nation of drunkards, not to mention the overeating there will be.'
Marianne did not answer. She found the holiday atmosphere both entertaining and irritating. All up and down the Champs Elysees was a sea of little booths containing attractions of all kinds, tiny open-air theatres, dancing, peepshows and shies. From Marianne's carriage, as from any of the others which had come to view the spectacle, it was possible to overhear an endless succession of vulgar jokes which were a clear indication of the prevailing mood. What had passed at Compiegne was common knowledge and no one doubted that Napoleon was about to lead to the altar a woman whose bed he had been sharing for a week, although the civil ceremony had taken place only the day before at Saint-Cloud.
It was noon and the cannon had been roaring for a good half-hour. At the far end of the long vista of the Champs Elysees, lined with the pale green haze of the young chestnut leaves, the sun fell on the huge triumphal arch made of wood and canvas which had been set up in place of the yet unfinished monument to the glory of the Grande Armee. The imitation arch looked well in the spring sunshine, with its brand new flags and the great bouquet placed there by the workmen, the
The red plumes on the tall shakos of the Grenadier Guards waved all along the route, alternating at the intersections with the red and green cockades of the Chasseurs. Orchestras and bands everywhere were playing the same tune, a popular song called 'Home is where your Heart is' which soon got on Marianne's nerves. It seemed an odd choice for the day when Napoleon was marrying the niece of Marie-Antoinette.
Suddenly, Arcadius's hand, gloved in pale kid, was laid on Marianne's.
'Don't move and don't turn round,' he said softly. 'But I want you to try and take a peep into the carriage that has just drawn up beside us. The occupants are a man and a woman. The woman is a stranger to neither of us but I do not know the man. He has an air of breeding and is very handsome, in spite of a scar on his left cheek – a scar that might have been caused by a sword cut—'
With a supreme effort, Marianne sat still, but her hand trembled under Jolival's. She raised the other to her lips and yawned ostentatiously, as if the long wait for the bridal procession were becoming tedious. Then, slowly and with perfect naturalness, she turned her head very slightly, enough to bring the interior of the neighbouring carriage within her field of vision.
It was a black and yellow curricle, brand new and extremely smart, bearing the obvious signature of Keller, the fashionable coach-builder in the Champs Elysees. There were two people inside. The elderly woman was splendidly dressed in black velvet trimmed with fur, and Marianne was not surprised to recognize her old enemy, Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis. It was the woman's companion, however, who drew her eyes and although her heart missed a beat the cause was not surprise but an unpleasant sensation more akin to revulsion.
This time, there could be no mistake. It was Francis Cranmere and no phantom conjured up by a fevered imagination. Marianne saw the familiar, almost-too-perfect features, set in an expression of perpetual boredom; the stubborn brow and the rather heavy chin supported by the folds of the high, muslin cravat; the powerful body, exquisitely dressed and preserved, as yet, from corpulence by physical exercise. His clothes were a blend of subtle dove-grey shades, relieved by a dramatic black velvet collar.
They must have followed us,' Jolival murmured. 'I will swear they have come for no other purpose. See, the man is looking at you. It is he, is it not? Your husband?'
'It is he,' Marianne agreed. Considering the turmoil within her, her voice was curiously calm. Her proud, disdainful green eyes met and held Francis's grey ones without flinching. She was discovering, agreeably, that now that she was face to face with him in fact, the vague terrors which had haunted her ever since his appearance at the theatre had melted away. It was the sense of some obscure, unspecified menace which had frightened her. She was afraid of the unknown but the prospect of an open fight left her in full possession of her faculties.
She read the mockery on the faces of Francis and his companion but the steadiness of her gaze did not falter. She was conscious of no great astonishment at seeing them together, or at finding the hideous crone dressed up like a duchess. Fanchon was cunning and dangerous, a kind of female Proteus. However, Marianne had no intention of discussing her affairs in front of Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis. Her self-respect would not permit the interference in her life of a woman who had been publicly branded a criminal. She decided that it would be wiser to postpone her desire to be done with Lord Cranmere once and for all.
She was already leaning forward to tell Gracchus-Hannibal, at present lording it in his new livery on the box, to extricate them from the crowd and drive home when the door was pulled open and Francis himself appeared, hat in hand, bowing with mocking courtesy. He was smiling but the eyes that rested on Marianne's face were hard as stone.
'Permit me,' he said lightly, 'to pay my respects to the queen of all Paris.'
Beneath the bonnet of lilac silk and white Chantilly lace that matched her expensively-tailored carriage dress, her face was very white but she put out one gloved hand to restrain Arcadius who had started forward to bar Francis's way.
'No, Arcadius. This is my affair.' Then, with only a slight quiver in her voice, she asked: 'What do you want?'
'I told you – to pay my respects to Beauty and, perhaps, to talk a little, if you please…'
'I do not please,' Marianne cut him short disdainfully. 'If you have anything to say to me, you may write to Monsieur de Jolival who deals with all my letters and engagements. He will tell you when I am able to receive you. We cannot talk in this crowd. I live—'
'I know where you live and, flattered though I am that you should prefer the delights of a tete-a-tete, I must remind you, my dear,' Francis countered sardonically, 'that one is never more alone than in the midst of a crowd, and this one is getting bigger with every minute. In a little while it will be quite impossible to stir at all, and so I am afraid you will be compelled to endure my company whether you like it or not. In which case, we may as well talk business, don't you think?'
The crowd had, in fact, become so dense that all vehicles in the square had been brought to a standstill. There was a good deal of noise, swollen by distant sounds of music, but the hubbub was not so great as to make conversation impossible. Francis, who had remained standing in the doorway, poked his head into the carriage and addressed himself to Jolival.
'If this gentleman will be good enough to allow me to usurp his place beside you for a moment…' he began, but Marianne spoke sharply, her hand still on her friend's arm:
'I have no secrets from the Vicomte de Jolival. He is, as I have told you, more than a friend to me. You may say what you wish before him.'
'I thank you,' Francis said dryly. 'You may have nothing to hide but my own nature is less trusting. I should infinitely prefer our conversation to be private.'
'If we were to consult our own preferences, Monsieur,' Jolival retorted, unable to contain himself any longer, 'I should infinitely prefer to throw you out of this lady's carriage forthwith.'
Francis laughed softly. 'I see your friend cherishes some prejudice against me, my dear,' he said. 'I can only suppose that you must have put it into his head. I do believe he takes me for some kind of highwayman.'
'What I think is neither here nor there,' Arcadius said stiffly. 'However, I may say that I have seen nothing in your behaviour to cause me to change my mind.'
'As you so rightly say,' the Englishman agreed smoothly, 'that is neither here nor there. But, my dear sir, if you fear to find the time hang heavy on your hands, I know there is a lady in my own carriage who will be delighted to renew her acquaintance with you. See, she is smiling at you.'
Marianne's eyes went automatically to the black and yellow chaise and she frowned as she realized that, in so far as it was possible for her, Fanchon was indeed directing a winning smile at Jolival. Jolival, however, merely shrugged and moved to the box to speak to Gracchus, without taking his eyes from the two inside the vehicle. Marianne spoke abruptly.
'Since you say you wish to talk with me, my lord, you need not begin by insulting my most faithful friend. Not everyone shares your taste for dubious company. And indeed, that seems to me a generous description of the lady in question.'
Without answering, Francis dropped heavily on to the green velvet cushions next to Marianne who moved instinctively to avoid touching him. He sat for a moment in a silence broken only by the faint rasp of his breath.
