Hassani's stern gaze became imperative. Marianne opened her mouth and was wholly astonished to hear her own voice come out, sounding as warm and relaxed as though the terrible fright had not gripped her throat at all.
'Oh joy comes ever slowly,
But fleeteth fast away,
While youth is sad and lonely,
And lives but for a day—'
As she sang, Marianne was aware of a quick step in the tiled hall, a step which stopped short in the doorway of the room. After that, she heard nothing more but she had a piercing sense of someone there, watching her – the strange thing was that, far from making her uncomfortable, his presence seemed to her to release her from some unconscious anxiety, that it was friendly and reassuring. Her fright had flown away as though by magic and Marianne's voice soared forth with a warmth and fullness such as she had never known. Once again, music had come to her rescue. Its power over her was never failing, always fresh and constantly renewed. She let it carry her away, fearless and unresisting, knowing that the love between her and her music was real. There could be no betrayal here. The final words of the song fell like a sigh from the young lips:
'… false flattering hopes are lost
And love alone remains…'
It ended and silence fell. Hassani, eyes lowered, let his hands slip down on to his knees and Marianne felt the spirit go out of her. Feeling suddenly horribly nervous, she dared not turn her head to the fire where she knew someone was standing. A voice spoke brusquely:
'Excellent. Sing again, mademoiselle. Do you know "Plaisir d'Amour"?'
She looked at him at last. She saw a man of slightly less than average height, and rather fat without being in any way gross or heavy. He was leaning on the mantlepiece, dressed in a black coat, black stock and white kerseymere pantaloons covered, she saw to her astonishment, with black marks that were undoubtedly ink stains. She could even see where he had wiped his pen on them. They ended in knee boots armed with small silver spurs. M. Denis's hands and feet were small and neat but it was his face which held Marianne's attention. She had never seen one like it. In colour, a very pale ivory, it had the classic beauty of a roman mask. His black hair, worn short and straight, fell over his forehead, emphasizing the dark blue, rather deep-set eyes. Those eyes were not easy to meet but their expression was unforgettable. In his hand, M. Denis held a gold and tortoiseshell snuff box whose principal use seemed to be to distribute snuff liberally over his person and everything around him.
'Well?' he said.
Marianne reddened, conscious that she had been staring at him in a way that was scarcely polite and turned her eyes away hastily.
'I do know it, indeed.'
She began to sing the well known tune with a degree of feeling that was beyond her control. Something was happening in the inmost depths of her being, something she did not understand but which made her identify with the music with a passionate intensity of which she would never have believed herself capable. But now, as she sang, she was not afraid to look at M. Denis. She had never felt drawn to any man as she did to him and, unable to hide the feelings which her mobile face betrayed with absolute honesty, she kept her green eyes firmly fixed on the stranger's blue ones so that the words of love in the song seemed to be meant for him alone.
'As long as these slow waters glide
Downstream by the meadow's side,
I will love you…'
But as the plaintive words of the lament fell from her lips, she saw M. Denis slowly abandon his indolent posture, put away the snuff box with an impatient air and gradually draw nearer. His eyes, too, never left her face. He was looking at her intently, looking at her as no man before had ever dared to look at her. And it seemed to her that if that look were suddenly removed, in that instant she would cease to live. Her eyes filled with tears. She could feel her heart beating under the frosted satin of her dress, so strongly that it seemed it must burst. She was happy, troubled and frightened all at once, but she knew that she could go on singing all night long only for the pleasure of having him look at her like that.
When the last note died away, Marianne and M. Denis stood face to face. Still without taking his eyes off her, he snapped his fingers sharply.
'Go, Duroc. And you too, Hassani.'
The friend and the pianist vanished instantly but Marianne had no thought of protest. It was quite natural, in the order of things. In a few minutes this stranger with the ridiculous name had become for her more important than anything in the world and Marianne tried in vain to find a name for the feeling, urgent and primitive, which overwhelmed her. It was as though she had never lived for anything but this moment. Now, she did not even want to know who this man was, whether he was really called Denis, or whether he was some noble, perhaps dangerous person. No, he was there, and all was well.
She stood with her back against the harpsichord, gripping it with cold hands, her bosom rising and falling as she watched him come closer, and closer still. He smiled at her and she felt her heart melt before the charm of that smile.
'When I was a child,' he said confidingly, 'I often wondered what it was Ulysses heard, tied to the mast of his ship, while his companions' ears were stopped with wax. He begged them to untie him so that he might throw himself in the water and swim to the sirens' voices. I know now what he felt.'
The sirens. Jason Beaufort too had likened her to the sirens – what was it he had said? Marianne could not remember exactly. Besides, was there still a Jason Beaufort somewhere? Had he ever existed? Had she herself ever lived before this minute or had she just been born?
In spite of his french name, the strange Monsieur Denis must be a foreigner. He had a slight accent which made her think of Italy. For an instant the thought that he was a foreign conspirator revived but Marianne dismissed it as of no importance. He could be what he liked. She knew already that he had become the most important thing in her life. The great emptiness which had brought her to the brink of accepting the future held out to her by Jason Beaufort was there no more.
