Marianne and The Masked Prince

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'We'll wait here. How much farther, do you think?'

  'Not far,' the other man answered. He was a large, floridly handsome fellow with brown, curly hair. At present he was occupied in doing his best to shield a vast, plumed hat beneath his cloak. 'But why wait here with water dripping down our necks from these abominably leaky, rustic gutters when we might seek shelter in some farm-house?'

  'Your stay in Naples has done you no good, Murat,' the Emperor said mockingly. 'Are you frightened of a few drops of rain?'

  'Not for myself, but for my dress. I shall be obliged to greet the Empress wearing sodden plumes, like a wilting palm tree!'

  'If you dressed more plainly, you would have nothing to worry about. You should do as I do.'

  'Your style of dress is deplorably sober, sire, as I have always said. You cannot go to meet an Archduchess dressed like a shopkeeper.'

  This remarkable exchange gave Marianne time to regain control of herself. The breathless pounding of her heart had stopped and jealousy was giving way a little to sheer feminine curiosity. So this was the famous Murat, the King of Naples and the Emperor's brother-in-law. Despite his impressive height and the splendours of the blue uniform glimpsed beneath the enveloping black cloak, Marianne thought there was a vulgarity in his features and an excessive swagger in his bearing. He might be the finest horseman in the Empire but if that were so he should take care never to be seen without his horse. On foot, he seemed only half a man. But Napoleon was speaking again.

  'I told you, I wish to take the Archduchess by surprise and show myself to her without frills. And I want to see her in her plain travelling dress. We'll step out into the road when the cortege comes in sight.

  A sigh loud enough to reach Marianne's ears indicated Murat's opinion of this plan but he said resignedly: 'Very well, we'll wait.'

  'Now don't look so gloomy. All this is very romantic, you know. Must I remind you that your own wife is with Marie-Louise? Aren't you glad to see Caroline again?'

  'Oh yes, but we have been man and wife long enough for the first shock to have worn off. Besides —'

  'Hush! Don't you hear anything?'

  All the occupants of the church, the watchers and the watched, strained their ears. There was a rumbling in the distance, like an approaching storm, still faint and very far away but coming slowly nearer.

  'Ah yes,' Murat agreed, with evident relief. 'That must be the coaches. Yes, surely —' The King of Naples plunged bravely out into the rain and after a quick glance along the road came running back, crying: 'I can see the leaders of the escorting hussars! Your bride approaches, sire!'

  In an instant, Napoleon had joined him, while Marianne, drawn by a curiosity she could not help, crept forward into the church doorway. She was in no danger of being seen. The Emperor's attention was all on the long string of carriages now coming at a smart pace down the road towards them, led by a mounted escort in colours of blue and mauve. Marianne could feel the tension in him from where she stood, and it came to her suddenly how much it meant to him, the arrival of this daughter of the Habsburgs to whom he looked for his heir and through whom he would ally himself at last with the blood royal of Europe. To fight back her growing anguish, she strove to remember his contemptuous words: 'I am marrying a womb.' It was no good. Everything in her lover's attitude (gossip even said that he had insisted on learning to dance in his new bride's honour) betrayed how impatiently he had been waiting for the moment when his future wife would come to him. Even this schoolboy prank in which he had indulged in the company of his brother-in-law! He could not bear to wait for the next day's official, ceremonial meeting at Pontarcher.

  Napoleon stood in the centre of the road and the hussars were already reining in their mounts at the sight of his familiar figure, crying: 'The Emperor! It is the Emperor!' The words were echoed a moment later by the chamberlain, M. de Seyssel, who came riding up, but Napoleon ignored them all. Oblivious of the driving rain, he was running towards the big coach drawn by eight steaming horses and tugging open the door without waiting for it to be opened for him. Marianne caught a glimpse of two women inside before one leaned forward and exclaimed: 'His majesty, the Emperor!'

  But Napoleon, it was clear, had eyes only for her companion, a tall, fair girl with a pink and white complexion and round, somewhat protuberant blue eyes, now bulging more than usual with alarm. Her pouting lips were trembling as she tried to smile. She was dressed in a plain green velvet cloak but on her head she wore a startling confection of multicoloured feathers that resembled the crest of a moulting parrot.

