It did not take Marianne many minutes to discover Fortunée or many more to put her in possession of the facts about what had taken place and the new hope which had so unexpectedly resulted for Marianne.
'He will see you, that is the main thing,' Madame Hamelin said. 'I dare say he'll give you one of his scolds, but what matters is if he listens to you. You may win yet.'
Then, wasting no more time, the two women gave their horses their heads and hurtled after the Emperor and his suite.
At the first cross-roads, they found Rustan waiting for them underneath a pine tree, looking like some rigid equestrian statue of a sultan. Making a sign to them to follow, he cantered off in the direction of the chateau, making a slight detour on the way so as to avoid running his charges into the rest of the court.
Half an hour later, Marianne was inside the palace of Fontainebleau, where she had begun to despair of ever being. She had seen no one beyond a few servants on her way from the English Garden, past the Carp Pool and through the Fountain Court. Then, leaving Fortunée in a small, deserted salon on the ground floor, Rustan had thrown open the door into a large room giving on to the garden and, bowing, indicated a chair. Once again, Marianne found herself in Napoleon's private office. It was the fourth she had seen but although this one had modern furniture and decorations in the style of Louis XVI, the usual litter of papers, maps, personal belongings and the ubiquitous red morocco files made it seem instantly familiar. There was the open snuff-box, the goose quill flung down at random, the big map unrolled on the desk and the hat left carelessly on a bracket table, just as at the Tuileries and St Cloud and the Trianon. To Marianne, it was reassuring. The Emperor's powerful personality stamped all his surroundings with his own identity, and feeling slightly more at home now and in a more hopeful frame of mind, she settled down to await his coming.
When he did come, it was in his usual style: a quick step on the tiled floor of the corridor, slam of the door, a rapid march across the room, hands behind back, pause by the big desk with a swift, appreciative eye for the ceremonial court curtsy, then directly into the subject on hand:
'Well, Madame? No doubt you had excellent reasons for pursuing me here importunately in direct defiance of my commands?'
The tone, aggressive and deliberately offensive, would, in the normal way, have provoked Marianne to an equally stinging reply. But she knew that if she wanted to save Jason she must cast off her pride and humble herself to the dust, and with all the more reason now that this same ruler had not long ago bitten the dust himself on her account.
'Sire,' she said with gentle dignity, 'this is the first time Your Majesty has accused me of being importunate. Have you forgotten that I am your loyal, obedient subject?'
'Loyal, I hope. Obedient, by no means! You are a perfect menace, Madame, and if I did not take good care you would disrupt the whole of my Grand Army altogether. If they're not fighting duels over you, they're killing people for you.'
'That's not true!' Marianne cried, stung to an indignation stronger than her resolution to be humble. 'No one ever killed for me, and those that say so—'
'Are not so very far out. Granting that no actual murder was committed on your behalf, I hope you do not mean to deny that on the same night two men challenged each other to fight and two more actually fought on your account.'
'Not two more, Sire. One more. The same man was the cause of both duels.'
Napoleon struck the desk a resounding blow with the flat of his hand:
'Stop splitting hairs, Madame! I don't like it. One thing is certain. My gendarmes caught two men in the act of fighting a duel in your garden. One escaped, the other failed to do so. How long has Fournier-Sarlovèze been your lover?'
'He is not my lover, Sire,' Marianne said wearily. 'Nor has he ever been. As Your Majesty knows full well, being aware of the deep bond of affection which exists between him and my friend, Madame Hamelin. Now let me entreat Your Majesty to forget that unfortunate business. It is not what I have come about.'
'But it is what I wish to talk about. I want the matter cleared up. General Fournier refuses consistently to offer any explanation other than this idiotic tale about a friendly bout with a foreign acquaintance. Which seems hardly likely when Chernychev had already cried off from fighting this damned Beaufort because Prince Kurakin had given him an urgent message for the Tsar. Not quite the moment to get out the foils.'
So the men who had invaded her garden on the night of the duel had recognized the Russian attaché and Fournier's gesture had been in vain. She bowed her head.
