Marianne and The Masked Prince

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  ***

  The hostelry known as the Grand-Cerf was full to bursting point when Marianne and Jolival entered it. At first the landlord, running hither and thither like a frantic chicken, was too busy even to attend to them. In the end Arcadius had to lose patience and arrest the worthy man in mid-career by putting out a hand and getting a firm grip on the knotted handkerchief he wore about his neck.

  'Not so fast, my friend. There is a time for everything and now you will kindly listen to me. This lady' – he indicated Marianne who had wearily removed her hat, allowing her hair to tumble down her back – 'is, as you can see, extremely tired, wet and hungry. And since she is a person close to His Majesty you will be well advised to exert yourself to find her a place to rest and dry herself, even if it has to be your own bedchamber.'

  There was strength in Arcadius's slender fingers and the poor man turned all colours of the rainbow. At the mention of the Emperor he let out an anguished moan. His short, fat arms flailed desperately and he rolled his eyes at Marianne like a drowning man.

  'But, my prince, I have no bedchamber. I was obliged to give up my own room to the aide-de-camp of the Duc de Rovigo. At this very moment Madame Robineau, my wife, is making a bed up for me in the pantry. It would not be proper to offer that to madame – or should I say Her Highness?' His evident distress wrung a smile from Jolival. The unhappy landlord was clearly asking himself feverishly if this could be yet another of the Emperor's sisters: the Bonapartes were so numerous.

  'Madame will do, but find something.'

  Just as the unfortunate Robineau was contemplating the desirability of unconsciousness as a way out of his dilemma, an Austrian officer in the handsome light brown uniform of the Landwehr, who for some moments had been studying Marianne's beautiful pale face with some intentness, approached and clicked his heels. Marianne, her eyes closed, was leaning back against the wall, paying no attention to the discussion.

  'Allow me to present myself: Prince Clary und Aldringen, special envoy of his Majesty the Emperor of Austria. I have taken two rooms in this hostelry: the lady will do me a favour by accepting one…'

  Jolival was bowing stiffly as this speech was interrupted by an exclamation from Robineau.

  'Mon Dieu! Milor' returns so soon! I understood milor' to be dining at the palace?'

  The Austrian prince laughed easily. He was a tall man in his early thirties with a fine-boned, intelligent face surmounted by thick fair hair.

  'Well, my good landlord, I am afraid you will have to find me something to eat. I do not dine at the palace because there is no dinner at the palace for anyone.

  'Has the cook committed suicide?' inquired Jolival with a smile.

  'No, indeed. The whole court was actually assembled in the great salon ready to go in when Marshal Duroc came to tell us their majesties had retired to their own apartments – and there would consequently be no dinner. But if I was cursing a moment ago, now I bless the unexpected turn of events which has allowed me to be of some small service to madame.'

  The last words were addressed, of course, to Marianne who, oblivious of the gallantry implied, did not even remember to thank him. One thing only had she grasped from what the Austrian had said and the question it raised in her mind impelled her to ask:

  'Their majesties have retired? Does that mean – but surely —' The words died on her lips, but Clary was laughing again.

  'I fear it does. It appears that the Emperor's first action was to inquire of his uncle, Cardinal Fesch, if he were truly married – that is, whether the proxy wedding in Vienna made the Archduchess lawfully his wife.'

  'And?' Marianne's throat was dry.

  'And the Emperor informed the – the Empress that he would shortly do himself the honour of visiting her in her apartments. He merely wanted time to take a bath.'

  Every vestige of colour drained from Marianne's face.

  'So —' Her voice was so hoarse that the Austrian glanced at her with surprise and Arcadius with alarm.

  'So their majesties retired and I promptly came here to your service, madame – but how pale you are! You are not ill? You, Robineau, let your wife at once conduct this lady to my own room, it is the best in the house… Good God!'

