[Marianne 4] - Marianne and the Rebels

by Juliette Benzoni

  'And you think the doors will open more readily to me?'

  'The Emperor is sure of it. He has not forgotten that you are in some degree related to our erstwhile Empress, which makes you kin to the Sultana also. It is on those grounds that you will seek and obtain audience. In addition, you will have in your possession a letter from General Sebastiani, who defended Constantinople against the English fleet when he was our ambassador there. His wife, Françoise de Franquetot de Coigny, who died in the city in 1807, was the Sultana's close friend. You will be armed with the best possible introductions and I don't think you'll have any difficulty in gaining admittance. You can mourn with Nakshidil over the fate of Josephine as much as you like; you may even blame Napoleon since you will not be there in an official capacity… but never lose sight of French interests. Your own charm and skill will do the rest. But Kaminski's Russians must remain on the Danube. Are you beginning to understand?'

  'I think so. But forgive me if I seem slow – all this is so new to me, and so very strange… this woman of whom I have never heard, yet who is a Sultana! Can't you tell me anything about her? How did she get where she is?'

  Marianne's chief object in getting Arrighi talking was to gain time for herself. This thing she was being asked to do was very serious for her since, although it had the advantage that it offered a way of avoiding Prince Corrado's vengeance, for the time being at least, it was also more than likely to make her miss her appointed meeting with Jason. This she would not, could not do at any price.

  She had waited too long and with such agonizing impatience for the moment when she would be in his arms at last and could set out with him for the land and the future which fate and her own stupidity had so far denied her. With all her heart, she desired to help the man she had once loved and whom she would always love in a way… but if it meant the loss of her true love and the destruction of a happiness she felt that she had earned…

  At the same time, she was listening, with half an ear, to the story of the little fair-haired, blue-eyed Creole girl who had been captured at sea by Barbary pirates, as the culmination of an extraordinary series of adventures, and taken to Algiers, from where she had been sent by the dey of that city as a gift to the Grand Signior at Constantinople. She heard how Aimée had charmed the last days of the old sultan Abdul Hamid I, and had a son by him, and had then gone on to win the love of Selim, the heir to the throne. By means of this love, which for her had gone as far as the supreme sacrifice, and that of her son Mahmud, the little Creole had become a queen.

  In Arrighi's colourful phrases, the narrative took on such an irresistible vividness that Marianne found herself longing to know this woman, to meet her and perhaps to win her friendship. The extraordinary life that she had led seemed to Marianne more exciting than anything she had read of in the novels she had devoured in the schoolroom – stranger even than her own history. Even so, who could outweigh Jason in her thoughts?

  Cautious as ever and determined to make quite sure of what Napoleon had in store for her, she asked, after the slightest of hesitations:

  'Have I… any choice?'

  'No,' Arrighi told her bluntly. 'You have not. The Emperor gives no one any choice where the good of the Empire is concerned. He commands – myself, as well as you. I am to escort you – to be present at your – encounter with the Prince and to make sure the outcome is in accordance with the Emperor's wishes. You'll be obliged to put up with my presence and act in all things as I shall direct. I've had a copy of his Majesty's detailed instructions regarding your mission left in your room so that you may study them tonight. You would do well to learn them by heart and then destroy them. With them is Sebastiani's letter of introduction.'

  'And… when I leave the Villa Sant'Anna? Do you go with me to Constantinople? I understood that you have business here?'

  Arrighi did not answer immediately. Instead, he studied Marianne's averted face. As always when she was unable to betray her real thoughts, she preferred not to meet his eye, and because of this she missed the smile which flickered across his face.

  'By no means,' he said at last, in an oddly detached tone. 'I am merely to escort you to Venice.'

  'To—?' Marianne could scarcely believe her ears.

  'Venice,' Arrighi repeated blandly. 'It is the most convenient port, being both the nearest and at the same time the most likely. Besides, it is just the place to attract a young and lovely woman who is bored.'

