Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  Marianne pointed silently to the carafe.

  'A little water, if you please—'

  As she sipped it, she forced herself to think. Fouché had put his cards on the table and she realized that it was useless to hope that he might change his mind. Her best course was to agree, or appear to agree. Afterwards she could try and escape. But where to? She had no idea as yet but it would be time to think of that later, at more leisure. Meanwhile, first things first. At all events, she did not intend to give in without an argument. Putting the glass back on the tray, she said loftily:

  'You offer me a situation as a reader? It is not very grand. I am more ambitious.'

  'Princess Talleyrand's last reader was a countess fallen on hard times. You cannot expect me to do better than offer you the best house in Paris. But if you prefer to be a scullery maid—'

  'I am not amused. Let me remind you that I have no talent for the – the profession you propose, that it is altogether strange to me. I do not even know what I shall have to do.'

  'Listen. Keep your ears open and make a note of everything you hear, absolutely everything.'

  'I cannot go about with notes in my hand—'

  'Don't play the fool with me!' Fouché snapped. 'Your memory is perfect. I saw that from the way you repeated Nicolas's message. Moreover, you speak several languages. That is a valuable asset in the house of a diplomat – even one in disgrace.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'That the Prince of Benevento is out of favour with the Emperor. He is no longer Minister of Foreign Affairs and his title of vice-grand-elector is no more than a high-sounding sinecure. But that only makes Talleyrand more dangerous. He has vast contacts, formidable intelligence – and—'

  '—and you are his enemy!'

  'I? No, you mistake me! We have been enemies in the past. But that is ancient history and in politics one forgets quickly. For some time now, we have been the best of friends, do not forget that. But that does not mean I would not like to know the little day to day details in the rue de Varennes. As the princess's reader, you will be present at all large gatherings, you will live in the midst of the household. As I have said, all you will have to do is keep a kind of journal. Every night, before going to bed, you will write a little report on the day.'

  'And how will it reach you?'

  'Don't worry about that. Each morning, a servant will come into your room to light the fire. He will say: "I hope this wood will burn well". You will give him your report. He will see that it reaches me.'

  'How will you know it is mine? Should I sign my name?'

  'Certainly not. You will sign it, let me see – yes, with a star like this.'

  Fouché drew a quick sketch of a six-pointed star on a piece of paper.

  'There! That shall be your emblem – and your name. Here, you will draw the star. That will provide a cover for your real identity. For you will have to take care not to arouse any suspicions in the master of the house. He is perhaps the most intelligent man in Europe. Certainly, the most artful! I would not give much for your chances should he unmask you. So, you have every reason to take care. And, let me say again, that you will not regret working with me. I can reward good service – royally!'

  The atmosphere of the office was beginning to weigh on Marianne. She was tired and her head was aching. Exhaustion was taking its own toll. She had slept little on her truckle bed in St Lazare. She rose and going to the window pulled aside the curtain and stood looking out. It was quite dark now but two lanterns burned in the courtyard, revealing the figures of the sentries. Everywhere was strangely quiet. The river Seine glimmered faintly beyond the curtain of trees. From somewhere, came the muffled sound of a harp. The notes came a little discordantly, as though the hands on the strings were clumsy and inexperienced, but this only added to the air of unreality belonging to this evening.

  'I must escape!' she thought desperately. 'I must escape – I must get away to Auvergne, to find my cousin. But, for the present, I can do nothing except obey.' Aloud, she sighed, 'I hope you will not be disappointed. I know no one here. How can I know what will interest you?'

  Fouché, too, rose and came to stand behind her. She saw his reflection in the glass and smelled the faint odour of snuff which hung about him. When he spoke, his voice was kind and reassuring.

  'That is for me to judge. I have need of a fresh eye, of unprejudiced ears. You know nothing and therefore, since you will not know what is important, you will have no temptation to hide anything. Come, now, we will go up and see my wife. What you need is a good supper and a good bed. Tomorrow, I will tell you all you need to know if you are to move safely in your new environment.'

