Marianne

her knees.

'Sire,' she said in a low voice, 'let me tell you the whole story and then you can judge fairly—'

Fouche, clearly anxious at the turn events were taking, made an attempt to intervene.

'All this is ridiculous,' he began but a sharp, 'Silence!' from the Emperor cut him short. Marianne went on.

'My name is Marianne d'Asselnat de Villeneuve. My parents died under the guillotine and I was brought up in England by my aunt, Lady Selton. A few months ago, I was married to a man whom I believed then, I loved. It was a terrible mistake. On the very night of my wedding, my husband, Francis Cranmere, staked everything I possessed at cards and lost. He staked my honour also. And so – I killed him!'

'Killed him?' Josephine's horrified exclamation was not altogether unadmiring.

'Yes, madame – killed him in a duel. I know it may seem strange for a woman to fight a duel, but I was brought up like a boy – and had no one left but myself to defend my name and my honour. My aunt had died a week earlier. After that, I was obliged to flee. I had to leave England where I had nothing to look forward to but the hangman's noose. I managed to make my way to France by means of a smuggling vessel – and there, to save me from the laws against returning emigres, his grace the Duke of Otranto offered me a post as reader to Madame de Talleyrand and at the same time—'

'To render some small services to himself!' The Emperor finished for her. 'It does not surprise me. Never do anything for nothing, do you Fouche? I think you had better tell me how you came to be offering your protection to an emigre returning to the country illegally.'

Fouche's faint sigh of relief had not escaped Marianne. 'It is very simple, sire,' he began. 'It happened this way—'

'Later, later—'

The Emperor had resumed his pacing up and down but much more slowly now. With his hands clasped behind him and his head sunk forward on his chest, he seemed to be thinking. The kindly Josephine took advantage of this to raise Marianne from her knees and make her sit down once more. She wiped the girl's tear- drenched eyes with her own handkerchief and, calling her daughter Hortense who, alone of her entourage, had been present at the scene, asked her to send for a warm drink for Marianne.

'Tell them to prepare a bath and dry clothes, and a room – I am keeping Mam'zelle d'Asselnat with me!'

'Your majesty is very kind,' Marianne said with a sad little smile, 'but I should prefer to go. I should like to rejoin my wounded companion. We were to leave together, tomorrow, for America. His ship waits for him at Nantes.'

'You will do as you are told, mademoiselle,' Napoleon told her shortly. 'Your fate, I think, is not in your own hands. We have not yet done with you. Before you leave for America, you shall have some more explaining to do.'

Explain what, my God? Marianne thought. What a fool she had been to plunge into this wasp's nest in order to save him, or rather, to see him, even for an instant, because she still hoped for something, though for what she could not have said. Perhaps for some return of the other night's tenderness? No, that hard, clipped voice told her all too clearly that she had never meant anything real to him. He was cold and heartless! But then, why did he have to have such a hold on her?

'I am your majesty's to command,' she murmured with death in her heart. 'Command me, sire, and I will obey.'

'I should hope so. Accept the clothes and hot water her majesty is good enough to offer you, but hurry! You must be ready to go with me to Paris within the hour.'

'Sire,' Fouche offered graciously, 'I can easily take charge of Mademoiselle. I am returning to Paris and I can set her down in the rue de Varenne.'

His willingness to oblige earned the Duke of Otranto a swift, angry glare.

'When I need your advice, Fouche, I shall ask for it. Off you go, mademoiselle, and be quick.'

'May I at least know what has become of my companion?' She asked with a measure of determination.

'In the Emperor's presence, Mademoiselle,' Napoleon retorted, 'you need concern yourself with no one but yourself. Matters are already sufficiently black for you. Do not make them worse.'

But it would take much more than Napoleon's anger to make Marianne desert a friend.

'Sire,' she said in a tired voice, 'even one under sentence of death has the right to care of a friend. Jason Beaufort was hurt trying to save you and—'

'And in your view, my behaviour is thoroughly ungrateful? Don't worry, Mademoiselle, your American friend is not seriously hurt. A ball in the arm, and I daresay not the first. Captain Trebriant is at this moment looking for the carriage he says he left on the road. After which, he will go quietly back to Paris.'

'In that case, I want to see him!'

Napoleon's fist smashed down on a fragile lemonwood table with such force that it broke beneath the blow.

'Who dares to say 'I want' to me! Enough! You will see this man only with my permission and when I think fit! Fouche, since you are so keen on acting as escort, you may see to this Beaufort—'

The Minister of Police bowed and with an ironical glance, accompanied by a discreet shrug of the shoulders, he took leave and withdrew.

She watched him as he went through the door, round-shouldered and beaten. It was a sight that should have given her pleasure but the man whose anger she had just witnessed was too far removed from the charming Charles Denis. She understood now why they called him the Corsican ogre! But, for all her present fury, Marianne could not pretend to herself that she did not like that masterful tone.

Josephine had watched this scene without interfering. But when Fouche had gone she rose and took Marianne's arm where she stood rooted to the spot.

'Obey, child. One must never cross the Emperor – whatever his commands.'

Marianne's eyes, still flaming with revolt, met Josephine's sad, gentle ones. Despite her own love for Napoleon, she could not help feeling drawn to this lonely woman who was so kind to her and seemed to give no thought of the strangeness of her situation. She did her best to smile and then, bending quickly, placed her lips on the pale hand of the dethroned Empress.

'I obey you, madame.'

The Emperor gave no sign of hearing this final piece of defiance. He stood with his back to the two women, staring out of the window and twisting the fringe of a gleaming watered silk curtain nervously between his fingers. Without another word, Marianne dropped a curtsey to Josephine and followed the maid summoned by Queen Hortense. As she went, she wondered if there would ever come a time when she would be able to choose her own clothes and not be obliged to borrow from all and sundry.

***

Half an hour later, wearing a dress and coat belonging to Madame de Recusant, the former Empress's lady-in-waiting who was more or less the same size as herself, Marianne took her place with drooping head and heavy heart in the Imperial berlin. She was not even conscious of the amazing honour done her. For her, it meant nothing because she cared not whether the ill-humoured little man who sat next to her were Emperor or not. Since he did not love her, she would a hundred times have preferred any stranger. The burning memories of Butard lay between them a source of hideous anguish now, which only increased her pain and wretchedness. The man she loved had changed suddenly into some kind of judge, as icy and indifferent as justice itself. Any fears she might have of the journey which lay ahead were because she knew what power this ruthless man possessed to make her suffer.

She had said her thanks and farewells to Josephine and the gentle Creole had made her promise to come and visit her again while, at the same time, casting an appealing glance at the Emperor which he pretended not to see. But even this evidence of kindness had failed to comfort Marianne. This, she did not doubt, was the last stage in her ordeal. Tomorrow, she would try and find Jason and go away with him at last. But for tonight, she did not even wonder what Napoleon meant to do with her.