A glint of laughter shone briefly in the American's eyes. 'She finds the women too pretty and too bold. She trusts me, naturally, but when I am not with her, she would rather have me at sea than in a salon. We remain for another fortnight. A friend of my father's, Baguenault, the banker, has offered us the use of a place at Passy – a charming house in the rue de Seine set in extensive grounds. It belonged once to a friend of Queen Marie-Antoinette. Pilar is happy enough there so long as she need not go out and I still have some business to settle. Then we return to America. My ship is waiting at Morlaix…'
His tone had resumed its ordinary, conversational level and Marianne, sinking back in her lacy nest, gave a small, regretful sigh. The passionate outburst of a moment ago had been suppressed by the iron force of Jason's will, most probably never to be reborn. That will divided them as surely as all the width of the vast ocean which would soon lie between them. The vessel which had sometimes haunted her dreams would sail with another woman on board. Something was coming to an end before it had even begun and Marianne knew suddenly that she could not long hold back her tears. She closed her eyes for an instant and gritted her teeth, then she took a deep breath and said at last: 'Well then… let us say good-bye now, Jason. I wish you… every happiness.'
He had risen but still stood, staring fixedly at the floor, without looking at her.
'I do not ask for that,' he said, more harshly than perhaps he meant. 'Wish me peace of mind, that will do very well. And for you—'
'No. For pity's sake wish me nothing.'
He turned and walked to the door. Marianne's eyes followed his tall figure helplessly. He was going, going out of her life, back to the world of Pilar, when the sum of their common memories was still so slight. She was seized by a kind of panic and as he laid his hand on the door handle was powerless to stop herself crying out:
'Jason!'
Slowly, very slowly, the blue eyes came back to her, filled with such weariness that Marianne was deeply shaken. At that moment, Jason seemed to have grown much older.
'Yes?' he said in a controlled voice.
'Won't you – we shall not meet again – won't you kiss me before you go?'
She thought he would have sprung towards her. The impulse was written so clearly, almost palpably on his face. But he controlled himself with an effort which whitened the knuckles of the brown hand still holding the ivory door knob and brought a sudden flash of anger into his eyes.
'Can't you understand?' he said, through clenched teeth. 'What do you think would happen at this moment if I were to lay so much as a finger on you? In another moment, we should be lovers and how could I tear myself away from you then? Before I left this room, I should have lost all respect for myself – and for you, too, perhaps. I should have become your slave… and for that I should not forgive you.'
Marianne had raised herself to hold out her hands to him, but now she sank back, defeated, on her pillows:
'Go, then… Go, quickly! Because I am going to cry and I would not have you see my tears.'
She looked so piteous, so defenceless, that even as she begged him to go Jason turned and, with the irrationality of love, would have gone back to her.
'Marianne—'
'No! If you have any love for me at all, please go! Can't you see that I can't bear any more? I was stupid, I see that now. I should have realized sooner, I should have understood my own feelings, but since it is all lost now, irrecoverably, it is best to end it quickly. Go back to your wife, since you believe you must be faithful to her, and leave me alone…'
And as Jason still hesitated at the door, torn by the misery and anger in her voice, she cried fiercely: 'Go away! What are you waiting for? Do you want me to make a complete fool of myself?'
He did go then, without pausing even to close the door behind him. Marianne heard his boots clatter on the stairs, then die away, and, with a gasp of misery, she closed her eyes and let the tears she had been holding back so desperately, stream down her face. Yet even in her wretchedness she was conscious of a feeling of absurdity which shocked and frightened her a little. If she were honest with herself, she had to admit that the elevated moral plane on which Jason appeared to exist seemed to her rather too high. For herself, she would have felt neither shame nor remorse in giving herself to him. Surely, it was absurd to be saying eternal farewells at the very moment they had realized their love for one another? That was how Fortunée would look at it, certainly. To one with her compliant moral code and declared belief in the precept of 'all for love', such a scene as had just taken place between Marianne and Jason would appear the height of the ridiculous. Goodness, how she would laugh, and what mockery she would heap on Marianne! And Marianne could not find it in her heart to blame her. It was this which frightened her, her own instinctive, shameful wish that Jason had united them in body as they were already in their hearts, that he had not chosen flight, however glorious and however much in keeping with his Huguenot blood and American upbringing, in preference to the joys beyond all price two lovers find in each other's arms. Had she, all unknowing, so far adopted Fortunée's outlook on life? Or was she, Marianne, one of those women, so infinitely less complex than she had ever realized, for whom to love a man and to belong to him was one and the same, utterly simple and natural thing?