Very gently, M. Denis took Marianne's hands and held them in his own, which were warm and firm. He was shocked to find how cold they were.
'You're frozen! Come close to the fire—'
He made her sit on the sofa, then placed himself beside her and drew the table towards them.
'You will eat something?'
'No – please, truly.'
'Don't tell me you aren't hungry. At your age one is always hungry. I used to eat – here, a little of this quail pate, a thimbleful of Chambertin – Chambertin is the king of wines. I never drink anything else. No? This is absurd! You must prefer champagne. Now, a little champagne?'
'I – that is – I have never drunk it,' Marianne said anxiously, watching him fill a crystal glass with sparkling golden wine.
'Then now if ever is the time to begin!' M. Denis told her gaily. 'You will like it. There is not a woman in the world who does not like champagne! It puts a sparkle in the eyes – although,' he added leaning a little closer, 'it is true that yours need no such artifice. I have seen many emeralds not so bright.'
He poured the wine for her as he spoke with the dexterity and attentiveness of a lover. A little nervously, Marianne set her lips to the glass, then she smiled. The wine was cold, sparkling and fragrant – altogether marvellous! Her host was watching her out of the corner of his eye and smiling.
'Well?'
'It is wonderful! May I have a little more?'
'Indeed you may!'
He laughed and refilled her glass. Then he began to eat hungrily and Marianne found herself following his example. All at once the room had become a very warm, cosy place. No sound came from outside. All was muffled by the snow. The two of them might have been alone together in an enchanted palace, or in a warm, hollow shell lost in some immense, petrified forest. Marianne had never felt so happy and contented. She drained her glass and smiled at M. Denis. How nice and gay he was! It crossed her mind that he was in fact rather too ga
y for a widower, but then perhaps he might not have loved his wife as much as people thought. Or maybe the music had done him good, or – oh, after all, it did not really matter. The champagne inclined Marianne to optimism. Fatigue and nervousness were all forgotten. Her head was full of wild ideas. She wanted to laugh, without knowing why, to sing – even to dance!
'A little more champagne?' M. Denis asked. He had been watching her with a half smile.
'Yes please! I – I should never have believed it could be so good!'
He let her drink half of it then gently took the glass away and moved closer to her.
'That's enough for the present. Tell me your name.'
The sudden intimacy in his voice seemed perfectly natural to Marianne. In a short time, they had become such good friends.
'Marianne. My name is Marianne Ma—'
'No. I want only your first name. The rest I shall learn later if I wish. But a dream should have one name and it is long since I addressed anything so pretty – you are beautiful, Marianne. Your voice enthralled me, but I am enchanted by your beauty.'
'Really?' she said happily. 'Do you really like me? In that case, you must tell me your name. Monsieur Denis is frightful.'
'I know. Call me Charles! You like Charles?'
'I don't care! I shall like it because it is yours!'
He had taken her hand and began kissing it softly, moving upwards gradually to the wrist, and then the arm and then the shoulder putting aside the short, pink sleeve to reach its curve. The caress sent a wave of surprising happiness through Marianne. She gave a long shivering sigh and closed her eyes. Not for anything in the world would she have pushed him away, perhaps because she had known half unconsciously, from their first glance, that such a moment would come. The champagne had put just enough warmth into her blood to deaden the repugnance she had felt for men ever since that first unhappy encounter with Jean Le Dru. Besides, Charles was not really a man, he was a dream – a dream from which she had no desire to awake. She did not even wish to speak, only to listen to the awakening of her own body to feelings which made her long for more than kisses.
When he slid his arm beneath her waist and laid her back gently on the cushions of the small sofa, she sighed deeply and opened her eyes to see Charles's face very close to hers but closed them again quickly as their lips touched. He kissed her gently, his lips only just brushing hers in the faintest of caresses, kindling the fire in her blood with exquisite slowness. Her heart was beating as though it would burst her breast and she lay panting in Charles's arms, avid for yet more kisses and caresses.
His mouth against hers, he whispered:
'You want me? Say – truly?'
Her eyelids flickered, yes, and she slid her arms round his neck to draw him closer.
'There is too much light—' she whispered.
'Come.'
His arm went round her, holding close and drawing her to her feet to lead her across the room to where a small door was almost concealed in the panelling. The room beyond was small and blue and smelled of jasmine but though the bed was turned down, its whiteness was scarcely discernible in the light of the fire crackling in the grate which was the only illumination in the small chamber clearly made for love.
Marianne flinched instinctively at the sight of the bed but Charles stopped her mouth with such a burning kiss that she almost fainted in his arms. Leading her gently to the fire, he sat on a low chair and took her on his knees like a child. He unfastened the beautiful pink dress, murmuring to her all the while in Italian, charming, tender words of love and covering with kisses first her neck and shoulders and then, as his caressing hands softly put aside the lace shift, her breasts. There was such gentleness in his touch and in his words that Marianne very soon forgot all modesty or shame in the sheer pleasure of hearing his voice telling her she was beautiful.