'Your Majesty knows the other man was Count Chernychev?'
Napoleon's face took on a sly grin which to Marianne appeared positively satanic:
'I thought so… certainly, but now you yourself have told me so.'
'Sire!' Marianne protested, outraged. 'That was unworthy!'
'It is for me, Madame, to be the judge of what is or is not unworthy. And let me advise you to moderate your voice if you wish me to hear you out.' There was a pause, occupied on his side in a close scrutiny of Marianne's crimsoned face. 'And now,' the Emperor went on, 'now I am waiting to hear from you a complete – and truthful – account of what passed in your house that night. Do you understand? I want the truth, and the whole truth! And you would be unwise to attempt a falsehood. I know you too well not to see through it at once.'
Marianne's eyes glazed at the prospect opening in front of her. Tell what had taken place in her room? Describe to this man, who had once been to her of all lovers the most passionate, the humiliating usage she had suffered at Chernychev's hands. It was an ordeal which seemed beyond her strength. But already Napoleon had walked round to the other side of his desk and was standing propped against it with his arms folded, watching her closely:
'Well, Madame. I am waiting.'
At that moment, Marianne had a brainwave. He wanted to know everything that had happened in her room that night? Then surely, this was the perfect, undreamed of opportunity to tell him all about the dreadful bargain which had been the beginning of the evil plot against Jason? Such a consideration made her own scruples of modesty and pride irrelevant.
Bravely, she lifted her head and stared very steadily into Napoleon's eyes:
'You wish to know everything, Sire? Very well, I will tell you everything. And I swear by my mother's memory that it shall be the entire truth…'
Then Marianne began her story. She spoke haltingly at first, forced herself to find words that should be simple and convincing. Then, little by little, she warmed to her story. The horror of that July night took hold of her again so that the words came pouring out with their full weight of agony and shame. She told it all: her bargain with Francis Cranmere, his false warning, her fears for Jason's life, then the appearance of the Russian, having drunk himself into a condition of primeval savagery, and the rape and torture he had inflicted on her, followed at last by Fournier-Sarlovèze's almost miraculous intervention, the arrival of the law officers and the general's action in allowing his adversary to escape in order to avoid possible diplomatic complications. During all this time, the Emperor did not once interrupt, but as she talked Marianne saw the tightening of his jaw and the ominous steely glint which came into his blue-grey eyes.
When it was over, she bowed her face into her trembling hands and said exhaustedly: 'You know it all now, Sire. I swear to you that every word of all that I have told you is the simple truth.' She took her hands from her face and added quickly: 'And I say that Lord Cranmere's visit to me was the start of the tragic events which—'
'Wait a moment, we are not there yet,' Napoleon interrupted her curtly. 'You have sworn that all this is the absolute truth.'
'And I will swear it again, Sire!'
'No need. If it was as you say, you must bear the proof upon your person. Let me see.'
Marianne stared at him wildly, scarlet to the roots of her dark hair:
'You mean – the burn? But, Sire, it is – it is on my hip!'
&nbs
p; 'Well? Take off your clothes.'
'Here?'
'Why not? No one will come in. And I believe I am right in thinking it will not be the first time you have undressed in my presence? Time was, and not so long ago, you even appeared quite glad to do so.'
Marianne's eyes filled with tears at this cool, sardonic reference to a time which would always count amongst her most cherished memories, although it seemed to her now to belong to another life.
'Sire—' she said weakly, 'that time is – is more remote now than – than perhaps Your Majesty realizes…'
'I do not see it so. And if you wish me to believe you, Madame, you must prepare yourself to bring proof. If not, you may go. I shall not detain you.'
Slowly, Marianne rose. A lump came and went in her throat, a lump of misery and shame. It was too much. Had he loved her so little, then, that he could demand from her this painful sacrifice of her modesty and of all that had once existed between them? He had been right when he reminded her that once she had gladly offered her body to his gaze, because then his very gaze had been a caress. But he was looking at her now as coldly as a slave merchant inspecting a new piece of goods. And that was not all. There was a gulf between the woman of Butard and Trianon and the woman who, on the hard boards of a prison, had given herself so passionately to the man whose life might now depend on the wreck of her most intimate feelings.