  'That's as may be. Yet it seems odd to me that the Emperor should want me to take ship from an Austrian port—'

  'Austrian? What gave you that idea?'

  'But I thought – that is, I have always understood that Bonaparte gave Venice back to Austria by the treaty of – what was it?'

  'Campo Formio,' Arrighi supplied. 'But Austerlitz and Pressburg have happened since then. There is the marriage with Vienna, true, but Venice is ours. Otherwise how could the Emperor have called his daughter, if he had one, the Princess of Venice?'

  It seemed obvious enough, and yet something was not quite right. Even Jason, the sea-rover who generally knew what he was talking about, had given her to understand that Venice was Austrian, and Arcadius, that universal fount of information, had not corrected him… Marianne did not have to wait long for the explanation.

  'I dare say you were misled', the Duke of Padua was saying, 'by the strong rumours that Venice was to be returned to Austria at the time of the marriage. In any case, the city charter is still rather special. In practical if not in political terms it enjoys a kind of extraterritorial status. That is why there has been no official replacement yet for General Menou, who died recently. He was an odd fellow, by the way, a convert to Islam. The city is altogether much more cosmopolitan than French. You'll find it much easier there to play the part of a rich lady with nothing to do and desirous of travelling than in the stricter atmosphere of other ports. You can wait quietly for a passage on a neutral vessel bound for the east – many such put in to Venice.'

  'A – a neutral vessel?' Marianne said faintly, feeling her heart thud as her eyes, this time, sought those of her companion. But Arrighi appeared to have developed a sudden interest in a butterfly which was hovering conveniently at hand.

  'Yes… American, perhaps… The Emperor has heard that they are known to anchor in the lagoon.'

  This time Marianne had no answer. Surprise had left her speechless. Speechless, but not without the power of thought.

  Reaching her own apartments, a few minutes later, she made praiseworthy efforts to recover the shreds of her dignity. She was well aware that this had suffered greatly as, oblivious of time, place, and even the most elementary decorum due to her position, it had finally sunk home what was meant by the junction of those three words: Venice and American vessel. She had quite simply flung her arms round the Duke of Padua's august neck and planted two smacking kisses on his clean-shaven cheeks.

  To tell the truth, Arrighi had not shown any undue surprise at this startlingly familiar assault. He had laughed heartily and then as, blushing furiously, she had attempted to stammer some kind of apology, had hugged her back and kissed her in a most fatherly way, saying:

  'The Emperor warned me you would be pleased but I hadn't hoped to find my mission so pleasantly rewarded. All the same, one final word: you must realize the gravity of your mission. It is very real and important. His Majesty is counting on you.'

  'His Majesty is perfectly right, Duke. As always, surely? For my own part, I would rather die than disappoint the Emperor when he not only takes such pains for my welfare but even concerns himself for my future happiness.'

  Sweeping him a final curtsey, she had left Arrighi to enjoy the delightful shades of the Boboli Gardens on his own. She was overflowing with gratitude and sped back towards the palace, her feet in their pink satin slippers barely touching the sanded paths.

  With three words Arrighi had ripped apart the storm clouds, banished her nightmares and opened a great shining passage through the looming mists which hid
the future, enabling her to step out confidently towards it. Everything had become wonderfully simple.

  With General Arrighi to protect her, she need have nothing to fear from her strange husband and, more to the point, she could stop worrying about how to get rid of the tiresome Benielli.

  She was to be delivered practically into Jason's arms, and Jason, she knew, would not refuse to help her carry out a mission laid on her by the man to whom they both owed so much. They would have such a wonderful voyage together, on that great ship which she had watched with such an aching heart as it vanished into the mist off the coast of Brittany. But now the Sea Witch would soon be heading for the scented shores of the east, bearing its cargo of lovers lightly over the blue waves, through days of burning sun and nights ablaze with stars. How good it must be to make love underneath the stars!

  Lost in her shining dream, her imagination already slipping its cable, Marianne did not pause to wonder how Napoleon could have come to know of her most secret thoughts, a plan whispered hastily into her ear in that last passionate embrace with her lover.

