Duroc will look after you like a father and when you have finished charming our poor friend he will see you taken home in his own carriage.'
'I hope you do not doubt that,' Duroc said with a warm smile, 'and that I do not frighten you, mademoiselle?'
'No – no, not at all,' Marianne replied returning his smile with an effort. She thought he seemed very nice but she was bewildered. Why had Talleyrand not told her he would not be staying with her? He had never behaved in such a way before. However, with his usual subtlety, he must have realized what was going through the girl's head because he leaned on his stick and bent down towards her.
'I feared to alarm you and startle your timidity before you had seen this reassuring fellow! To tell you the whole truth, I wish your voice to be a surprise for my friend Denis. When you hear the sound of his carriage outside, then start to sing – but don't tell him that I am responsible for this pretty surprise.'
'But – why not?' Marianne said bewilderedly. 'If you think it an agreeable surprise, then he must be grateful to you—'
'Exactly. I do not want his gratitude – or not at the moment. He shall know the truth but not just yet. For the present, I want no other feelings, however slight, to interfere with the pure joy that he will have in finding you.'
Marianne understood less and less but she was highly intrigued. What a strange, complicated, mysterious man the prince seemed to be. And why should he think it necessary to speak to her in this rather over-emphatic way, that was so unlike his usual manner? She was grateful to Duroc when, in his own way, he expressed her feelings.
'You have some funny ideas, sometimes, prince. But you would not be yourself if it were not so. Have a safe journey.'
Watching her temporary host go with Talleyrand into the hall, Marianne wondered what could be this Duroc's position in M. Denis' household. Was he a relation? Or merely a friend? Was he perhaps the brother of the lady for whom the mysterious bourgeois was in mourning? No, the green suit made it equally unlikely that he was the dead woman's brother. A cousin perhaps, or a childhood friend entrusted with the running of the house – no, certain mannerisms, a way of holding his head, even the way he walked, the tread of a man more used to boots than pumps, made it certain he was a soldier. Duroc's return interrupted? Marianne's musings. He was accompanied by a superior servant of some kind dressed in black and pushing before him a small table on which a collation was set out. Under his powdered wig, the man's round pink face reflected all the grave solemnity becoming in the servant of a great house. He bowed to Marianne with a touch of condescension which astounded her. This Denis must undoubtedly be some frightful upstart, puffed up with conceit in his luxurious way of life, if even his servants felt entitled to give themselves airs. Like master, like men! M. Denis must be quite intolerable! However, Duroc was saying:
'Put that table in front of mademoiselle, Constant, and then leave us.'
'Am I to serve your—'
'No, no, that will do.' Duroc cut him short hurriedly. 'We will serve ourselves, I tell you—'
The butler retired with dignity but Marianne had not missed the unfinished address and wondered what title he had been on the point of giving Duroc. It seemed to her that, since the mysterious Denis had not yet arrived, she might take advantage of his absence to try and find out a little more about him. She gratefully accepted a cup of soup but refused any other refreshment.
'Should I not be singing when Mr Denis comes in? He cannot find me at table.'
'That is so. But it will be enough to begin when we hear the carriage.'
Marianne glanced at the harpsichord.
'Must I accompany myself?'
'No – no of course not. What am I thinking of? Wait one moment.'
He was showing signs of increasing nervousness. Marianne sipped her soup and smiled inwardly. All things considered, the adventure was proving enjoyable and she was more and more curious to set eyes on this odd bourgeois whose arrival spread such panic in his household. Duroc returned a few moments later accompanied by a thin, austere looking young man with long hair and a dark complexion. Not glancing at Marianne, the young man picked up the roll of music she had brought with her and sat down at the harpsichord. Duroc returned to his guest, looking considerably relieved.
'There, now we are ready. You may give M. Hassani any instructions you wish, but do not look for a reply. He is a mute,' he added in a low voice with a glance at the pianist.
A mute, now? Marianne began to wonder suddenly whether this M. Denis did not bear a false name, hiding something else. The owner of an ill-gotten fortune, perhaps, living luxuriously but discreetly deep in the woods, away from the prying eyes of Fouche's men, or else some noble stranger conspiring against the regime. Fouche had certainly implied that there were some doubts in high places as to Talleyrand's loyalty. There were suggestions that if he had not yet betrayed the Emperor, it would not be long before he did. This simple but unlikely name of M. Denis was almost certainly a cloak for some dangerous character, an agent of the Tsar perhaps, or even of England?
'What do you mean to sing first?' Duroc asked.
'An air by Paer – one I am very fond of.'
'M. Denis will be delighted. He too likes Paer who is, as you probably know, conductor of the court orchestra.'
'Has M. Denis been long in France?' Marianne asked the question point blank but with apparent casualness.
Duroc stared. 'Er – for some time, yes. Why do you ask?'
The sound of a carriage in the gravelled court outside released Marianne from the necessity of a reply which she might have found awkward to make. Instantly, Duroc was on his feet while Marianne hurried over to take up her position by the instrument, her back to the door. The impassive Hassani was already playing the opening bars as Duroc hastened out to the vestibule. All at once, Marianne found herself in the grip of an attack of terrible stage fright. Her hands were icy cold and she had to clasp them tightly to keep them from trembling while an unpleasant shiver ran down her spine. She cast a look of such desperate appeal at the expressionless pianist that he glanced back at her sternly. From outside, came the sound of voices, footsteps – she had to take the plunge or else ruin Talleyrand's great surprise.
Hassani's stern gaze became imperative. Marianne opened her mouth and was wholly astonished to hear her own voice come out, sounding as warm and relaxed as though the terrible fright had not gripped her throat at all.
'Oh joy comes ever slowly,
But fleeteth fast away,
While youth is sad and lonely,
And lives but for a day—'
As she sang, Marianne was aware of a quick step in the tiled hall, a step which stopped short in the doorway of the room. After that, she heard nothing more but she had a piercing sense of someone there, watching her – the strange thing was that, far from making her uncomfortable, his presence seemed to her to release her from some unconscious anxiety, that it was friendly and reassuring. Her fright had flown away as though by magic and Marianne's voice soared forth with a warmth and fullness such as she had never known. Once again, music had come to her rescue. Its power over her was never failing, always fresh and constantly renewed. She let it carry her away, fearless and unresisting, knowing that the love between her and her music was real. There could be no betrayal here. The final words of the song fell like a sigh from the young lips:
'… false flattering hopes are lost
And love alone remains…'
It ended and silence fell. Hassani, eyes lowered, let his hands slip down on to his knees and Marianne felt the spirit go out of her. Feeling suddenly horribly nervous, she dared not turn her head to the fire where she knew
