Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  His voice shook with anger and the harsh Corsican accent became more striking. He was striding furiously up and down the music room as he launched this flood of bitter insults at Marianne's head. Josephine uttered an alarmed protest.

  'Bonaparte! Don't forget she may have saved your life!'

  The frenzied pacing stopped short and Marianne was crushed beneath a glance so heavy with contempt she felt the tears come into her eyes.

  'That is so! I will see to it that you are rewarded, mademoiselle, according to your deserts! His Grace the Duke of Otranto will arrange for a proper sum—'

  'No! No – not that!'

  This was more than Marianne could bear. It had been cruel enough to be compelled to give up her dream of love and make up her mind to go away from him forever. No one could ask her to endure his contempt as well, to let him treat her like some low servant, a common spy! She was willing to go but not to let him spoil the wonderful memory of their night of love. That, at least, she meant to keep intact to feed her dreams on for the rest of her life. In her indignation, she had sprung to her feet and now stood facing Napoleon, the tears rolling down her scratched and dirty face but with her head held high and her green eyes flashing defiance at the angry Caesar.

  'If I tried to save your life, sire, it was not to have you throw money in my face as though I were a servant you had dismissed – it was for love of you! And because I am indeed your servant, though not as you would have it! Is it a crime that I have worked for your police? I do not think I am the only one to do that!' She hurried on regardless of the mortified looks of Josephine who had herself supplied the inquisitive Minister of Police with information about her husband's actions on more than one occasion. 'But I did so,' Marianne went on, too well away for Fouché's warning glance to stop her now, 'I did so only because I was forced to do it. Because I had no choice—'

  'Why not?'

  The abruptness of the question and the harsh voice in which it was uttered made Marianne's heart miss a beat. He was observing her ruthlessly. This was the end. She had lost him now forever. If that was so, she might as well complete the ruin with her own hands and tell him everything. Afterwards, he could do with her what he liked, throw her into prison, send her back to the gallows in England – what did it matter! She slid wretchedly to her knees.

  'Sire,' she said in a low voice, 'let me tell you the whole story and then you can judge fairly—'

  Fouché, clearly anxious at the turn events were taking, made an attempt to intervene.

  'All this is ridiculous,' he began but a sharp, 'Silence!' from the Emperor cut him short. Marianne went on.

  'My name is Marianne d'Asselnat de Villeneuve. My parents died under the guillotine and I was brought up in England by my aunt, Lady Selton. A few months ago, I was married to a man whom I believed then, I loved. It was a terrible mistake. On the very night of my wedding, my husband, Francis Cranmere, staked everything I possessed at cards and lost. He staked my honour also. And so – I killed him!'

  'Killed him?' Josephine's horrified exclamation was not altogether unadmiring.

  'Yes, madame – killed him in a duel. I know it may seem strange for a woman to fight a duel, but I was brought up like a boy – and had no one left but myself to defend my name and my honour. My aunt had died a week earlier. After that, I was obliged to flee. I had to leave England where I had nothing to look forward to but the hangman's noose. I managed to make my way to France by means of a smuggling vessel – and there, to save me from the laws against returning émigrés, his grace the Duke of Otranto offered me a post as reader to Madame de Talleyrand and at the same time—'

  'To render some small services to himself!' The Emperor finished for her. 'It does not surprise me. Never do anything for nothing, do you Fouché? I think you had better tell me how you came to be offering your protection to an émigré returning to the country illegally.'

  Fouché's faint sigh of relief had not escaped Marianne. 'It is very simple, sire,' he began. 'It happened this way—'

  'Later, later—'

  The Emperor had resumed his pacing up and down but much more slowly now. With his hands clasped behind him and his head sunk forward on his chest, he seemed to be thinking. The kindly Josephine took advantage of this to raise Marianne from her knees and make her sit down once more. She wiped the girl's tear-drenched eyes with her own handkerchief and, calling her daughter Hortense who, alone of her entourage, had been present at the scene, asked her to send for a warm drink for Marianne.