No doubt it was highly complimentary to be placed on a pedestal in the most secret corner of a man's heart in the enviable position of an untouchable divinity, but Marianne thought she would have preferred rather less worship and more passion. Remembering her abortive wedding night, she told herself that Jason had changed a great deal. At Selton, he had been perfectly willing to make love to a young woman who had been married only hours before, even to take her husband's place in the bridal chamber. What had brought about this extraordinary access of puritanism? It was certainly ill-timed, to say the least. Supposing, as Napoleon was in the habit of claiming, that love's greatest triumph lay in flight, then Jason had indubitably won all along the line but Marianne could have wished that this model victory had not left her with such a dismal feeling of defeat. She found herself wondering if he had fled in order to sublimate his love – or prompted by the instinctive longing of every married man for peace and quiet at home, safe alike from passion and domestic strife. That Pilar was evidently as jealous as a cat and rather than cross her Jason seemed prepared to abandon, like an unwanted parcel, the woman he claimed to adore. And she, Marianne, had accepted it! She had even, for an instant, admired him for his lofty sentiments! She had even allowed him to reject her innocently offered kiss with as much evidence of loathing as if it had been the most insidious of love potions! What did he expect her to do now? Sink back into her pillows and wait for death to earn her a place among the legendary heroines who died for love and a less lasting memorial, like the faint scent of faded flowers, in Jason's own memory? Oh no, it would be too stupid, too—
At this point in her reflections, she was prevented from lashing herself into a further fury by the lighthearted entrance of Madame Hamelin. The Creole smiled coaxingly: 'Well? Happy?'
It was not the most felicitous of words. Marianne scowled: 'No. He loves me too much to deceive his wife! So we said goodbye for ever!'
There was a moment's astonished silence, then Fortunée reacted precisely as Marianne had foreseen she would. She let out a hysterical wail of laughter and collapsed heavily on to a small sofa which groaned under the shock. She went on laughing so helplessly and for so long that in the end Marianne began to feel that she was rather overdoing things.
'You think it's funny?' she said in an aggrieved voice. 'Oh! Oh, my goodness, yes!… Oh, dear!… It's priceless!… And perfectly ridiculous!'
'Ridiculous?'
'Yes, indeed. Quite ridiculous!' Fortunée's hilarity gave way abruptly to the most earnest indignation. 'It's more than ridiculous. It's farcical, grotesque! What are you made of, the two of you? Here is a splendid, charming, fascinating man (and I am allowed to be a judge!) for whom, by all accounts, y
ou represent the One and Only Woman with a capital W, and who longs for you all the more fiercely because he can't bring himself to speak… And here are you, head over ears in love with him – for you do love him, don't you?'
'I have only just found it out,' Marianne confessed, 'but it is true. I do love him – more than anything in the world!'
'I could have sworn you did, though it has taken you long enough to discover it! Very well, you love him… and all the pair of you can find to do about it is to say – what was your absurd phrase? – Good-bye for Ever! Wasn't that it?'
That was it.'
Well, the answer's fairly obvious. Either you aren't so passionately in love as you like to think, or neither of you deserves to live!'
'He has a wife… and I have a husband!'
'Well, as to that, so have I a husband. Not much of a one, it's true, but I have. Somewhere, there is a Hamelin, just as somewhere there is a Prince Sant'Anna. But if you—'
'Fortunée, you don't understand. It's not the same thing at all.'
