have done no discredit to a dancing master and his capers appeared to Marianne irresistibly funny. The princess, however, instantly released her hold on Marianne's arm and descended on the ludicrous little creature with outstretched hands.
'Ah, my dear, dear Leroy! You have come! And in this appalling weather! How can I ever thank you.'
'I could not fail to deliver your highness's gowns for the Christmas season in person – and I can confidently say we have performed miracles.'
With the air of a conjurer producing rabbits out of a hat, he drew from the various boxes a succession of dazzling gowns, cashmere shawls, scarfs and sashes, while the large green lady, who was none other than Mademoiselle Minette, famous as the purveyor of exquisite lingerie, released a cascade of gossamer shifts, embroidered and lace-trimmed underskirts, veils and the rest. Suddenly, Marianne forgot her private griefs and found herself enjoying this refreshingly frivolous scene with wholly feminine pleasure. Besides, the little Leroy was really very funny.
For a while, Madame Talleyrand forgot her new reader in overwhelming the little man in a quite incredible flood of compliments and civilities, compliments that were very well deserved because the contents of the boxes were marvellous indeed. Gazing in open-eyed wonderment, Marianne forgot the absurdity of his person. Ignorant as yet that the little man was in fact the great Leroy, couturier to the Empress herself, and whose creations were sought avidly by the entire court and even by the whole of Napoleonic Europe, she was amazed that such a person should be capable of creating these fragile works of art. There was one dress in particular, of almond green satin oversown with crystal drops in strange, underwater patterns, that dazzled her utterly. It seemed to shimmer all over, as though with dew, and Marianne found herself dreaming of how wonderful it would be if she were one day to own such a dress. She was just putting out a timid hand to touch the shimmering stuff when she was startled by a loud indignant exclamation from the couturier.
'Her highness wishes me to dress her reader? Me? Leroy? Oh – I'd die!'
Before Marianne had time to feel wounded by the little man's protests, peremptory hands had swung her round on her heels, her bonnet strings were untied and the bonnet itself sent flying into a corner. The young lady assistants hurried to the rescue and whipped off her coat, while Madame Talleyrand expostulated with an indignation at least equal to Leroy's:
'She is
There was a thoughtfulness in the couturier's olympian eye as he came and stood before Marianne. He studied her from all angles, walking slowly round her as though observing a monument.
'Take off that frightful dress!' he commanded finally. 'It positively reeks of the provinces.'
Before she could utter so much as a gasp, Marianne found herself standing in her shift and petticoat. Instinctively, she brought up her arms to cover her breast but let them fall again at a sharp tap from Leroy.
'When one has a bosom like yours, mam'zelle, not merely does one not hide it, one displays it, one sets it like a rich jewel! Her highness is right. You are ravishing, even though unfinished as yet. But I can predict that you will be more than beautiful – such a figure! Such hair! Such legs! Ah, the legs, in the present fashion the legs are everything. The gowns reveal them in a way that is almost indiscreet – which reminds me,' turning to the princess, 'has your highness heard? The marquise Visconti, believing her thighs somewhat too well-developed, has got Coutaud to make her a pair of laced stays which she wears one on each leg like corsets! Too absurd! Everyone will think she has wooden legs! But there, she is the most obstinate woman of my acquaintance.'
The princess and the couturier embarked on an exchange of gossip while Mam'zelle Minette shook out a wrap trimmed with broderie anglaise and narrow lavender blue ribbon and laid it over her armchair. But, though he chattered on, Leroy was by no means idle. He took careful note of Marianne's measurements and in the interval of a particularly scandalous story, called out the figures to one of his assistants who copied them gravely into a note book. When it was done and Marianne was still dazed by his flow of words, he told her sharply to get dressed and then asked:
'What should I make for mademoiselle?'
'A complete wardrobe – and you too, Mademoiselle Minette. She has nothing! And I would have something sent round for this evening. There will be a dinner and an evening party.'
Leroy raised his arms to heaven.
'This evening? But it is quite impossible!'
'I thought there was no such word in your vocabulary, Leroy.'
'No, indeed, in the general way, your highness. But if your highness would care to remember, I am overwhelmed with orders and—'
'I want a dress this evening.'
For a moment, it seemed to Marianne that the couturier would burst into tears but then one of the young ladies bent forward and murmured something into his ear. His face cleared.
'Ah! Perhaps! Mam'zelle Palmyre reminds me that we have one little white dress, simple but utterly charming, that has been ordered by her grace the Duchess of Rovigo but which perhaps—'
'Have the white dress sent round,' the princess ordered without more ado. 'I hope you would not hesitate between that woman and myself! Now, let us see your new creations. Fanny, take Mademoiselle Marianne to her room.'
Marianne found herself trotting breathless and astonished behind the maid, having had no time even to thank the eccentric princess who five minutes after engaging her, was ordering her a complete wardrobe from the most fashionable designer in Paris as though it was the most natural thing in the world. She actually wondered if she could be dreaming and very nearly pinched herself to make sure. But, since the dream was on the whole an agreeable one, she decided to make it last as long as possible. It was all very strange! She had come here, full of shame and dark suspicions, almost fearful of finding herself in the midst of some horrid adventure like those recounted by another of her favourite authors, Mrs Radcliffe, and so far the talk had been of nothing but satins and lace!
She thought suddenly of the report she was to write for Fouche that very night. A beginning full of vain gossip and furbelows. She wished she could see his face when he read Monsieur Leroy's story about the Marquise Visconti's leg corsets! But, in the long run, if she could make him believe that she was good for nothing but retailing useless patter, it would be all for the best. In that way, she would be betraying no one and Fouche might eventually tire.
Fanny had gone away, closing the door behind her, and Marianne was left in a small, bright room in a corner of the main building to which her few belongings had already preceded her. As she took possession of her new apartment, she surprised herself by humming a tune which she had heard whistled by a boy in the street that morning. She paused, amazed that all at once she should feel so light-hearted. It was the first time she had sung at all since Aunt Ellis's death. In fact, though, this sudden new euphoria was no more than the normal reaction of a healthy young person, a faithful reflection of the situation of finding herself comfortably settled in this elegant household after the terrors she had lived through and the deadful places in which she had found herself. After the furies of the Channel, Morvan's decaying manor house, the rattling of the diligence and the horrors of St Lazare, these dainty furnishings, painted blue and grey in the style made fashionable by the late Directory, and the walls hung with one of the brand new figured designs from M. Oberkampf's establishment at Jouy-en-Josas, were restfulness itself. Marianne resumed her singing with a clear conscience.
Outside were the cold, the wet and the mud, and outside also the perilous shades of Morvan and Jean Le Dru. But neither would come to seek her beneath the roof of the vice-grand-elector of the Empire and for that Marianne said a mental word of thanks to Joseph Fouche. Now, of the two of them, it remained to be seen who would prove the shrewder. Since he meant to make use of her, it seemed to Marianne quite fair to pay him back in his own coin. He could hardly force her to pick locks or steam open letters and by the time he finally discovered she was no use to him, she would be far away.
'Quanto e bella giovinezza
Che sen fugge tuttavia
Di doman non v'a certazza…'
