Marianne and The Masked Prince

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  Monsignor de Chazay's face was as red as his robe and his usually well-modulated voice was growing alarmingly shrill. Clary intervened.

  'If I understand correctly,' he said stiffly, 'your Eminences saw fit to absent yourselves from the wedding of our Archduchess? Naturally, the Emperor could not allow such an affront to go unpunished. I confess, I had expected the worst.'

  'You need have no fear, the worst will certainly come. As for the Archduchess, I assure you, monsieur, we regret it deeply, but it is our duty to his Holiness to adhere to the position which he has adopted. The marriage between Napoleon and Josephine has not been annulled in Rome.'

  'In other words,' Prince Clary said, 'in your eyes, our Princess is not married?'

  Marianne, horrified at the prospect of a fresh scandal, hastened to intervene.

  'For pity's sake, gentlemen! Not here – godfather, you cannot walk home like this. Where are you living?'

  'With a friend, Canon Philibert de Bruillard, in the rue Chanoinesse. I do not know if you are aware of it, my child, but our family's house is now in the possession of an opera singer who enjoys the favour of Napoleon. Consequently I am unable to live there.'

  Marianne felt as if she had been struck. Each word seemed to wound her to her very soul. She drew back, white to the lips, groping for Leopold Clary's arm and leaning on it heavily. Without that support she would probably have fallen in the dust that was already marking the red slippers of the prince of the Church. Those few words measured the gulf which had opened between her and her childhood days. She was seized by a sudden terror that, in his innocence and old-world chivalry, Clary would spring to her defence and utter the truth that she was that very opera singer in person. Marianne meant to tell her godfather the truth, the whole truth, but in her own time, not in the midst of a crowd.

  Fighting desperately to control herself, she managed a pale smile, while her grip tightened on the Prince's sleeve.

  'I will visit you tonight, if you will let me. Meanwhile, Prince Clary's carriage will take you home.'

  The young Austrian stiffened.

  'But – my dear, what will the Emperor say?'

  At this she lost her temper, finding in her anger a release for her deepest emotions.

  'You are not the Emperor's subject, my dear Prince. And may I remind you that your own sovereign is on excellent terms with the Holy Father. Or did I not understand you correctly?'

  Leopold Clary drew himself up, as if in the presence of the Emperor Franz himself.

  'You understood quite correctly. Eminence, my carriage and my servants are at your service. If you will do me the honour…'

  Without turning, he clicked his fingers to summon the coachman. The carriage rolled obediently up to the little group and one of the grooms sprang down to open the door and let down the steps.

  The cardinal's bright eyes took in the pale-faced girl in the blue dress and the Austrian prince, nearly as white as she in his white uniform. His clear gaze held a world of questions, but Gauthier de Chazay uttered none of them. Royally, he extended his hand with the great sapphire ring for Clary's lips to kiss, then turned to Marianne who sank to her knees, heedless of the dust.

  'I will expect you this evening,' he said, as she rose. 'Ah, I was forgetting. His Holiness, Pius VII, has conferred a cardinal's hat on me. I am known, and admitted to France, by the name of San Lorenzo-fuori-muore.'

  Moments later, the Austrian carriage passed the gateway of the Tuileries, followed by the envious gaze of the remaining princes of the Church who, one by one, were resigning themselves to departing homewards on foot, their followers at their heels, with the hope of finding a public vehicle for hire on the way. Marianne and Clary stood watching the Cardinal San Lorenzo out of sight.

  Mechanically, Marianne dusted the silver embroideries of her dress with her gloves, then turned to her companion.

  'Shall we go in?'

  'Yes, although I wonder what our reception will be. Half the people in the palace saw us offer a carriage to a man whom the Emperor regards as his enemy.'

  'You wonder too much, my friend. Let us go in and we shall see. There are many things in life, believe me, which are infinitely more to be feared than the Emperor's anger.' She spoke the words through clenched teeth, thinking of what her godfather would say that evening when he heard the truth.