  Marianne only nodded, defeated but not resigned. As she followed her persecutor up the narrow private staircase leading from the next room which connected the office with the duchess's apartment, she was thinking already that she would take the first opportunity that offered to run away from this house where she was being sent. After that the choice would be hers. She could either throw herself at the feet of the divorced Empress and beg for her protection, or she could take the first diligence into Auvergne to find her cousin, even if she did turn out to be mad. Better a well-disposed mad woman than an over-intelligent man. Marianne was beginning to feel a hearty dislike for the world of men. It was a selfish, ruthless and cruel world. Woe to her who tried to fight it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Ladies of the Hôtel Matignon

  As she followed the imposing servant in white wig and livery of mulberry and grey up the great white marble staircase, Marianne looked dazedly about her and wondered if she had not been brought to some royal palace by mistake. Never, in all her life, had she seen a house like this. It left the ponderous magnificence of Selton Hall far behind, and seemed stern, almost rustic in comparison with the light, graceful elegance of eighteenth century France.

  Here, it was all tall mirrors, delicate, gilded scroll work, pale, heavy silks, exquisite Chinese porcelain and thick carpets, softer than smooth lawns underfoot. Outside, the dismal, grey December rain was still deluging Paris persistently. But in here one could forget the dreadful weather. It was as though the house had its own private source of light. And how pleasantly warm it was.

  They mounted the stairs slowly, with the dignity befitting a noble household. Marianne's eyes riveted themselves on the solemn workings of the servant's large white calves but her mind was busy going over Fouché's last advice. Now and then, her hand went to her reticule to feel the letter he had given her, a letter written by a woman whom she had never seen but who had written a most moving letter to her dear friend the Princess of Benevento, praising her young friend Marianne Mallerousse's talent as a reader in the most affecting terms. This seemed to be just one example of the magic that could be worked by a Minister of Police.

  You will be sure of a welcome, Fouché had told her. The Countess Sainte Croix is an old friend of Madame Talleyrand. They have known one another since the days when she was still Madame Grand with a reputation somewhat less – er, impeccable than it is today. Indeed, your own birth is considerably higher than that of the princess who, however, now bears one of the greatest names in France. This was said no doubt to reassure her. But it did not prevent Marianne from feeling an icy prickle of sweat run down her spine as the great doors, bearing above them the legend Hôtel de Matignon, swung open to reveal the vast forecourt, surrounded by elegant buildings. The army of lackeys in powdered wigs and maid servants in starched caps of whom she caught glimpses, did not improve matters. Marianne felt as though she had been thrust, quite alone and wearing an unconvincing false nose, into the midst of a human sea with snares and ambushes lying in wait on all sides. It seemed to her that everyone must be able to read on her face what she had come to do.

  A wave of moist, scented air hit her in the face. Roused from her thoughts, Marianne became aware that the large, purple lackey had given way to a lady's maid in a pink and grey striped dress and lace cap and that she had been
introduced into an elegant bathroom with windows giving on to extensive gardens.

  A great cloud of fragrant steam was rising from an enormous bath, like a sarcophagus of pink marble, with solid gold taps in the shape of swans' necks. Emerging from the steam, was a woman's head, enveloped in an immense turban and resting on a cushion. Two lady's maids glided like shadows about the exquisite mosaic floor representing the Rape of Europa, bearing armfuls of linen and an assortment of vessels. The walls were lined with mirrors which multiplied to infinity the slender, pink marble columns supporting the ceiling with its painted design of cupids and scenes from mythology. In a corner, beside an enormous vase of flowers standing on the floor itself, a small day-bed upholstered in the same gold shot taffeta as the curtains, awaited the bather. Marianne felt as though she had been suddenly transported inside a large pale pink shell but, in her walking dress, she was instantly far too hot.

  She blinked at the extravagance and unaccustomed luxury. Nothing could have been less like the small and primitive toilet arrangements of Madame Fouché.

  The woman in the turban, whose face was invisible under a thick mask of greenish jelly, said something Marianne did not catch and pointed languidly to a low stool. Marianne sat down nervously.

