The red plumes on the tall shakos of the Grenadier Guards waved all along the route, alternating at the intersections with the red and green cockades of the Chasseurs. Orchestras and bands everywhere were playing the same tune, a popular song called 'Home is where your Heart is' which soon got on Marianne's nerves. It seemed an odd choice for the day when Napoleon was marrying the niece of Marie-Antoinette.
Suddenly, Arcadius's hand, gloved in pale kid, was laid on Marianne's.
'Don't move and don't turn round,' he said softly. 'But I want you to try and take a peep into the carriage that has just drawn up beside us. The occupants are a man and a woman. The woman is a stranger to neither of us but I do not know the man. He has an air of breeding and is very handsome, in spite of a scar on his left cheek – a scar that might have been caused by a sword cut—'
With a supreme effort, Marianne sat still, but her hand trembled under Jolival's. She raised the other to her lips and yawned ostentatiously, as if the long wait for the bridal procession were becoming tedious. Then, slowly and with perfect naturalness, she turned her head very slightly, enough to bring the interior of the neighbouring carriage within her field of vision.
It was a black and yellow curricle, brand new and extremely smart, bearing the obvious signature of Keller, the fashionable coach-builder in the Champs Elysées. There were two people inside. The elderly woman was splendidly dressed in black velvet trimmed with fur, and Marianne was not surprised to recognize her old enemy, Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis. It was the woman's companion, however, who drew her eyes and although her heart missed a beat the cause was not surprise but an unpleasant sensation more akin to revulsion.
This time, there could be no mistake. It was Francis Cranmere and no phantom conjured up by a fevered imagination. Marianne saw the familiar, almost-too-perfect features, set in an expression of perpetual boredom; the stubborn brow and the rather heavy chin supported by the folds of the high, muslin cravat; the powerful body, exquisitely dressed and preserved, as yet, from corpulence by physical exercise. His clothes were a blend of subtle dove-grey shades, relieved by a dramatic black velvet collar.
They must have followed us,' Jolival murmured. 'I will swear they have come for no other purpose. See, the man is looking at you. It is he, is it not? Your husband?'
'It is he,' Marianne agreed. Considering the turmoil within her, her voice was curiously calm. Her proud, disdainful green eyes met and held Francis's grey ones without flinching. She was discovering, agreeably, that now that she was face to face with him in fact, the vague terrors which had haunted her ever since his appearance at the theatre had melted away. It was the sense of some obscure, unspecified menace which had frightened her. She was afraid of the unknown but the prospect of an open fight left her in full possession of her faculties.
She read the mockery on the faces of Francis and his companion but the steadiness of her gaze did not falter. She was conscious of no great astonishment at seeing them together, or at finding the hideous crone dressed up like a duchess. Fanchon was cunning and dangerous, a kind of female Proteus. However, Marianne had no intention of discussing her affairs in front of Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis. Her self-respect would not permit the interference in her life of a woman who had been publicly branded a criminal. She decided that it would be wiser to postpone her desire to be done with Lord Cranmere once and for all.
She was already leaning forward to tell Gracchus-Hannibal, at present lording it in his new livery on the box, to extricate them from the crowd and drive home when the door was pulled open and Francis himself appeared, hat in hand, bowing with mocking courtesy. He was smiling but the eyes that rested on Marianne's face were hard as stone.
'Permit me,' he said lightly, 'to pay my respects to the queen of all Paris.'
Beneath the bonnet of lilac silk and white Chantilly lace that matched her expensively-tailored carriage dress, her face was very white but she put out one gloved hand to restrain Arcadius who had started forward to bar Francis's way.
'No, Arcadius. This is my affair.' Then, with only a slight quiver in her voice, she asked: 'What do you want?'
