Marianne and The Masked Prince

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'But – he promised to find him for me?'

  'Promises cost nothing, especially when you have no intention of keeping them. I think I can promise you that Fouché not only knows quite well where the Vicomte d'Aubécourt is to be found but also who is passing under that name.'

  'This is absurd – fantastic!'

  'No. It is politics.'

  Marianne felt the world reeling about her ears. She clapped her hands to her head to steady her whirling thoughts. What Arcadius was saying was so shattering that she felt lost on the roads which were suddenly opening out before her, filled with lurking shadows and traps laid before her feet at every step. She made an attempt to see sense in the confusion.

  'But this is impossible – the Emperor —'

  'Who said anything about the Emperor?' Jolival broke in roughly. 'I said Fouché. Sit down for a moment, Marianne. Stop fluttering about like a frightened bird and listen to me. At this present moment, the Emperor has reached the peak of his success and power. Almost nothing stands against him. Ever since Tilsit, the Tzar swears he loves him like a brother. The Emperor Franz has given him his daughter to wife. He holds the Pope in his hand and his Empire stretches from the Elbe and the Drava to the Ebro. His only enemies now are the wretched Spaniards and their ally, England. Now Joseph Fouché has one burning ambition, and that is to be, after the Emperor, the most powerful man in Europe. He means to become Napoleon's understudy, his right-hand man, and in order to achieve this he has conceived a plan of almost suicidal boldness. His aim is to bring about a reunion between France and England, her last and most deadly enemy. For several months he has been secretly employing trusted agents to negotiate with the Government in London, through the medium of the Dutch king. Let him once find any basis for agreement with Wellesley and he will be able to say to Napoleon: "I have brought you England, willing at last to come to terms with you, on this or that condition." Of course, Napoleon will be furious at first – or pretend to be, because in fact it will remove the biggest thorn from his hide and set his dynasty securely on the throne. Morally speaking, he will have triumphed. That is why Lord Cranmere has nothing to fear from Fouché. He is certainly sent from London.'

  Marianne had listened attentively to Jolival's long explanation. Now she said quietly: 'But there is still the Emperor and, to make Fouché do his duty, which is to pursue enemy agents, it is enough to tell his majesty what is in the wind...'

  Her old resentment against Fouché, as the man who had coldbloodedly made use of her when she was a friendless fugitive, made her by no means reluctant to inform Napoleon of the secret machinations of his trusted Minister of Police.

  'I think you would be making a mistake,' Arcadius said seriously. 'I realize, of course, that you are shocked to find one of the Emperor's ministers so exceeding his authority, but an agreement with England would be the best thing that could happen for France. The continental blockade has brought a host of troubles: the war in Spain, the imprisonment of the Pope, incessant levies of troops to defend our ever-growing frontiers.'

  Marianne had no answer to this. She never ceased to be surprised at Arcadius's extraordinary ability to acquire information on all subjects, yet, this time, he seemed to her to be going a little far. To have such knowledge of state secrets, he must have been intimately concerned in them. Unable to conceal her thoughts, she said point blank: 'Tell me the truth, Arcadius. You yourself are one of Fouché's agents, are you not?'

  The Vicomte laughed outright, but it seemed to Marianne that there was something guarded in his laughter.

  'But my dear girl, all France dances to the minister's piping: you, me, Fortunée, the Empress Josephine…'

  'Don't laugh at me. Tell me the truth.'

  Arcadius stopped laughing and, crossing to his young friend's side, gently patted her cheek.

  'My dear child,' he said softly, 'I am no one's agent but my own, except perhaps for the Emperor and yourself. But when I need to know something, I take steps to find it out. And you cannot imagine how many people are involved in this business already. I would swear, for example, that your friend Talleyrand is not unaware of it.'

  'Very well,' Marianne sighed irritably. 'In that case, since Lord Cranmere is so powerful, how can I protect myself against him?'

  'For the present, I have told you: pay up.'

  'I shall never find thirty thousand livres in three days.'

  'Exactly how much have you?'

  'Beside these twenty thousand, a few hundred livres. There are my jewels of course – those given me by the Emperor.'