  The prospect threw a slight shadow over the joy which she had felt a little while before at seeing him again, but could not altogether destroy it. It was so good to find him, especially at a time when she had such urgent need of his help. What he would say would hardly be pleasant, she knew, he would not look kindly on her new career as a singer, but in the end he would surely understand. No one had more understanding and human sympathy than the Abbé de Chazay and why should the Cardinal San Lorenzo be any different? Marianne remembered suddenly how her godfather had always distrusted Lord Cranmere. He would surely pity the misfortunes of one who, as he himself had said a moment ago, was as dear to him as his own child.

  No, all things considered, Marianne found herself looking forward to the evening with more hope than foreboding. Gauthier de Chazay, Cardinal San Lorenzo, would have no difficulty in persuading the Pope to annul a marriage which dragged like a heavy chain round his god-daughter's neck.

  ***

  This was the first time Marianne had entered the state apartments of the Tuileries. The salle des Maréchaux, where the concert was to be held, overwhelmed her with its size and magnificence. Once the guardroom of Catherine de Medici, it was a vast chamber rising to two storeys below the dome of the central section of the palace. On the level of the upper storey, facing the dais where the performers were to stand, was a huge box in which the Emperor and his family would soon take their places. This box was supported on four gigantic caryatids completely covered in gold leaf, representing armless female forms in classical draperies. From either side of the box, balconies ran right round the room, entered by means of archways draped, like the doors and windows elsewhere in the hall, in red velvet scattered with gold bees. The roof was a rectangular dome, the corners occupied by massive, gilt trophies, with, in the centre, a colossal chandelier of cut crystal. The dome itself was adorned with allegorical frescoes and, to enhance the warlike aspect of the room, the lower walls were decorated with full-length portraits of fourteen marshals, interspersed with busts of twenty-two generals and admirals.

  Although the vast room and the balcony were full of people, Marianne felt lost, as though in some huge cathedral. The noise was like an aviary run mad, drowning the sounds of the musicians tuning up their instruments. So many faces moved before her eyes that for the moment, in the shifting blur of colours and flashing jewels, she was incapable of recognizing any that she knew. At last, she saw Duroc, magnificent in the violet and silver of the Grand Marshal of the Palace, coming towards her, but it was to Clary that he spoke.

  'Prince Schwartzenberg is asking for you, monsieur. If you will be good enough to join him in the Emperor's private office.'

  'In the Emperor's —'

  'Yes, monsieur. I should not keep him waiting, if I were you.'

  The young Prince met Marianne's eyes with a look of alarm. This summons could mean only one thing: the Emperor was already aware of the incident of the carriage and poor Clary was in for a dressing down. Unable to let her friend bear the blame for her action, Marianne intervened.

  'Monsieur, I know what the Prince is summoned to his majesty for, but as the matter concerns myself alone, let me be allowed to go with him.'

  The Duke's frown did not lighten and the look he bent on the young woman before him was stern.

  'Mademoiselle, it is not my place to admit to his majesty's presence those who have not been sent for. I am in fact instructed to escort you to Messieurs Gossec and Piccini who await you with the orchestra.'

  'Monsieur le Duc, I beg you. His majesty may be committing a grave injustice.'

  'His majesty is well aware what he is about. Prince, you are expected.
Will you go with me, mademoiselle?'

  Marianne was obliged to part from her companion and follow the Grand Marshal. A faint rustle of applause greeted her as she passed but, absorbed in her own thoughts, she paid no attention to it. She placed one hand timidly on Duroc's arm.

  'Monsieur, I must see the Emperor.'

  'You shall see him, mademoiselle. His majesty has condescended to say that he will see you after the concert.'

  'Condescended – you are very stern, monsieur. Are we no longer friends?'

  Duroc's face relaxed into a faint smile.

  'We are still friends,' he murmured hurriedly, 'but the Emperor is very angry, and my duty forbids me to show it.'

  'Am I – am I in disgrace?'

  'That I cannot say. But it looks a little like it.'

  'Then you may safely resign her to me for a moment, my dear Duroc.' The pleasant, drawling voice came from behind Marianne. 'We disgraced persons should support one another, eh?'

  Even before that final 'eh?', Marianne had recognized Talleyrand. Exquisite as always in an olive green coat glittering with medals, knee breeches and white silk stockings, his lame leg supported by a gold-headed stick, he was smiling impishly at Duroc as he offered his arm to Marianne.

