She experienced a momentary sadness but she was bound by her promise and, when all was said, only one thing mattered to her. The single cloud that had nearly overshadowed these few days of happiness had disappeared, leaving her free to enjoy the last hours of this wonderful gift from heaven in peace. There was so little time.
On the last evening, though she desired above all to leave him an unforgettable memory, it was all Marianne could do to smile. She felt deathly sad. For dinner, the last they would have alone together, she dressed with special care, striving to make herself more beautiful than ever. Her dress of heavy, pale-pink silk moulded every line of her body. Her neck and shoulders rose from the draped and silvered corsage as though from a huge, dew be-spangled flower, and not a single jewel broke the pure line of her throat. The high-piled curls held in place by silver ribbon showed off the graceful poise of her head. But the green eyes under their soft, sepia lashes were bright with unshed tears.
For once, the meal took longer than usual, as though Napoleon too thought to prolong these last private moments. When at last they rose from the table, he took Marianne's hand and kissed it tenderly.
'Will you sing for me tonight? Just for me?'
Her eyes said yes, and leaning on his shoulder, she went with him to the music room. Gently he seated her at the gilded harpsichord but instead of going away and sitting down, he remained standing behind her, his hands gripping her shoulders.
'Sing,' he told her softly.
Marianne could not have said what made her, in that grieving moment, choose the sad song which Marie-Antoinette had once sung, here in this very Trianon, for the handsome Swede with whom she was secretly in love.
'C'est mon ami, rendez-le moi,
J'ai son amour, il a ma foi,
J'ai son amour, il a ma foi.'
Sung by her warm voice, the words of love and regret became charged with such a poignant sadness that on the last note the melody broke and Marianne's head drooped. But the hands on her shoulders became hard and commanding.
'Don't cry,' Napoleon said. 'I forbid you to cry.'
'I – I can't help it. It's stronger than I am.'
'You have no right! I have told you, I must have a wife who will give me children. No matter whether she is pretty or ugly, so long as she can give me fine boys! I will give her that which is due to her rank, but you, you will always be my escape. No! Don't turn around! Don't look at me! I want you to trust me, as I trust you – she shall never have what I have given you and will give you again. You shall be my eyes, my ears – my star.'
Overwhelmed Marianne closed her eyes and sank back against Napoleon. The burning hands on her shoulders came to life, slowly caressing the smooth skin, moving down towards her breasts.
The little room was warm and very private. A deep silence fell, scarcely broken by Marianne's trembling sigh.
'Come,' Napoleon murmured hoarsely. 'We still have one night left.'
Early the next morning, a closed carriage left the Trianon at full gallop bearing Marianne back to Paris. This time she was alone, but to avoid any risk of a repetition of what had occurred on the way back from La Celle St-Cloud, a company of dragoons was to follow at a distance as far as the bariére de Passy.
Never had Marianne's heart felt so heavy. Muffled in the big green velvet cloak she had worn on her arrival, she gazed out absently at the passing wintry landscape. The morning was very cold and grey. It was as though the world had used up all its store of joy. It made no difference that she knew nothing was at an end between Napoleon and herself. It made no difference that he had sworn to her that as the ties between them were now too strong for anything to harm them, not even the marriage of convenience which he was bound to make. Still Marianne could not help thinking that never again would things be as they had been during those few days. For an instant, her love had shone out in the broad light of freedom, now it must return to shadows and secrecy. For however strong the passion which bound her to the Emperor, in future there would always be between them the figure, vague as yet, of the wife who officially would have all and who must not be offended. And Marianne, in an agony of fear and jealousy, could not help trembling at the thought of what might happen if Marie-Louise had only a fraction of the irresistible charm of the unfortunate Marie-Antoinette. Suppose she were to resemble her ravishing aunt, that proud bewitching creature for whom so many men had been prepared to die? Suppose he were to love her? He was so easily won by women's charms.