  'Tell them to prepare a bath and dry clothes, and a room – I am keeping Mam'zelle d'Asselnat with me!'

  'Your majesty is very kind,' Marianne said with a sad little smile, 'but I should prefer to go. I should like to rejoin my wounded companion. We were to leave together, tomorrow, for America. His ship waits for him at Nantes.'

  'You will do as you are told, mademoiselle,' Napoleon told her shortly. 'Your fate, I think, is not in your own hands. We have not yet done with you. Before you leave for America, you shall have some more explaining to do.'

  Explain what, my God? Marianne thought. What a fool she had been to plunge into this wasp's nest in order to save him, or rather, to see him, even for an instant, because she still hoped for something, though for what she could not have said. Perhaps for some return of the other night's tenderness? No, that hard, clipped voice told her all too clearly that she had never meant anything real to him. He was cold and heartless! But then, why did he have to have such a hold on her?

  'I am your majesty's to command,' she murmured with death in her heart. 'Command me, sire, and I will obey.'

  'I should hope so. Accept the clothes and hot water her majesty is good enough to offer you, but hurry! You must be ready to go with me to Paris within the hour.'

  'Sire,' Fouché offered graciously, 'I can easily take charge of Mademoiselle. I am returning to Paris and I can set her down in the rue de Varenne.'

  His willingness to oblige earned the Duke of Otranto a swift, angry glare.

  'When I need your advice, Fouché, I shall ask for it. Off you go, mademoiselle, and be quick.'

  'May I at least know what has become of my companion?' She asked with a measure of determination.

  'In the Emperor's presence, Mademoiselle,' Napoleon retorted, 'you need concern yourself with no one but yourself. Matters are already sufficiently black for you. Do not make them worse.'

  But it would take much more than Napoleon's anger to make Marianne desert a friend.

  'Sire,' she said in a tired voice, 'even one under sentence of death has the right to care of a friend. Jason Beaufort was hurt trying to save you and—'

  'And in your view, my behaviour is thoroughly ungrateful? Don't worry, Mademoiselle, your American friend is not seriously hurt. A ball in the arm, and I daresay not the first. Captain Trebriant is at this moment looking for the carriage he says he left on the road. After which, he will go quietly back to Paris.'

  'In that case, I want to see him!'

  Napoleon's fist smashed down on a fragile lemonwood table with such force that it broke beneath the blow.

  'Who dares to say "I want" to me! Enough! You will see this man only with my permission and when I think fit! Fouché, since you are so keen on acting as escort, you may see to this Beaufort—'

  The Minister of Police bowed and with an ironical glance, accompanied by a discreet shrug of the shoulders, he took leave and withdrew.

  She watched him as he went through the door, round-shouldered and beaten. It was a sight that should have given her pleasure but the man whose anger she had just witnessed was too far removed from the charming Charles Denis. She understood now why they called him the Corsican ogre! But, for all her present fury, Marianne could not pretend to herself that she did not like that masterful tone.

  Josephine had watched this scene without interfering. But when Fouché had gone she rose and took Marianne's arm where she stood rooted to the spot.

  'Obey, child. One must never cross the Emperor
– whatever his commands.'

  Marianne's eyes, still flaming with revolt, met Josephine's sad, gentle ones. Despite her own love for Napoleon, she could not help feeling drawn to this lonely woman who was so kind to her and seemed to give no thought of the strangeness of her situation. She did her best to smile and then, bending quickly, placed her lips on the pale hand of the dethroned Empress.

  'I obey you, madame.'

  The Emperor gave no sign of hearing this final piece of defiance. He stood with his back to the two women, staring out of the window and twisting the fringe of a gleaming watered silk curtain nervously between his fingers. Without another word, Marianne dropped a curtsey to Josephine and followed the maid summoned by Queen Hortense. As she went, she wondered if there would ever come a time when she would be able to choose her own clothes and not be obliged to borrow from all and sundry.