'And why isn't it the same thing?' Fortunée inquired, with deceptive sweetness. 'You think, don't you, that because when I want a man I take him, without any question, I must be a lightskirt, a loose woman? Well, I don't deceive myself and I'm not ashamed of it.' Her expression grew suddenly grave. 'You see, Marianne, youth is a great gift, too wonderful and too short for us to waste it. Love, too, the real, true love that everyone hopes for and yet no one dares to believe in, a love like that is worth something more than just sitting on opposite sides of the ocean dreaming regretfully of what might have been. When we are old, it will be better, believe me, to have memories to live on rather than regrets. And don't tell me you don't agree with me,' Fortunée concluded briskly. 'Your regrets are written all over your face!'
'You're quite right,' Marianne acknowledged honestly. 'Just now, I asked him to kiss me before he went. He would not, because… because he believed he could not control himself if he touched me. And it's true, I did regret it, and I still do because in my heart I don't care in the least about Pilar or Sant'Anna. It's him I love and him I want. No one else… not even the Emperor. And yet… in a fortnight, Jason will be gone. He will have left France with his wife, perhaps for ever.'
'If you go about it the right way, he may still leave but he'll be back… and fast! As soon as he's taken his lady wife home, I daresay.'
Marianne shook her head dubiously:
'Jason is not like that. He is sterner, more unbending than I ever thought. And—'
'Love moves mountains, and can turn the wisest heads.'
'What can I do?'
'Get up, for a start!'
Fortunée put out her hand and gave the bell an energetic tug. When Agathe appeared in answer to the summons, she demanded to know if everything was ready. Receiving an answer in the affirmative, she gave the order to 'bring it up immediately'. Then she turned back to Marianne.
'First,' she said firmly, 'you have to get back your strength. And downstairs is just the very thing for you. Talleyrand has seen to that, bless him!'
Before Marianne could open her mouth to ask any questions, a strange procession entered the room. It was led by Agathe, who flung wide the double doors. She was followed by Jeremy, the butler, looking every bit as gloomy as if he were presiding at a funeral, although he was succeeded by nothing more alarming than a pair of footmen bearing between them a large silver tray surmounted by a formidable array of pots, jars and cups, after whom came a third footman carrying a small, portable stove. After these again, came two under cooks upholding with a more than religious reverence a small, silver-gilt saucepan which was apparently extremely hot. Finally, bringing up the rear with all the majestic gravity of a priest approaching the altar to perform a more than usually sacred rite, appeared the celebrated Antonin Carême, the Prince of Benevento's own cook, and the genius whose services half Europe, including the Emperor, envied him.
Marianne had not the least idea what the famous chef could be doing with all this paraphernalia in her bedchamber, but she had lived long enough in Talleyrand's household to realize that Carême's attendance represented an immense honour of which good manners demanded she should show a proper appreciation, or risk being classed by Carême, who, like all true artists, was dreadfully sensitive, as wholly beyond the pale.
She therefore hastened to respond to the bow bestowed on her by the king of cooks and schooled herself to listen with due attention to the speech which he addressed to her once safely arrived in the middle of the room. From it, she learned that Monsieur de Talleyrand, deeply concerned for the health of Her Serene Highness and discovering to his great distress that she was refusing all sustenance, had taken long counsel with himself, Carême, and that the two of them had concluded that Her Serene Highness must be offered such choice selection of delicacies as would most speedily restore her to health and strength, and that these must be presented to her in such a way as to make refusal an impossibility.
'I informed His Highness that I should personally attend Your Highness's bedside and prepare for you with my own hands an infallible restorative of such powerful recuperative properties that it has revived even the most failing spirits… I trust I may prevail upon Your Highness to accept what it is my privilege to offer.'
The implication was clear that, short of provoking some unimaginable cataclysm, refusal was out of the question. Amused by all this polysyllabic eloquence, Marianne indicated graciously, in language very nearly as florid as his own, her delight in the prospect of tasting another of Monsieur Carême's matchless creations. Only then did she inquire politely what it was she was required to consume.
'A chocolate, Madame, a simple chocolate, the recipe for which is in fact an invention of Monsieur Brillat-Savarin, although I have had the honour of perfecting it. I do not hesitate to prophesy that, after a single cup of this magic beverage, Your Highness will feel another woman.'
