Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'You are quite sure your name is Mallerousse, eh?'

  'Quite sure, my lord. It grieves me if it is not to your Highness's liking.'

  'Bah! A name may be changed. A simple accident of birth. One would expect you rather to be a duchess, my dear. But what is such a lovely, unknown nightingale doing in my house?'

  'Madame Sainte Croix sent me. I am her Highness's new reader.'

  Talleyrand laughed at that.

  'It is the world upside down! Old crows associate with birds of paradise! That means you are from Brittany, eh?'

  'Indeed. I came by the Brest mail, yesterday.'

  'Astonishing! Brittany must have changed a great deal to produce such blooms. I had thought there was nothing there but heather and broom – but their roses are finer than our own. One day, child, you shall tell me your story. I think it would amuse me. Such eyes!'

  Pinching Marianne's chin casually between thumb and forefinger, he tilted up her face and gazed earnestly at the light reflected in her green eyes.

  'Just like the sea,' he murmured in a soft, dreamy voice. 'The sea has just that colour and sparkle when sunlight plays on it. And such lips—'

  The insolent face hovered close to them and Marianne recoiled instinctively flushing with shame at the familiarity which told her clearly just how far she had sunk.

  'My lord,' she said sharply, 'Bretonne I may be, but that does not mean—'

  He gave a low, sardonic chuckle.

  'Wise too? And witty? Surely, Mam'zelle Mallerousse, you have too many talents for a mere reader?'

  Marianne bit her lip. She had spoken to him as an equal and regretted it. Fouché had warned her, this man had probably the subtlest mind in the whole Empire. It was perilous to arouse his suspicions. She must be careful not to step outside her part. Yet what if in permitting one kiss, she were to give the prince a title to yet further liberties? The Minister of Police had made no secret of the fact that Talleyrand liked women and had loved many in his time.

  'For the present, I kiss your hand, Mam'zelle Mallerousse,' the prince said, deliberately placing a slight emphasis on the name. 'We shall meet again.'

  He turned abruptly and Marianne watched him limp away into the shadows. Curiously, that uneven gait gave to his progress a touch of something slow and hesitant that was not ungraceful. Even in his infirmity, the man had charm.

  Suddenly, an idea came to her. Had Fouché the Fox really sent her here simply to play her humble part as reader to the princess – or, knowing the prince's fondness for pretty women and confident of the effect of his protégée's beauty, had he intended her for a more intimate role, and one of infinitely greater interest to himself? If that were true, the Minister was more vile even than she had thought. A shudder of disgust ran through her.

  Her reflections were cut short by the entry of a lackey bearing two candelabra whose clusters of lighted candles drove away the shadows. Hurriedly putting away the sheets of music, she left the room and made her way upstairs, leaving her gloomy meditations behind her and carrying away like a precious treasure the brand new hope which the old musician had illumined in her heart, the hope of becoming a singer.

  The hours slipped away and it was long past midnight before Marianne, wearing a flowing wrapper of white wool with wide sleeves worked in several shades of green which Mademoiselle Minette had delivered to her in the course of the day, seated herself at the small writing table between the window and the fireplace. In one of its drawers she had found a good supply of paper, pens and ink, a sand box and sealing wax. Now, she had to get down to the first of those daily reports which the man who mended the fire was to take away each morning.

  It was an uninviting task, quite apart from the revulsion Marianne still felt for the role of spy which had been thrust upon her. She was tired and the white bed with its fine linen sheets, on which some attentive hand had layed out a soft batiste nightgown, was terribly inviting. She longed to get into it and be free to dream her own dreams.

  To help clear her thoughts, Marianne drank a glass of water and gazed for a moment at the rose blooming in a crystal vase on the corner of her table, then, with a sigh, she set to work. It was time to close the little window that had opened on the future and address herself to disagreeable reality.

  She began with a short description of her arrival in the house and then went on, as she had made up her mind to do, to swamp Fouché in a merciless flood of frills and flounces. Even so, she was obliged to come to the evening at last. The party was not yet over and now and then, the distant strains of a Haydn waltz came floating into the room, reminding her irresistibly of all the wonderful things that she had seen. It was all so beautiful! But how to convey such splendour in a dry police report, even one written to the sound of such divine music?

  She recalled the Minister's advice: 'Forget that you are making a report. Write as you would write in your own journal, no more no less—'

  After that, it was easy.

