'Love! I love Chernychev?'
'If you do not love him you are giving a fair imitation of it. But I begin to think imitations are your stock-in-trade. Did you do another for your mysterious husband?'
Marianne sighed wearily. 'I thought I had told you all about my marriage. Must I tell you again? Except in the chapel where the service was performed, and where I saw nothing of him beyond one gloved hand, I have never met Prince Sant'Anna. And let me remind you, if you had received a certain letter in time, there would have been no wedding to the prince…'
She broke off as Jason began to laugh, hard, painful laughter, rasping like a false note on a violin:
'After what I have seen here tonight, I may thank heaven that letter did not reach me. Because of it, I have been able to save Pilar from a fate she had done nothing to deserve, while as for you, I think you are best left to a future which does not seem altogether repugnant to you, and which seems to me, considering the ease with which you are able to transfer your affections, to be no more than you deserve.'
'Jason!'
Marianne sprang to her feet. Her face changed from crimson to white and her fingers clenched on the fragile sticks of her costly fan. There was a pathetic little cracking sound as the sticks snapped. She fought with all her strength to keep back the tears which started to her eyes from a heart overflowing with unhappiness. Whatever happened, he must not be allowed to see how deeply he had hurt her… For she was too much hurt to see that his words had sprung from a bitter, yet reassuring, jealousy. She groped briefly, but in vain, for a biting reply, to give back blow for blow, hurt for hurt and blood for blood. Before she could speak, a tall, green-clad figure had interposed itself between herself and Jason:
'You have just insulted both Her Serene Highness and myself. It is too much. I regret only that I am unable to kill you more than once.'
Chernychev's accent sounded a little thicker, his manner was a little more dramatic, but he was making a visible effort to control his temper. Jason faced him with a faint, contemptuous smile which only added to the Russian's rage:
'It does not occur to you that I might possibly kill you?'
'Never,' Chernychev said simply. 'Death is a woman. She will do as I wish…'
Jason laughed. 'If you rely on a woman, you will be disappointed. Nevertheless, I do not go back on my word. I am at your service, Sir. Although I was not aware it was your habit to listen at keyholes.'
'No!' Marianne stepped quickly between the two men. 'No! Please! I won't let you fight over me!'
Chernychev took the hand which she had laid instinctively on his arm and dropped a swift kiss upon it:
'Permit me to disobey you for once, Madame.'
'And suppose I were to add my entreaties, eh?' Talleyrand had entered the box hard on the Russian's heels and now he continued in his leisurely tones: 'I do not care to have my friends slay one another…'
This time, it was Jason who answered:
'Just so. You know us both too well, Prince, not to have known that this was bound to happen, sooner or later.'
'That may be so, but I should prefer it to be later.' He turned to Marianne as he added: 'Come, Madame, I am sure you cannot wish to remain here. I will escort you to your carriage.'
'Will you wait for me?' the Russian interposed quickly. 'Give me a moment to settle this affair and I will be with you.'
In silence, Marianne allowed him to place the great wrap of dull red velvet which had lain over the back of her chair around her shoulders, then, placing her hand on the Prince of Benevento's arm, she left the box, without a glance for either of the two prospective adversaries. The curtain was just rising on the next act and her exit was therefore accomplished without attracting more than a minimum of attention.
As she made her way slowly down the great staircase, empty except for the footmen standing rigidly between the tall torcheres, Marianne gave way to her misery and anger.
'What have I done?' she cried. 'Why is Jason so angry with me? Why does he despise me so? I thought…'
'One must be very old or exist in a very rarefied atmosphere to be immune from jealousy. Quite between ourselves, wasn't it really what you wanted? If not, what devil prompted you to show yourself here tonight alone with Sasha?'
'You are quite right,' Marianne admitted. 'I did want to make Jason jealous… He is so changed since this senseless marriage to Pilar…'
'And changed you, also, it seems. Come, Marianne. Stop tormenting yourself. We have to learn to take the consequences of our actions, eh? In any event, Chernychev may be an experienced duellist, but this time I think that he may well find he has met his match.'
