other night! He is a charming fellow, you know? And you can't think how delightful he will make my revenge! Run and get dressed.'
Marianne did not wait for a second telling. Fortunee's logic was beyond her comprehension. To say nothing of her morals. She really was a most extraordinary woman.
An hour later, Marianne found herself tripping at her friend's side beneath the arcades of the Palais-Royal, where all the best food shops were to be found. The day was fine, the sun was shining brightly on the young green leaves, on the fountain and in the eyes of the pretty girls who always abounded in this place.
Marianne was beginning to feel better. They went first to Hyrment's where Fortunee ordered a basket of fresh truffles and a variety of condiments with the observation that it was always as well to encourage men in their amorous propensities. From there, they went to Cheret, the celebrated purveyor of game. Here customers were obliged to squeeze into the long, narrow shop between barrels of herring and fresh sardines, creels of oysters and crayfish, dodging the carcasses of deer hanging like sentinels on either side of the doorway. Marianne could not resist a smile at the sight of the famous Careme, Talleyrand's chef, flanked by a pair of wooden-faced footmen and trailing three kitchen boys bearing enormous baskets. He was dressed in the sober but expensive style of a well-to-do bourgeois and was selecting his purchases with all the solemnity of a diamond merchant examining an array of precious stones.
'This place is too crowded,' Fortunee declared,' and Careme will be here for ever. We will come back later. Let's go to Corcellat's.'
This fashionable emporium, a veritable paradise for all lovers of good food, occupied extensive premises at the far end of the galerie de Beaujolais. Flocks of eager assistants hovered in readiness to serve discriminating clients with mortadella from Lyons,
Fortunee pointed out discreetly for her friend's benefit two or three women of the first consequence who had come to place their orders. One of these, a dumpy, pleasant-faced lady seemed to be on excellent terms with all the staff.
'The wife of Marshal Lefebvre,' whispered Madame Hamelin, 'an excellent creature but hardly Duchess of Dantzig! They say she was a washerwoman and the sticklers of the court will not receive her but she doesn't care, and for all her washerwoman's hands, she has far more the heart of a duchess than some that I could name.' She pointed surreptitiously to a tall, dark woman, a trifle bony but with a pair of splendid black eyes, wearing a rather over-elaborate morning dress and giving her commands with an air of great self-importance. 'I could not say the same of her, for instance.'
'Who is she?' Marianne had seen the woman before but had already forgotten her name.
'Egle Ney. She is so conscious of her great fortune and her husband's fame that she has become insufferably conceited. You see the pains she is taking not to appear to notice Madame Lefebvre? The men are brothers in arms but the wives cannot stand one another. That is typical of the Tuileries…'
Marianne was no longer listening. She was standing by the window staring at a woman who had just come out of a nearby cafe and had paused for a moment in the doorway, a woman she seemed to know well.
'What is it?' Fortunee was saying curiously. 'What are you looking at? The Cafe des Aveugles is no place for you, I assure you. It is a place of very ill-repute, a haunt of rogues, pimps and prostitutes.'
'It is not the cafe – it is that woman, the one in the red shawl and the mouse-coloured dress. I am sure I know her. I – oh!'
The woman in the red shawl had turned her head and without another word of explanation, Marianne left her friend and darted out into the street, driven by uncontrollable impulse. She knew now who the woman was. It was the Breton girl, Gwen, the mistress of the wrecker, Morvan, who since that fateful night at Malmaison had once more become an inmate of one of the imperial prisons.
Perhaps, after all, it was not so surprising to find the wild creature of the Pagan rocks here in Paris, dressed as a respectable middle-class young woman. If Morvan were in Paris, even in prison, there was no reason why his mistress should not be there also, but a mysterious voice whispered in Marianne's ear that Gwen had other business in Paris than merely being near her lover. But what?
The Breton girl walked unhurriedly along the galerie Beauvais. Her manner was modest, almost timid, and she kept her head lowered so that her face was almost hidden by the poke of her plain grey bonnet with its bunch of red ribbons. She was clearly anxious not to be mistaken for one of the numerous prostitutes who frequented the galleries of the Palais-Royal with their outrageously painted faces and their daringly low-cut gowns. Gwen concealed her very real beauty to avoid attracting the attentions of the gentlemen who sauntered there.
In the same pious hope, Marianne had quickly let down the full, almond green veil that draped her own hat, a manoeuvre which also enabled her to follow the Bretonne without running the risk of being recognized.
The two women traversed the gallery in turn as far as the former Theatre de la Montansier. There, Gwen turned left along the arcade leading to the rue de Beaujolais. Before she reached it, however, she looked round once or twice in a way that instantly put Marianne on her guard, and each time she drew back into the shelter of one of the massive stone pillars, apparently engrossed in contemplation of the entrance to the famous Restaurant Vefour. After a moment she peered cautiously out into the street.
Gwen was standing not far away, next to a black chaise which reminded Marianne of one she had seen on another, disagreeable occasion. The driver's face was hidden by the turned-up collar of his coat but he and Gwen seemed to be engaged in animated conversation, as a result of which Gwen turned and made her way back to where Marianne was standing. Marianne saw her cast several glances at the tall, decorated windows of the famous restaurant, as if she were interested in something or someone inside the Grand Vefour.
Gwen paused and began to stroll up and down the arcade outside. Marianne at once retreated as far as the galerie de Beaujolais, but without losing sight of her old enemy whose behaviour was beginning to appear increasingly odd. It was at this point that Fortunee Hamelin at last caught up with her friend.
'Do you mind telling me what happened?' she said. 'You shot out of Corcellat's as if the devil were after you.'
'No one was after me but I wanted to go after someone else. Would you mind if we strolled on a little way, Fortunee? I don't want to be noticed.'
'Well, you'll be out of luck, my dear,' the Creole informed her drily. 'You may have let your veil down but you're not exactly dressed to melt into the crowd, you know. Nor, I flatter myself, am I. But we'll walk on if you like. Are you still watching that girl in the red and grey? Who is she?'
In a few words Marianne told Fortunee what she knew and the Creole readily agreed that this was something worth investigating. She put forward one objection, however.
'You don't think that perhaps the girl is simply endeavouring to earn a living? She is pretty enough and there are girls here who put on airs of respectability.'
'It is possible,' Marianne conceded, 'but I do not think so. If so, what is the meaning of that carriage waiting in the street, and why is she hanging about outside the restaurant? She is waiting for someone and I mean to find out who it is.'
Fortunee sighed. 'Well of course, there are people who would be interested in the activities of such women – our friend Fouche among others. We'll see what happens. It might be interesting.'
Arm in arm, the two of them strolled idly towards the quincunx of lime trees which formed the centrepiece of the garden and back again to the point which they had left, apparently deep in conversation. Their words were lost in the babel from the countless cafes and billiard halls, booksellers and small shops of every kind which made the Palais-Royal a scene of animation for most hours of the day and night. As they walked they kept a close watch on the Breton girl, who was also strolling slowly up and down the arcade between the gardens and the street. Suddenly, Gwen froze and her two watchers followed suit. The restaurant door was opening.
'Something is going to happen, I can feel it,' Fortunee hissed, her clutch on her friend's arm tightening.
A man had come out of the restaurant, a square-built man dressed in a blue coat with gilt buttons, a high- crowned beaver perched at a rakish angle on his head. He paused on the threshold, responded with a friendly wave of his hand to the bowing of the head waiter, and then lit a long cigar. Marianne's heart beat faster as she recognized him.