  'I was not present at the dinner given in honour of the Viceroy and Vicereine of Italy,' Marianne began. 'A mere reader has no place among such exalted persons. All I got was the menu – containing such dishes as I could scarcely even imagine: 'Duchesse de volatile a la crime, Epigrammes d'agneau a la Tourville, Chaud-Froids de mauviettes, Delices de homard à la Richelieu'. One would think they had no use for their great men but to cook for them! I confess I find it a trifle lacking in respect. I was served in my own room but what it was I ate, apart from a roast chicken, I have no idea; however, it was all delicious. The maidservant, Fanny, told me that the prince was very particular in the matter of his table. It seems his chef is a person of the utmost importance… he is called Monsieur Careme and I had the honour to meet him a little earlier when the princess asked me to go with her to the dining room to make sure of the arrangements of the flowers. I am sorry to say he barely glanced at me. He is a choleric little man dressed in starched white garments with the face of a discontented cherub and carrying a large knife prominently displayed across his ample paunch. I was amazed to see with what respect Madame Talleyrand spoke to him. It is said that even the prince himself is careful how he addresses him.

  'I shall not describe the magnificence of the table, the service being entirely of silver-gilt and all ablaze with flowers, black iris and yellow roses, but I will just add that musicians played Mozart throughout the meal.

  'The chief part of the evening had already begun when the princess sent for me, upon the excuse of fetching her a scarf, out of pure goodness I am sure, for she had no need for one—'

  Marianne's pen remained poised while she closed her eyes briefly. How could she convey her sensations of dazed wonderment on entering the great white and gold salon, ablaze with light? How could she describe the dazzling appearance of the women, many of them young and beautiful, their satins and diamonds, flowers and plumes, glittering against a background of gorgeous uniforms. There were many officers present, wearing magnificent dress uniforms that reminded Marianne of the lancer she had seen in the rue Montorgueil. She could almost hear Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche telling her with simple pride in his voice: 'Wait until you've seen the rest!' It hardly seemed possible that real soldiers could be arrayed with such dazzling splendour. There were uniforms of blue, red and green, all glittering with gold and, merciful heavens, the pelisse which that blue hussar wore draped with such a casual air from his right shoulder was actually lined with sable!

  'The princess looked very handsome in periwinkle blue velvet sewn with stars,' Marianne went on. 'I, standing behind her chair, endeavoured to keep my eyes lowered not to appear too dazzled and provincial. But the temptation was too great! After a while, I began to notice that the guests showed little inclination to gather round the mistress of the house. They would greet her courteously but afterwards move away to join groups here or there. One woman only seated herself by Madame Talleyrand. This person, a stout lady with rather short, thick legs and a large bosom draped in lemon yellow satin, surprised me greatly by fli
nging herself upon my neck when I entered the salon with the scarf and embracing me with great enthusiasm. Realizing, from the description I had been given, that this must be Madame Sainte Croix I responded with a proper show of respectful gratitude. I think the lady was pleased with my behaviour. At all events, she very soon turned the princess's attention away from me and I was able to continue my observation of those present.

  'Sitting on a small sofa close by, were two women who seemed much in demand. One was short, dark and slim with thick dark curls, almost in the arabian style, and very elegant in a dress of black lace over pink. A set of enormous rubies glittered at her throat, in her hair and on her slender, pink-gloved arms. The other was also dark but her hair was more cloudy and her features somewhat asiatic, rather flat with high cheek-bones and black eyes. But those eyes held such a brilliance and sparkled with such wit and intelligence, while her figure, though almost too thin, had breeding and altogether a quite extraordinary charm. In a dress of purple silk with a turban and heavy gold ornaments of barbaric splendour, she had something of the air of a pagan idol, although her bearing was certainly royal.

  'I learned, from the conversation of the princess and a friend, that the little dark, arrogant-looking woman was Madame Junot, Duchess of Abrantes and that the marvellous rubies she was wearing had been 'plundered by Junot in Portugal quite recently'. The other, the lady in the barbaric jewellery, was Countess Metternich, whose husband, the Austrian ambassador, seemed to have been obliged to return to Vienna after the battle of the Wagram, leaving his wife virtually a hostage. According to Madame Sainte Croix, who professed herself to be very shocked, the friendship between these two ladies has no other source than the attractions of the second's husband, the first having had a great timbre for him last summer—'

  Here, Marianne paused for a moment to correct a small mistake and sighed. Was Fouché really interested in all this fashionable gossip which he must surely know as well as she? To be sure, it was by no means tedious to relate, except when one was so terribly sleepy… with another sigh, Marianne dipped her pen in the ink and resumed.