Stop tormenting herself! Talleyrand was an optimist! Alone in the cushioned darkness of her carriage, Marianne abandoned herself to her fury. She loathed them all: Chernychev for, in her view, meddling in what did not concern him; Jason for treating her so unkindly when she had longed for a kind word, a look, such very little things; all those people who must have been following every moment of the quarrel with eyes agog at the prospect of a juicy scandal to relate; but most of all she loathed herself for the childish vanity which had caused so much trouble…
'I must have been mad,' she told herself. 'And yet, I did not know then that love could hurt so. And now what if Chernychev should wound Jason or even—' Her mind shied away from the thought. Then it occurred to her that she was even then sitting there like a fool waiting for the Russian when she hated him at that moment with her whole heart, and she leaned forward to give Gracchus the word.
'Home, Gracchus. And hurry!'
As the vehicle began to move, Chernychev emerged from the pillared entrance to the theatre, gained the step with one bound and fell rather than jumped inside.
'You were leaving without me! Why did you do that?'
'Because I did not wish to see you again tonight. Please get out.' She raised her voice: 'Gracchus! Stop!'
Half-kneeling on the floor at her feet, Chernychev looked up at her in surprise:
'You want me to get out? But why? You are angry with me? Yet by challenging the man who dared to insult you I was doing no more than my duty.'
'Your duty did not require you to interfere in a private conversation. I have never needed any assistance in defending myself! But just remember this: if Jason Beaufort is even wounded I shall never forgive you, and I will never see you again as long as I live!'
Chernychev did not stir but Marianne could see his eyes glittering in the dimness of the carriage, narrow green slits, luminous as cats' eyes in the dark. Slowly, he stood up, and it felt to Marianne as if some huge bird of prey were hanging over her, filling the small, scented satin-lined interior with its presence. But already, the Russian had opened the door and sprung down into the road. He stood for a moment with his white-gloved hands gripping the door frame, looking up at her, half-smiling. His voice, when he spoke, was infinitely gentle:
'You were right to warn me, Marianne. I will not wound Monsieur Beaufort, I promise you that…' He leapt back and, sweeping off his cocked hat, made an elaborate bow. His voice sank to a caressing murmur: 'Tomorrow morning I shall do myself the honour of killing him.'
'If you dare—'
'Oh, I shall dare… since there appears to be no other way of removing him from your thoughts. With him dead, I shall know how to make you love me.'
In spite of the fear and anger that clutched at her heart, Marianne stiffened, flung up her chin and stared very deliberately at Chernychev from the vantage point of the carriage. She succeeded in summoning up an icy smile:
'Do not be too sure. You will have very little time, my dear Count. For if Jason Beaufort dies tomorrow by your hand, believe me, before I make an end of a life which will have ceased to be of any interest to me, I shall make it my business to kill you with my own hands. I should tell you, perhaps, that I am accounted as good a shot as any man… Good night to you. Home, Gracchus!'
The youthful coachman cracked his whip and the equipage moved off at a f
ast trot. As it turned into the rue St-Honoré, the St Roch clock struck one, but Marianne did not hear it. When they reached the Tuileries bridge she was still trying to calm herself sufficiently to think sensibly of a way to save Jason from the Russian's murderous intent. With the boundless generosity of love, she blamed herself entirely for what had taken place. She even went so far as to blame herself for Jason's unkindness, by reason of the magic word, alarming yet so obscurely comforting, which Talleyrand had uttered: jealousy. If Jason were jealous, so jealous that he could insult her publicly, it might mean that, after all, everything was not quite lost.
'What can I do?' she asked herself desperately. 'How can I prevent this duel?'
The rattle of the carriage wheels over the deserted streets of the sleeping city of Paris filled her ears like a vast, threatening roar. She stared out at the passing houses, shuttered and silent now, filled with honest citizens lying peacefully in their beds for whom the tempests of the heart were probably matters of very little importance.