'I told you – to pay my respects to Beauty and, perhaps, to talk a little, if you please…'
'I do not please,' Marianne cut him short disdainfully. 'If you have anything to say to me, you may write to Monsieur de Jolival who deals with all my letters and engagements. He will tell you when I am able to receive you. We cannot talk in this crowd. I live—'
'I know where you live and, flattered though I am that you should prefer the delights of a tête-à-tête, I must remind you, my dear,' Francis countered sardonically, 'that one is never more alone than in the midst of a crowd, and this one is getting bigger with every minute. In a little while it will be quite impossible to stir at all, and so I am afraid you will be compelled to endure my company whether you like it or not. In which case, we may as well talk business, don't you think?'
The crowd had, in fact, become so dense that all vehicles in the square had been brought to a standstill. There was a good deal of noise, swollen by distant sounds of music, but the hubbub was not so great as to make conversation impossible. Francis, who had remained standing in the doorway, poked his head into the carriage and addressed himself to Jolival.
'If this gentleman will be good enough to allow me to usurp his place beside you for a moment…' he began, but Marianne spoke sharply, her hand still on her friend's arm:
'I have no secrets from the Vicomte de Jolival. He is, as I have told you, more than a friend to me. You may say what you wish before him.'
'I thank you,' Francis said dryly. 'You may have nothing to hide but my own nature is less trusting. I should infinitely prefer our conversation to be private.'
'If we were to consult our own preferences, Monsieur,' Jolival retorted, unable to contain himself any longer, 'I should infinitely prefer to throw you out of this lady's carriage forthwith.'
Francis laughed softly. 'I see your friend cherishes some prejudice against me, my dear,' he said. 'I can only suppose that you must have put it into his head. I do believe he takes me for some kind of highwayman.'
'What I think is neither here nor there,' Arcadius said stiffly. 'However, I may say that I have seen nothing in your behaviour to cause me to change my mind.'
'As you so rightly say,' the Englishman agreed smoothly, 'that is neither here nor there. But, my dear sir, if you fear to find the time hang heavy on your hands, I know there is a lady in my own carriage who will be delighted to renew her acquaintance with you. See, she is smiling at you.'
Marianne's eyes went automatically to the black and yellow chaise and she frowned as she realized that, in so far as it was possible for her, Fanchon was indeed directing a winning smile at Jolival. Jolival, however, merely shrugged and moved to the box to speak to Gracchus, without taking his eyes from the two inside the vehicle. Marianne spoke abruptly.
'Since you say you wish to talk with me, my lord, you need not begin by insulting my most faithful friend. Not everyone shares your taste for dubious company. And indeed, that seems to me a generous description of the lady in question.'
Without answering, Francis dropped heavily on to the green velvet cushions next to Marianne who moved instinctively to avoid touching him. He sat for a moment in a silence broken only by the faint rasp of his breath. Marianne wondered, not without some private satisfaction, if that were a legacy of the sword thrust she had put through his chest; yet even that seemed poor consolation for the disappointment of finding him still alive. For a moment, she studied this man, whom she had once loved, as dispassionately as if he had been a stranger. She had believed in him as a god, had sworn joyfully to love, honour and obey him… It was the first time that she had been alone with him since that terrible wedding night. So many things had changed. Then, she had been a child to be coldly sacrificed, a helpless victim in the hands of a heartless and unscrupulous man. Today she had the Emperor's love for strength and protection. This time, it was she who would call the
tune.
Francis, she saw, had altered very little except, perhaps, for the cynical curl which had replaced the twist of boredom at the corner of his full mouth. Lord Cranmere was still a handsome man; the thin scar down one cheek only served to add a touch of tragic glamour to the nobility of his perfect features. Remembering how she had loved him, Marianne was amazed to find that she felt nothing in his presence beyond a dislike amounting to loathing. Seeing that he did not seem anxious to break the silence but was apparently engaged in earnest contemplation of the gleaming toes of his highly-polished boots, she decided to take the initiative at last. She wanted to get it over quickly. His very presence in that confined space was painful to her.
'You wished to speak to me,' she said coldly. 'Say what you have to say. I have no wish to prolong this interview.'
He turned his head and smiled at her under drooping eyelids.
