pure and simple. Either she did as Fouche wished, and she was well aware that he had only helped and comforted her in order the better to bend her to his will, or she could reject his proposals and perhaps find herself abandoned to the snares and dangers of these unknown streets. Unless, of course, she was simply sent straight back to St Lazare to heaven knew what fate! In any case her choice was very limited. She could hardly go on plunging blithely forward to a fate she could not even guess. Perhaps, after all, it might be best to let herself be guided by this man who, dangerous as she guessed him to be, was still the person to whom Black Fish had sent her. There remained to be discovered precisely what it was he wanted of her.
Marianne looked up. Her green eyes sparkled through a veil of tears as she met the minister's opaque gaze.
'What must I do?'
Fouche leaned back in his chair, placed his fingertips together and crossed his thin legs.
'I told our friend Surcouf that I meant to entrust you to my wife's keeping merely in order to get rid of him. In fact, I have already found you a situation.'
'A situation? Where?'
'With the Prince of Benevento otherwise vice-grand-elector of the Empire, Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand- Perigord. His wife has need of a reader – and his house is one of the greatest in Paris, perhaps the greatest. For me, at any rate. You cannot conceive how much I like to know of what goes on in such houses.'
Marianne's cheeks flushed with anger and she sprang to her feet, trembling.
'A spy! No, indeed! I will never stoop to that!' Fouche appeared quite unaffected by her excitement. Without even looking at her, he jotted something down on a piece of paper then picked up a spoon from a small silver-gilt tray on which was also a carafe and a glass. He tipped some white powder from a small envelope into the spoon and swallowed it, with a mouthful of water. Then he coughed.
'Ahem! It is up to you, child. I have no wish to force your hand but you should remember, I think, that if St Lazare is no very agreeable dwelling place for a young girl, the English prisons are on the whole rather worse – especially when there is a noose at the end.'
The words fell as inexorably as a sentence.
Marianne sat down again, feeling as though her legs had been cut from under her.
'You would not do that?' she murmured in a choked voice.
'What? Hand you over to the English police? No. But, just supposing Mademoiselle Mallerousse were unwise enough to behave as though she were Mademoiselle d'Asselnat, I should have no choice but to carry out the law. Now, the law gives me two alternatives: to imprison you or to put you back on a boat—'
Marianne pointed silently to the carafe.
'A little water, if you please—'
As she sipped it, she forced herself to think. Fouche had put his cards on the table and she realized that it was useless to hope that he might change his mind. Her best course was to agree, or appear to agree. Afterwards she could try and escape. But where to? She had no idea as yet but it would be time to think of that later, at more leisure. Meanwhile, first things first. At all events, she did not intend to give in without an argument. Putting the glass back on the tray, she said loftily:
'You offer me a situation as a reader? It is not very grand. I am more ambitious.'
'Princess Talleyrand's last reader was a countess fallen on hard times. You cannot expect me to do better than offer you the best house in Paris. But if you prefer to be a scullery maid—'
'I am not amused. Let me remind you that I have no talent for the – the profession you propose, that it is altogether strange to me. I do not even know what I shall have to do.'
'Listen. Keep your ears open and make a note of everything you hear, absolutely everything.'
'I cannot go about with notes in my hand—'
'Don't play the fool with me!' Fouche snapped. 'Your memory is perfect. I saw that from the way you repeated Nicolas's message. Moreover, you speak several languages. That is a valuable asset in the house of a diplomat – even one in disgrace.'
'What do you mean?'
'That the Prince of Benevento is out of favour with the Emperor. He is no longer Minister of Foreign Affairs and his title of vice-grand-elector is no more than a high-sounding sinecure. But that only makes Talleyrand more dangerous. He has vast contacts, formidable intelligence – and—'
'—and you are his enemy!'
'I? No, you mistake me! We have been enemies in the past. But that is ancient history and in politics one forgets quickly. For some time now, we have been the best of friends, do not forget that. But that does not mean I would not like to know the little day to day details in the rue de Varennes. As the princess's reader, you will be present at all large gatherings, you will live in the midst of the household. As I have said, all you will have to do is keep a kind of journal. Every night, before going to bed, you will write a little report on the day.'
'And how will it reach you?'
'Don't worry about that. Each morning, a servant will come into your room to light the fire. He will say: 'I hope this wood will burn well'. You will give him your report. He will see that it reaches me.'
'How will you know it is mine? Should I sign my name?'
'Certainly not. You will sign it, let me see – yes, with a star like this.'
Fouche drew a quick sketch of a six-pointed star on a piece of paper.
'There! That shall be your emblem – and your name. Here, you will draw the star. That will provide a cover for your real identity. For you will have to take care not to arouse any suspicions in the master of the house. He is perhaps the most intelligent man in Europe. Certainly, the most artful! I would not give much for your chances should he unmask you. So, you have every reason to take care. And, let me say again, that you will not regret working with me. I can reward good service – royally!'
The atmosphere of the office was beginning to weigh on Marianne. She was tired and her head was aching. Exhaustion was taking its own toll. She had slept little on her truckle bed in St Lazare. She rose and going to the window pulled aside the curtain and stood looking out. It was quite dark now but two lanterns burned in the courtyard, revealing the figures of the sentries. Everywhere was strangely quiet. The river Seine glimmered faintly beyond the curtain of trees. From somewhere, came the muffled sound of a harp. The notes came a little discordantly, as though the hands on the strings were clumsy and inexperienced, but this only added to the air of unreality belonging to this evening.
'I must escape!' she thought desperately. 'I must escape – I must get away to Auvergne, to find my cousin. But, for the present, I can do nothing except obey.' Aloud, she sighed, 'I hope you will not be disappointed. I know no one here. How can I know what will interest you?'
Fouche, too, rose and came to stand behind her. She saw his reflection in the glass and smelled the faint odour of snuff which hung about him. When he spoke, his voice was kind and reassuring.
'That is for me to judge. I have need of a fresh eye, of unprejudiced ears. You know nothing and therefore, since you will not know what is important, you will have no temptation to hide anything. Come, now, we will go up and see my wife. What you need is a good supper and a good bed. Tomorrow, I will tell you all you need to know if you are to move safely in your new environment.'
Marianne only nodded, defeated but not resigned. As she followed her persecutor up the narrow private staircase leading from the next room which connected the office with the duchess's apartment, she was thinking already that she would take the first opportunity that offered to run away from this house where she was being sent. After that the choice would be hers. She could either throw herself at the feet of the divorced Empress and beg for her protection, or she could take the first diligence into Auvergne to find her cousin, even if she did turn out to be mad. Better a well-disposed mad woman than an over-intelligent man. Marianne was beginning to feel a hearty dislike for the world of men. It was a selfish, ruthless and cruel world. Woe to her who tried to fight it.
CHAPTER NINE
The Ladies of the Hotel Matignon
As she followed the imposing servant in white wig and livery of mulberry and grey up the great white