  This last exclamation was caused by Marianne who, drained of her last ounce of strength by the blow which he had unwittingly dealt her, had suddenly swayed and would have fallen if Jolival had not caught her in time. A moment later, carried by Clary and preceded by Madame Robineau in a starched muslin cap and armed with a large brass candlestick, Marianne ascended the well-polished staircase of the Grand-Cerf in a state of total unconsciousness.

  ***

  When, some fifteen minutes later, she emerged from this blissful state, Marianne found herself looking at two faces side by side. One was Arcadius's mouse-like countenance, the other, which was highly-coloured and surmounted by a lofty cap from which some wisps of brown hair escaped, belonged to a woman. Seeing that Marianne had opened her eyes, the woman ceased bathing her temples with vinegar and observed with satisfaction that 'that was better now'.

  To Marianne it did not seem in the least better, worse if anything. She was frozen to the marrow yet every now and then she felt bathed in great waves of heat, her teeth were chattering and there was a vice tightening on her head. Even so, the returning memory of what she had heard was enough to make her try and spring up from the bed where they had laid her fully dressed.

  'I must go!' she said, trembling so much as she spoke that she could hardly get the words out. 'I want to go home, at once!'

  Arcadius put both hands on her shoulders and forced her to lie down again.

  'Out of the question. Ride back to Paris in this weather? It would be the death of you, my dear. I am no doctor but I know a little of the subject. I can tell from your flushed cheeks that you have a temperature —'

  'What does that matter? I cannot stay here! Can't you hear it – the music, the singing, the fireworks? Can't you hear the whole city going mad with joy because the Emperor has bedded the daughter of his greatest enemy?'

  'Marianne, I beg you —' Arcadius was looking at her haggard face in alarm.

  Marianne gave a strident peal of laughter that was painful to hear. Brushing Arcadius aside, she jumped off the bed and ran to the window. With a furious gesture she flung back the curtain and stood holding on to it, looking out at the brightly-lit palace which stared challengingly back across the wet and empty square. Inside that building Napoleon was holding that Austrian woman in his arms, possessing her as he had possessed Marianne, murmuring perhaps the self-same words of love… Rage and jealousy combined with the fever in her already burning head to torment her with the flames of hell. Her memory recalled with ruthless clarity all her lover's ways, the way he looked – oh, if she could only see through those bland, white walls, if she could only know which of those shuttered windows hid that betrayal of love in which Marianne's own heart was the victim!

  'Mio dolce amore —' she muttered through clenched teeth. 'Mio dolce amore! Is he saying that to her, too?'

  Arcadius had not dared to go to her or touch her, fearing that in her delirium she would begin to scream aloud. Now he spoke softly to the horrified landlady.

  'She is very ill. Fetch a doctor, quickly.'

  The woman did not need telling twice. She whisked herself off down the passage in a flurry of starched petticoats while very quietly, one step at a time, Jolival approached Marianne. She did not even see him. Standing taut as a bowstring, and staring with dilated eyes at the great, white building, it seemed to her suddenly as if the walls were made of glass, enabling her to see right into that inner room where, beneath a canopy of gold and purple velvet, an ivory body lay embracing another whose plump flesh was overlaid with tints of rose. In that moment of crucified agony, nothing existed for Marianne save the picture of a love scene which her imagination conjured up the more vividly because the reality had so often been hers, Arcadius, standing within an arm's length of her, heard her murmu
r:

  'How can you kiss her as you kissed me? Yet, the lips are your own. Have you forgotten indeed? You cannot – you cannot love her as you loved me. Oh no, I implore you – do not hold her so close! Let her go... She will bring you bad luck, I know it. I can tell. Remember how the wheel broke on the steps of the wayside shrine. You cannot love her – no, no – NO!'

  She uttered one, brief, heartbroken cry, then sank to her knees beside the window, racked by shuddering sobs. Even so, the tears released the nervous tension which had so alarmed Arcadius so that now he found himself trembling with relief.