  ***

  Half an hour later, wearing a dress and coat belonging to Madame de Recusant, the former Empress's lady-in-waiting who was more or less the same size as herself, Marianne took her place with drooping head and heavy heart in the Imperial berlin. She was not even conscious of the amazing honour done her. For her, it meant nothing because she cared not whether the ill-humoured little man who sat next to her were Emperor or not. Since he did not love her, she would a hundred times have preferred any stranger. The burning memories of Butard lay between them a source of hideous anguish now, which only increased her pain and wretchedness. The man she loved had changed suddenly into some kind of judge, as icy and indifferent as justice itself. Any fears she might have of the journey which lay ahead were because she knew what power this ruthless man possessed to make her suffer.

  She had said her thanks and farewells to Josephine and the gentle Creole had made her promise to come and visit her again while, at the same time, casting an appealing glance at the Emperor which he pretended not to see. But even this evidence of kindness had failed to comfort Marianne. This, she did not doubt, was the last stage in her ordeal. Tomorrow, she would try and find Jason and go away with him at last. But for tonight, she did not even wonder what Napoleon meant to do with her.

  Just before the door closed, Duroc's head was poked into the carriage.

  'To – the Trianon, sire?'

  'Don't be a fool! Not the Trianon, or Saint-Cloud. To the Tuileries! And send a messenger ahead to say I'm coming!'

  'As your majesty commands.'

  The door banged shut and the coach moved off towards the lighted gate. All around were the rhythmic hoofbeats of the escort of chasseurs. Marianne had noted that, in suggesting the Emperor's possible destination, Duroc had taken good care to say nothing about Butard. That was no doubt a name which must never, never be uttered again. It could not be other than highly disagreeable to the Master of Europe even to remember what had passed between himself and one of Fouché's spies.

  Once through the gate amid the clatter of arms being presented, the road stretched before them. Marianne closed her eyes, partly to hold back the tears that would come and partly to breathe in the smell of Spanish jasmine and snuff which filled the carriage. The green velvet cushions were impregnated with it and she breathed in almost furtively, like a thief, because it alone had power to conjure up the sweet, tormenting memories she so longed to forget. Even the smell of him was a tiny fragment of happiness.

  Suddenly, she heard him speak.

  'This American, what is he to you? Your lover?'

  She answered, without looking at him, trying to hide her pain.

  'Only a friend – a faithful friend. Tonight, he rescued me from the prison where I had been held ever since—' her voice died away. Then, all at once her fighting instinct revived, she felt the need to give back blow for blow and turned on him. 'You have asked me a great many questions about my past life, sire, why have you not asked what I have been doing this past week and more?

  'No need. I know.'

  'You know? How?'

  'While you were being cleaned up, I asked a few questions. I am grieved at what has happened – but that is beside the point. Where did you meet this American?'

  Marianne was revolted by the monstrous egotism this persistence revealed. She flung the words at him like a challenge, unable to control herself longer.

  'He was the man to whom Francis Cranmere lost all that I had brought him – myself included!'

  'So, I was right. He is your lover.

  'Because you suppose me capable of fulfilling such a bargain? Because you think it possible that when someone comes to a young girl on her wedding night and says: "Your husband is not coming I am going to take his place. I won you at cards", she will instantly open her arms and her bed to him? I believe I told you I had killed Lord Cranmere.'

  'But you have not, to my knowledge, killed Jason Beaufort?'

  'He had already gone. I threw him out. It was only long afterwards that I met him again – here, in fact, in the house of the Prince of Benevento. Oh – anyway, does all this really matter? How can my life interest you, past, present or future? You have an Empire, subjects, as many women as you want—'

  It gave her a kind of awful joy to hurl the inmost feelings of her heart in wild confusion at the feet of this unfeeling man before whom all trembled. Only she was not afraid because not even if the fancy took him to put her to death could he hurt her more than he had done already. She actively enjoyed trying to provoke him and make him angry. Yet, oddly enough, Napoleon did not seem to have heard. His splendid profile was turned away, towards the road and he murmured absently, as though thinking aloud:

  'I'd like to know who that devil Talleyrand doesn't know in this world.'