  'Out of the question. He would never forgive you if you sold them, or even pledged them. The best thing would be to ask him to make up the sum. As for your day to day expenses, you have a number of engagements offered you which will take care of that.'

  'I will not ask him for the money at any cost,' Marianne broke in, so decisively that Jolival did not press the point.

  'In that case,' he sighed, 'I see only one way —'

  'What?'

  'Go and put on one of your prettiest dresses, while I get into knee breeches. I think Madame Hamelin gives a party tonight and you are invited.'

  'But I do not mean to go.'

  'But you are going, that is, if you want your money. For there we shall certainly find our charming Fortunée's lover, Ouvrard, the banker. Apart from the Emperor, I can think of no quarter where you are more likely to obtain money than from a banker's coffers. This one, moreover, is extremely susceptible to the charms of a pretty woman. He may agree to advance you the sum and you can repay him with the next proof of the Emperor's generosity, which will soon be forthcoming.'

  Marianne could not like Arcadius's plan. The idea of using her charms to extract money from a man was repugnant to her, but she told herself firmly that Fortunée would be there to oversee the transaction. Besides, she had no choice. Meekly, she departed to her room to change.

  ***

  Marianne had never thought that it could take so long to travel the distance from the rue de Lille to the rue de la Tour d'Auvergne. The streets were crowded and the carriage moved forward at walking pace through a city illuminated by fairy lights and the coloured sparks of towering firework displays.

  'We should have done better to go on foot,' Jolival remarked. 'It would have been quicker.'

  'It is much too far,' Marianne retorted. 'It would be morning by the time we got there.'

  'I am not sure it won't be, as it is.'

  Yet even they yielded at last to the beauty of Paris that night. The pont de la Concorde was a flaming avenue, its eighty columns garlanded with coloured baubles and surmounted by shining crowns of stars, linked by more lights. All the trees in the Champs Elysées were decked with multicoloured lights and strings of lights bordered every alley. The noble buildings were illuminated and the streets were bright as day. It was thanks to this that as they crossed the place de la Concorde Gracchus was able to avoid running down a few drunkards who had been rather too freely patronizing the fountains running with wine. Things were a little quieter in the rue Saint-Honoré but they were held up for some time in the vicinity of the Conseil d'État where the wedding banquet was in progress.

  The Emperor and his bride actually appeared on the balcony, accompanied by the Austrian chancellor, Prince Metternich. Amid scenes of wild enthusiasm, the Prince raised his glass and cried:

  'I drink to the King of Rome!'

  'The King of Rome?' Marianne said petulantly. 'Who is that?'

  Arcadius laughed. 'Have you never heard of the Act of the seventeenth of February last? That is the title which the Emperor's son will bear. You must confess that for a minister of the erstwhile Holy Roman Empire, Metternich displays a grandeur of ideas.'

  'He displays a total want of tact! A strange way of reminding that poor little goose that she has been married only for the children she may be expected to bear. See if we can get on a little faster, do. We shall never get there!'

  Jolival refrained from comment, guessing that
this fresh view of the newly-wedded pair had done nothing to calm Marianne's excited nerves. Gravely, he urged the youthful coachman to 'spring the horses', to which Gracchus replied, with equal gravity, that short of driving over the heads of the crowd this was impossible, but that the stream of traffic was beginning to move again. They reached the boulevards where a new form of distraction intervened. Heralds in gilded livery were throwing handfuls of commemorative coins among the crowd, so that it was impossible to shift the mob that surged about their horses, trying to catch hold of the medals. Marianne's carriage was trapped in the centre of a human tide.

  'We shall never get through,' Marianne exclaimed, finally losing patience. 'And we must be almost there. I would rather go on foot.'

  'In a satin gown, through that mob? You will be torn to pieces.'

  But as she spoke, Marianne had flung open the door and, whipping the pink and gold train of her satin dress over one arm, leaped down among the crowd. She slipped away like a snake, without heeding the frantic cries of Gracchus from his box.

  'Mademoiselle Marianne! Come back! Don't do it!'