  'Her highness the princess begs you to wait a moment,' one of the maids said in a whisper. 'She will not be long.'

  Marianne turned her eyes away modestly while the waiting women fussed about the bath tub with a great white linen bath sheet and countless small towels. A few moments later, minus her herbal mask and wrapped in a dressing gown of white satin deeply frilled with lace, Madame Talleyrand came to meet Marianne.

  'You must be the young person Madame Sainte Croix was speaking about last evening? Have you her letter?'

  With a little curtsey, Marianne held out the paper sealed with green wax that Fouché had given her. The princess opened it and began to read while Marianne studied her new mistress curiously. Fouché, in describing the wife of the former bishop of Autun, had revealed her age, which was forty-seven. But there was no denying that she did not look it. Catherine de Talleyrand-Périgord was still a very beautiful woman. Tall and Junoesque, with wide, artless blue eyes under thick dark lashes, a mass of warm gold, naturally curly hair, plump lips, parted to show small perfect teeth, a prettily arched nose and charming smile, she had everything a woman could ask for, in a physical sense at least, for her mind was by no means equal to her looks. Without being as stupid as her numerous rivals claimed, she had a kind of naivety which, joined to great depths of vanity, made her an easy target for ill-natured criticism. If she had not been so lovely, no one would have understood why Talleyrand, the most subtle and accomplished man of his time, should have burdened himself with her and there were few women in Paris more derided. Napoleon himself openly detested her and her husband, tired of her childish prattle, barely spoke to her, although this did not prevent him making quite sure that she was treated with proper respect.

  The princess's reading of the letter and Marianne's examination of her finished at the same time. The princess glanced up at the girl and smiled.

  'I am told that you are of good family, although not bearing a noble name, and that you have received an excellent education. Madame Sainte Croix says that you read well, sing and speak several languages. Altogether, you must certainly do credit to my house. I can see for myself that you are pretty and have considerable natural elegance, I am pleased to say. Your duties here will be very light. I read little but I am fond of music. You will generally bear me company but, when we are together, you will take care to keep always five paces behind me. My name and rank are of the highest and I make it a point to insist on proper respect.'

  'Very natural, I am sure.' Marianne smiled, amused by the innocent anarchy of this speech. Fouché had not exaggerated.

  Madame Talleyrand might be an excellent creature but she was inordinately proud of being a princess.

  'You may go now,' the princess told her graciously. 'I will send for you later. My maid, Fanny, will show you your room.'

  Marianne was dismissed with an aristocratic wave of her hand, but the haughtiness of the gesture was softened by the kindness of the smile that accompanied it. Marianne decided that the princess seemed on the whole good natured as well as pretty and this only added to her discomfort. If Madame Talleyrand could only have guessed what the person she welcomed so readily had come to do! No, Marianne felt that she was by no means suited to her employment and, if she could not manage to make her escape as quickly as she should like, she would take care to say as little as possible to her dangerous employer, if anything at all. She was about to withdraw when the princess called her back.

  'Wait, child! I must have some idea of your wardrobe. We have company to dine four times a week and entertain most evenings, to say nothing of the Christmas festivities that will soon be on us. I cannot tolerate anything unsuitable in your appearance.' Marianne blushed. The neat clothes she had bought in Brest with the help of Madame de Guilvinec had seemed to her very elegant until today, but, since setting foot in this princely mansion, she had been conscious that she must look very simple.

  'I have what I'm wearing, your highness, and two other dresses, one of black velvet, the other green wool—'

  'That will not do at all! Especially since the one you are wearing makes you look as though you were dressed in the livery of the house, which is the same colour. Come with me to my bedroom.'

  Leaning on the arm of Marianne, who was both amused and embarrassed by this sudden familiarity, the princess swept majestically into a vast chamber adjoining the bathroom. Here, as in the temple of beauty next door, all was pink and gold and the swan reigned supreme, in gilded bronze, on the arms of the chairs and in allegorical paintings. A handsome canopied bed shared pride of place with an enormous cheval mirror flanked by a pair of gilded lamp brackets. All else was buried under an endless sea of open or closed boxes of all sizes and every conceivable colour. Among them, four people stood to attention. Three were women, the first two evidently shopkeeper's assistants, the third a massive female compressed into a garment of apple green quilting with gold frogs, and crowned with a towering edifice of green taffeta and white Mechlin lace.