The carriage had almost reached the rue de Lille when an idea came to Marianne. By now, she was blaming herself further for wounding Chernychev. Like a fool, she had believed her power over him greater than it was. Instead of reasoning with him, making him understand that it would grieve her to see anything happen to a friend, she had allowed him to divine her love for Jason and had inevitably roused the very natural fury of a man who finds that the woman he desires prefers another. She ought, at least, to make another effort in that direction.
She reached out and gave a little pull on the cord whose other end was attached to the coachman's little finger. Gracchus looked back.
'Turn round, Gracchus. We are not going home just yet.'
'Very good, Madame. Where are we going?'
'Chassée d'Antin, the Russian embassy. You know it?'
'Used to be the Hôtel Thélusson? 'Course I know it.' The carriage was turned neatly and headed back towards the Seine, this time at a gallop. The streets were empty and it was possible to maintain this rapid pace, so that it was not many minutes before the enormous triumphal arch, thirty feet high and as many broad, which served as a gateway to the Russian embassy, loomed up ahead. Beyond lay a glimpse of extensive gardens, dotted with statues and pillars, with the house at the far end, lights blazing as though for a party. But the gate was guarded by a pair of Cossacks in long robes and drooping moustaches who were firm in denying her admittance. In vain did Marianne declare her name and titles and explain that she desired to see the ambassador, Prince Kurakin. The guards remained adamant: no pass, no passage. It was not just anyone who could gain admittance to the Russian embassy, at night especially.
' 'Strewth!' Gracchus exclaimed. 'They certainly guard the place well enough! Makes you wonder what's going on inside to make them so suspicious. It's easier to get to see the Emperor… What do we do now, Your Highness?'
'I don't know,' Marianne said miserably. 'I must get in or—Listen, Gracchus. Go and ask them whether Count Chernychev has returned yet. If he has not, we will wait for him. If he has…'
'What then?'
'Oh well, go anyway. We will think of that later.' Obediently, Gracchus clambered down from his box and strolled over to the Cossack on the left, whose face looked rather the less forbidding of the two. There began an animated dialogue in which gestures seemed to play a more important part than words. In spite of her anxious state of mind, Marianne could not help being diverted by the contrast between Gracchus's stocky figure, as broad as it was high in the huge, caped coachman's overcoat, and that of the gigantic Russian, with his huge fur hat and splendid whiskers, bending down towards him. The conversation continued for a minute or two, after which Gracchus came back and informed his mistress that the count had not yet returned.
'Good,' Marianne said. 'Get back on the box. We'll wait for him.'
'Are you sure that's a good idea? Seems to me as you didn't altogether part friends…'
'Since when have you been in the habit of questioning my orders? Draw up the carriage by the gate and wait.'
But before Gracchus could carry out this command there was the sound of a vehicle approaching through the embassy grounds. Marianne promptly told her driver to stay where he was, with the carriage blocking the gateway so that nothing could leave the embassy. With luck, the person coming might even be the ambassador himself…
In fact, it was Talleyrand. Almost at once, Marianne recognized the livery and the great English Arab horses which were the prince's pride. Talleyrand, for his part, had caught sight of Marianne's carriage and given his coachman the word to draw up alongside. His pale head and sapphire-blue eyes appeared at the window.
'I was going to call on you,' he said with a smile, 'but since you are here, I may go home to my bed with the satisfaction of knowing my duty done – and so may you. I don't think there's much more you can do here now, eh?'
'I don't know. I was going to—'
'See the ambassador? Was that it? Or see Chernychev, at any rate? Then I was right and you may go home and sleep with no fear of bad dreams. Count Chernychev leaves for Moscow tonight with… er… urgent despatches.'
'He was to go tomorrow…'
'Well now he goes in an hour. Prince Kurakin was very ready to understand that some messages are too urgent to be delayed – or possibly endangered by the turn of a sword. Our friend Beaufort handles his weapon quite as skilfully as the handsome colonel, so the chances were equal. Now it seems that just at present, the Tsar requires his favourite courier's presence urgently… You need have no fear. Chernychev will do as he is told.'
'And… the duel?'
'Put off for a month of Sundays – or at least until the two gentlemen in question find themselves face-to-face again, which will not be for a very long time, since Beaufort is due to return to America in a week's time.'