  Then, before the choking Marianne could say another word, he turned to her suddenly.

  'You know,' he said in a voice full of laughter, 'that it is treason to argue with the Emperor?'

  'Argue? Me? – I—'

  'Unless you wish to be punished as you deserve, you'd better hurry up and beg my pardon.'

  With a quick movement he snapped down the blinds. But, not until Napoleon's lips sought her own, did Marianne realize that he had taken her in his arms.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Once a Merveilleuse

  Marianne lay with her head hanging slightly over the edge of the bed, gazing up at the shining bronze gilt eagle with outstretched wings which, high above, surmounted the crown on the great, circular baldachin. In spite of the exhausting and fantastic adventures of the night, and the long love-making which had followed, she was not sleepy. She would sleep later, she was not quite sure when but she did know very well that she would never sleep in this impressive bed. The great curtains of purple velvet fringed with gold, the winged victories, their bronze feet treading globes of lapis-lazuli, even the dais on which the imperial bed was placed, all helped to make her feel that she might as well be sleeping on the throne of France itself. It was simultaneously impressive, flattering and – rather funny. Napoleon, accustomed to it, slept with his head resting on Marianne's shoulder. The glow from a night light of silver gilt threw a gentleness over his wilful features, relaxed now in sleep, bringing back a little of the child he had once been. Overcome by a vast tenderness, Marianne could not take her eyes off him. She wanted to savour this night's happiness to the last drop.

  Between the bed and the windows opposite, the great carpeted expanse was dotted with a series of strange islands, her own clothes, ripped off impatiently and scattered to the winds, and his, which he was in the habit of leaving where they dropped as he got out of them. Outside, the freezing night was almost over and the regular footsteps of the sentries reminded Marianne that she was in the Tuileries. But the room in the apartment on the first floor which had belonged to the unhappy Louis XVI, was warm and safe, still vibrant with their kisses and their words and sounds of love. How he had loved her, in those two hours from the time when he had led her in by the small, private door leading directly to his apartment! It was as though he could never have enough of her. He had made her promise sh
e would never leave him, that she would stay with him, and be all his own. And when, timidly, she had mentioned his approaching marriage of which everyone was talking, he had roared with laughter.

  'I'm marrying a brood mare!' he had told her crudely, like the soldier he was. 'I need an heir for my throne – but you, you will give me what no other woman can ever give me.'

  She had discovered then how hard it was to love an Emperor. Jealousy, the need she had to know everything about him brought a host of questions to her lips which she dared not ask aloud. How could she speak to him of all those women whose names she had heard linked with his? How could she speak of the Polish countess who had gone away to the snows of her own country to give birth to his child? She sensed that he would not endure curiosity from her. So many things that would be possible with an ordinary man were not so with him.

  When the thought of that unknown woman he was to marry had made her pensive, Napoleon had drawn her into his arms again, softly and slowly caressing her bare skin with that intimate knowledge which never failed to arouse her. Then, with her heart beating wildly, she had forgotten everything but the furious pumping of her blood, and he had crushed her to him hard.

  'I love you and only you,' he told her fiercely. 'That must be enough for you.'

  'It will be enough as long as you go on loving me. But I fear it may not be possible. If I must return to my place with Madame Talleyrand—'

  'Impossibility is a bugbear for cowards and a refuge for fools! As for going back to that old cow! I have better things in store for you – my sweet, beautiful – wonderful singing bird!'

  He had said no more because at that point neither of them had been able to hold out any longer against the demands of their bodies and beyond that point there was no room for anything but silence. And now he was asleep, leaving her to enjoy these moments of warm, full happiness all by herself, counting them out as a miser counts his treasure. She knew she could not stay here in the palace, that soon she would have to go but she did not even begin to wonder where to. She left everything to him, he was all powerful and he was the man she had chosen for her master. Whatever he decided would be right.