  Not wholly unwilling, perhaps, to be released from his embarrassing charge, the Grand Marshal bowed with a good grace and resigned Marianne to the Vice-Grand Elector.

  'I thank you, Prince, but do not take her far. The Emperor will be here soon.'

  'I know,' Talleyrand purred. 'Just time to wash poor Clary's head and teach him not to succumb too readily to the wiles of a pretty woman. Five minutes, I am sure, will suffice.'

  As he spoke, he was leading Marianne gently towards one of the tall window embrasures. His manner was that of a man enjoying an agreeable polite flirtation but Marianne soon saw that what he had to say was far more serious.

  'Clary will probably be getting a severe scold,' he remarked quietly, 'but I fear that the Emperor's chief anger will fall on you. What possessed you? To fling your arms round a cardinal on the steps of the Tuileries, and a cardinal very much out of favour into the bargain? It was scarcely wise – unless that person was very close to you, eh?'

  Marianne said nothing. It was not easy to explain her action without revealing her true identity and as far as Talleyrand was concerned she was only Mademoiselle Mallerousse, from Brittany, a person of no consequence whatever, certainly not on familiar terms with a prince of the Church. While she cudgelled her brains in vain for a likely explanation, the Prince of Benevento spoke again, his tone more detached than ever.

  'I was at one time closely acquainted with the Abbé de Chazay. He began life as deputy to my uncle, the ducal archbishop of Rheims, at present chaplain to the king in exile.'

  Marianne was conscious of a stab of fear, as if the Prince's words were drawing a net tighter about her. She recalled her wedding day and the tall figure and long face of Monsignor de Talleyrand-Périgord, chaplain to Louis XVIII. It was true, her godfather had been on the best of terms with the prelate. It was he, in fact, who had lent the liturgical ornaments for the ceremony at Selton Hall. Without apparently noticing her agitation, Talleyrand continued in the same light voice, smooth and untroubled as a windless pool.

  'In those days, I used to live in the rue de Bellechasse, not far from the rue de Lille, then called the rue de Bourbon, and I was on excellent, neighbourly terms with the Abbé's family.' The Prince sighed. 'Ah, those were delightful times! No one who has not lived in the days before 1789 knows anything of the pleasures of life. I do not think I ever met a more handsome couple, or one more tenderly devoted, than the Marquis d'Asselnat and his wife, whose house is now your own.'

  In spite of all her self-control, Marianne felt her mind reeling. Her hand tensed on Talleyrand's arm, gripping tightly as she fought to conquer her emotion. She was gasping for breath and her heart was pounding. She felt as if her knees were about to give way under her, but the Prince's face was as serene and expressionless as ever and his heavy lids still drooped incuriously. A tall and very lovely woman dressed all in white, with flaming red hair and a passionate, wilful face, passed close by them.

  'My dear Prince,' she said, with the insolence of the very well-bred, 'I did not know you had such a taste for opera.'

  Talleyrand bowed gravely.

  'My dear Duchess, all forms of beauty have a claim on my admiration, surely you know that, who know me so well?'

  'I do know it, but you had better escort the young person to the dais. The little – the imperial couple, I should say – are about to make their entrance.'

  'Thank you, madame. I was about to do so.'

  'Who was that?' Marianne asked as the beautiful red-head left them. 'And why does she treat me with such contempt?'

  'She treats everyone so, and herself most of all since she has finally accepted a post as lady-in-waiting merely to serve an archduchess. She is Madame de Chevreuse. She is, as you see, a great beauty. She is also extremely spirited and far from happy. She suffers from her own passionate nature. You see, she is obliged to say "the Emperor" and "his majesty" in referring to someone who, in private she calls "the little wretch". You may have noticed that she almost let it slip just now. As for her contempt of you —' Talleyrand's bland gaze was turned suddenly on Marianne. 'Your own actions are the reason for that. A Chevreuse will necessarily look down on a Maria Stella – whereas she would have opened her arms to the daughter of the Marquis d'Asselnat.'

  There was silence. Talleyrand leaned down a little, his pale eyes staring deep into the green ones, which did not flinch.

  'How long have you known?' Marianne asked, feeling suddenly very calm.

