heart. She had hoped that his very features would have become strange to her. But no, she remembered too well even now not to be conscious of the pain.
She saw again the grey eyes with their eternal weariness, the handsome, disdainful mouth that could yet smile with such bewitching charm, the thick fair hair and perfect features – the picture was so clear that Marianne opened her eyes to make it go away but they were misted with tears and she seemed to see him still in the shimmering candlelight, she even thought she heard him laugh as though, having sent him to his death, he still returned defying her to drive him from her mind. Yet Marianne felt no remorse for having killed him. She would do it again if she had to because she could not bear the shame he had brought on her, but she had loved him as a child loves and her heart would not forget.
'You must not cry.' A cool, drawling voice spoke suddenly. 'No one here will hurt you.'
It came to Marianne then that the face she had half glimpsed in the light and taken for the ghost of Francis was quite real. She brushed the tears quickly from her eyes and was able to see him more clearly. He was a man with light-coloured hair which he wore rather long, making a frame for his face. He was very tall with a strong chin and a scornful curl to his lip which gave him a somewhat proud and insolent appearance. High cheek-bones, an impudent retrousse nose and strongly sensual mouth added to the enigmatic character of his face. His skin was very pale and so were the hard, sapphire eyes, seemingly half asleep beneath heavy lids. He was dressed in black which threw up the whiteness of his high cravat and had about him an extraordinary air of quiet power.
Marianne sprang to her feet so quickly that she almost knocked over the candelabra. The man came forward, leaning on the gold-knobbed cane he held. Marianne saw that he walked with a limp and knew, at last, who was before her.
'My lord!' she stammered and then stopped, unable to think of anything to add to this ceremonious beginning.
'You know me then? That is more than I can say of you, eh, mademoiselle?'
He spoke in a slow, deep voice essentially undramatic. It was a voice that seemed to remain always on one level and that, more than anything else, conveyed the perfect measure of its owner's self control.
'Marianne, my lord, Marianne Mallerousse.'
'Marianne? A pretty name, and one that suits you But with your face – and your voice, one is not called Mallerousse, eh?'
Talleyrand had a habit of punctuating his remarks with this interjection It was not so much a question as a little trick acquired in the course of his long career as a diplomat, and one which had the advantage of provoking in his unsuspecting listener a disposition to agree with his previous remark.
'My voice?' Marianne said in a low voice, feeling her heart beating fast.
A wave of the gold-knobbed cane towards a pillar at the shadowy end of the room.
'I have been standing there for some time, listening. As I was passing, just now, I heard you singing but was careful not to show myself. I like to be alone to indulge my admiration.'
He had come very close now and stood a head taller than she, bending on her the hypnotic glance whose power had been felt by so many women. Marianne sank respectfully into a deep curtsey, deliberately pointing the distance that lay between the prince and herself.
'Your serene highness is too kind.'
Her confidence was slowly returning. Far from being overawed by Talleyrand's presence and by the danger which lay in wait for her each moment, Marianne was aware of a sensation of release and a relaxation of tension in finding herself at last face to face with him. He was very much the
He did not bow but gave her his hand to rise before asking softly:
'You are quite sure your name is Mallerousse, eh?'
'Quite sure, my lord. It grieves me if it is not to your Highness's liking.'
'Bah! A name may be changed. A simple accident of birth. One would expect you rather to be a duchess, my dear. But what is such a lovely, unknown nightingale doing in my house?'
'Madame Sainte Croix sent me. I am her Highness's new reader.'
Talleyrand laughed at that.
'It is the world upside down! Old crows associate with birds of paradise! That means you are from Brittany, eh?'
'Indeed. I came by the Brest mail, yesterday.'
'Astonishing! Brittany must have changed a great deal to produce such blooms. I had thought there was nothing there but heather and broom – but their roses are finer than our own. One day, child, you shall tell me your story. I think it would amuse me. Such eyes!'
Pinching Marianne's chin casually between thumb and forefinger, he tilted up her face and gazed earnestly at the light reflected in her green eyes.
'Just like the sea,' he murmured in a soft, dreamy voice. 'The sea has just that colour and sparkle when sunlight plays on it. And such lips—'
The insolent face hovered close to them and Marianne recoiled instinctively flushing with shame at the familiarity which told her clearly just how far she had sunk.
'My lord,' she said sharply, 'Bretonne I may be, but that does not mean—'
He gave a low, sardonic chuckle.
'Wise too? And witty? Surely, Mam'zelle Mallerousse, you have too many talents for a mere reader?'
Marianne bit her lip. She had spoken to him as an equal and regretted it. Fouche had warned her, this man had probably the subtlest mind in the whole Empire. It was perilous to arouse his suspicions. She must be careful not to step outside her part. Yet what if in permitting one kiss, she were to give the prince a title to yet further liberties? The Minister of Police had made no secret of the fact that Talleyrand liked women and had loved many in his time.
'For the present, I kiss your hand, Mam'zelle Mallerousse,' the prince said, deliberately placing a slight emphasis on the name. 'We shall meet again.'
He turned abruptly and Marianne watched him limp away into the shadows. Curiously, that uneven gait gave to his progress a touch of something slow and hesitant that was not ungraceful. Even in his infirmity, the man had charm.
Suddenly, an idea came to her. Had Fouche the Fox really sent her here simply to play her humble part as reader to the princess – or, knowing the prince's fondness for pretty women and confident of the effect of his protegee's beauty, had he intended her for a more intimate role, and one of infinitely greater interest to himself? If that were true, the Minister was more vile even than she had thought. A shudder of disgust ran through her.
Her reflections were cut short by the entry of a lackey bearing two candelabra whose clusters of lighted candles drove away the shadows. Hurriedly putting away the sheets of music, she left the room and made her way upstairs, leaving her gloomy meditations behind her and carrying away like a precious treasure the brand new hope which the old musician had illumined in her heart, the hope of becoming a singer.
The hours slipped away and it was long past midnight before Marianne, wearing a flowing wrapper of white wool with wide sleeves worked in several shades of green which Mademoiselle Minette had delivered to her in the course of the day, seated herself at the small writing table between the window and the fireplace. In one of its drawers she had found a good supply of paper, pens and ink, a sand box and sealing wax. Now, she had to get down to the first of those daily reports which the man who mended the fire was to take away each morning.
It was an uninviting task, quite apart from the revulsion Marianne still felt for the role of spy which had been thrust upon her. She was tired and the white bed with its fine linen sheets, on which some attentive hand had layed out a soft batiste nightgown, was terribly inviting. She longed to get into it and be free to dream her own dreams.
To help clear her thoughts, Marianne drank a glass of water and gazed for a moment at the rose blooming in a crystal vase on the corner of her table, then, with a sigh, she set to work. It was time to close the little window that had opened on the future and address herself to disagreeable reality.
