Marianne

It was rare for Talleyrand to be so lyrical. Marianne's curiosity was aroused. It was very strange, this former hunting lodge, tucked away in a village that, however close now, was certainly well out in the country. Until now, Talleyrand had taken her mostly to fashionable Parisian hostesses such as Madame de la Laval, Dorothee de Perigord, and the ladies of Bellegarde. But this was quite an expedition.

'Will there be much company?' she asked with assumed indifference. 'Who will be there?'

The prince coughed as though pondering his reply but when he spoke his drawling voice was as smooth as glass.

'No indeed, there will not be much company. Before we get there, my dear child, there are one or two things I must tell you. This is no great party. The friend to whom I am taking you is called simply Monsieur Denis —'

Marianne raised one eyebrow in surprise.

'Monsieur Denis? Denis de—'

'Nothing. He is – a bourgeois, very rich and extremely able and also a very old friend from a time when things were – difficult. He is also an unhappy man suffering from a recent cruel bereavement. To some extent, the visit on which I am taking you is one of charity.'

'Dressed like a princess, and in a ball gown at that, to the house of a man in mourning? Surely, I ought to be more soberly dressed?'

'Mourning is in the heart, my dear child, not in the apparel. In the darkness which surrounds him, M. Denis needs to see the dawn. It was my wish that you should be that dawn.'

Something rather too unctuous in the prince's tone increased Marianne's already awakened curiosity. He sounded over enthusiastic and not wholly sincere. Who was this bourgeois person who owned a former hunting lodge and who one visited dressed as though for a ball? She was immediately agog to know more.

'I wonder that your Highness should take so much trouble for a man so far removed from him. Is he really an old friend?'

'Very old,' Talleyrand said quite seriously. 'You would be surprised how many bourgeois I number among my acquaintance, and even among my friends. There are a good many even in the Imperial Court, although dressed up, I grant you, in high-sounding titles.'

'Then why has this M. Denis none?'

'Because such things have no interest for him. He has no need to be count or marquis. He is – himself, and that is enough. Tell me, Mademoiselle Mallerousse, I hope you are not shocked at the thought of singing for a bourgeois?'

She sensed the mocking smile in the shadow of the carriage.

'Of course not,' she murmured. 'I only hope he is not one of those former members of the Convention, a regicide—'

'He would not be my friend,' Talleyrand interrupted her with some severity. 'You may rest easy on that score.'

Under the cover of the fur rug wrapped about their knees, the prince's hand sought Marianne's and held it gently. Lowering his voice to a more confiding tone, he added:

'You will discover that people in this country sometimes do funny things, but never without a reason. What I ask of you this evening is a personal service, a favour, if you like. This man's name is not a noble one, but his heart is and his grief deserving of your sympathies – to the extent of forgetting to mention it to our friend Fouche, eh? He need not know of this visit—'

Marianne's brief uneasiness subsided but curiosity remained, sharper than ever. Although it made little difference to her who she sang for, having promised the prince to do so when it was his wish, she was now impatient to arrive and see what kind of a man this M. Denis could be for the vice grand elector of the Empire to hold him in such regard.

'I am sorry,' she said gently. 'I will be pleased to sing for your poor friend.'

'Thank you.'

The berlin was now climbing quite a steep hill. The horses had slowed down considerably but Lambert, the coachman, was holding them with a sure hand so that they did not slip. The glass in the windows was misting up again and in the well-padded interior of the carriage silence fell again as each relapsed into their own thoughts. Marianne remembered suddenly that as they left the house she had not noticed whether the intolerable black cab was still there but then forgot about it again and her mind turned instead to the mysterious M. Denis. She was glad she was not obliged to mention him in the tiresome daily reports which it was still her painful task to write although, thanks to Talleyrand, they had become a mere formality. But why had Fouche said nothing in reply about the black cab? Unless it belonged to him. After all why not?

White against the black background of the forest, the pavilion of Butard seemed dreaming on the shores of the frozen lake which spread below its terrace. Soft golden light came from its tall windows to lie in bright splashes on the frozen snow. Its low pediment decorated with a relief of a hunting scene loomed out of the night and the woods like an enchanted place. It may have been her sharpened curiosity which made her expect wonders, but Marianne was captivated by it at once.

She scarcely saw the footman in dark livery who lowered the steps for her when the carriage had passed through the gates into the circular forecourt, and she made her way to the open doorway like one in a dream. She stepped into a small entrance hall, decked with flowers and pleasantly warm from a good fire burning in the wide hearth. A staircase vanished into shadows above. But Marianne had no time to look about her very closely. Before her, the footman was opening the door into a blue and white salon with a domed ceiling surrounded by a frieze of cupids playing among the leaves.

The pretty, delicate lacquered furnishings belonged to the previous century. They were upholstered in blue and white striped silk and gave the impression that their chief purpose was as a foil to the huge bunches of iris and pink tulips that were cunningly arranged on all sides. A large baroque mirror over the fireplace gave back a reflection of the room in the light of tall, pink scented candles. Bow windows looked out across the balcony to the frozen lake and causeway running across it. Marianne's eyes had gone straight to the lovely old harpsichord that stood by one of the windows. The wooden floor, covered by a big Beauvais carpet, creaked softly under the pressure of Talleyrand's stick and limping steps. The room was quite empty. But then a door opened and a man appeared.

Thinking that this must be the mysterious M. Denis, Marianne looked at him with interest. He was of medium height, fair and far from good-looking with sharp features and brown eyes that squinted slightly. But his face looked open and intelligent with a naturally kindly expression that appealed to Marianne although she was a trifle taken aback by the bright green clothes for a man supposedly in mourning.

He held out his hand, smiling, and came quickly to meet the new arrivals.

'A positively military punctuality, I declare! How do you do, my dear prince, and so this is the young lady.'

'Yes indeed, my dear Duroc, this is Mademoiselle Mallerousse whose matchless voice you have often heard me praise. Is – M. Denis not yet here?'

'No, not yet,' answered the man addressed as Duroc, 'but he will not be long. In the meantime, I have ordered a light supper for you. I thought you would be cold after your long journey.'

He led Marianne with the utmost politeness to a mauve velvet sofa near the fire and helped her off with her cloak. Slightly overawed by the extreme elegance of her surroundings and also by the unmistakably military bearing of this stranger with the bourgeois name, Marianne submitted in silence. Her confusion at his frankly admiring glances made her drop her eyes so that she missed the glance which he exchanged with Talleyrand. The prince declined to part with his furred overcoat.

'No thank you. Mademoiselle Mallerousse will be glad to warm herself but I must be off.'

Marianne, who was warming her hands at the fire, started.

'What! Is your highness leaving me?'

He crossed over to her and taking one of her hands in both his, dropped a swift kiss upon it.

'I am not leaving, my child, I am entrusting you. I must go back. My old friend the Baroness de Stael has been given permission to travel to America with her son. She passes through Paris tonight. I wish to say goodbye to her and see her off on her journey to Morlaix where her ship is already waiting. But have no fear. My friend