'Why not? Surely this is a most affecting moment: a husband and wife together again after such a long absence – especially after believing themselves parted for ever? My dear Marianne, you should be glad to be reunited with the man you loved – for you did love me, my dear. You were quite devoted to me on our wedding-day. I can still see your great, swimming eyes when the dear old Abbé —'
Marianne had had enough.
'That will do!' she said sharply. 'You are amazingly impertinent. Have you forgotten the charming circumstances attending our marriage? Do I have to remind you that you had no sooner sworn to God to love and cherish me than you set about gaming away not merely the little you had left but also the considerable fortune which I had brought you – and for which you had married me? And as if that were not enough, you dared to stake the innocent love I bore you on the turn of a card, you staked my innocence and my virginity, my honour itself. You have the audacity to talk about the night when you destroyed my life as if it were merely another of those delightful escapades you men discuss over your brandy!'
Lord Cranmere shrugged contemptuously, but his eyes shifted to avoid Marianne's sparkling gaze.
'If you had not been such a little fool, that's all it would have been. It was you turned it into high tragedy.'
'Indeed! And what should I have done, pray? Welcome your substitute with open arms?'
'You need not have gone so far as that. Any woman worth her salt would have been able to hold him off while leading him on. The fool was mad for you —'
'Rubbish!' Marianne said briskly, repressing a sudden pang at this reminder of Jason Beaufort. 'He had not set eyes on me before that day.'
'Do you think that is not long enough to desire a woman? You should have heard him sing your praises, your grace and charm, the splendour of your eyes. "If sirens existed," he said, "Lady Marianne must be their queen…" Good God!' Francis exploded with sudden violence, 'you could have done what you liked with him! He might well have given the lot back to you in exchange for one hour of love! For one kiss, even. And instead of that you enacted a Cheltenham tragedy and sent packing the man who held our whole fortune in his hands.'
'Our fortune?'
'Very well, your fortune, if you insist. All the more reason for you to fight for it, try and redeem some remnant of it at least…'
Marianne was no longer listening. What was the use? She had no illusions about Francis's character and it was not surprising that he should sink to the depths of reproaching her for failing to trick Jason out of his winnings. She stopped listening and recalled instead those last moments with Jason in her room at Selton. She had not given him that kiss, but he had taken it all the same and Marianne discovered to her astonishment that, even after all this time, she could still taste the sweet violence of it, strange and overpowering in spite of the anger which had filled her at the time. It was her first kiss, something not easily forgotten.
She had closed her eyes for a second, remembering, but now she opened them. What was Francis saying?
'I protest you are not even listening!'
'You have ceased to interest me. I will not waste my time pointing out to you how an honourable man might have acted in such circumstances, but if it concerns you, I will say I am amazed that you should dare to approach me. I believed that I had killed you, Francis Cranmere, but whether or not the devil has looked after his own, to me you are dead and will remain so.'
'I can see that might be more comfortable for you, but the fact remains that I am alive and intend to remain so.'
Marianne turned away with a shrug.
'Then keep away from me and try to forget that Francis Cranmere and Marianne d'Asselnat were ever made man and wife. That is, if you wish to continue, if not alive, then certainly at liberty.'
Francis was looking at her curiously.
'Indeed? Do I detect a threat, my love? What do you mean by that?'
'Do not pretend to be more stupid than you are. This is France and you are an Englishman, an enemy of the Empire. I have only to point you out, to say the word, and you will be arrested. And once arrested, it would be child's play to see to it that you disappeared for ever. Do you think the Emperor would deny me your head if I were to ask for it? Be a sportsman, for once, admit that you have lost and do not try to see me again. You must know that you cannot harm me.'
She spoke quietly but firmly and with immense dignity. She did not relish making a parade of her power over the Master of Europe but in the present instance it seemed best to lay her cards fairly on the table at the outset. Let Francis vanish from her life for ever and she was sure to forgive him one day. But instead of meditating on her words as might have been expected, Lord Cranmere only burst out laughing, and Marianne found her fine confidence wavering a little.
