child's father!'
Instantly Marianne was on her feet, her cheeks on fire, her eyes blazing.
'I never gave you the right to insult me, or to doubt me either! And I should like to know what arrangements your majesty could have made for the child other than to have forced his mother into some marriage or other!'
There was silence. The Emperor coughed and shifted his eyes away from the sparkling gaze fixed on him in almost insolent interrogation.
'Naturally. Unfortunately, it could not have been otherwise, since it was not possible for me to acknowledge the child. At least I could have entrusted you to one of those I trust, a man I knew intimately and could be sure of.'
'Someone who would shut his eyes and take Caesar's mistress – and the dowry that went with her. For you would have given me a dowry, would you not, sire?'
'Naturally.'
'In other words: a complaisant husband! Don't you understand,' Marianne cried passionately, 'that that was precisely what I could not have borne: to be given away, sold would be more accurate, by you to one of your people! To be obliged to accept a man from your hands!'
'Your noble blood would have rebelled, I take it,' he said, scowling, 'against giving your hand to one of those upstart heroes who make up my court, men who owe everything to their gallantry, to the blood they have shed…'
'And to your generosity! No, sire, as Marianne d'Asselnat I should not have blushed to wed one such, but I would have died rather than that you, whom I loved, should give me to another. By obeying the cardinal, I did no more than follow the noble custom which requires a girl to accept blindly the husband chosen for her by her family. In that way I suffered less.'
'So much for your reasons,' Napoleon said, with a chilly smile. 'Now let me have your – husband's. What made a Sant'Anna take to wife a woman already with child by another?'
Marianne snapped back at him instantly:
'The fact that that other was yourself! Prince Corrado married the child of Bonaparte's blood.'
'I understand less and less.'
'Yet it is very simple, sire. The Prince is, by what they say, a victim of some malady which he is determined not to pass on to his posterity. He had therefore condemned himself of his own will to seeing his ancient name die with him, until, that is, Cardinal San Lorenzo told him of me. His pride was too great to allow him to consider adopting a child, but that pride did not apply in your case, sire. Your son will bear the name of Sant'Anna and ensure that it shall survive!'
There was silence again. Slowly, Marianne made her way over to the open window. She felt suddenly stifled, overcome by the weird knowledge that she had lied in her portrait of Corrado Sant'Anna. Sick? The man she had seen mounting Ilderim with such mastery? It was impossible! But how could she explain to the Emperor what she could not explain even to herself? His voluntary seclusion, the mask of white leather which he wore on his nocturnal rides? She saw again that tall, energetic figure glimpsed beneath the flowing black cloak billowing out with the speed of his gallop. Sick, no! But some mystery there was and it was never wise to present Napoleon with a mystery.
It was he who broke the silence.
'Very well,' he said at last. 'I accept that. It is a valid reason and one that I can understand. Moreover, we have nothing against the Prince. He has always behaved as a loyal subject since our accession to power. But one thing you said just now struck me as strange.'
What was that?'
'You said: by what they say, the Prince is a victim of some malady. That suggests that you have never seen him.'
'Nothing could be more true. I have seen nothing of him, sire, beyond a gloved hand which emerged from a black velvet curtain and was joined to mine in the marriage ceremony.'
'You have never seen Prince Sant'Anna?'
'Never,' Marianne assured him, aware once again that she was not telling the truth. She meant, at all costs, to keep from him the knowledge of what had taken place at the villa. No good could come of telling him about the phantom rider, much less of her strange awakening after that enchanted night in a bed strewn with jasmine flowers. She was rewarded for her lie at once for at last Napoleon smiled. He came towards her, slowly, until he was almost touching her, and looked deeply into her eyes.
'So,' he said, and his voice was low and husky, 'he has not touched you?'
'No, sire. He has not touched me.'
Marianne's heart trembled. The Emperor's eyes were as soft now as a moment before they had been cold and implacable. She saw again, at long last, the look that he had worn in their days at the Trianon, the look she had so longed to see again, the charm that he could use to such good effect when he wished and the caressing expression in his eyes before they made love. For days, and nights too, she had dreamed of that look. How came it, then, that now it gave her no joy? Napoleon laughed suddenly.
'Don't look at me like that. Good God, anyone would swear you were afraid of me! Don't worry, there is nothing more to fear. All things considered, this marriage will do very well indeed and you have carried off a master stroke! By heaven, I couldn't have done better myself! A splendid marriage and, what is more important, a marriage in name only. You have made me suffer, you know.'
'Suffer? You?'
'Yes, I! I am jealous of what I love, am I not? Well, I imagined so many things ?'
And what about me? Marianne thought, with the bitter memory of that terrible night at Compiegne vividly in her mind. Thinking I should go mad when I learned that he could not wait even a few hours to get the Austrian into his bed.
The sudden spurt of resentment was so strong that she did not realize all at once that he had taken her in his arms and was murmuring words in her ear that grew ever huskier and more passionate.
'You, my green-eyed witch, my beautiful siren, in another man's arms, another man kissing and fondling your body… I almost hated you for doing that to me and just now, when I saw you again… so beautiful, more beautiful even than I remembered… I wanted to...' The words were lost in a kiss, a kiss that was greedy, demanding, almost brutal, full of selfish passion, the caress of a master to his willing slave, yet even so, Marianne could not resist it. The mere touch of this man whom she had made the centre of all her thoughts, all her desires, still acted on her senses like the most relentless and demanding of tyrants. In Napoleon's arms, Marianne melted as completely as on that first night at Butard.
Already he had released her and had moved away, calling: 'Rustan!'
The magnificent Georgian's turbanned head appeared, shining and expressionless, to receive the Emperor's curt command.
'Let no one in here until I call. On your life!'
The Mameluke bowed his understanding and withdrew. Napoleon grasped Marianne by the hand.
'Come,' was all he said.
He almost ran with her to a door cut in one of the panels of the wall, disclosing a small, spiral staircase up which he hurried her at a breathless pace. They emerged into a small apartment furnished with the tasteful luxury generally associated with rooms designed for love. The predominant colours were a glowing yellow and soft, rather faded blue. However, Marianne had little time to look at her surroundings, hardly time to think of those who had been before her in this discreet love nest. As deftly as the best of lady's maids, Napoleon had already taken out the pins that held the white satin turban and unfastened the dress. It slid to the ground, followed almost at once by the shift and petticoats. All this at incredible speed. This time, there was no question of the slow, tender preliminaries, the skilled, voluptuous process of undressing of that night at Butard, which had made Marianne a more than willing prey, and had given such delight to the early stages of their love-making in those days at the Trianon. In no time, the Serene Princess Sant'Anna found herself clad only in her stockings, sprawled across the sunshine yellow counterpane in the grip of a man bent only on ravishing her, like some marauding trooper, without a word spoken, merely covering her lips with frantic kisses.
It was so brutal and so swift that this time the famous charm was given no chance to work. In a few
