a glance.
A voice called after her.
'Wait! Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle Maria Stella!'
She went on down the grand staircase as if nothing had happened. Not until Duroc caught up with her at the foot of the stone steps did she finally stop and turn with an expression of complete indifference to face the Grand Marshal, who seemed on the verge of an apoplexy, his face as scarlet as his splendid uniform.
'Have you gone mad?' He gasped, struggling to regain his breath. 'Such conduct – in the Emperor's presence!'
'Whose conduct was the more shocking, mine or the Emperor's – or that woman's, at least?'
'That woman? The Empress? Oh —'
'I know no empress other than the one consecrated by the Pope, at Malmaison! As for that caricature you call by the name, I deny her right to make a fool of me in public. Go and tell your master that!'
Marianne was beside herself with rage. Her voice rang coldly among the stone arches of the old palace with a clarity that, to Duroc, was highly embarrassing. Was that a shadow of a smile under the moustaches of the grenadier on duty at the foot of the stairs? Forcing a sternness into his voice which he was far from feeling, he took Marianne's arm and began: 'I am afraid you will have to tell him yourself, mademoiselle. My orders are to take you to the Emperor's private office to await his pleasure.'
'Am I under arrest?'
'Not to my knowledge, not yet at any rate.'
The implication of this was not reassuring but Marianne did not care. She expected to pay dearly for her outburst but if she were to be given the chance to unburden herself to Napoleon once and for all, she meant to do so without mincing words. If she were going to prison, it might as well be worth while. At least it would save her from the machinations of Francis Cranmere. The Englishman would have to wait until she was released to pursue his plans, since he would gain nothing by destroying her altogether. There remained Adelaide, but here Marianne was confident she could rely on Arcadius.
It was, therefore, with a degree of serenity that the Emperor's rebellious subject entered the familiar room, calmed for the moment by the prospect of an interview with its owner, and heard Duroc give orders to Rustan, the Mameluke guard, to permit no one to enter, nor to allow Mademoiselle Maria Stella to communicate with anyone. This last recommendation even drew a smile from her.
'I am a prisoner, you see?' she said gently.
'No, I have told you. But I would rather not have young Clary yapping outside the door like a lost lapdog. I must warn you to be prepared for a long wait. The Emperor will not come until the reception is over.'
With no other response than a faint but highly impertinent shrug of her shoulders, Marianne sat down on the little yellow sofa drawn up to the fire where she had first set eyes on Fortunee Hamelin. The thought of her friend succeeded in finally calming Marianne. Fortunee was too experienced in the ways of men ever to have feared Napoleon. She had convinced Marianne that to show fear was the worst mistake she could make, even, or indeed especially, if he were in one of his famous rages.
A deep silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire, descended on the room. It was warm and cosy, in spite of its absence of luxury. This was the first time Marianne had been alone there and feminine curiosity impelled her to take stock of it. It was comforting to be there, where every object reminded her of the Emperor. Passing over the files of documents, the red morocco folders with the imperial arms stamped on them, the large map of Europe flung down on the desk, she took pleasure in handling the long white goose quill that stood in the porphyry inkstand, the ormulu watch-stand in the shape of an eagle, and a chased gold snuff-box with an ill-fitting lid from which the fragrance of the contents escaped. Each object proclaimed his presence, even the crumpled black cocked hat thrown down in a corner, in a temper probably, and not long ago either, since Constant had not yet retrieved it. Was it the matter of the carriage which had provoked that outburst? For all her courage, Marianne could not help feeling an unpleasant tingling sensation up her spine. What would he be like later?
The time began to seem suddenly very slow. Marianne had the scent of battle in her nostrils and she wanted it to begin. Tired of roaming about the padded silence of the room, she picked up a book that lay on the desk and returned to her seat. It was a much worn copy of
'Wake up.'
Marianne started and opened her eyes. Candles had been lighted in the room and outside it was dark. Napoleon stood before her with folded arms, a brooding anger in his eyes.
'I congratulate you on your courage,' he said with heavy irony. 'You were very sound asleep. Apparently the knowledge that you had incurred my displeasure weighs little with you.'
The tone was loud and bullying, clearly calculated to overwhelm someone starting out of sleep, but Marianne possessed the faculty of coming instantly and completely awake, however deeply she had been sleeping.
'The Grand Marshal warned me I should have a long wait,' she said quietly. 'Sleep seems the best way of shortening a period of waiting.'
'It seems to me decidedly impudent, madame – moreover I have not yet seen your curtsey.'
Napoleon was clearly seeking a quarrel. He had been prepared to find Marianne agitated and alarmed, trembling and red-eyed perhaps. The woman who woke so calmly could not fail to rouse him to annoyance. Ignoring the ominous spark in the grey eyes, Marianne risked a smile.
'I am ready to fall at your feet, sire, if your majesty will step back sufficiently to permit me to rise.'
He turned on his heel with an exclamation of fury and marched over to the window as if he meant to go straight through it.
Marianne slipped from the sofa straight into the deepest and most respectful of curtseys. 'Sire.'
There was no response. Napoleon continued to stare out of the window in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, for what seemed to Marianne an eternity, obliging her to remain in her uncomfortable, semi- kneeling position. Realizing that he was deliberately seeking to humiliate her, she gathered her courage for what was to come, knowing that it was bound to be unpleasant. She had only one desire, and that was to save her love.
Abruptly, without turning, Napoleon spoke.
'I await your explanation, if you have one to offer, of your astounding conduct. Your explanation and your apologies. It would appear that you were suddenly bereft of your senses, and of the most elementary notions of respect towards me and towards your Empress. Have you gone mad?'
Marianne was on her feet at once, the blood rushing to her cheeks. The words 'your Empress' had struck her like a blow.
'Apologies?' she said clearly. 'I think it is not I who should apologize.'
He did turn round at this, his eyes alight with anger.
'What did you say?'
'That if anyone here has been insulted, it is I! What I did was for the sake of my own dignity.'
'Your dignity? You are ridiculous, madame. Do you forget where you are? You forget that you came here at my command, by my good pleasure, with the sole object of providing entertainment for your sovereign.'
'My sovereign? If I had thought for one moment that you had brought me here for her sake, I would never have crossed this threshold.'
'Indeed? In that event, I should have had you brought here by force.'
'Maybe. But you could not have forced me to sing! Besides, how edifying for your court to see your mistress dragged on to the stage under guard! A spectacle to match the one you presented to them earlier of eminent churchmen dragged through the dust, exposed to vulgar mirth – as if it were not enough to have laid hands on the Vicar of Christ himself!'
In a couple of strides the Emperor was on her and Marianne knew from his dreadful pallor that she had gone too far, but it was not in her power or her nature to draw back now. She tensed to meet his wrath as his