Not looking at him, she began to unfasten her close-fitting green spencer. Her fingers trembled over the black silk frogs but the short jacket dropped to the ground, followed by the long riding skirt, shift and petticoat. Crossing her arms modestly over her breast, she turned so that he could see her injured hip.
'There, Sire,' she said without expression.
Napoleon bent forward. When he straightened once more his eyes were rather grim and he held Marianne's gaze locked in his for a moment in silence.
'You must love him,' he said softly at last.
'Sire!'
'No. Don't speak. It was that I wanted to know, you see. You do not love me any more, do you?'
Her eyes were searching his now:
'I do love you, indeed I do… only – differently.'
'That is what I said. You are… fond of me.'
'But yourself, Sire? What of your feelings for me – are they still the same? Is the Empress not… very close to your heart?'
He gave her one of his rare, very charming smiles:
'Yes. You are quite right. And yet… it will be a long time, I think, before I can look at you without a tremor. Put your clothes on.'
While she, trembling now with haste, pulled up her shift and skirts and refastened her spencer, Napoleon turned to rummage among the papers cluttering his desk as if he were searching for something. At last, he unearthed a large sheet of paper covered with fine writing and already sealed with the great imperial seal and held it out to Marianne.
'Here,' he said. 'This is what you came for, isn't it, at the risk of breaking both our necks? Jason Beaufort's pardon? You see, I attended to it before you came. It is all ready.'
'A pardon, Sire?… Oh, God! How happy you have made me!… Is this nightmare really at an end? He will go free?'
Napoleon frowned and took back the reprieve. The friend had gone, transformed abruptly into the Emperor once more:
'That I did not say, Madame. I have spared your American pirate's life because I know – although I have no formal proof – that he did not kill Nicolas Mallerousse. But the charge of smuggling remains, as does that of the counterfeit English notes. To make matters worse, it is the talk of every chancellery and I cannot ignore an allegation of such seriousness. Beaufort will not lose his head, therefore, but neither can he go free.'
The flame of happiness in Marianne's heart dwindled to a pale glimmer.
'Sire,' she said in a low voice, 'I can assure you that he is innocent of these as of the other.'
'Your word is a frail defence against overwhelming evidence.'
'If you will only let me explain – tell you what I believe happened and how, then I am certain—'
'No! Ask no more, Madame. It is out of my power to grant your request. Be glad that I have spared his head. I do not say the chain gang is a rest cure, far from it, but men survive – some even return.'
Or escape, Marianne thought, her mind going suddenly to the nonchalant figure of Jason's curious fellow-prisoner. But the Emperor was continuing:
'As to yourself, you are naturally perfectly free to return to your own home whenever you so wish. Your cousin awaits you there, together with that odd character whom you seem to have adopted as another of your "uncles". I have to tell you that he returned from his mission to Monsieur Fouché two days ago. So you have no need to remain in hiding… where did you go, by the way, when you – er – decided to retire from the world at Bourbon l'Archambault?'
Relieved of her most pressing anxiety, Marianne allowed herself a smile.
'Is there anything you do not know, Sire?' she asked.
'A great deal too much. Particularly since I have been obliged to do without the Duke of Otranto. About you, for example. What refuge did you find?'
'No refuge, Sire. A prison,' Marianne told him, determined to conceal as far as possible the parts played by Crawfurd and his wife, and also by Talleyrand. 'Jason Beaufort's wife, who has taken shelter with the Queen of Spain, had me carried off and kept prisoner in a barn on an island on the Mortefontaine estate. I managed to escape, thank God—'
Napoleon's fist was brought down angrily on a small table which cracked ominously under the shock:
'This is not the first time I have heard it suggested that my sister-in-law's house has become, unknown to herself, an asylum for all kinds of people. She is good-natured to the point of stupidity. Tell her any tale and she throws open her purse and her house! But this is too much. It shall be seen to. Now, Princess,' drawing his watch from his fob and giving it a quick glance, 'you have leave to withdraw. I have an audience with Madame de Montesquiou in a few moments, concerning her appointment as governess to the King of Rome – or the Princess of Venice, as may be. Go and rejoin your friend and, in future, do as I tell you. I hope to see you again very soon.'