  Realizing that he might safely touch her now, he bent and reached out with infinite tenderness to raise her to her feet. Hardly daring to hold the slender form that trembled against his shoulder, he guided her faltering steps towards the bed. She did not resist but suffered herself to be led like a little child, too deep in her own misery to be aware of what was happening. By the time Jolival had her lying on the bed once more, the door had opened to admit Madame Robineau with the doctor. That this should be none other than Corvisart, Napoleon's own doctor, did not surprise Arcadius in the least. After the events of that day, nothing would have had the power to surprise him. None the less, it was a remarkable comfort.

  'I was downstairs,' he said, 'sharing a bowl of punch with some friends, when I heard madame here calling for a doctor. Prince Clary was hard on her heels, bombarding her with questions, and it was he who informed me of the invalid's identity. May I ask what the Signorina Maria Stella is doing here and in this condition?'

  Frowning severely at the still-sobbing Marianne, the doctor folded his arms and his black-dad bulk seemed to tower over Arcadius. Jolival made a helpless gesture.

  'She is your patient,' he said, 'and you must know her a little. She was set on coming —'

  'You should not have let her.'

  'I'd have liked to see you try and stop her. Do you know, we followed the Archduchess's convoy from the other side of Soissons? When Marianne heard what had happened at the palace, her feelings overcame her.'

  'All that way in the pouring rain! It was madness. As for what happened at the palace, that was nothing to go into convulsions over. Good lord, to throw a fit because his majesty was in haste to see what kind of a bargain he had got!'

  While the two men were talking, Madame Robineau, with the help of a maidservant, had been expeditiously undressing Marianne, now quiet as a baby, and tucking her into the big bed which the maid had warmed hastily with a copper warming-pan. The girl's sobs were quieter now although she was growing increasingly feverish. Her mind seemed calmer, however, and the violent outburst of grief which had shaken her had done something to relieve the worst tension, so that she was able to listen almost with indifference to Corvisart's rumbling voice berating her on the imprudence of riding about in the icy rain.

  'You have a carriage, I think, and some very fine horses? What made you go on horseback in this weather?'

  'I like riding,' Marianne said obstinately, determined to reveal nothing of her real motives.

  The doctor snorted, 'And what do you think the Emperor will say when he hears what you have been up to, eh?'

  Marianne's hand emerged swiftly from the bedclothes and was laid on Corvisart's.

  'But he will not hear. Doctor, please say nothing to him! Besides – I dare say he will not be interested.'

  Corvisart gave a mighty roar of laughter.

  'I see. You do not wish the Emperor to know but if you could be sure it would make him very angry to hear what you have been doing, you would send me to him straight away, is that it? Well then, you may be happy: I will tell him and he will be furious.'

  'I don't believe you,' Marianne said bitterly. The Emperor is —'

  'The Emperor is busy trying to get himself an heir,' the doctor interrupted her ruthlessly. 'My dear girl, I find you quite incomprehensible. You must have known that this was inevitable – that it was the Emperor's sole purpose in marrying.'

  'He need not have been in such a hurry! Why tonight —'

  'Why take the Archduchess into his bed tonight?' Corvisart seemed bent on finishing her sentences for her. 'Because he is in a hurry, of course. He is married, he wants an heir, he sets about the business right away. What could be more natural?'

  'But he is not properly married! The real marriage service is to take place in Paris in several days' time. Tonight, the Emperor should have —'

  '— slept at the Chancellory, I know. He is merely making sure of his bargain. And there is nothing for you to upset yourself about. Lord, my dear, you've only to look at yourself in your mirror, even now, when you look more like a sodden spaniel than a celebrated cantatrice, and then cast an eye at that poor little dumpling who is to give us an heir to the throne. Nearly every man in Paris is at your feet! Yes, even that Austrian fellow is hanging about downstairs for news of you! You let the Emperor get on with his job. If you'll permit me to say so, you won't find him a worse lover because he's a husband.'

