Marianne and The Masked Prince

minute.'

With an instant change of mood, Fortunee returned to her seat by Marianne and asked seriously: 'You have heard nothing?'

'Nothing. Only a note from Fouche last night telling me he had found no trace. Even the Vicomte d'Aubecourt seems to have vanished. Yet I believe Fouche is really looking for him. And Arcadius is scouring Paris and he knows the city as well as any professional sleuth.'

'It is odd, all the same —'

The door of the salon opened as she spoke and, as if conjured up by Marianne's words, Arcadius de Jolival appeared and bowed gracefully to the two ladies. He held a letter in his hand. He was dressed, as ever, with exquisite taste in a blend of olive green and grey relieved by the snowy whiteness of his shirt-front, above which twinkled the bright-eyed inquisitive countenance, with its small moustache and goatee, of Marianne's indispensable friend.

Fortunee greeted him amicably. 'Our friend has been telling me how you spend your time scouring the Paris underworld, yet here you are looking for all the world as if you have just sprung from a bandbox!'

Today,' Arcadius said, 'I have been nowhere more dreadful than Frascati's, eating a great many ices and listening to the chatter of a number of pretty girls. My greatest peril was from a pineapple sorbet which Madame Recamier let slip within an inch of my pantaloons.'

'Still no news?' Marianne's strained face formed a striking contrast to the smiling looks of her companions. Ignoring the anxiety in her voice, Jolival cast the letter he held negligently on to the pile of those already waiting and subjected the cameo ring on his left hand to a critical scrutiny.

'None,' he said casually. 'The man in blue seems to have vanished into thin air like the genie in the Persian fables. I did meet the director of the Theatre Feydeau, however, and he is somewhat surprised to have heard nothing from you since Monday evening's triumph.'

'I sent a message that I was unwell,' Marianne interrupted pettishly. 'That ought to have satisfied him.'

'Unfortunately it did not. Put yourself in his place. The man discovers a new star of the first magnitude, only to have her vanish instantly. He is full of plans for you, each more Austrified than the last, naturally. He means to put on Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail followed by a concert composed entirely of lieder and—'

'Impossible,' Marianne snapped. 'Tell the man that to begin with I am not a regular member of the company of the Opera Comique. I was engaged for that one performance only —'

'As our friend well knows,' Arcadius sighed. 'Especially since he is aware of the other offers that have been made to you. Picard wants you for the Opera, for the celebrated 'Bardes' which so delighted the Emperor, and Spontini makes your – what shall I say? – your Italianate quality his excuse for demanding you for Paesiello's Barber of Seville with the Italian company. Then there are the salons....'

'That's enough!' Marianne interrupted him irritably. 'I want to hear no more of the theatre for the present. I am quite incapable of working. I may confine myself to concerts.'

'I think it is better not to plague her,' Fortunee intervened at this point. 'She is in no state to bear it.'

She rose and kissed her friend affectionately before going on: 'Are you sure you will not sup with me tonight? Ouvrard is bringing some excellent company – including some very pretty young men.'

'No, really. I don't want to see anyone except yourself, and I don't feel frivolous. Come again soon.'

While Arcadius was seeing Madame Hamelin to her carriage, Marianne threw a cushion on to the floor in front of the fire and sank on to it with a weary sigh. She felt chilled and wondered if from pretending to be ill she was really becoming so. But the sickness was all in her heart, racked by doubts, anxieties and jealousy. Outside, a cold, wet night was setting in, so much in tune with Marianne's own mood that for a moment she glanced almost gratefully at the dark windows framed in gold damask curtains. Why must they talk to her of work? She was like a bird, only able to sing when her heart was light. Besides, she had no wish to fall into the conventional pattern of opera singers. Perhaps the truth was that she had no real vocation for the theatre. The offers made to her held no temptation. Or was it the absence of the man she loved that had caused this curious reluctance to accept?

Her gaze wandered from the window to the hearth and came to rest on the portrait that hung above it. Again, she shivered. All at once she seemed to read in the handsome colonel's dark eyes a kind of ironic pity, not unmixed with contempt for the wretched creature sitting at his feet. In the warm glow of the candlelight, the Marquis d'Asselnat seemed to be stepping out of his smoky background to shame his daughter for proving unworthy of him and herself. The silent condemnation of the portrait was so clear that Marianne blushed. Half in spite of herself, she muttered: 'You cannot understand. Your own love was so simple that I dare say to die together seemed to you a logical conclusion, the perfect consummation. But for me —'

Her attempt to justify herself was interrupted by the sound of Arcadius's soft footfall. He stood for a moment watching the slim figure in black velvet, a dark spot in the bright room, even lovelier perhaps in melancholy sadness than in the fullness of joy. The firelight fell on her high cheekbones and awakened a gleam of gold in her green eyes.

'You must never look back,' he told her softly, 'or look to the past for counsel. Your empire lies before you.'

He trod briskly over to the writing-table, picked up the letter he had brought with him and held it out to Marianne.

'You should at least read this one. A courier, mud to the eyebrows, was handing it to your porter when I came in. He said it was urgent. He looked as if he had travelled a long way in bad weather.'

Marianne's heart missed a beat. Could this be news from Compiegne at last? Snatching the letter she glanced hurriedly at the superscription. It told her nothing. The writing was strange to her, and the seal was plain black. Nervously, she slipped her finger underneath the wafer and opened the missive. It was unsigned and contained only one short paragraph.

'If the Signorina Maria Stella will condescend to come on the night of Tuesday the twenty-seventh to the chateau of Braine-sur-Vesle she will be conferring untold happiness upon her ardent admirer. The name of the domain is La Folie and folly perhaps is the presumption of him who will await her there. Prudence and discretion.'

The letter was strange and stranger still the appointed meeting place. Without a word, Marianne handed the letter to Arcadius and watched him raise one eyebrow as he glanced at the contents.

'Odd,' was his comment, 'but not incomprehensible.'

What do you mean?'

'That now that the Archduchess is actually on French soil, the Emperor is obliged to exercise the utmost discretion. And that the village of Braine-sur-Vesle is on the road between Rheims and Soissons – and it is at Soissons that the new Empress is to spend the night of the twenty-seventh.'

'You think the letter comes from him?'

'Who else would ask you to meet him in that way in such a place? I think—' Arcadius paused, reluctant to name the man whose identity must be concealed. 'I think he means to give you the final proof of his love by spending a few moments with you at the very moment of arrival of the woman he is marrying for reasons of state. That should allay your fears.'

Marianne needed no further persuasion. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks on fire, her whole being absorbed in her love, and she could think of nothing but that in a little while now she would be in Napoleon's arms again. Arcadius was right. In spite of all his elaborate caution, he was giving her this one, great, wonderful token of his love.

'I will set out tomorrow,' she announced. Tell Gracchus to have my horse ready.'

Will you not take a carriage? The distance is nearly a hundred miles and the weather appalling.'

'I am advised to be discreet,' she smiled. 'A single rider will attract less attention than a smart carriage with a coachman and outriders. I am an excellent horsewoman, you know.'

'So am I,' Jolival retorted. 'I will tell Gracchus to saddle two horses. I am going with you.'

'Is there any need? You don't think—?'

'I think you are a young woman and the roads are none too safe. Braine is only a village and this