'What have I said to amuse you?'
'My dear, you are truly priceless! I swear you think yourself the Empress. Boney has not married you, you know, but that wretched Archduchess.'
Francis's mockery, combined with the contemptuous English epithet for Napoleon, pricked Marianne's temper.
'Empress or no,' she ground at him through her teeth, 'I will show you I am not afraid of you, and that no one insults me with impunity.'
She leaned forward quickly to call Arcadius, meaning to send him for one of the police officers whose black figures, clad in long overcoats and beaver hats, with stout truncheons on their wrists, could be seen dotted about the gaily-dressed crowd. But before she could open her mouth, Francis had grasped her by the shoulder and thrust her roughly back against the squabs.
'Stay where you are, you little fool! Besides, you are wasting your time. No one can get in or out of the carriage in this crowd. I cannot leave you, even if I would.'
This was true. The crowd surged so thickly around them that nothing was visible beyond a sea of heads. Even Arcadius had been obliged to retreat for safety to the box alongside Gracchus. In the distance, rising above the murmur of the crowd, was a sound like thunder, mingled with the elusive strains of music. Perhaps the procession was approaching at last. But for Marianne, all the interest of the day had fled. She felt stifled, although she could not have said exactly why. It must have been the poisonous presence of the man she hated.
She shook off the hand that still rested on her shoulder and gave him a glance filled with loathing.
'You may as well wait. When you leave this carriage it will be for Vincennes or La Force.'
But Francis only laughed again and again Marianne felt the cold pricking on her skin.
'If you were as much a gamester as I am,' he said with disquieting coolness, 'I would lay you odds it will be nothing of the kind.'
'What is to prevent me?'
'Yourself, my dear. For one thing, it will do no good to denounce me, for I should be released with apologies immediately, and for another, you will have no desire to do so when you hear what I have to say.'
Marianne stiffened, fighting off a creeping fear, struggling to think. He seemed so sure of himself. Was it his borrowed name that gave him his assurance? What was it Fouché had told her? The Vicomte d'Aubécourt was a fr
equent visitor at the house of Dorothée de Périgord? But surely that was not enough to make him immune from Fouché's ceaseless quest for potential spies and conspirators? What then? Oh God, if she could only shake off the terror he inspired in her!
Once more, Francis's mocking voice brought her back to reality, saying, with terrifying softness: 'You know, you make me almost sorry for the past. You are very beautiful, my dear. No man could help but desire you. It suits you to be angry, it makes your green eyes sparkle magnificently, your bosom heaves…'
He let his eyes dwell appreciatively on the lovely face, now shadowed by the bonnet, and caress the long, graceful throat and the proud curves revealed by the low-cut bodice of silk and lace. There was no softness in his gaze, only the calculating greed of a horse-dealer looking over a promising filly. Marianne's cheeks flamed darkly at the naked lust in his face, undressing her and putting a price on her at the same time. The Englishman leaned closer, as though hypnotized by the proximity of so much beauty. He was about to take her in his arms. She shrank back against the side of the chaise and spoke through clenched teeth:
'Don't touch me! Don't come near me! If you do I'll scream, do you hear, whatever the consequences! I'll scream so loud that everyone will hear me.'
He shuddered and drew away from her. The lust died out of his eyes and was replaced by his habitual bored expression.
Leaning back in his own corner of the seat, he sighed and closed his eyes.
'A pity… a pity, too, that such riches should be reserved for Boney's pleasures. Or do you make him share them? I hear that half the men in Paris are in love with you.'
'Will you be quiet,' Marianne said furiously. 'Say what you have to say and make an end. What do you want?'
He opened one eye and smiled at her.
'If I were a gentleman, I ought to answer: you. And it would be no more than the truth. But we can discuss that later – at our leisure. No, for the present my wants are more practical. I need money.'
Marianne and The Masked Prince Page 7