  The fourth person was a chubby little man, rather like a perky sparrow, though at present his chest was puffed out like a pouter pigeon with his own importance. His face was rouged and powdered and he wore an elaborately curled wig that was clearly meant to increase his height. His bow at the princess's entrance would have done no discredit to a dancing master and his capers appeared to Marianne irresistibly funny. The princess, however, instantly released her hold on Marianne's arm and descended on the ludicrous little creature with outstretched hands.

  'Ah, my dear, dear Leroy! You have come! And in this appalling weather! How can I ever thank you.'

  'I could not fail to deliver your highness's gowns for the Christmas season in person – and I can confidently say we have performed miracles.'

  With the air of a conjurer producing rabbits out of a hat, he drew from the various boxes a succession of dazzling gowns, cashmere shawls, scarfs and sashes, while the large green lady, who was none other than Mademoiselle Minette, famous as the purveyor of exquisite lingerie, released a cascade of gossamer shifts, embroidered and lace-trimmed underskirts, veils and the rest. Suddenly, Marianne forgot her private griefs and found herself enjoying this refreshingly frivolous scene with wholly feminine pleasure. Besides, the little Leroy was really very funny.

  For a while, Madame Talleyrand forgot her new reader in overwhelming the little man in a quite incredible flood of compliments and civilities, compliments that were very well deserved because the contents of the boxes were marvellous indeed. Gazing in open-eyed wonderment, Marianne forgot the absurdity of his person. Ignorant as yet that the little man was in fact the great Leroy, couturier to the Empress herself, and whose creations were sought avidly by the entire court and even by the whole of Napoleonic Europe, she was amazed
that such a person should be capable of creating these fragile works of art. There was one dress in particular, of almond green satin oversown with crystal drops in strange, underwater patterns, that dazzled her utterly. It seemed to shimmer all over, as though with dew, and Marianne found herself dreaming of how wonderful it would be if she were one day to own such a dress. She was just putting out a timid hand to touch the shimmering stuff when she was startled by a loud indignant exclamation from the couturier.

  'Her highness wishes me to dress her reader? Me? Leroy? Oh – I'd die!'

  Before Marianne had time to feel wounded by the little man's protests, peremptory hands had swung her round on her heels, her bonnet strings were untied and the bonnet itself sent flying into a corner. The young lady assistants hurried to the rescue and whipped off her coat, while Madame Talleyrand expostulated with an indignation at least equal to Leroy's:

  'She is my reader, Leroy. And so worth quite as much as all your twopenny duchesses and countesses! Only look at her! I mean to see this beauty properly displayed. It will serve to set off my own.'

  There was a thoughtfulness in the couturier's olympian eye as he came and stood before Marianne. He studied her from all angles, walking slowly round her as though observing a monument.

  'Take off that frightful dress!' he commanded finally. 'It positively reeks of the provinces.'

  Before she could utter so much as a gasp, Marianne found herself standing in her shift and petticoat. Instinctively, she brought up her arms to cover her breast but let them fall again at a sharp tap from Leroy.

  'When one has a bosom like yours, mam'zelle, not merely does one not hide it, one displays it, one sets it like a rich jewel! Her highness is right. You are ravishing, even though unfinished as yet. But I can predict that you will be more than beautiful – such a figure! Such hair! Such legs! Ah, the legs, in the present fashion the legs are everything. The gowns reveal them in a way that is almost indiscreet – which reminds me,' turning to the princess, 'has your highness heard? The marquise Visconti, believing her thighs somewhat too well-developed, has got Coutaud to make her a pair of laced stays which she wears one on each leg like corsets! Too absurd! Everyone will think she has wooden legs! But there, she is the most obstinate woman of my acquaintance.'