marble staircase, Marianne looked dazedly about her and wondered if she had not been brought to some royal palace by mistake. Never, in all her life, had she seen a house like this. It left the ponderous magnificence of Selton Hall far behind, and seemed stern, almost rustic in comparison with the light, graceful elegance of eighteenth century France.
Here, it was all tall mirrors, delicate, gilded scroll work, pale, heavy silks, exquisite Chinese porcelain and thick carpets, softer than smooth lawns underfoot. Outside, the dismal, grey December rain was still deluging Paris persistently. But in here one could forget the dreadful weather. It was as though the house had its own private source of light. And how pleasantly warm it was.
They mounted the stairs slowly, with the dignity befitting a noble household. Marianne's eyes riveted themselves on the solemn workings of the servant's large white calves but her mind was busy going over Fouche's last advice. Now and then, her hand went to her reticule to feel the letter he had given her, a letter written by a woman whom she had never seen but who had written a most moving letter to her dear friend the Princess of Benevento, praising her young friend Marianne Mallerousse's talent as a reader in the most affecting terms. This seemed to be just one example of the magic that could be worked by a Minister of Police.
You will be sure of a welcome, Fouche had told her. The Countess Sainte Croix is an old friend of Madame Talleyrand. They have known one another since the days when she was still Madame Grand with a reputation somewhat less – er, impeccable than it is today. Indeed, your own birth is considerably higher than that of the princess who, however, now bears one of the greatest names in France. This was said no doubt to reassure her. But it did not prevent Marianne from feeling an icy prickle of sweat run down her spine as the great doors, bearing above them the legend
A wave of moist, scented air hit her in the face. Roused from her thoughts, Marianne became aware that the large, purple lackey had given way to a lady's maid in a pink and grey striped dress and lace cap and that she had been introduced into an elegant bathroom with windows giving on to extensive gardens.
A great cloud of fragrant steam was rising from an enormous bath, like a sarcophagus of pink marble, with solid gold taps in the shape of swans' necks. Emerging from the steam, was a woman's head, enveloped in an immense turban and resting on a cushion. Two lady's maids glided like shadows about the exquisite mosaic floor representing the Rape of Europa, bearing armfuls of linen and an assortment of vessels. The walls were lined with mirrors which multiplied to infinity the slender, pink marble columns supporting the ceiling with its painted design of cupids and scenes from mythology. In a corner, beside an enormous vase of flowers standing on the floor itself, a small day-bed upholstered in the same gold shot taffeta as the curtains, awaited the bather. Marianne felt as though she had been suddenly transported inside a large pale pink shell but, in her walking dress, she was instantly far too hot.
She blinked at the extravagance and unaccustomed luxury. Nothing could have been less like the small and primitive toilet arrangements of Madame Fouche.
The woman in the turban, whose face was invisible under a thick mask of greenish jelly, said something Marianne did not catch and pointed languidly to a low stool. Marianne sat down nervously.
'Her highness the princess begs you to wait a moment,' one of the maids said in a whisper. 'She will not be long.'
Marianne turned her eyes away modestly while the waiting women fussed about the bath tub with a great white linen bath sheet and countless small towels. A few moments later, minus her herbal mask and wrapped in a dressing gown of white satin deeply frilled with lace, Madame Talleyrand came to meet Marianne.
'You must be the young person Madame Sainte Croix was speaking about last evening? Have you her letter?'
With a little curtsey, Marianne held out the paper sealed with green wax that Fouche had given her. The princess opened it and began to read while Marianne studied her new mistress curiously. Fouche, in describing the wife of the former bishop of Autun, had revealed her age, which was forty-seven. But there was no denying that she did not look it. Catherine de Talleyrand-Perigord was still a very beautiful woman. Tall and Junoesque, with wide, artless blue eyes under thick dark lashes, a mass of warm gold, naturally curly hair, plump lips, parted to show small perfect teeth, a prettily arched nose and charming smile, she had everything a woman could ask for, in a physical sense at least, for her mind was by no means equal to her looks. Without being as stupid as her numerous rivals claimed, she had a kind of naivety which, joined to great depths of vanity, made her an easy target for ill-natured criticism. If she had not been so lovely, no one would have understood why Talleyrand, the most subtle and accomplished man of his time, should have burdened himself with her and there were few women in Paris more derided. Napoleon himself openly detested her and her husband, tired of her childish prattle, barely spoke to her, although this did not prevent him making quite sure that she was treated with proper respect.
The princess's reading of the letter and Marianne's examination of her finished at the same time. The princess glanced up at the girl and smiled.
'I am told that you are of good family, although not bearing a noble name, and that you have received an excellent education. Madame Sainte Croix says that you read well, sing and speak several languages. Altogether, you must certainly do credit to my house. I can see for myself that you are pretty and have considerable natural elegance, I am pleased to say. Your duties here will be very light. I read little but I am fond of music. You will generally bear me company but, when we are together, you will take care to keep always five paces behind me. My name and rank are of the highest and I make it a point to insist on proper respect.'
'Very natural, I am sure.' Marianne smiled, amused by the innocent anarchy of this speech. Fouche had not exaggerated.
Madame Talleyrand might be an excellent creature but she was inordinately proud of being a princess.
'You may go now,' the princess told her graciously. 'I will send for you later. My maid, Fanny, will show you your room.'
Marianne was dismissed with an aristocratic wave of her hand, but the haughtiness of the gesture was softened by the kindness of the smile that accompanied it. Marianne decided that the princess seemed on the whole good natured as well as pretty and this only added to her discomfort. If Madame Talleyrand could only have guessed what the person she welcomed so readily had come to do! No, Marianne felt that she was by no means suited to her employment and, if she could not manage to make her escape as quickly as she should like, she would take care to say as little as possible to her dangerous employer, if anything at all. She was about to withdraw when the princess called her back.
'Wait, child! I must have some idea of your wardrobe. We have company to dine four times a week and entertain most evenings, to say nothing of the Christmas festivities that will soon be on us. I cannot tolerate anything unsuitable in your appearance.' Marianne blushed. The neat clothes she had bought in Brest with the help of Madame de Guilvinec had seemed to her very elegant until today, but, since setting foot in this princely mansion, she had been conscious that she must look very simple.
'I have what I'm wearing, your highness, and two other dresses, one of black velvet, the other green wool—'
'That will not do at all! Especially since the one you are wearing makes you look as though you were dressed in the livery of the house, which is the same colour. Come with me to my bedroom.'
Leaning on the arm of Marianne, who was both amused and embarrassed by this sudden familiarity, the princess swept majestically into a vast chamber adjoining the bathroom. Here, as in the temple of beauty next door, all was pink and gold and the swan reigned supreme, in gilded bronze, on the arms of the chairs and in allegorical paintings. A handsome canopied bed shared pride of place with an enormous cheval mirror flanked by a pair of gilded lamp brackets. All else was buried under an endless sea of open or closed boxes of all sizes and every conceivable colour. Among them, four people stood to attention. Three were women, the first two evidently shopkeeper's assistants, the third a massive female compressed into a garment of apple green quilting with gold frogs, and crowned with a towering edifice of green taffeta and white Mechlin lace.
The fourth person was a chubby little man, rather like a perky sparrow, though at present his chest was puffed out like a pouter pigeon with his own importance. His face was rouged and powdered and he wore an elaborately curled wig that was clearly meant to increase his height. His bow at the princess's entrance would