  Marianne, standing a few yards away devouring the Archduchess with her eyes, experienced a fierce spasm of joy at the realization that Marie-Louise, if not precisely ugly, was certainly no more than passable. Her complexion was good enough but her blue eyes held no intelligence and the famous Habsburg lip combined with an overlong nose to produce a face lacking in charm. And then she was so badly dressed! She was fat, too, too fat for a young girl: in ten years she would be gross. Already there was a heaviness about her.

  Eagerly, Marianne looked at the Emperor who was standing with his feet in a puddle gazing at his future wife, trying to gauge his reactions. Surely, he must be disappointed. He would bow formally, kiss his bride's hand and then return to his own carriage which was already undergoing repairs — but no, his voice rang out gaily:

  'Madame, I am delighted to see you!'

  Oblivious of his drenched clothes, he sprang into the coach and caught the fair girl in his arms, kissing her several times with an enthusiasm that drew a prim smile from the other occupant of the vehicle, a pretty, blonde woman whose pearly skin and dimpled charms were not destroyed by the fact that her face was over-fleshed and her neck too short. The innocence of her expression was belied by a sardonic glint in her eye which Marianne did not quite like. This must be Napoleon's sister, Caroline Murat, one of the most notorious harpies in court circles. Her husband, having first kissed the Archduchess's hand, returned alone to the plain travelling coach while Napoleon settled himself in the seat facing the two women and addressed the coachman who still stood beside the vehicle with a beaming smile.

  'Drive on to Compiègne, and don't spare the horses!'

  'But sire,' the Queen of Naples murmured protestingly, 'we are expected at Soissons. There is to be a supper, a reception.'

  'Then they can eat their supper without us. It is my wish that my lady wife spend tonight in her own house! Drive on.'

  Caroline's lips tightened at the snub but she retired into her corner and the carriage moved off, affording Marianne a last glimpse through her tears of Napoleon smiling blissfully at his bride. A shout of command and the escort quickened their pace to a trot. One by one, the eighty-three vehicles of the new Empress's train moved past the church. Marianne stood leaning on the wet stones of the Gothic porch and watched them unseeingly, so deep in her own miserable thoughts that Arcadius had at last to shake her gently to rouse her.

  'What now?' he asked. We ought to go straight back to the inn. You are soaked to the skin, and so am I.'

  Marianne looked at him strangely.

  'We are going to Compiègne…'

  'What for?' Jolival sounded suspicious. 'You're up to some foolishness, I don't doubt. What can you do in all this?'

  Marianne stamped her foot. 'I wish to go to Compiègne, I tell you. Don't ask me why because I don't know. All I know is that I have to go there.'

  She was so pale that Arcadius frowned. All the life seemed to have drained from her, leaving only a mechanical creature. In an effort to rouse her from her frozen stupor, he objected wildly: 'But what about the rendezvous tonight?'

  'That no longer concerns me. He did not make it. Surely you heard? He is going to Compiègne. He does not mean to return to this place. How far are we from Compiègne?'

  'About forty miles.'

  'You see! To horse, and fast. I want to be there before them.'

  As she spoke, she was running towards the trees where they had te
thered the horses. Hard on her heels, Arcadius persisted in trying to make her see reason.

  'Don't be a fool, Marianne. Come back to Braine and let me go and see who is waiting for you tonight.'

  'That does not concern me, I tell you. When will you understand that there is only one person in the world I care about? Besides, it is bound to be a trap. I am certain of that now… But I do not ask you to come with me,' she added cruelly. 'I can very well go alone.'

  'Don't talk nonsense.' Arcadius shrugged and cupped his hands to throw her into the saddle. He did not blame her for her ill-temper because he knew what she was suffering at that moment, but it grieved him to see her punishing herself in a situation which she was powerless to alter.

  He merely said: 'Very well, let's go if you insist.' Then he sought his own mount.

