'Yourself, my dear. For one thing, it will do no good to denounce me, for I should be released with apologies immediately, and for another, you will have no desire to do so when you hear what I have to say.'
Marianne stiffened, fighting off a creeping fear, struggling to think. He seemed so sure of himself. Was it his borrowed name that gave him his assurance? What was it Fouche had told her? The Vicomte d'Aubecourt was a frequent visitor at the house of Dorothee de Perigord? But surely that was not enough to make him immune from Fouche's ceaseless quest for potential spies and conspirators? What then? Oh God, if she could only shake off the terror he inspired in her!
Once more, Francis's mocking voice brought her back to reality, saying, with terrifying softness: 'You know, you make me almost sorry for the past. You are very beautiful, my dear. No man could help but desire you. It suits you to be angry, it makes your green eyes sparkle magnificently, your bosom heaves…'
He let his eyes dwell appreciatively on the lovely face, now shadowed by the bonnet, and caress the long, graceful throat and the proud curves revealed by the low-cut bodice of silk and lace. There was no softness in his gaze, only the calculating greed of a horse-dealer looking over a promising filly. Marianne's cheeks flamed darkly at the naked lust in his face, undressing her and putting a price on her at the same time. The Englishman leaned closer, as though hypnotized by the proximity of so much beauty. He was about to take her in his arms. She shrank back against the side of the chaise and spoke through clenched teeth:
'Don't touch me! Don't come near me! If you do I'll scream, do you hear, whatever the consequences! I'll scream so loud that everyone will hear me.'
He shuddered and drew away from her. The lust died out of his eyes and was replaced by his habitual bored expression.
Leaning back in his own corner of the seat, he sighed and closed his eyes.
'A pity… a pity, too, that such riches should be reserved for Boney's pleasures. Or do you make him share them? I hear that half the men in Paris are in love with you.'
'Will you be quiet,' Marianne said furiously. 'Say what you have to say and make an end. What do you want?'
He opened one eye and smiled at her.
'If I were a gentleman, I ought to answer: you. And it would be no more than the truth. But we can discuss that later – at our leisure. No, for the present my wants are more practical. I need money.'
'Again!' Marianne cried. 'Do you suppose that I will give it to you?'
'I do not suppose, I know.' His voice was cynical. 'Money has always played a great part in our relations, Marianne. I married you for your fortune. Unfortunately, I dissipated it somewhat speedily, but you are still my wife and as you are clearly rolling in money, I find it quite natural to turn to you.'
'I am no longer your wife,' Marianne said, her anger slowly giving way to a vast weariness. 'I am Maria Stella, a singer, and you are the Vicomte d'Aubecourt.'
'Ah, you are aware of that? Well, I am delighted. It gives you an idea of my position in Paris society. I am much in demand.'
'You will be much less in demand when I have done with you. Everyone will know what you are: an English spy.'
'Perhaps, but in that case they will know who you are also and since you are my lawful wife, you will become Lady Cranmere again, an Englishwoman, and therefore why not also a spy?'
'No one would believe you,' Marianne said indifferently, 'and as for giving you money —'
'You will arrange to have fifty thousand livres to hand immediately,' Francis interrupted her smoothly. 'If not —'
'Yes?' Marianne said evenly.
Lord Cranmere felt unhurriedly in his pockets and produced a sheet of yellow paper, folded in four. Unfolding it, he laid it on her lap, before continuing: 'If not, all Paris will be deluged with these.'
The yellow sheet, printed in heavy, black letters, fluttered in the light wind that entered through the lowered windows, as with growing horror, Marianne read: 'The enemy in the Emperor's bed! Napoleon's beautiful mistress, the
For a second, Marianne thought she must be going mad. There was a red mist before her eyes and a storm of utter fury in her heart such as she had never felt before, drowning that other impulse of sickening fear.
'Murderess!' she gasped. 'I have killed no one. You are still alive, alas!'
'Read on, my love,' Francis purred softly, 'and you will see it is no more than the truth. You are indeed a murderess. You forget my charming cousin, Ivy St Albans, whom you hit so effectively on the head with a heavy candlestick beside what you imagined to be my own dead body. Poor Ivy! She was less lucky than I. Thanks to my friend Stanton, I am still of this world, but she was so frail, so delicate. Unfortunately for you, however, she recovered consciousness before she died – just long enough to accuse you. There is a price on your head in England, my fair Marianne.'
Marianne's mouth was filled with a taste of ashes. In the shock of finding Francis alive, she had not given a thought to his cousin, the tiresome Ivy. Until this moment, moreover, she had always regarded the duel and what followed as a kind of divine judgement. Yet in spite of her horror, she managed to say boldly: We are not in England now, but in France. Although I suppose your reason in coming here is to carry me back for the sake of the reward.'
' 'Faith, I'll admit I thought of it,' Lord Cranmere agreed pleasantly. 'It is hard times with me. But finding you so comfortably situated at the heart of the Empire gave me a better idea. You can be worth a great deal more than a few hundred guineas to me.'
This time, Marianne let the words pass. She was still staring at the yellow broadsheet feeling that she had reached the very limits of disgust. The accusation was that she had cold-bloodedly murdered her husband's pretty, gentle cousin. Nothing had been left to chance and the mire into which she was to be dragged down was made as sordid and disgusting as possible.
'My next thought,' Francis continued, apparently oblivious of her silence, 'was simply to abduct you. I arranged a rendezvous in a ruined castle belonging to a friend of mine, but you must have suspected something, for you did not come, although I am glad of that now. Driven by necessity, I imagined that Boney would pay handsomely to have his fair mistress restored to him unharmed, but it was a hasty thought and consequently a bad one. There was a better plan.'
So he had been behind the appointment at La Folie! Marianne felt little surprise. She had gone beyond all power of feeling or of lucid thought. Trumpets blared out a fanfare close at hand, backed by a swelling roll of drums that seemed to come from the inmost heart of Paris. The wedding procession must have been approaching for some minutes but, wrapped in her own troubles, Marianne had been deaf to the sounds of mounting excitement in the crowd around her. In a way, she had not wanted to hear: the contrast was too poignant between the gay, laughing throng outside and the duel, even more desperate, perhaps, than that earlier duel at Selton, which was taking place within the carriage.
'Here comes the procession,' Francis observed, settling himself more comfortably, in the manner of one intending to remain. We shall have to continue our talk later on. It is impossible to converse in this uproar.'
This was true. An incredible river of dazzling, coruscating colour was flowing down the Champs Elysees, advancing majestically towards the Tuileries amid a clamour of brass bands playing, drums rolling and cannon roaring, greeted by waves of cheering and cries of 'Long live the Emperor!' The whole great square, so packed with people that the bright colours had all merged into a uniform, grey blue, appeared to give one mighty heave. Around her, Marianne could hear those nearest exclaiming as the procession passed by.
'Those are the Polish Light Cavalry in front!'
'How handsome they are! Some of them must be thinking of Marie Walewska today!'
Red, blue, white and gold, snowy plumes waving on their square shakos and the tips of their long lances gleaming fiery red and gold, Prince Poniatowski's troops rode past in perfect formation, holding the powerful white horses that were a familiar sight on every road in Europe well in hand. After them came Guyot's Chasseurs in purple and gold, alternating with troops of Mamelukes, girded with shining steel, their dark skins and white turbans surmounted by black aigrettes, and the panther skins over their saddles adding a touch of barbaric splendour. Next came the Dragoons, commanded by the Comte de Saint-Sulpice, dark green and white, magnificently whiskered,
