Chapter 10
The Swedish Letter
THE blue fragrance of tobacco smoke floated in the air of the room, at once cozy and elegant, where Marianne and the governor were finishing dinner. The almost overwhelmingly heady scent of orange trees drifted in from the garden through the open windows and the noises of the town faded gradually and died away, as though the little yellow salon had broken some invisible moorings and sailed away into the sky like a magic balloon.
Across the centerpiece of wilting roses, Marianne regarded her host. The duke was leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed absently on the tall white candles that were the room's only illumination, puffing slowly at the pipe which she had just given him permission to light. He looked happy and relaxed, a long way from the dramatic events of the previous day and from the cares of government. So much so, indeed, that she was beginning to wonder if they would ever get around to the subject she had come there to discuss.
She had not wanted to broach the matter herself because that meant putting herself in the position of a suppliant and so at a disadvantage. He had invited her here this evening: it was for him to make the first move and begin asking the questions. But he seemed in no hurry to do so.
From the moment when the carriage he had sent to the hotel to fetch her had deposited her at the steps of the small but palatial new building which was the governor's residence, Marianne had made up her mind to play the game through to the end, however it turned out. It would be gauche to do otherwise. And for the present it was simply a distinguished nobleman entertaining a very pretty woman with a little private dinner.
That much had been clear to her from the moment he bowed over her hand, where he stood at the top of the steps to greet her.
Septimanie, the superintendent of the building works, in his tired old coat and dusty boots, had given place to a remarkably distinguished-looking man arrayed in the most elegant of evening dress: black silk stockings and knee breeches, shining leather pumps, high shirt points and cravat of snowy white and the French order of the Saint-Esprit glittering on his black, long-tailed coat. And Marianne found to her surprise that there was something vastly romantic about the black hair streaked with silver and that smooth, yet curiously ravaged countenance. He was like one of the characters who haunted the imagination of that lame English poet of whom Hester Stanhope had talked so much, with a mixture of admiration and exasperation, in Constantinople, the young Lord Byron.
The duke had shown himself the perfect host, a model of tact and consideration. The meal had been light and delicate, such as might appeal to a woman, and was served to the distant accompaniment of a concerto by Vivaldi. Richelieu talked little while they ate, evidently preferring to leave the music to speak for itself and content during its brief intervals simply to contemplate the beauty of his guest. She was looking lovely indeed in a gown of pearly satin cut low on the shoulders and with no other ornament than a pale rose nestling in the hollow of her breasts.
One of the two footmen in powdered wigs and white stockings who had waited on them during the meal came in bearing with the greatest care a bottle of champagne, from which he filled two tall translucent glasses before withdrawing again. When he had gone, the duke rose to his feet and raised his glass. Without taking his eyes from Marianne, he said: 'I drink to you, my dear, and to your loveliness, which has made this one of those rare and memorable evenings when a man longs to be God and have the power to make time stand still.'
'And I,' she answered him, rising in her turn, 'I, too, drink to this evening, Your Excellency. I shall remember it always as one of the pleasantest I have ever spent.'
They drank, still looking into one another's eyes. Then the duke left his place and, grasping the bottle on the way, came around the table to refill his guest's glass himself despite her laughing protests.
'Gently, my lord Duke! You must not make me drink too much—unless, that is, we have other toasts to drink to.'
'But we have.' He raised his glass again, but now there was no smile on his face and his voice was impressively serious as he declared: 'I drink to Cardinal de Chazay. May he return safely from the perilous mission he has undertaken for the peace of the world, and for Church and king!'
Startled, Marianne automatically lifted her glass again, although this repeated reference to the king was by no means to her liking. Yet not for anything in the world would she have refused to drink her godfather's health. Besides, she had already gathered from certain remarks dropped by her host during their meal, that he believed himself in the company of a woman whose political beliefs and aspirations coincided exactly with his own. He saw her only as the cardinal's goddaughter, the daughter of his own old friend, and if he mentioned the name of Sant'Anna at all it was only to pay tribute to that ancient princely family with its wide connections, and with no hint of distrust.
Prudence dictated that she should not disabuse him. On the contrary, she favored the governor with her dewiest smile.
'To my dear godfather, whose vigilance and tenderness toward me have never failed, and who gave me one more striking proof of that last night when he cleared up that frightful mistake.'
'It is good of you to call it a mistake. Myself, I would rather describe it as stupidity without precedent and unpardonable brutality. When I think that those ruffians actually dared to strike you—Does it still hurt?'
He let his gaze dwell on her shoulders in a lingering way that suggested something rather more than simple Christian charity. Marianne gave a light laugh and pirouetted so that he could see her back.
'It's nothing. You see, it is almost gone already.' Then, her voice changing suddenly, she added on a note of real anxiety: 'But you spoke of an important mission, Your Excellency, and of… peril?'
She looked up at him with the beginnings of a tear in her eye and he uttered a distressed exclamation, then bent and took her hand in his and held it.
'What a fool I am! Why, you are really upset! I ought never to have said that. Come, let us go out and sit on the terrace for a while. It is a warm night and the fresh air will do you good. You look quite pale.'
'Yes,' she admitted, letting him lead her out through the tall french windows. 'I was frightened suddenly. My godfather—'
'Is one of the noblest and bravest and most generous-hearted men I have ever met. He is worthy in every respect of the deep affection I can see you have for him. But you also know him well enough to know that he would not like you to fear for him when he is serving the cause.'
'I do know. He is too strong himself ever to understand such fears, or that others may be a little oversensitive—'
With something between a sigh and a tiny sob, she sat down on a sofa upholstered in pale silk which, with a number of chairs, had been placed out on the small terrace. It was a charming place with a view extending out over the leafy gardens to the bay beyond, illumined faintly in the light of a crescent moon. It was also an ideal spot for the exchange of confidences and for the kind of private conversations in which the surroundings may be conducive to leading people on to say more than they mean…
Suddenly Marianne wanted very much to know more about this mysterious mission of the cardinal's. If he were endangering his life in the service of 'the cause,' then it was almost certainly Napoleon and his army who were going to suffer for it.
She leaned back on the sofa, drawing aside her skirt to let the duke sit beside her, and sat for a moment letting the scented silence of the garden lap around them. Then, after a little while, she spoke hesitantly, as though exerting a painful control over herself.
'Your Excellency,' she said. 'I know I ought not to ask you this, but it is so long since I have heard anything of my godfather… And now I have found him again only to lose him almost at once. He has vanished, just like that, without seeing me again, without even a kiss… and I may never see him again—ever! Oh, tell me, at least, I implore you, that he is not going to—the places where the fighting is, that he is not going to meet—the invaders?'
With a fine show of agitation, she had placed both hands in the governor's and was leaning toward him, enveloping him in the sweet cool scent of her perfume.
He laughed gently, clasping her two slim hands in his, and moved a little closer, so close that his eyes were able to look down into the disturbing hollow between her breasts.