  She was quite used to his habit of knowing everything without having to be told. He was a man endowed with superhuman powers of reading what lay in men's hearts. And yet…? Was it possible, after all, that this miracle too was the work of François Vidocq? The ex-convict turned policeman seemed possessed of a remarkably acute hearing, when he took the trouble to use it.

  Wholly wrapped up in themselves and in the grief of this fresh separation, neither Jason nor Marianne had thought to notice whether Vidocq had been within earshot. Well, true or not, this betrayal, if betrayal it were, was the source of too much happiness for Marianne to feel anything but heartfelt gratitude.

  She reached the palace still bubbling with happiness and floated up the great stone staircase without paying the slightest attention to the activity going on all around her. Footmen and waiting-women hurried up and down, bearing everything from leather travelling cases and carpet-bags to curtains and articles of furniture. The staircase echoed to the din and clatter of a removal on a princely scale.

  The Grand Duchess would not return to Florence before the winter and in addition to an extensive wardrobe she liked to carry with her all the familiar objects of her everyday life. Only the guards on the doors maintained their accustomed rigidity, in hilarious contrast to the domestic upheaval going on around them.

  Marianne was almost running by the time she came to the three rooms which had been assigned to her on the second floor. She could not wait to find Jolival and tell him of her happiness. She could scarcely breathe for excitement and she had to share it with someone. But she looked for him in vain. Both the Vicomte's own room and the little sitting-room they shared were empty.

  She was both irritated and downcast when a servant informed her that 'Monsieur le Vicomte was at the museum'. She knew what that meant. In all probability, Arcadius would not be back until very late and she would have to keep her glad news to herself for hours.

  Ever since their arrival in Florence, Jolival had been spending a great deal of his time officially visiting the Uffizi Palace and, unofficially, frequently a certain house in the via Tornabuoni where the play was high and the company exclusive. The Vicomte had been introduced into this circle by a friend on a previous visit and had retained nostalgic memories, stimulated to some extent by the intermittent smiles of Fortune, but rather more by recollections of the languishing and extremely romantic charms of the hostess, a violet-eyed countess with a claim to Medici blood in her veins.

  All in all, Marianne could not in justice blame her old friend for paying a final visit to his enchantress. After all, he was to leave Florence with Marianne in the morning.

  Postponing her confidences, therefore, until later, Marianne went into her own room, where she found her maid, Agathe, up to her neck in a sea of satins, laces, gauzes, lawns, taffetas and fripperies of all kinds which she was stowing away methodically in big trunks lined with pink toile de Jouy.

  Flushed with exertion, her cap askew, Agathe nevertheless put down the pile of linen she was carrying to hand her mistress the two letters which were waiting. One was a formidable, official-looking document sealed with the Emperor's personal cipher, the other a much smaller affair, artistically folded and adorned with a frivolous seal of green wax impressed with a dove. Since she had a very good idea of what to expect from the big letter, Marianne turned first to the little one.

  'Do you know who brought this?' she asked her maid.

  'A footman belonging to Baroness Cenami. He came soon after your highness went out. He made a great thing of its being urgent.'

  Marianne nodded and went to the window to peruse her new friend's letter. Zoe Cenami was, in fact, the only friend she had made since coming into Italy. She had been given a letter of introduction to her by Fortunée Hamelin before leaving Paris.

  The young Baroness was a fellow-Creole and before entering the Princess Elisa's household, where she met her future husband, had been a frequent visitor at the house of Madame Campan, where Fortunée's daughter Leontine was receiving her education. A common origin had created a bond of friendship between Madame Hamelin and Mademoiselle Guilbaud, a friendship continued by letter after Zoe's departure for Italy. Not long after her arrival there, she had married the charming Baron Cenami, brother of the Princess's favourite chamberlain and one of the best placed men at court by virtue of his elder's attractions. Zoe's own wit and elegance had soon won her Elisa's regard and she had been entrusted with the upbringing of the Princess's daughter, the boisterous Napoléone-Elisa, whose tomboyish ways put a severe strain on the young Creole's patience.