To feel herself another woman was in fact the very thing that Marianne longed for above all. Especially if by some miracle that other woman could possess a heart wholly free from any attachment. But Carême had interrupted his flow of speech for a moment and, with his rich coat of plum-coloured velvet covered by a huge, stiff, white apron carefully draped about his person by one of his assistants, had commenced his office. The small saucepan was placed upon the stove and the lid solemnly removed, allowing a fragrant steam to escape into the room. Then, with the aid of a golden spoon, Carême embarked on an exploration of the various jars which his acolytes held deferentially open for his inspection, at the same time resuming his discourse:
'I may say that this chocolate, the result of many earnest cogitations by the most distinguished minds, is, in itself, a veritable work of art. The actual chocolate, at present contained in this receptacle, was cooked yesterday, in accordance with the recommendations of that expert judge, Madame d'Austerel, Superior of the Convent of the Visitation at Belley, so that by allowing it to stand for twenty-four hours the required smoothness might be imparted to the texture. It was concocted initially from three varieties of cocoa: Caraque, Sainte-Madeleine and Berbice, but in order to create what Monsieur Brillat-Savarin has so aptly called 'invalid chocolate' we must have recourse to the subtle skills of the Chinese, adding to it vanilla, cinnamon, a trifle of mace, pulverized cane sugar and, above all, a few grains of ambergris, which constitute the prime element in the almost magical virtues which this beverage may be said to possess. My own personal contribution is expressed in a little honey of Narbonne, some roasted almonds, finely ground, fresh cream and a few drops of fine Cognac. Now, if Your Highness will oblige me…'
As he spoke, Carême had been adding the various ingredients to his chocolate. Then, after letting it simmer for a few moments, he filled a delicate porcelain cup and, still with the most elaborate care, placed it upon a small tray which he bore majestically to Marianne's bedside. The tented canopy of sea-green silk became filled with the fragrant odour of chocolate.
Consciou
s of taking part in a kind of ritual, and of Carême's stern eye upon her, daring her to find fault with it, Marianne carried the cup to her lips and sipped at the boiling liquid. The taste, in so far as it was possible to taste anything so very hot, was very sweet and not unpleasant, although, in her opinion, the scent of ambergris did nothing to improve it.
'It's very good,' she ventured, after two or three painful sips.
'You must drink it all,' Carême commanded her imperiously. 'It is necessary to imbibe a certain amount before the effects are felt.'
Marianne took her courage in both hands, swallowed heroically and succeeded in getting down the whole scorching cupful. A rush of warmth invaded her body and she felt as if a river of fire were running down inside her. Scarlet as a boiled lobster and beaded with perspiration, yet curiously invigorated, she fell back on her pillows and favoured Carême with what she hoped was a grateful smile:
'I feel better already. You are a wizard, Monsieur Carême.'
'I, no, Princess, but the cooking, yes indeed! I have prepared enough for three cups and I trust Your Highness will drink them all. I shall return tomorrow at the same time and make you some more. No, no, it is no trouble. A pleasure, I assure you.'
Regal as ever, Carême removed his apron, tossed it magnificently to one of his assistants and, with a bow that would not have disgraced a courtier, departed from the room, followed by his escort in the same order as before.
'Well?' Fortunée demanded, laughing, as soon as she was once more alone with her friend. 'How do you feel?'
'Boiling! But a good deal stronger. All the same, I do feel rather sick.'
Without answering, Fortunée poured a little of Monsieur Carême's chocolate into a cup and drank it with evident enjoyment, closing her eyes, like a cat with a saucer of milk.
'Do you really like it?' Marianne asked. 'Don't you find it a bit too sweet?'
Madame Hamelin laughed. 'Like all Creoles, I love sugar,' she said. 'Besides, I'd drink it if it were as bitter as chicory. Do you know why Brillat-Savarin called it 'invalid chocolate'? Because the amber it contains, my dear, has aphrodisiac properties – and I dine tonight with the most magnificent Russian.'
Marianne and the Privateer Page 6