Marianne's chilled heart melted in a rush of warmth. So great was her relief that tears started to her eyes. Impulsively, she held out her hand to her old friend, through the open window.
'How can I thank you? You are my good angel.'
But Talleyrand shook his head, his face suddenly grave. 'No, I am afraid not. I fear I must bear a large share of the blame for the troubles which beset you. Today is not the first time I have regretted that I ever introduced you to – to you know who. If it had not been for that ill-conceived idea, you might have been happy today. I ought to have realized – that night when you met Beaufort in my house. Now, it is too late, and both of you are married.'
'I shall never give him up! I, too, should have realized it sooner, but I will not listen when you tell me it is too late. It is never too late for love.'
'Oh yes, my dear… when you are my age!'
'Not even then!' Marianne cried so passionately that even the cynical statesman was shaken. 'If you really wanted it, you could still love – really love! Who knows, perhaps it might even be the great love of your life.'
The prince did not answer. Hands clasped on the gold knob of his stick, chin resting on his hands, he appeared to be lost in a kind of daydream. Marianne saw that there was a sparkle in the pale eyes, usually so cold, and wondered if perhaps her words had conjured up for him a figure, a face… a love, perhaps, which he had not allowed himself to dream of, believing it impossible. Softly, as if he had spoken, but really in answer to her own thoughts, Marianne said: 'Impossible love is the only kind that I believe in, because it is the only kind that gives a savour to life, the only kind worth fighting for…'
'What do you call an impossible love, Marianne? Your love for Jason – for you do love him, don't you? – is not what one would call impossible. Difficult, merely…'
'I am afraid not. To me, it seems every bit as impossible as if…' she groped for a moment and then went on, very fast: '… as if you, for example, were to fall in love with your niece, Dorothée, and wish to make her your mistress—'
Talleyrand's gaze shifted to meet Marianne's. It seemed to have grown colder and more inscrutable than e
ver.
'You are quite right,' he said gravely. That is, to be sure, an excellent example of impossible love. Good night, my dear Princess. I do not know if I have ever told you this, but I am very fond of you, you know.'
The two carriages moved apart and Marianne, with a sigh of content, let herself slide back among the cushions, closing her eyes, the better to enjoy her wonderful relief. She felt suddenly terribly sleepy. The relief from nervous tension had left her feeling drained, longing for nothing but the peace of her own room, her own cool sheets. She could sleep so well now that Talleyrand had averted the results of her stupidity and Jason was no longer in danger.
She was still basking in the same sense of gratitude when she reached her own house, and she was even humming a little as she went lightly up the great stone staircase to her room. When she was able to think more clearly, she would find some way of making Jason listen to reason, so that he would understand that he could not insist that they must part for ever. Perhaps when he saw how much she loved him…
The first thing she saw when she opened her door was a pair of shoes, gleaming man's shoes, resting on a low stool covered in sea-green silk.
'Arcadius!' she cried, thinking the owner of the shoes must be her old friend Jolival, come home unexpectedly. 'Oh, but I am so sleepy—'
The words died on her lips as the door swung wide open under her hand, revealing the man who sat, very much at his ease in a deep armchair, waiting for her. And all at once, Marianne knew that there would be no sleep for her yet, for the figure which was already rising nonchalantly to greet her with a deep, profoundly mocking bow, was that of Francis Cranmere.
CHAPTER FOUR
Night – and an Open Window
Marianne's nerves had suffered too much that night for the sight of her first husband to awaken any feeling in her other than one of profound boredom. However dangerous he might be, and whatever her own reasons to fear him still, she had reached a degree of indifference where she was wholly beyond fear. It was therefore without the slightest trace of feeling that she closed the door behind her, and, according her untimely visitor no more than a single chilly glance, walked coolly over to her dressing-table, dropped her wrap on to the velvet stool and began stripping off her long gloves. Nevertheless, her eyes continued to survey his reflection in the tall mirror.
[Marianne 3] - Marianne and the Privateer Page 9
