someone was standing. A voice spoke brusquely:
'Excellent. Sing again, mademoiselle. Do you know 'Plaisir d'Amour'?'
She looked at him at last. She saw a man of slightly less than average height, and rather fat without being in any way gross or heavy. He was leaning on the mantlepiece, dressed in a black coat, black stock and white kerseymere pantaloons covered, she saw to her astonishment, with black marks that were undoubtedly ink stains. She could even see where he had wiped his pen on them. They ended in knee boots armed with small silver spurs. M. Denis's hands and feet were small and neat but it was his face which held Marianne's attention. She had never seen one like it. In colour, a very pale ivory, it had the classic beauty of a roman mask. His black hair, worn short and straight, fell over his forehead, emphasizing the dark blue, rather deep-set eyes. Those eyes were not easy to meet but their expression was unforgettable. In his hand, M. Denis held a gold and tortoiseshell snuff box whose principal use seemed to be to distribute snuff liberally over his person and everything around him.
'Well?' he said.
Marianne reddened, conscious that she had been staring at him in a way that was scarcely polite and turned her eyes away hastily.
'I do know it, indeed.'
She began to sing the well known tune with a degree of feeling that was beyond her control. Something was happening in the inmost depths of her being, something she did not understand but which made her identify with the music with a passionate intensity of which she would never have believed herself capable. But now, as she sang, she was not afraid to look at M. Denis. She had never felt drawn to any man as she did to him and, unable to hide the feelings which her mobile face betrayed with absolute honesty, she kept her green eyes firmly fixed on the stranger's blue ones so that the words of love in the song seemed to be meant for him alone.
'As long as these slow waters glide
Downstream by the meadow's side,
I will love you…'
But as the plaintive words of the lament fell from her lips, she saw M. Denis slowly abandon his indolent posture, put away the snuff box with an impatient air and gradually draw nearer. His eyes, too, never left her face. He was looking at her intently, looking at her as no man before had ever dared to look at her. And it seemed to her that if that look were suddenly removed, in that instant she would cease to live. Her eyes filled with tears. She could feel her heart beating under the frosted satin of her dress, so strongly that it seemed it must burst. She was happy, troubled and frightened all at once, but she knew that she could go on singing all night long only for the pleasure of having him look at her like that.
When the last note died away, Marianne and M. Denis stood face to face. Still without taking his eyes off her, he snapped his fingers sharply.
'Go, Duroc. And you too, Hassani.'
The friend and the pianist vanished instantly but Marianne had no thought of protest. It was quite natural, in the order of things. In a few minutes this stranger with the ridiculous name had become for her more important than anything in the world and Marianne tried in vain to find a name for the feeling, urgent and primitive, which overwhelmed her. It was as though she had never lived for anything but this moment. Now, she did not even want to know who this man was, whether he was really called Denis, or whether he was some noble, perhaps dangerous person. No, he was there, and all was well.
She stood with her back against the harpsichord, gripping it with cold hands, her bosom rising and falling as she watched him come closer, and closer still. He smiled at her and she felt her heart melt before the charm of that smile.
'When I was a child,' he said confidingly, 'I often wondered what it was Ulysses heard, tied to the mast of his ship, while his companions' ears were stopped with wax. He begged them to untie him so that he might throw himself in the water and swim to the sirens' voices. I know now what he felt.'
The sirens. Jason Beaufort too had likened her to the sirens – what was it he had said? Marianne could not remember exactly. Besides, was there still a Jason Beaufort somewhere? Had he ever existed? Had she herself ever lived before this minute or had she just been born?
In spite of his french name, the strange Monsieur Denis must be a foreigner. He had a slight accent which made her think of Italy. For an instant the thought that he was a foreign conspirator revived but Marianne dismissed it as of no importance. He could be what he liked. She knew already that he had become the most important thing in her life. The great emptiness which had brought her to the brink of accepting the future held out to her by Jason Beaufort was there no more.
Very gently, M. Denis took Marianne's hands and held them in his own, which were warm and firm. He was shocked to find how cold they were.
'You're frozen! Come close to the fire—'
He made her sit on the sofa, then placed himself beside her and drew the table towards them.
'You will eat something?'
'No – please, truly.'
'Don't tell me you aren't hungry. At your age one is always hungry. I used to eat – here, a little of this quail pate, a thimbleful of Chambertin – Chambertin is the king of wines. I never drink anything else. No? This is absurd! You must prefer champagne. Now, a little champagne?'
'I – that is – I have never drunk it,' Marianne said anxiously, watching him fill a crystal glass with sparkling golden wine.
'Then now if ever is the time to begin!' M. Denis told her gaily. 'You will like it. There is not a woman in the world who does not like champagne! It puts a sparkle in the eyes – although,' he added leaning a little closer, 'it is true that yours need no such artifice. I have seen many emeralds not so bright.'
He poured the wine for her as he spoke with the dexterity and attentiveness of a lover. A little nervously, Marianne set her lips to the glass, then she smiled. The wine was cold, sparkling and fragrant – altogether marvellous! Her host was watching her out of the corner of his eye and smiling.
'Well?'
'It is wonderful! May I have a little more?'
'Indeed you may!'
He laughed and refilled her glass. Then he began to eat hungrily and Marianne found herself following his example. All at once the room had become a very warm, cosy place. No sound came from outside. All was muffled by the snow. The two of them might have been alone together in an enchanted palace, or in a warm, hollow shell lost in some immense, petrified forest. Marianne had never felt so happy and contented. She drained her glass and smiled at M. Denis. How nice and gay he was! It crossed her mind that he was in fact rather too gay for a widower, but then perhaps he might not have loved his wife as much as people thought. Or maybe the music had done him good, or – oh, after all, it did not really matter. The champagne inclined Marianne to optimism. Fatigue and nervousness were all forgotten. Her head was full of wild ideas. She wanted to laugh, without knowing why, to sing – even to dance!
'A little more champagne?' M. Denis asked. He had been watching her with a half smile.
'Yes please! I – I should never have believed it could be so good!'
He let her drink half of it then gently took the glass away and moved closer to her.
'That's enough for the present. Tell me your name.'
The sudden intimacy in his voice seemed perfectly natural to Marianne. In a short time, they had become such good friends.
'Marianne. My name is Marianne Ma—'
'No. I want only your first name. The rest I shall learn later if I wish. But a dream should have one name and it is long since I addressed anything so pretty – you are beautiful, Marianne. Your voice enthralled me, but I am enchanted by your beauty.'
'Really?' she said happily. 'Do you really like me? In that case, you must tell me your name. Monsieur Denis is frightful.'
'I know. Call me Charles! You like Charles?'
'I don't care! I shall like it because it is yours!'