  Marianne, aided by her friend's good offices, had found herself naturally drawn to the charming woman who became her guide through Florence and had introduced her to the pleasant circle of friends who met most afternoons in the pretty drawing-room in the Lungarno Accaiuoli.

  There the Princess Sant'Anna had been welcomed in a simple and comfortable way which, little by little, made her feel at home there. It was strange that Zoe should have bothered to write, since she was expecting her as usual that evening.

  The note was short but disturbing. Zoe seemed a prey to some strong anxiety.

  'My dear Princess,' she had written in a scratchy, nervous hand, 'I must see you, but not at my house. For the sake of my own peace of mind and perhaps of the life of one dear to me. I shall be in the church of Or San Michele at five o'clock, in the right aisle, which is the one with the Gothic tabernacle. Wear a veil so that you will not be recognized. You are the only person who can save your unhappy Z.'

  Marianne re-read the letter carefully in a good deal of bewilderment. Then, crossing to the hearth where owing to the prevailing dampness of the palace a fire still burned even at that late season, she tossed Zoe's missive into the flames. It was gone in a moment but Marianne continued to watch it until the last white ashes had fallen apart. She was thinking hard.

  Zoe must be in dire trouble to have called on her for help like this, for she was noted for her shyness and discreet behaviour, as well as for her talent for making friends. There were many of these of far longer standing than Marianne, so why call on her? Because she inspired more confidence? Because they were both French? Because she was a friend of that indefatigable help in trouble, Fortunée Hamelin…?

  Whatever the answer, Marianne, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, saw that it was not far off five already and called to Agathe to come and dress her.

  'Give me my olive-green dress with the black velvet trimmings, my black straw hat and a Chantilly-lace veil to go with it.'

  Agathe's top half emerged slowly backwards out of the trunk which had all but swallowed her and she stared at her mistress blankly.

  'Wherever is your highness going in that gloomy get-up? Not to Madame Cenami's, surely?'

  Agathe enjoyed all the devoted servant's freedom of speech, and normally Marianne was ready to indulge her. Today, however, was an exception. Marianne's tempe
r was sharpened by her anxiety for Zoe.

  'Since when has it been any business of yours where I go?' she snapped. 'Do as I ask, that is all.'

  'But if Monsieur le Vicomte should return and ask for you?'

  'Then you will tell him all you know: that I have gone out. And ask him to wait for me. I don't know when I shall be back.'

  Agathe said no more but went in search of the required garments, leaving Marianne to slip hastily out of the rose-pink lawn which she felt was rather too conspicuous for a discreet assignation in a church, especially since Zoe had asked her to come veiled.

  Helping her mistress on with the plain dress, Agathe, still bridling from her set-down, inquired through pursed lips whether she was to order Gracchus to bring the carriage.

  'No. I'll walk. The exercise will do me good and it is only on foot that Florence is to be seen to the best advantage.'

  'Very well, my lady, if you don't mind going up to your ankles in mud…'

  'Never mind. It will be worth it.'

  A few minutes later, Marianne was dressed and making her way out of the palace. The full lace veil placed a delicate screen of leaves and flowers between her and the sparkling daylight as, walking quickly, with her skirts lifted a little to keep them from the dirt of the streets, where patches of wet mud still lingered here and there in the shade, left over from the last shower of rain, Marianne made her way in the direction of the Ponte Vecchio. She crossed it without a glance at the jewellers' shops ranged in picturesque clusters on either hand.

  In her gloved hands she held a fat morocco-bound missal with gilt corners. Agathe had seen her take it, eyes bulging with curiosity but her lips discreetly sealed. Thus armed, Marianne had the perfect air of a well-bred lady going to evening service. It had the added advantage of preserving her from the unwanted gallantries which every Italian male worth the name felt in honour bound to address to any personable woman: and the streets, at that hour, were always full of men.