Furiously, Marianne dashed away the tears which ran unbidden down her face. She was impatient now to return to Fortunée Hamelin and her friend Jolival. For the present, they alone were real to her. Never had she felt such a rush of warmth and affection as she did now. At the thought of Fortunée's little bright salon where, very soon, she would be sitting down to the fragrant morning coffee which Jonas made so well, Marianne felt her pain ease a little.
The coach descended the hill of St-Cloud towards the bridge. But shimmering in the mist beyond the tree and beyond the quick silver band of the river, she saw the blue-tinged roofs of Paris topped by so many grey-white plumes from the smokey chimneys. For the first time, she was struck by the sheer size of the city. Paris lay stretched at her feet like a huge, tame animal and suddenly she had an irresistible desire to master this beautiful quiet monster, and make it cry out for her more loudly still than it would cry out for her rival when she drove for the first time through its streets.
To conquer Paris, to win first Paris and then all France and all the vast Empire, that, surely, was a task inspiring enough to soothe the bitterest regrets of the heart? In a few weeks' time, Marianne would be facing her first battle with this great and fiercely artistic city, whose seething life she could feel almost like the blood in her own veins. There was no time to waste now if she were to be prepared to face that fight.
Filled with a sudden impatience, she leaned forward and tapped on the little window to attract the coachman's attention.
'Faster!' she told him. 'I am in a hurry.'
At the bridge of St-Cloud, the rough-shod horses sprang into a gallop and at the barriére de Passy, while the dragoons vanished into the morning mist, the carriage with the imperial arms plunged hell for leather across Paris, as though already charging to the attack.
That night, a proclamation appeared on all the walls of the capital.
'A marriage will take place between his majesty the Emperor Napoleon, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation and her Imperial and Royal Highness the Arch-duchess Marie-Louise, daughter of His Majesty the Emperor Francis, King of Bohemia and of Hungary…'
There was no going back now. Fate was on the move, and, while Marianne was endlessly rehearsing with Gossec a melody from 'Nina, or the Lovesick Maid', Napoleon's sister Caroline Murat, Queen of Naples and Grand Duchess of Berg, and Marshall Berthier, Prince of Neuf Châtel and Wagram, were already making ready for their journey to Vienna to bring back the bride.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Time Returns
Marianne kicked with one small gold satin slipper at a log which had rolled out of the grate. She picked up the tongs and rearranged the smouldering logs before returning to curl up again in the big armchair at one side of the fire, and resumed her musings. It was Tuesday, the 13th March, 1810, the day on which she had moved into the Hôtel d'Asselnat, repaired in record time by one of those miracles which only the Emperor knew how to create. This was her first evening in her own home. For the first time for many weeks, Marianne was absolutely alone.
This was how she had wanted it. She would have no-one to come between herself and the ghosts of her family for this, her first acquaintance with the old house in its new dress. Tomorrow, the doors would open wide for her few friends, for Arcadius de Jolival who had taken lodgings in a house nearby, for Fortunée Hamelin with whom Marianne meant to celebrate her entry into possession worthily, for Talleyrand who, in these last weeks, had been a discreet and attentive fri
end, for Dorothée de Périgord, who had promised to bring the best society to call on her, and, lastly, for her teacher Gossec, who would come tomorrow as he did every morning, to help prepare her for her first contact with the public of Paris. Tomorrow, there would be all sorts of things, known and unknown, faces that would all soon be familiar. But tonight, she wanted to be alone, to listen to the silence of her house. There must be no stranger, however friendly, to disturb her first meeting with her own memories.
The servants, carefully hand-picked by Madame Hamelin, would not arrive until tomorrow. Mademoiselle Agathe, the young ladie's maid, would not be coming to take possession of the little room which had been set aside for her near Marianne's own until after eight o'clock. Only young Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche, newly promoted to the rank of coachman, was in the house, and even he had his own quarters in an outbuilding. He had orders not to disturb Marianne on any account. She had found it by no means easy to escape from the attentions of her friends. Fortunée in particular had been decidedly unwilling to leave Marianne all alone in the great house.