At last, he carried her, naked and trembling, to the bed and laid her tenderly between the scented sheets where, in a moment or two, he came to join her. When, two hours later, she fell asleep in Charles's arms, relaxed and happy, Marianne thought with a contented sigh how little comparison there was between what had just happened to her and her unpleasant experience in the barn at Kerivoas. It was more than simply that she loved Charles while Jean Le Dru had meant almost nothing to her apart from her need of him. This man, to whom she had given herself so spontaneously, had really become her lover in every sense of the word. It was tonight that she had really ceased to be a girl. Charles's love and not the sailor's clumsy haste had made her blossom into a woman. She knew now what it meant to belong to someone. Nothing and no one could ever divide her now from the man who had given her true knowledge of love and of herself.
'I love you, Charles,' she had murmured sleepily into his neck as her eyelids dropped shut. 'I belong to you for always. Wherever you go, whatever may happen to you, I will follow, I will love you—'
He raised himself on his elbow and made her look at him.
'One should not say such things, carissima mia – we never know what may be hidden behind the closed door to the future. I could die tomorrow.'
'Then I should die also – and we should still be together. You cannot know how much you have given me tonight – there's no help for it now. I belong to you – and you alone, kiss me, Charles, kiss me hard—'
Then he had caught her to him once more, so violently that she half cried out, and had made love to her again.
'It is you who have given all and you who gives thanks – mio dolce amore,' he murmured afterwards. 'You are right. Nothing and no one can undo this night. Sleep now, it is late.'
She settled obediently into the crook of his arm and closed her eyes. It was all right, everything was simple now. She loved him. He loved her. Who could prevent them being together always? He was a widower and, for the first time since that night at Selton Hall, Marianne remembered that she too was widowed.
Whether that blissful sleep was long or short, Marianne never knew but it seemed only a moment later when she woke suddenly. Charles was already sitting up in bed and in the dim light she could see Duroc murmuring something in his ear.
'What is it?' she asked sleepily. 'Is it already so late?'
'No. Be quiet. It is only three o'clock but I must go. Have the horses put to, Duroc. I'm coming.'
He was already leaping out of bed. Marianne clung to him with the feeling that her heart was being torn out.
'Why are you leaving me? Why must you go so soon? What is happening?'
Gently, patiently, he took her in his arms and kissed her eyes.
'Nothing is the matter. But I have a busy life, my heart, and not an easy one. Urgent business summons me to Paris and you must let me go.'
But still she did not let him go. This sudden departure in the middle of the night terrified her. It seemed to her she understood the reason all too well.
'Charles, I beg you – tell me the truth! You are a conspirator, aren't you?'
He stared at her in astonishment and then began to laugh, gently unfastening the arms linked round his neck.
'Since you have guessed, it is hopeless to deny it – it's true, I do conspire. But there is nothing you can do about it, so now, be a good girl—'
Kneeling among the ravaged bedclothes with the silky mass of her hair tumbled about her, she watched him with a feeling of desperation as he dressed quickly. She had not been wrong. Charles led a dangerous, fugitive life, and she could only accept it. Their love might not be easy in this land ruled by a tyrant but she would wait for him and if he had to flee, then she would fly with him.
'Promise me,' she said in a soft, loving voice, 'that if you are in danger, you will tell me. I will come to you in hell, if need be.'
He was tying his neckcloth in front of the tall cheval glass which stood in one corner but he turned and gave her a penetrating glance. Kneeling like that on the crumpled silken sheets, her skin gleaming like soft gold in the rich night of her hair, she was as bewitchingly beautiful as any pagan stat
uette.
'I promise,' he said gravely. Then, with sudden harshness: 'Get back into bed.'
Instead of obeying him, she stretched sensuously, like a cat.
'Why? It's too hot—'
The drowsy fire had begun to burn up brightly once more. In an instant, Charles was on Marianne.
'Because I have to go – and because you tempt me still, she-devil! Quick! Into bed with you!'
Half angry, half in fun, he began bundling her up in the sheets, wrapping her firmly in the blue covers until only her face peeped out, deaf to her cries of protest. Then, laughing, he kissed her.
'There! Now, be good. You can go home whenever you like. A carriage will be waiting.'
'But, when shall I see you again—'
'Soon, I promise you.'
'You don't even know—'
'What? Who you are? Or where you live? It does not matter. Duroc found you. He will find you again. Goodbye mio dolce amore. Don't catch cold, because of your voice – I love you.'
He got up and went quickly to the door and opened it. Marianne called after him.
'Charles!'
'Yes?'
'Take care of yourself, please—'
He only smiled at her, blew her a kiss and then he was gone. And not until then did it occur to Marianne that she did not know the first thing about him.
She waited, listening for the sound of carriage wheels, then after they had disappeared into the night, she sighed deeply. Now, she was truly alone.
She fought her way out of the cocoon of sheets into which he had bundled her and got up. She was no longer sleepy and felt no desire to remain longer in the house which, now that Charles had gone, seemed unfamiliar, almost hostile. The pink dress lay like a crumpled dawn cloud on the carpet. Marianne picked it up and hugged it to her with a surge of gratitude. She could never forget now, that it was in this dress he had loved her.
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