plymouth where she was trying to get on board a vessel bound for the West Indies. And I found her.'
'And she—'
'Hanged,' Beaufort said shortly. 'She deserved nothing better. I would have killed her with my bare hands had she been let off. But enough of that. You have reminded me of something I should prefer to forget. And we were talking about you. What do you mean to do now?'
'Now?'
'Yes, now,' he said impatiently. 'Do you intend to remain here in this house? Dancing attendance on a feather-brained beauty – until, that is, my most serene friend should happen to notice that you are ravishing?'
Always the same assumption! Marianne's ill humour came flooding back. Could no one think of her in any light but that of Talleyrand's prospective mistress?
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