  Marianne did not answer. What was the use? No man could ever understand what she felt at that moment. She was not such a fool, nor Fortunée Hamelin sufficiently discreet, that she could believe herself the first woman who had tried to hold the master of Europe. Napoleon had adored his first wife and betrayed her time after time. Even when he was deeply in love, this craving for change, this irresistible urge to polygamy, was part of the very essence of the man. And yet, however much she reasoned with herself, Marianne could not ease the dull pain in her heart. Did the physical shape of the woman he held in his arms matter so little to him? If that were so, why had he chosen her, Marianne? How deeply had she really stirred him? What place did she hold between his memories of Josephine and those of the golden haired Marie Walewska with whom he was said to have been so wildly in love in Warsaw?

  Thinking that she was falling asleep, Corvisart softly drew the curtains round the bed and departed, accompanied by Arcadius. He had given her a cordial to drink and prescribed mustard plasters, rest and warmth. Before the door closed, Marianne heard him say in a low voice: The crisis is past and I think the chill will lead to no ill effects. It will keep her quiet at least.'

  Marianne chuckled underneath her blankets. Quiet! When she could feel fresh forces bubbling up inside her, strengthened, perhaps, by her fever? She was not the woman to waste time lamenting her fate. She was a born fighter and now on this, another woman's wedding night, she suddenly found a new sense of purpose in her own life. Dislike was the first motive, a dislike so strong that it almost amounted to hatred for this Austrian – this great, indolent pink and white doll. There followed, naturally, the urge to cross swords with her, and measure her power over Napoleon's mind, heart and senses.

  Why not deal her fickle lover tit for tat? Why not use against him the oldest weapon of all those with which the Devil has stocked the feminine arsenal: the self-same jealousy which had been tormenting Marianne herself for the past week? Already, she was famous. All Paris knew her name, her voice, her face. She had every means at her disposal to get herself talked about, from Fouché down to the news-sheets and Fortunée's witty gossip. How would the Emperor react to hear her name persistently coupled with that of some other man? It might be interesting to see.

  'The whole of the Imperial Guard is in love with you,' Fortunée had said. It would be silly not to use their infatuation to penetrate a little further into the mysteries of Napoleon's heart. Of course, the experiment must be only in appearance, not in fact.

  When Arcadius, on tiptoe, crept back into the room to see that all was well, she fixed him suddenly with her bright green eyes.

  'That Austrian – the prince – is he still downstairs ?'

  'Er – yes. It was he who insisted on my coming up to see that you needed nothing. At this very moment he is earnestly questioning the doctor about your condition. Why do you ask?'

  'Because he was very kind and I did not thank him as I should. Will you do that for me tonight, Arcadius, and tell him that I shall b
e happy to see him tomorrow?'

  Clearly, this request came as a surprise to Jolival. He stared.

  'I will do that certainly, but —'

  Before he could finish, Marianne had wriggled down into the bedclothes and, turning on her side, gave a very obvious yawn.

  'Good night, dear friend. Go and get some rest. You must need it. It is very late.'

  The church dock not far away was striking midnight and Marianne's sleepiness was not altogether feigned. The fever was making her drowsy. Tomorrow she would see the Austrian and be very nice to him. He might even offer her a seat in his own carriage for the journey back to Paris, and once back in the city she would feel better placed to win her battle with the two men in her life: the fight for freedom from Francis Cranmere and the fight for love with Napoleon.

  Strong in this resolution, Marianne closed her eyes and sank into a restless sleep, broken by confused dreams. Strangely enough, neither the Emperor nor Francis Cranmere entered into those dreams. Marianne was struggling for breath in the green depths of some infernal jungle, enmeshed in silvery tentacles of weird vegetation, in flowering lianas that opened gaping mouths: she tried to cry out but no sound came from her lips. The more desperately she fought, the more terrifying became the feeling of suffocation. The green jungle rose and filled her mouth and covered her, and instantly it had changed into a raging sea with mountainous waves looming above her head. Marianne felt her strength failing, she was drowning. Then suddenly a hand appeared, groping down, down through the greenish depths, growing larger and larger until it held her in a warm grip and drew her back abruptly into the light. The figure of a man was there, etched against an angry sky, and Marianne knew quite suddenly that it was Jason Beaufort. He was looking at her with an expression of mingled sorrow and anger.