  'Ever since the Emperor gave you the house in the rue de Lille. It was then I understood the vague feeling of familiarity which I had been unable to place before, a resemblance I had failed to grasp. Then I knew who you really were.'

  'Why did you keep quiet?'

  Talleyrand shrugged. 'What would have been the use? You had, quite unpredictably, fallen in love with the man of all men whom you were born to hate.'

  'Yet it was you drove me into his bed,' Marianne said brutally.

  'I have regretted it sufficiently! But I decided the remedy was best left to time and chance. Neither this love affair, nor your career as a singer, was ever made to last.'

  'Why, may I ask?' Marianne interrupted coldly.

  'For one very good reason. You were never made for Napoleon or for the theatre. However much you may try to persuade yourself otherwise, you are one of us, an aristocrat of the highest birth. You are so like your father —'

  'Am I? You knew him?' Marianne asked with sudden eagerness born of her deep longing to know the truth about this man whose flesh and blood she was, yet of whom she knew no more than his portrait. 'Tell me of him!'

  Gently, Talleyrand removed the clutching fingers from his sleeve but held them a moment in his own.

  'Not now. His spirit would be ill-at-ease in these surroundings. The Emperor is coming. You must be Maria Stella again, for a little while.'

  He quickened his pace and led her over to the group of musicians. She saw Gossec beckoning, Piccini arranging the scores on the instrument and Paer, the imperial choir-master, carefully wiping his baton. As they came up to them Marianne, moved by an irrational impulse, caught at Talleyrand's sleeve.

  'If I was not made for – for the Emperor, or for the theatre, then what am I for?'

  'For love, my dear.'

  'But – we are in love!'

  'I said for love and that is something different. For the great love which overthrows empires and founds undying dynasties, the love which lasts beyond death, and which most men never find.'

  Then why should I find it?'

  'Because if you do not find it, Marianne, it does not exist. And it must exist, so that people like me may continue to disbelieve in it.'

  Troubled, Marianne watched him limp away with his uneven, yet oddly graceful gait. It seeme
d to her that these words, so out of keeping with the character and legend of Talleyrand, contained an offer of friendship, or at least of help. Help, how she needed help at that moment! But how far was the Prince of Benevento to be trusted? Marianne had lived under his roof and knew, better than most, the peculiar charm of his personality, the more powerful in that it seemed to be quite unconscious. She remembered suddenly something the Comte de Montrond had said about him and which Fortunée had gleefully repeated one day: 'Who could help liking him? He is so thoroughly vicious.'

  What was his motive now? A disinterested attempt to recall her to a life more fitting for her birth, or simply to divide her a little further from the Emperor whom, it was rumoured, he was himself in the act of betraying to the Tzar?

  A fanfare of trumpets, a solemn banging of his staff by the master of ceremonies, the Comte de Ségur, and the enormous room lapsed into a respectful silence. All heads were turned towards the great balcony where, amid a flutter of dazzling dresses and braided uniforms, the imperial couple were making their entrance. Marianne saw two figures detach themselves from the shimmering background of court ladies and aides-de-camp: Napoleon in his green uniform and Marie-Louise in pink. Then she saw nothing more as, like the rest of the ladies present, she sank into a deep curtsey.

  Marianne wished that curtsey might never end. When at last she lifted her eyes to the newly-wedded pair, the picture of happiness which they presented cut her to the heart. Without a glance for the brilliant assembly, Napoleon was leading his wife to her seat with every sign of the most tender consideration, even dropping a kiss upon the hand which he retained in his own as he too seated himself. Moreover, he continued to lean towards her, talking privately, with a complete disregard of his surroundings.

  Marianne stood by the piano, stupefied, uncertain what to do. The court was seated now, waiting for the Emperor's signal for the concert to begin.

  But Napoleon continued his smiling tête-à-tête and it seemed to Marianne that the low dais on which she stood was a kind of pillory to which she had been bound by the cruel whim of a neglectful lover. She had a wild impulse to run from that opulent room and its hundreds of pairs of eyes. If only it had been possible. Up above, in the royal box, the Comte de Ségur was bending respectfully before the Emperor, asking for a sign. It was given him, carelessly, without so much as a look, and translated instantly into a solemn rap of his staff.