Marianne and The Masked Prince

for some moments had been studying Marianne's beautiful pale face with some intentness, approached and clicked his heels. Marianne, her eyes closed, was leaning back against the wall, paying no attention to the discussion.

'Allow me to present myself: Prince Clary und Aldringen, special envoy of his Majesty the Emperor of Austria. I have taken two rooms in this hostelry: the lady will do me a favour by accepting one…'

Jolival was bowing stiffly as this speech was interrupted by an exclamation from Robineau.

'Mon Dieu! Milor' returns so soon! I understood milor' to be dining at the palace?'

The Austrian prince laughed easily. He was a tall man in his early thirties with a fine-boned, intelligent face surmounted by thick fair hair.

'Well, my good landlord, I am afraid you will have to find me something to eat. I do not dine at the palace because there is no dinner at the palace for anyone.

'Has the cook committed suicide?' inquired Jolival with a smile.

'No, indeed. The whole court was actually assembled in the great salon ready to go in when Marshal Duroc came to tell us their majesties had retired to their own apartments – and there would consequently be no dinner. But if I was cursing a moment ago, now I bless the unexpected turn of events which has allowed me to be of some small service to madame.'

The last words were addressed, of course, to Marianne who, oblivious of the gallantry implied, did not even remember to thank him. One thing only had she grasped from what the Austrian had said and the question it raised in her mind impelled her to ask:

'Their majesties have retired? Does that mean – but surely —' The words died on her lips, but Clary was laughing again.

'I fear it does. It appears that the Emperor's first action was to inquire of his uncle, Cardinal Fesch, if he were truly married – that is, whether the proxy wedding in Vienna made the Archduchess lawfully his wife.'

'And?' Marianne's throat was dry.

'And the Emperor informed the – the Empress that he would shortly do himself the honour of visiting her in her apartments. He merely wanted time to take a bath.'

Every vestige of colour drained from Marianne's face.

'So —' Her voice was so hoarse that the Austrian glanced at her with surprise and Arcadius with alarm.

'So their majesties retired and I promptly came here to your service, madame – but how pale you are! You are not ill? You, Robineau, let your wife at once conduct this lady to my own room, it is the best in the house… Good God!'

This last exclamation was caused by Marianne who, drained of her last ounce of strength by the blow which he had unwittingly dealt her, had suddenly swayed and would have fallen if Jolival had not caught her in time. A moment later, carried by Clary and preceded by Madame Robineau in a starched muslin cap and armed with a large brass candlestick, Marianne ascended the well-polished staircase of the Grand-Cerf in a state of total unconsciousness.

***

When, some fifteen minutes later, she emerged from this blissful state, Marianne found herself looking at two faces side by side. One was Arcadius's mouse-like countenance, the other, which was highly-coloured and surmounted by a lofty cap from which some wisps of brown hair escaped, belonged to a woman. Seeing that Marianne had opened her eyes, the woman ceased bathing her temples with vinegar and observed with satisfaction that 'that was better now'.

To Marianne it did not seem in the least better, worse if anything. She was frozen to the marrow yet every now and then she felt bathed in great waves of heat, her teeth were chattering and there was a vice tightening on her head. Even so, the returning memory of what she had heard was enough to make her try and spring up from the bed where they had laid her fully dressed.

'I must go!' she said, trembling so much as she spoke that she could hardly get the words out. 'I want to go home, at once!'

Arcadius put both hands on her shoulders and forced her to lie down again.

'Out of the question. Ride back to Paris in this weather? It would be the death of you, my dear. I am no doctor but I know a little of the subject. I can tell from your flushed cheeks that you have a temperature —'

'What does that matter? I cannot stay here! Can't you hear it – the music, the singing, the fireworks? Can't you hear the whole city going mad with joy because the Emperor has bedded the daughter of his greatest enemy?'

'Marianne, I beg you —' Arcadius was looking at her haggard face in alarm.

Marianne gave a strident peal of laughter that was painful to hear. Brushing Arcadius aside, she jumped off the bed and ran to the window. With a furious gesture she flung back the curtain and stood holding on to it, looking out at the brightly-lit palace which stared challengingly back across the wet and empty square. Inside that building Napoleon was holding that Austrian woman in his arms, possessing her as he had possessed Marianne, murmuring perhaps the self-same words of love… Rage and jealousy combined with the fever in her already burning head to torment her with the flames of hell. Her memory recalled with ruthless clarity all her lover's ways, the way he looked – oh, if she could only see through those bland, white walls, if she could only know which of those shuttered windows hid that betrayal of love in which Marianne's own heart was the victim!

'Mio dolce amore —' she muttered through clenched teeth. 'Mio dolce amore! Is he saying that to her, too?'

Arcadius had not dared to go to her or touch her, fearing that in her delirium she would begin to scream aloud. Now he spoke softly to the horrified landlady.

'She is very ill. Fetch a doctor, quickly.'

The woman did not need telling twice. She whisked herself off down the passage in a flurry of starched petticoats while very quietly, one step at a time, Jolival approached Marianne. She did not even see him. Standing taut as a bowstring, and staring with dilated eyes at the great, white building, it seemed to her suddenly as if the walls were made of glass, enabling her to see right into that inner room where, beneath a canopy of gold and purple velvet, an ivory body lay embracing another whose plump flesh was overlaid with tints of rose. In that moment of crucified agony, nothing existed for Marianne save the picture of a love scene which her imagination conjured up the more vividly because the reality had so often been hers, Arcadius, standing within an arm's length of her, heard her murmur:

'How can you kiss her as you kissed me? Yet, the lips are your own. Have you forgotten indeed? You cannot – you cannot love her as you loved me. Oh no, I implore you – do not hold her so close! Let her go... She will bring you bad luck, I know it. I can tell. Remember how the wheel broke on the steps of the wayside shrine. You cannot love her – no, no – NO!'

She uttered one, brief, heartbroken cry, then sank to her knees beside the window, racked by shuddering sobs. Even so, the tears released the nervous tension which had so alarmed Arcadius so that now he found himself trembling with relief.

Realizing that he might safely touch her now, he bent and reached out with infinite tenderness to raise her to her feet. Hardly daring to hold the slender form that trembled against his shoulder, he guided her faltering steps towards the bed. She did not resist but suffered herself to be led like a little child, too deep in her own misery to be aware of what was happening. By the time Jolival had her lying on the bed once more, the door had opened to admit Madame Robineau with the doctor. That this should be none other than Corvisart, Napoleon's own doctor, did not surprise Arcadius in the least. After the events of that day, nothing would have had the power to surprise him. None the less, it was a remarkable comfort.

'I was downstairs,' he said, 'sharing a bowl of punch with some friends, when I heard madame here calling for a doctor. Prince Clary was hard on her heels, bombarding her with questions, and it was he who informed me of the invalid's identity. May I ask what the Signorina Maria Stella is doing here and in this condition?'

Frowning severely at the still-sobbing Marianne, the doctor folded his arms and his black-dad bulk seemed to tower over Arcadius. Jolival made a helpless gesture.

'She is your patient,' he said, 'and you must know her a little. She was set on coming —'