body is a wonderful instrument of pleasure and that it is a crime against nature to neglect it so tragically? It is senseless!'
'Senseless or not, I will not sell myself!' Marianne declared hotly. Fortunee shrugged her beautifully- rounded shoulders.
'The trouble with you aristocratic people is that you feel obliged to use grand words for the simplest things. Well, I will see what I can do for you.'
She went to the wardrobe and brought out a charming white silk dress adorned with huge appliqued tropical flowers.
'Put this on, you chaste little guardian of the sacred flame of love, while I go and see whether I can sacrifice myself in your place.'
'What are you going to do?' Marianne inquired uneasily.
'Don't worry, I shan't sell myself to the highest bidder. I am merely going to ask my friend Ouvrard to be so obliging as to lend us the twenty thousand that we need. He is shockingly wealthy and I dare say he will deny me nothing. He is downstairs. Moreover, since he has not been in high favour with the Emperor, he will probably be delighted to serve one as close to his majesty as yourself. Sit down and rest. I will tell Jonas to bring you up some champagne.'
'You are a darling!' Marianne said, and meant it.
She kissed her hand to the disappearing cloud of yellow muslin, then turned her attention to the dress which Fortunee had bestowed on her. She slipped it on hastily, in case Jonas should come in and catch her unawares, then, finding a silver brush and ivory comb upon the dressing-table, she proceeded to untangle her dark hair. A sense of peace stole over her, divinely restful after the miseries of the preceding hours. Fortunee's morals might leave a good deal to be desired, but her whole personality breathed a vitality and a warm humanity that could cheer the chilliest soul. The beautiful Creole was one of those simple, uncomplicated people endowed by nature with the power of giving without asking for anything in return. She would give of her help, her time, her affection, money and sympathy all with the same generosity and saw not the slightest reason why she should not give as freely of something as natural as her body. She was not one of those women who use their virtue as an excuse for treating men with a coldness and cruelty that could drive them to despair. No one had ever killed themselves for Fortunee. She could not bear to see anyone suffer, especially when that suffering could be eased by a few hours of love. Moreover, she had the rare talent of being able, once love was past, to make faithful friends of her often inconstant lovers. Certainly, in the present instance, Marianne had no doubt that she would use all her charms to extract from her rich lover the huge sum of money needed by her friend.
Smiling inwardly at the thought of this friendship, Marianne was busy winding her newly-plaited hair in a crown about her head when she heard the door click shut behind her. Thinking it was Jonas bringing the promised champagne, she did not turn but went on with her task.
'I don't know who you are – ' a voice spoke gaspingly from the other side of the room – 'but for pity's sake – fetch Madame Hamelin.'
For an instant, Marianne sat rigidly, her arms frozen above her head, then she turned. It seemed to her that the voice was in some way familiar. A man was leaning back against the closed door. His face was very white and he seemed to be struggling against an overwhelming faintness. His eyes were closed and his mouth set in a grim line, his breath came in hoarse gasps, but still Marianne made no move to help him. She sat staring in amazement. The man was dressed in dark blue pantaloons and hessians, with a white shirt. A heavy, black coat was flung over his shoulders and his brown hair was very curly, while to her horror Marianne had no difficulty in recognizing his face. It belonged to her attacker of the rue Cerutti.
Marianne had been correct in her idea that the man was hurt. The explanation of the bloodstains on her dress was now clearly visible on the white shirt, just below the left shoulder, as the man slid to the floor, unconscious.
She watched, petrified, as he collapsed and would probably have sat there wondering still, without doing a thing to help him, if Jonas's voice had not sounded outside the door.
'It is Jonas, mademoiselle. The door is stuck, can you open it?'
The spell was broken. Marianne saw that the man had fallen in such a way as to obstruct the opening of the door.
'Just a moment, Jonas, I will do it.'
She seized the unknown man by the feet and tugged with all her strength to drag him into the middle of the room. He was heavy and it was all she could do to shift him enough to allow Jonas to enter.
'Leave the tray outside. I can't get it open any more,' she told him, pulling on the handle as she spoke. The butler eased himself through the narrow space.
'What is the trouble, Mademoiselle Marianne?' Then, seeing the obstacle. 'Monsieur le Baron! Lordy, he badly hurt!'
'Do you know this man?'
'Surely. He what you might call one of de family. It is de General Fournier-Sarloveze. Has Madame Fortunee not spoken of him? He can't stay here. We better put him on de bed.'
While the big Negro picked up the wounded man as easily as if he had weighed nothing at all and laid him on the bed, Marianne gathered her scattered thoughts. General the Baron Fournier-Sarloveze? Of course she had heard of him from Fortunee who had spoken of him with a soft, cooing intonation that spoke volumes to anyone acquainted with the Creole. This was the handsome Francois, one of her three accredited lovers, the other two being the no less attractive Casimir de Montrond, at present an exile in Anvers, and the much less seductive but vastly wealthier Ouvrard. But what else was it that Fortunee had said? Why had Marianne never yet met him in her friend's house? Ah yes, that was it: the man was impossible, 'the worst fellow in the whole army' but also the 'finest swordsman' in that same army. He divided his time between dashing feats of arms and interludes on half- pay brought about by his innumerable affairs of honour. This must be one of those times when he had been sent home until the Emperor was pleased to forget his latest indiscretion.
The thought of Napoleon reminded Marianne of something else her friend had told her and which at the time had shocked her profoundly. Fournier was a child of the Revolution, into which he had thrown himself with enthusiasm, but he hated the Emperor who cordially returned his dislike. Nevertheless, Napoleon continued to offer the hothead employment in his service for the sake of his military prowess, a prowess which had earned him the rank of general and the title of baron. To Fournier, however, these seemed small things beside the fortunes and the honours lavished on the marshals. All in all, especially taking into account her own recent experience, Marianne felt little concern or liking for the man. To some extent, he could even be dangerous and she felt little desire to further her acquaintance with him. It was bad enough to know that Fortunee, for all her devotion to Napoleon, could retain a soft spot for the fellow merely because he was handsome and a tireless lover.
Seeing Jonas occupied, with many exclamations of grief and horror, in pulling off the wounded man's boots and administering some rough first aid to his wound, Marianne turned away and moved towards the door. She would have gone down to warn Fortunee but hesitated to do so, not knowing how her friend meant to approach the banker. Before she could make up her mind, the door was flung open and Madame Hamelin swept in saying: 'I have done all I can and I think —'
She broke off as her eyes went past her friend and widened with horror as they fell upon Jonas, busy by the light of a branch of candles beside the bed.
'Francois! My God, he is dead!'
She darted past Marianne and ran quickly to the bed, pushing aside Jonas who, with his sleeves rolled up, was beginning to clean the wound with lint. With a cry like a tigress, she flung herself upon her lover's motionless body.
'Gentle Jesus, Madame Fortunee!' Jonas exclaimed protestingly. 'Don't shake him like dat, or you'll kill him right enough. He not dead. He fainted. His wound not grave.'
Fortunee, who Marianne suspected had a secret fondness for high tragedy, paid no attention and continued to shriek and lament at the top of her voice, covering her lover's face with so many passionate kisses that, coupled with the smelling salts applied by Jonas, they finally persuaded him to open his eyes. This sign of life drew a