  Without answering, Marianne dug her heels into her horse's sides and the creature shot off, making for the little track along the river. The few people who had emerged to witness the scene went back indoors and Courcelles sank back into its accustomed quiet. The damaged coach, provided with a fresh wheel by the local wheelwright, had also disappeared.

  ***

  Although it had the advantage of them by several minutes, Marianne and Arcadius emerged on to the main highway at Soissons in time to see the imperial coach pass by at the head of the column, having thundered through the town before the shocked and astonished eyes of the Sous-Préfet, the town council and the military who had waited for hours in the pouring rain merely to have the pleasure of seeing their Emperor dash away under their noses.

  'Why is he in such a hurry ?' Marianne muttered through clenched teeth. Why does he have to be in Compiègne tonight?'

  She was swinging into the saddle again after a change of horses at the Hôtel des Postes when she saw the imperial carriage come to a sudden stop. The door opened and the Queen of Naples, recognizable to Marianne by the pink and mauve ostrich feathers adorning her pearl-grey bonnet, stepped out into the road and marched with an air of offended dignity towards the second coach, the chamberlain trotting at her heels. The steps were let down and, like a queen going into exile, she disappeared within and the procession continued on its way.

  Marianne looked inquiringly at Arcadius. What was that about?'

  Arcadius was bending over his horse's neck, apparently having some trouble with the bit, and did not answer. Irritated by his silence, Marianne burst out: 'Have the courage to tell me the truth at least, Arcadius! Do you think he wants to be alone with that woman?'

  'It is possible,' Jolival conceded cautiously. 'Unless the Queen of Naples has been indulging in one of her unfortunate fits of ill-humour —'

  'In the Emperor's presence? Unlikely, I think. Ride fast, my friend. I want to be there when they alight from that coach.'

  The mad career began again, splashing through icy puddles, brushing aside the low branches that obscured the unfrequented ways.

  It was dark by the time they entered Compiègne and Marianne's teeth were chattering with cold and exhaustion. She kept herself in the saddle only by a prodigious effort of will. Her whole body ached as if she had been thrashed. Even so, they were only moments ahead of the cortege; the rumble of the eighty-three vehicles had never been out of earshot on that endless ride except at moments when they had plunged deep into woods far off the road.

  Now, riding through the brightly-lit streets, decorated from top to bottom, Marianne blinked like a night-bird caught suddenly in the light. The rain had stopped. The news had run through Compiègne that the Emperor was bringing home his bride that very night instead of on the morrow as expected, and in spite of the darkness and the weather all the inhabitants were out in the streets or in the inns. Already a large crowd had gathered outside the railings of the big white palace.

  The building glittered in the darkness like a colony of fireflies. A regiment of grenadiers stood to attention in the courtyard, ready to march out and line the streets. Marianne dashed the water that dripped from her hat brim out of her eyes.

  'When the soldiers come out, we'll take our chance to make a dash for it,' she said. 'I want to get close to the railings.'

  'Marianne, this is madness. We will be trampled and crushed to death! There is no reason why anyone should let us through.'

  'No one will even notice. Go and tether the horses and then hurry back.'

  As Arcadius hurried back towards the lighted doorway of a large inn, all the bells in the town were already ringing.

  The cortege had reached Compiègne. At the same time a great shout went up in the darkness. The palace gates opened to make way for the solid mass of grenadiers who carved an orderly furrow through the very thickest of the crowd and formed up in a double line to allow a passage for the coaches. Marianne seized her chance and ran, with Jolival on her heels. The backward movement of the crowd was just enough to let her slip behind the guardsmen's backs right up to the palace railings. One or two voices were raised in protest at the impudence of people who pushed themselves forward where they had no right to, but Marianne was oblivious of everything outside her own purpose. Besides, the first of the hussars were already cantering into the square, reining in their sweating horses. A great roar went up from the crowd:

  'Long live the Emperor!'