'I should die of fright if it were me!' she had declared roundly.
'What is there to be afraid of?' Marianne had answered. 'There I shall really be at home.'
'Yes, but remember, the portrait and the prowler comes here—'
'I think he must have gone for good now. And besides, the locks have been changed.'
It was true that all attempts to trace the mysterious visitor had been unsuccessful. There was no sign of the missing portrait of the Marquis d'Asselnat in spite of all Arcadius' investigations. A time had come when Marianne had begun to wonder if she had not really dreamed it all. If Fortunée and Arcadius had not been there also, she would have begun to doubt her own memory.
Wrapped in a long house gown of white cashmere, its high neck and long sleeves edged with ermine, Marianne looked round her at the big, bright, cosy room which tonight had become her own.
Her eye rested in turn on the soft blue-green hangings, the exquisite laquered corner cupboards, the small chairs upholstered in a gaily flowered Abusson, the great bed draped in changeable taffettas, and came to rest at last on a big caledon vase filled with lilac, irises and huge tulips. The blaze of colour and freshness made her smile. Those flowers were like a presence in themselves, his presence.
They had arrived that morning, armfuls of them, brought by the gardeners of St-Cloud, and the whole house was full of them, but the best of all were in Marianne's own room. She found them better company than any human being because she was conscious of their fragrance even when she was not looking at them.
Marianne closed her eyes. Several weeks had passed since those days at the Trianon, but she was still living under their spell. And it would be much, much longer before she ceased to regret their brevity. It had been an instant of paradise which she would cherish for ever in her inmost heart, like a tiny, delicate and fragrant plant.
Marianne got up from her chair with a sigh, stretched and went across to one of the windows. On the way her foot brushed against a newspaper that lay on the floor. It was the latest number of the Journal de l'Empire and Marianne was all too familiar with its contents. In it the people of France were informed by the writer, Joseph Fievée, that on this day, the 13th of March, their future Empress had left Vienna with her household. She had already been married to the Emperor by proxy in the person of Marshal Berthier. In a few days, the Empress would be in Paris and then Marianne would no longer have the right to cross the threshold of the great bedchamber in the Tuileries, where she had been so many times since her return from the Trianon that she had finally begun to feel at home there.
When she tried to picture this unknown Marie-Louise, who would so soon become a part of the Emperor's life, Marianne still found herself shaking with an anger and jealousy all the greater because she had neither the right nor the opportunity to show them. Napoleon was marrying for purely dynastic reasons. He would listen to no arguments that went against his determination to have a son. He himself was endlessly jealous and watchful, and had questioned Marianne more than once about the real state of her relationship to Talleyrand and, even more, with Jason Beaufort, who he seemed unable to forget. But he would not have countenanced a similar display on her part, or not where his future wife was concerned. And, little by little, Marianne had come to feel an all-embracing sympathy for his divorced wife, Josephine.
One day in the middle of February she had gone with Fortunée Hamelin to call on the ex-Empress. She had found her as melancholy as ever although apparently resigned, but when the Empress's name was mentioned, tears were never far away.
'He has given me a new chateau,' Josephine had said pathetically. 'The chateau of Navarre, not far from Evreux, and says he hopes that I shall like it. But I know why, it is because he wants me to be out of Paris when she arrives – that other!'
'The Austrian!' Fortunée spoke angrily. 'The French have been quick to call her that. They have not forgotten Marie-Antoinette.'
'Oh no. But they are sorry now, and they will do their best to make the niece forget the sufferings of her aunt.'
To Marianne, Josephine was especially kind. She seemed delighted to learn of the distant kinship between them and immediately embraced the younger woman with a quite motherly affection.
'I hope that you, at least, will remain my friend, although your mother gave her life for the late queen.'
