much truth there was in it all.
Meanwhile, Picard, the director of the Opera, locked himself firmly in his office while his artists gathered round his door weeping with fury, and the performers of the Theatre Feydeau exulted as though in a personal victory. Everyone, right down to the most insignificant member of the chorus, felt immensely proud and considerably flattered to be taking part in an event of this importance.
Several times in the last few days, Marianne went to rehearse on stage, accompanied by Gossec and Arcadius, taking his role of impressario very seriously indeed. There she met Jean Elleviou, the fashionable tenor who was to sing with her in the first part of the evening. Since there had been too little time for her to learn and rehearse a whole opera, it had been decided that she would begin with a scene from Spontini's opera 'The Vestal', an elaborate Roman piece, which was one of Napoleon's favourite works. As a curtain raiser, therefore, they would sing the duet for Julia and Licinius, after which Marianne would sing Zetulve's aria from the 'Calif of Baghdad' followed by a longish extract from 'Pygmalion' by Cherubini. The second half of the concert was confined to Marianne alone when she would sing a number of arias from Mozart, Austrian being decidedly the coming fashion.
Everything had gone very well for Marianne. She had met with great kindness from her new colleagues and a good deal of gallantry from Elleviou, whose numerous feminine conquests left him by no means insensitive to the charms of the new star. He did his best to make her feel at home on the great stage whose dimensions had terrified her when she set foot on it for the first time.
'When the footlights are alight,' he told her, pointing to the impressive array before them, each with its own small reflector, 'you can scarcely see the audience. Besides you will not be alone on the stage for your entrance since we are to sing together.'
To help familiarize her with her surroundings, he took her on a tour of the theatre from top to bottom, showing her sets, dressing rooms, the auditorium decorated in the style of the last century in pink velvet and gilt bronze, with clusters of candles on the front of the balconies and the huge, glittering crystal chandelier. The whole of the centre of the first circle was taken up by one vast box, the Emperor's, and Marianne swore to herself that she would look nowhere else throughout the performance.
She was determined to be quite calm for this most important evening of her life. She spent most of the day in her room, resting in semi-darkness, watched over by Adelaide, who had already taken charge of the household and herself prepared the light meals which were all that Marianne would take on the all-important day. Apart from Fortunee Hamelin, who was almost as nervous as Marianne herself, no-one was allowed near her, although three or four notes of tender encouragement had been delivered from the Tuileries.
But in spite of everything, in spite of all the affectionate care of her friends, Marianne's hands were icy cold and her throat dry when she reached the theatre that night. She was trembling like a leaf in the great Pelisse of white satin lined with sable which Napoleon had given her, in spite of all the foot warmers which her maid Agathe had stuffed into the carriage. She had never been so nervous in her life.
'I can't do it,' she said again and again to Arcadius, who looked almost as pale as she in his black coat. 'I can't do it – I'm too frightened!'
'Stage fright,' he told her with a coolness he was far from feeling. 'All great artists have it. Especially for their first appearance. It will pass.'
Elleviou was waiting for Marianne at the door of her dressing room with a huge bouquet of red roses in his hands. He presented them with a bow and an encouraging smile.
'Already you are the most beautiful,' he told her in his deep voice. 'Tonight, you will also be the greatest – and we two, if you will, may perhaps be friends for life.'
'We are friends already,' she told him, and gave him her hand. 'Thank you for giving me such a comforting welcome. I needed it.'
He was a fair, good-looking man, whose figure did not betray his forty years, and although his eyes showed a somewhat disagreeable inclination to linger on her bosom, he was pleasant and kind in offering to help her past a difficult moment. His support was not something to be scorned. Moreover, Marianne had to get used to her new and rather strange surroundings, very different from anything she had known before, but in which she meant not simply to make a place for herself, but a reigning one.