  Jolival had no alternative but to leap out after her, but a handful of medals cast at random by one of the young heralds bounced off the brim of his hat and instantly he found himself buried by dozens of loyal subjects of the Emperor, all avid for medals. As he disappeared from view, Gracchus sprang down and rushed to his assistance, brandishing his whip and shouting.

  'Hold on, Monsieur le Vicomte! I am coming!'

  Marianne, meanwhile, had succeeded in reaching the entrance to the rue Cerutti without any other damage than the ruin of her coiffure and the loss of her long scarf of quilted satin. However, the evening was exceptionally mild for the time of year, so she ignored this and began to run as fast as the uneven cobbles and the filth in the street allowed to one whose feet were shod in dainty pink satin slippers. The crowd here was much thinner than on the boulevard but even so there were plenty of people walking up and down. However, no one paid much attention to the young woman in her low-cut evening gown. Groups passed by with linked arms, singing for the most part bawdy songs at the tops of their voices, all, directly or indirectly, urging the Emperor to greater prowess in his matrimonial exertions. A few prostitutes in daring gowns with outrageously painted faces roamed from group to group in search of custom and Marianne hurried past, hoping not to be mistaken for one of them.

  Once past the Hôtel de l'Empire, she came to a darker patch by the house of the banker Martin Doyen, when suddenly a garden door opened and Marianne ran straight into a man just coming out. He grunted with pain.

  'You bloody fool!' he said, pushing her back roughly. 'Can't you look where you are going?'

  Then, almost at once, he saw who his assailant was and chuckled.

  'My apologies. I did not see you were a woman. But you hurt me.'

  'Do you think I enjoyed it?' Marianne retorted. 'I am in a hurry.'

  Just then another group of revellers passed by, armed with a lantern. The light fell on Marianne and on the unknown man.

  'By God!' the man said, 'you're a beauty! Perhaps this is my lucky day, after all. Come here, my sweeting, you are just what I've been looking for.'

  Dazed by his sudden change of tone, Marianne saw that the stranger, who wore a black coat flung hastily over an ill-fastened white shirt, had a military air, that he was tall and lithe with an arrogant, slightly plebeian cast of features, framed by thick, dark hair, so curly as to be almost frizzled. Too late, she realized that the sight of her low-cut bodice and the black curls round her brow had made him take her for a woman of the streets. His hand drew her irresistibly through the door from which he had emerged while with the other he slammed it fast behind them, thrusting her back against the wooden panels, his body close to hers. He was kissing her ardently, while his hands were restlessly exploring the fastenings of her dress.

  Angry and half-stifled Marianne reacted instantly, biting the lips that forced themselves on hers and pushing desperately at her assailant. She struck out as hard as she could with what little strength she had left and found to her surprise that the man stepped back with another gasp of pain.

  'You little bitch! That hurt —'

  'Good,' Marianne said grimly. 'You brute!'

  With all her might, she delivered a ringing slap to her attacker's cheek. He staggered under the blow, allowing Marianne, who was feeling for the latch with her other hand, to wrench the door open and tumble out into the street. As luck would have it, a band of students and their girls from the boulevard were passing, filling the street, and tossing about the medals they had won. Slipping among the noisy throng, she managed, at the cost of a few knocks and kisses, to find herself at last outside the doors of Notre-Dame de Lorette, with her attacker nowhere in sight. From there, she was able to make her way painfully up the steep hill, arriving, somewhat out of breath, at Fortunée's house.

  All the windows were ablaze with light. Crystal chandeliers shone through the windows between the long, golden-yellow curtains. The sound of voices and laughter wafted out into the street against a soothing background of violins. Casting her eye over the waiting carriages to see if hers was among them, Marianne, with a sigh of relief, hurried up the steps to where Madame Hamelin's enormous Negro major-domo, Jonas, stood impressively on the steps, dressed in his handsome suit of purple and silver.

  'Jonas, take me to madame's room and tell her I am here. I cannot appear in public like this.'

  The elegant pink dress was torn and crumpled and stained in several places. Marianne's hair was coming down and she looked, indeed, very much what the unknown gallant had taken her to be. The big Negro rolled his eyes at her.