  Marianne had climbed on to the low wall at the base of the gilded railings and was clutching at the wet ironwork with both hands. Now there was nothing but a vast, empty space between her and the great staircase lined with footmen in purple livery bearing torches that flickered brightly in the cold air. The palace windows were filled with a brilliant crowd of people, more people were swarming on to the balconies above and an orchestra appeared on the central balcony overlooking the courtyard. Torches were everywhere. The noise was deafening, its volume swelling as the drums began to roll.

  Pages, outriders, officers and marshals clattered up the lane between the grenadiers; then came a coach, followed by another, and another, and another. Marianne's heart was beating wildly under her sodden riding-habit. She stared wide-eyed at the carpeted steps, seeing the broad perron below the triangular pediment fill up with ladies in sweeping gowns and tiaras flashing multicoloured jewels, with men in dashing uniforms of red and gold or blue and silver. She even made out a number of Austrian officers, their white dress uniforms a foil for the orders glittering on their chests. Somewhere a clock struck ten.

  Then, as the shouting and cheering rose to fever pitch, there came in sight the travelling coach drawn by eight horses which Marianne remembered all too well. The brass band on the balcony struck up a patriotic tune and the vehicle swept through the open gates and described a graceful curve to draw up before the steps. Footmen hurried forward, torch-bearers streamed down into the courtyard, the drums rolled and all the satins and brocades lining the entrance swept the ground in stately reverence. Through a mist of tears she was no longer able to restrain, Marianne saw Napoleon spring out and turn triumphantly to help out the other occupant of the coach with the tender care of a devoted lover. A spasm of rage dried Marianne's tears at the sight of the Archduchess, very red in the face with her absurd, parrot-feathered bonnet askew and a curious suggestion of confusion in her manner.

  Standing, Marie-Louise was taller than her bridegroom by half a head. They made an ill-assorted couple, she all soft, Germanic heaviness, he with his pale skin and Roman nose and all the superficial nervous energy he owed to his Mediterranean blood. Perhaps the only thing that did not jar was the great difference in age, for Marie-Louise was too big to convey any impression of delicate youth. Moreover, neither seemed aware of any incongruity. They were gazing at one another with an apparent rapture that made Marianne suddenly long to commit murder. Only a few days ago this man had been making passionate love to her, swearing with all sincerity that she alone possessed his heart: how could he stand there looking at that great blonde cow like a child at his first Christmas present? She ground her teeth and dug her finger-nails into the palms of her hands to stop herself from screami
ng aloud.

  On the other side of the railings, the newcomer was exchanging kisses with the ladies of the imperial family: the exquisite Pauline, barely able to preserve her countenance in the face of that appalling hat; sober Elisa with her stern, classical features; the darkly beautiful Queen of Spain and fair, graceful Queen Hortense, dressed with faultless elegance in a white silk gown and softly-glowing pearls that stood in glaring contrast to the tasteless clothes of the new Empress.

  For an instant, Marianne forgot her own grief in wondering what Josephine's gentle daughter, Hortense, must be thinking, seeing this woman dare to seat herself on her mother's still-warm throne. Surely it was unnecessarily cruel of Napoleon to have forced her to be present to welcome this stranger into a French palace? Unnecessary, yes, but characteristic of the Emperor. Not for the first time, Marianne realized that his native kindness was sometimes marred by a streak of inhuman coldness.

  'Now will you let me take you indoors out of the cold?' Arcadius's friendly voice spoke in her ear. 'Or do you mean to spend the night clinging to these railings? There is nothing more to see.'

  Marianne came to herself with a shiver and saw that he was right. Except for the carriages, the grooms and servants already leading the horses away to the stables, the court was empty. The windows were closed and the crowd in the square was drifting slowly, almost regretfully away, like an ebbing tide. The face she turned to Arcadius was still wet with tears.

  'You think I am mad, don't you?' she said softly.

  He smiled affectionately and slipped a brotherly arm about her shoulders.

  'I think you are very young, wonderfully and terribly young. You rush to wound yourself with the blind determination of a frightened bird. When you are older you will learn to avoid the iron spikes that life strews in the path of human beings to tear and wound them, you will learn to keep your eyes and ears shut so as to preserve your illusions and your peace of mind at all events. But, not yet…'