Marianne

'Do you know what he said to Madame de Montmorency the other day? It was rather good, I must admit.'

'Good heavens, no! Do tell us!'

'You know the Emperor wanted to make Montmorency a count and his wife objected on the score that it was by no means good enough for his illustrious family. 'Sire,' she said, 'we are the first barons of Christendom.' But the Emperor only laughed and told her: 'I know that, madame, but you do not seem to me a good enough Christian.''

'He can be witty when he likes,' Dorothee said thoughtfully. 'Even so, I should prefer not to be obliged to serve his wife. Fortunately, it has not happened yet.'

The words reached Marianne only faintly through the mist of anxiety which beset her. She was scarcely listening, but Madame Kielmannsegg had won her point and recovered Madame de Perigord's attention. In any case, two other guests, the Count de Chastenay and M. de la Tour du Pin had joined the group and Marianne was sufficiently recovered to try and examine her situation. Such was her fear of what might happen that she scarcely dared to turn her eyes in the direction where she had seen the American. For Talleyrand knew already that she was an emigree returned illegally to France but now he would learn her real identity, and that she was a murderess. Marianne felt her heart sink within her at the memory of those words heard through the mist that night on the Barbican at Plymouth. She could hear them still: 'She'll not escape the gallows for long—' And the shudder which had run through her then seized her once more. The old fear that had been with her for so long and which she had thought herself free at last returned as sickeningly as ever. This Beaufort hated her. She had refused to submit to his whim after he had possessed himself of her fortune, instead, she had rejected him with horror and he meant to avenge himself by delivering her up to the hangman.

Suddenly, the splendid room, the fashionable throng, even the music seemed to melt away and Marianne was as cold as if she had been miraculously transported out of doors into the snow that was beginning to fall. Tears pricked at her eyes. It was no good. She had thought in vain to escape from that dreadful night which had destroyed her life but, mercilessly, inexorably, the night had overtaken her again. The brief, cherished dream of devoting her whole life to singing, of living for herself and doing with her life exactly what she liked, was melting away just when it was almost within her grasp. She had such high hopes of this evening and now, once again, it was a man who would bring it all to ruin. What should she do, she wondered. Throw herself at Talleyrand's feet and tell him her story, her whole story, then beg him to protect her and help her stay in France? Remembering the effect her story had produced on the old duc d' Avaray, Marianne had no great wish to repeat the experience. She could never find a man to believe her because the truth of her story was an affront to their image of themselves.

She cast a fearful glance around, looking for Beaufort's tall figure but did not see him. She did hear Talleyrand's slow drawl, however, not far away in a group which had formed round the university Grand Master, M. de Fontanes, who was once more holding forth upon his favourite subject, M. de Chateaubriand and all his works, and, in particular, his most recent publication, Les Martyrs. The book had met with considerable public success and, at the same time some violent opposition. Attracted by his gentle, academic tones, Marianne drew nearer with some idea of exchanging a quiet word with Talleyrand, who was standing quite close to the speaker watching him with a faint, mocking smile. The prince was accused of being an amoral cynic, with a strong disregard of convention. Perhaps he would be less shocked than she had imagined by the idea that she had killed a man.

'I maintain that Les Martyrs is a fine book and I cannot understand, my dear prince,' Fontanes was saying, 'why you should pour scorn on one of the most remarkable works of our time.'

'My dear Fontanes, M. de Chateaubriand bores me,' Talleyrand drawled. 'The hermit of the Valley of the Wolves seems very much inclined to regard himself as God, or possibly Moses. One would think him the only man capable of telling the world what a martyr was.'

'That is a little hard. I confess to being much moved myself by the beauty and imagery of sentiments. I am particularly fond of the excellent scene where Eudora and Cymodoceus are to be devoured by the wild beasts.'

'So is the book,' Talleyrand said dryly. 'But now, forget your idol for a while, my friend, and come and listen to a little music. Myself, I think it soothes the savage beasts infinitely better than M. Chateaubriand, eh?'

At once a general drift began towards the music room and Marianne was obliged to give up her hope of speaking to the prince. She had no choice but to follow the rest, since she was to sing, but she had the unpleasant conviction that she would not be able to produce a single note. She was bound for irrevocable disaster. But then, since all was in any case lost, perhaps there was no need to add to her troubles with a public execution, and cover herself with ignominy before all these people? Standing by the big double doors, she allowed the crowd to flow past her and then turned away. She would go up to her room first and fetch a cloak, then get someone to call her a cab and order it to take her to the rue de la Grange Bateliere. She would wait there for Dorothee de Perigord, who seemed the one person able to protect her.

But the movement was never finished. The tall figure of the American rose suddenly before her, barring her way to the door.

'And where are you off to?' he said, taking her arm. 'The music room is this way. And it seems you are to sing for us?'

The tone was as natural as if they had met the day before but its very ordinariness struck terror into Marianne, who thought she read into it the most dire threats. She sought to release her arm and tried to bluff her way out.

'I beg you will release me, sir. I do not know you—'

He laughed, showing a glimpse of dazzling white teeth, but his grip on his prey did not slacken.

'My dear Mademoiselle Mallerousse – is it? – where did you learn such falsehoods? And, by the way, where did you pick up that name? It is really quite appalling.'

'Appalling or no, it suits me and I beg you again to release me. We have nothing to say to one another —'

'You think not? It seems to me we have a great deal to say to one another. And so, my dear Marianne I shall not let you go. And while I think of it, if you did not wish to be recognized, there were one or two little things you should have changed, your eyes, your hair, your face, your figure – as I said, I will not let you go except to the pianoforte which awaits you and not even then unless you will give me your solemn promise of a few minutes private conversation.'

'See you alone? Here? But where? That is quite impossible.'

'You have a room—'

'The princess's apartments are close by. My reputation—'

'Ah, yes, to be sure, you cherish it do you not?' Beaufort said with irony. He gave her a wolfish grin. 'Then think of somewhere else. But think fast. People will start to wonder why I'm holding on to you as though I'd caught you picking my pocket.'

Marianne cast desperate eyes at the window. Never had she felt so helpless. The man was a devil! Suddenly, she remembered the little summer-house at the end of the garden. It was known as M. de Matignon's Petit Trianon and was hardly ever used.

'After supper, when the gaming tables are set up,' she murmured quickly. 'Meet me at the bottom of the garden.'

'In this weather? You know its snowing?'

'I thought you were a sailor,' Marianne retorted scornfully. 'Are you afraid of snow?'

'Not for myself, only for your pretty feet, my dear,' he answered with a slight bow. 'But if you are prepared to brave the elements—'

'Unless you prefer cards,' Marianne sneered. 'You are a whist player of some skill, I believe.'

She found it gave her courage to be rude to him, although the worst of her terror had already left her. She was beginning to think that all might not be lost. The fact that he should wish to see her alone suggested that he had something more to say. Now, everything would depend upon the price of his silence and what that price might be, Marianne preferred not to think.

But Jason Beaufort had no mind to let her off so lightly. Releasing his grip on her arm, he nicked the ruffles at his throat with a faintly old-world gesture.