The interview was over. Watched approvingly by the master, Marianne sank into the deep, formal curtsy which protocol demanded, so low that she was almost kneeling. Then, again in accordance with court etiquette, she backed her way to the door, while the Emperor rang a bell to summon Rustan.
She had reached the door when he stopped her with a gesture:
'Oh, by the by, your friend Crawfurd is also back in the nest. They had been keeping him in a deserted farmhouse somewhere near Pontoise and released him with no other harm than that resulting from the necessity he was at to walk all the way home. A somewhat painful exercise for a man with a gouty foot.'
For an instant, Marianne was speechless. Napoleon's expression was stern but his eyes were laughing. With another wave of his hand, this time of dismissal, he added suddenly:
'You seem to have a genius for making loyal friends, Madame, even of those like that old rascal Talleyrand who are not renowned for their loyalty. Nor is it any mean feat to have attached that night-owl Crawfurd. Before you came he lived for nothing but his worship of our unhappy aunt Marie-Antoinette – you have given him a new zest for youthful adventure. Cherish your friends, Madame. One day, they may be of service to us.'
'I will do my best, Sire.'
Again she was waved to the door but that day Napoleon could not be done with Marianne so easily. He called her back once more:
'I nearly forgot. You may inform the encroaching creature at present kicking her heels in the yellow salon that her beloved Fournier has been back for the past month with his regiment in Spain. It may lessen her temptation to spend the winter at Anvers! And finally – as regards Count Chernychev, when he returns to France I shall let him know my opinion of him. You have my word on that… I have never permitted anyone to hurt those I love. I do not mean to start
with you.'
'Sire,' Marianne stammered, moved almost to tears at this last, utterly unlooked-for proof of affection. 'What can I say—'
'Nothing. Your servant, Princess.'
This time, it was over. The closed door stood between Napoleon and the Princess Sant'Anna, but Marianne carried away with her a great sense of comfort, born, initially, of the knowledge that Jason's life was safe, and also of the assurance that she had been restored not perhaps to the Emperor's love, which she would have found something of an embarrassment as things stood, but to his friendship at least. Once again, she was free to act according to her own will, and she meant to make the most of her freedom.
'Well?' Fortunée Hamelin demanded anxiously when Marianne rejoined her in the little drawing-room where she had been left to kick her heels.
'Jason is already reprieved! The Emperor knows that he is innocent of Black Fish's death, but there is still the affair of the counterfeit money. He – he goes to prison.'
Fortunée frowned, thought for a moment and then shrugged:
'A terrible ordeal, but not one to get the better of a man of his stamina. Do you know where he will be sent, and for how long?'
No, Marianne did not know. In her confusion, she had not even thought to ask these two very fundamental questions. The second, indeed, was of minor importance. It mattered not to her whether Jason were sentenced to ten, twenty or thirty years, even to life, since she was determined to do everything she could to bring about his escape. So she only said: 'Let's go. We can talk more freely at your house… I have so much to tell you.'
She took her friend's arm and they followed the footman, who had appeared suddenly as guide, out into the Fountain Court where their horses were waiting.
As they rode back to La Madeleine together, side by side in the gathering dusk, Marianne's mind was already busy with the days ahead. The first thing was to get back to Paris as fast as possible. She was eager now to be at home again, now that she knew that Adelaide and Jolival were waiting for her there. All her trust was in Jolival and in him alone, in his ingenuity and profound knowledge of people of the world, to devise a plan of escape for Jason. Ever since she had been sure that Jason was not to die, she had been looking at things through a rose-coloured haze. Thinking that she was being rather too optimistic, Fortunée set herself to keep her within bounds. Marianne seemed to think that everything would be easy from now on, and that was a dangerous attitude.
Marianne and the Privateer Page 29