'I hope you cannot doubt it, madame. Your majesty shall have no more faithful or loving servant than myself. Make what use of me you will.'
Josephine smiled faintly and brushed Marianne's cheek with her finger.
'Indeed – you love him too! And I have heard that he loves you. Look after him, I beg of you, as far as you may. I foresee grief and disappointment ahead. How can this girl have been brought up as a Hapsburg and to hate the victor of Austerlitz, how can she love him as I do when only six months ago he occupied her own father's palace?'
'And yet, it is said your majesty approved this marriage?'
There had been many rumours to the effect that Josephine had been personally concerned in the choice of her successor.
'One must choose the lesser of two evils. The Austrian was better for the Emperor than the Russian. And I shall always place the Emperor's good before my own personal satisfaction. If you love him truly, cousin, you will do the same.'
Marianne had devoted much thought to those words of Josephine's. Had she, the newcomer, any right to raise the slightest protest to make any complaint of her own sufferings when this woman was prepared to wipe out so many years of glorious memories? Josephine left a throne as well as a husband. The sacrifice that Marianne must make seemed very pale in comparison, though none the less cruel in her own eyes. But at least she had hope for the future in looking forward to a great career as a singer. That in itself was no small blessing.
She had been standing leaning her burning forehead on the cold glass to cool it when she started suddenly. Penetrating the mists of melancholy into which she had fallen, she had heard the sound of footsteps, stealthy, but distinct, on the small wooden staircase that lead up to the attic floor.
Wide awake now, Marianne went to the door, holding her breath. She was not afraid. The sense of being at home in her own house sustained her. It occurred to her that Gracchus-Hannibal might have come into the house for some reason, though why she could not think. Besides, had it been he she would have heard him walking about downstairs, not over her head. No, it was not Gracchus. Then she thought of the mysterious person who had been there on their first visit, of the hiding place which they had never discovered. Had the unknown prowler returned? Yet how could he have got in? He could hardly have lived in the abbe's old hiding place all these weeks without being discovered by the workmen swarming over the house. Softly, with infinite caution, Marianne opened her bedroom door. It gave on to the broad landing at the head of the great stone staircase, and she was just in time to see a glimmer of candle-light in the doorway of the main sa
lon. This time, it was beyond a doubt. Someone was there.
Marianne glanced about her for some weapon. If this were a prowler, then she must have something to defend herself with. But there seemed to be nothing apart from a china vase or a jade statuette standing on a chest of drawers, neither of which would be of much use if it came to a fight. The mysterious visitor might be armed. Suddenly she remembered. Turning back into the room she went quickly over to a beautiful Venetian cabinet which Fortunée had found and presented to her, insisting that she absolutely must have something in the way of local colour. Opening it, she took out a long, flat, satinwood case inlaid with silver. When opened this revealed a pair of magnificent duelling pistols. Napoleon himself had given his mistress this unusual present, one of many.
'A woman like you should always have the means of self-defence to hand,' he had told her. 'I know that you can handle a gun and these may be useful to you one day. The times we live in are not so secure that a woman can be safe, alone and unarmed in her own house.'
Grasping one of these pistols firmly, Marianne loaded it and then, slipping it into the folds of her white gown, made her way back to the landing. She could still see the yellow light. It seemed to be moving about slowly, as though whoever was carrying it were looking for something. Unhesitatingly, Marianne began to walk downstairs.
Before leaving her room, she had kicked off her slippers at the foot of her bed. Now barefooted on the tiled floor, she neither felt the cold nor made the smallest noise. She was not in the least afraid. The weapon cradled in her hand put her on an equal footing with any burglar. What she felt was more a kind of exultation, and a sense of heightened curiosity like that of someone who, after living with a mystery for a long time, suddenly finds the key put into his hand. She no longer had the slightest doubt that the stranger moving about in the salon with a candle at this hour was the same person who had removed the portrait.
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