  'Lordy, Mademoiselle Marianne. You are surely in some state!' he exclaimed. Whatever happen to you?'

  Marianne laughed lightly. 'Oh, nothing very much. I came here on foot, that is all. Take me upstairs, quickly. I should die of shame if anyone were to see me.'

  'Yes, mademoiselle. Come this way, quick.'

  Jonas led her through a doorway and up a set of back stairs to his mistress's room where he left her to go in search of Fortunée. With a sigh of relief, Marianne sank down on to a soft stool, cushioned in apple green silk, that stood before a tall mahogany pier glass inlaid with bronze. The image reflected back at her from the mirror was pitiable indeed. Her dress was ruined, her hair in a tangled mass of unruly dark curls, and the rouge which she had used on her lips smeared all over her face by the stranger's greedy kisses.

  Angrily rubbing her cheeks with a handkerchief which she found lying on the floor, Marianne scolded herself for a fool. A fool to have jumped out into the crowd in her passion for haste, and still more a fool for listening to Arcadius in the first place. It would have been far better to have gone to bed and waited until the morning to visit Fortunée, rather than embarking on this crazy journey across a city full of revellers. How could she hope to find thirty thousand livres tonight of all nights! The only result was that she was tired to death, her head ached and she looked a fright.

  Madame Hamelin came hurrying in to find her friend on the verge of tears, scowling at herself in the mirror. Fortunée promptly burst out laughing.

  'Marianne! Have you been in a fight? Was it the Austrian, perhaps? If so, she must be in a fine state, and you are heading for the Vincennes prison!'

  'I've been fighting his majesty's worthy subjects,' Marianne retorted, 'and with some maniac who tried to rape me behind a garden door!'

  'My dear, what fun!' Fortunée clapped her hands delightedly. 'Tell me all.'

  Marianne glared at her friend. Fortunée was looking more than usually radiant tonight. Her dress of yellow muslin trimmed with gold embroidery set off the warm colour of her skin and her rather full lips to admiration. Her dark eyes were shining like coal-black stars beneath her long, sweeping lashes. Her whole being radiated warmth and happiness.

  'There is nothing to laugh at,' Marianne said bitterly. 'Apart from my wedding day, this has been the wor
st day of my life! I – I am half-dead with worry and so dreadfully unhappy —'

  Her voice broke and great tears rolled from her eyes. Fortunée stopped laughing instantly and put her arms around her friend, enveloping her in a powerful scent of roses.

  'You are crying? And I was laughing at you! Oh, my poor pet, I am sorry. Quickly, tell me what has happened. But first, you must take off that rag and let me find you another dress.'

  She was unfastening the ruined dress as she spoke when all at once she paused with a cry, pointing to a dark stain on the crumpled fabric.

  'Blood! You are hurt?'

  'Good heavens, no,' Marianne said in surprise. 'I don't know where it can have come from. Unless —'

  Suddenly, she recalled the exclamations of pain which she had drawn from her attacker, and the disorder of his dress, with his coat flung over his half-open shirt. He could have been wounded.

  'Unless what?'

  'Nothing. It does not matter. Oh, Fortunée, you must help me or I am lost.'

  In quick, broken sentences, but growing calmer as she talked, Marianne described her terrible day, Francis's threats and demands, the abduction of Adelaide and, finally, the impossibility of laying hands on thirty thousand livres in the next forty-eight hours, short of selling her jewels.

  'I can lend you ten thousand,' Madame Hamelin said soothingly. 'As for the remainder…' She paused for a moment, regarding Marianne's reflection in the mirror through half-closed eyes. While Marianne had been talking, Fortunée had stripped off the rest of her friend's clothes and, fetching a sponge and a flask of Cologne from her dressing-room, had busied herself wiping away the dust of the streets and rubbing her friend down comfortingly.

  'What of the remainder?' Marianne asked, when Fortunée still said nothing.

  Madame Hamelin gave a slow smile and, picking up a huge swan's-down puff began gently powdering her friend's breast and shoulders.

  'With a fine body like yours,' she said coolly, 'that should not be difficult to come by. I know a dozen men who would give that much for a single night with you.'