The dressing room which they had given her had been transformed into a flower garden. It seemed as though there could not be a single rose, carnation or tulip left in all Paris, her friends had so conspired to outdo one another. There were huge sprays sent by Talleyrand, by Fortunee and her friend the banker Ouvrard, even, in a wild burst of unusual extravagance from Fouche, as well as from the grand marshal of the palace, and a host of others. One small bouquet bore the timid signature of M. Fercoc. Inside the great cushion of violets sent by Napoleon was another bouquet, this one made of diamonds, and with it three words which tripled it in value: 'I love you, N.'
'You see,' Arcadius told her softly. 'How can you fail to be brave with so much affection all around you? And think, he will be there. Come and see!'
While Agathe took possession of the dressing room and endeavoured to make some room among the flowers, Arcadius took Marianne by the hand and led her behind the stage curtain. Stage hands and members of the chorus were moving about in all directions, busy with last minute preparations. In the orchestra pit, the musicians were tuning their instruments and men were beginning to light the footlights. From beyond the great velvet wall, they could hear the hum of the audience.
Arcadius made a tiny crack. 'Look.'
The theatre was literally sparkling with the countless points of light from the great chandelier. All the foreign ambassadors were there and all the dignitaries of the Empire, dressed in the slightly fantastic uniforms ordained by Napoleon. Marianne's heart beat faster as she caught sight of Madame de Talleyrand in one box with a group of friends, Talleyrand himself in another surrounded by lovely ladies and Dorothea's sharp little face in a third. Prince Eugene was there, with his sister, Queen Hortense. In a low voice, Arcadius pointed out the chief of those present: Old Prince Kurakin, the Arch-Chancellor Cambaceres, the beautiful Madame Recamier, dressed in silver gauze with long pink gloves, Fortunee Hamelin, brilliant and dazzling as the bird of paradise beside the crafty-looking Ouvrard. In a box facing her sat Adelaide d'Asselnat, resplendent in the dress of plum-coloured velvet and white satin turban which Marianne had given her. Her lorgnettes held insolently to her eyes fixing everything and everyone with a proud, imperious stare. This was her moment of glory, and her re-entry into society. A wooden-faced lackey guarded the door of her box where she sat enthroned in splendid isolation while every box around her was filled to overflowing.
'The whole Empire is here – or very nearly,' Arcadius whispered. 'And on time, too! One can see the Emperor is coming. In a little while, all these people will be in love with you!'
But Marianne's eyes had fastened on the great box, empty as yet, where Napoleon would sit with his sister Pauline and one or two of his court.
'Tomorrow,' she murmured half under her breath, overcome by a sudden sadness, 'he leaves for Compiegne to meet the new Empress. What do I care if others are in love with me. Only he matters and he is going away!'
'But he will be yours tonight!' Jolival said quickly, realizing that if Marianne gave way to melancholy she was lost. 'Run and get ready now. The orchestra is beginning the overture – quickly!'
He was right. Marianne had neither the time, nor the right to think only of herself. In this final moment, she belonged to the theatre. She had become truly an artist and, as such, must do her best not to disappoint those who had trusted her. Marianne d'Asselnat was gone and Maria Stella took her place. Marianne meant it to be a dazzling change.
Returning the friendly greetings which met her on all sides, she made her way back to her dressing room where Agathe stood waiting for her in the doorway holding a big bouquet of pure white camellias, lace-edged and tied with a bunch of green ribbon. She handed it to Marianne with a little bob.
'A messenger brought them.' Marianne could not help a sudden feeling of excitement as she read the little card that came with them. On it were only two words, a name, 'Jason Beaufort'. Nothing else.
So he too had been thinking of her? But how, and where? Had he come back to Paris after all? Suddenly, she wanted to go back on stage and peep through the curtains again to see if she could catch a glimpse of the American's tanned face and tall, loose-limbed figure anywhere in the audience. But it was too late now. The violins were already striking up. The chorus must be already on stage. In a moment, the curtain would go up. Marianne