  'After this, the ladies turned their attention to a very pretty, blonde woman in mauve muslin with a large diamond tiara in her hair, who had gathered a kind of little court about her chair. She was the Duchess Anna de Courlande whose youngest daughter, Dorothée, has lately married the Prince of Benevento's nephew, Count Edmund de Périgord. Neither lady seemed to like her very much. The prince, however, would seem to have a much higher estimation of the foreigner's charms since he scarcely quitted her chair. The two ladies then began to talk in a lower tone and I heard nothing more. I was obliged to be content with overhearing a few scraps of conversation in a general way. 'The Emperor remains shut up in the Trianon… Since the divorce, he never leaves it, except to go to Malmaison… Poor Josephine is inconsolable. Madame de Recusant says she weeps endlessly and that she dare not leave her alone… It seems that the famous castrato Crescentini goes every night to sing for Napoleon. Music is the only thing which can soothe him… Do you think he will marry the Tsar's sister?… Have you heard that Junot's aide-decamp caused a great scandal yesterday at the Palais-Royal trying to seduce a milliner?… The King and Queen of Bavaria are here. They are with King Joseph at the Hôtel Marbeuf…' A log collapsed in the hearth amid a shower of sparks. Marianne woke with a start. She must have dozed off as she wrote. The pen had fallen from her fingers and left a long trail of ink. Glancing up at the clock on the mantelpiece, she saw that it was two o'clock in the morning. The music had stopped but a hum of conversation could still be heard, muffled by distance. The whist players must still be at the tables. Marianne knew from experience that time meant nothing to those absorbed in their passion for the game. Even the sight of the cards was painful to her and she had preferred to retire rather than risk being asked to play.

  She rose with an effort, yawned and stretched herself. Lord but she was sleepy! It was no good, bed was too tempting. She scowled at the unfinished report. She was much too tired to go on. With sudden decision, she picked up the pen and wrote quickly: 'I am too tired now. I will finish tomorrow.' Quickly sketching the star which was to serve as her signature, she folded the paper and sealed it with wax and a plain seal which she found in one of the drawers, then slipped it under her pillow. After all, she had nothing really exciting to report. She might as well go to bed.

  She was just undoing the ribbons which fastened her wrapper when she was arrested by hearing a quite unexpected sound. Cutting through the muted hum of conversation, she had distinctly heard a cry of anger, followed at once by the sound of sobbing.

  She listened intently but, although she heard nothing more, she was certain that she had not been dreaming. She went quietly to the window which she had left open, in spite of the weather, for the sake of fresh air. At Selton Hall she had always been used to sleeping with her window open. Now, leaning out, she saw lights in two windows, one of which was directly beneath her own. She knew already that this was the room in which the prince was accustomed to work. There must have been a window open there too because she could now hear the sobs quite clearly. Then came the smooth tones of the prince himself.

  'Really, you are being quite unreasonable! Why must you upset yourself like this, eh?'

  But almost immediately there came the sound of the window being shut and Marianne heard nothing more. But she could have sworn it was a woman crying, and she sounded desperate. Marianne went slowly back to her bed. Her curiosity was wide awake now but still training held her back. She could not go listening at keyholes, like any servant, or like a spy – which, of course, was precisely what she was. On the other hand, there was the chance of being able to help someone in trouble. The woman who was crying had sounded dreadfully unhappy.

  Her curiosity now decently cloaked in human kindness, Marianne quickly exchanged her wrapper for her mulberry coloured dress and slipped out of the room. A small service staircase at the far end of the gallery led directly to the floor below, emerging not far from Talleyrand's office.

  As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Marianne saw a long spear of light stretching across the floor, coming from the office door. It must have been left ajar. At the same time, she heard the sobs once again and then a youthful voice with a strong German accent.

  'Your behaviour with my mother is abominable, unspeakable. Surely you must understand that I cannot endure the knowledge that she is your mistress?'

  'Aren't you a little young to upset yourself about such matters, my dear Dorothée? The affairs of adults are no concern of children and, despite your marriage, you are still a child to me. I am very fond of your mother—'

  'Too fond! You are too fond of her and all the world knows it. There are those old women who are forever hanging round you, with their squabbling and tittle-tattling. Now they are trying to make Mama one of them, forcing her to join their little club, what one might call Monsieur de Talleyrand's harem! When I see Mama surrounded by Madame Laval, Madame de Luynes and the Duchess of Fitz James it makes me feel like weeping—'

  The young voice rose angrily, reaching a note of shrill, high-pitched fury that was only increased by the imperfect French which made its owner stumble over some of the words.

  Marianne knew now who it was in the room with the prince, whose the sobbing and the cries of anger. She had seen her in the salon only a little while before. It was the prince's niece, Madame Edmond de Périgord, formerly Princess Dorothée de Courlande, a young and very wealthy heiress whom Talleyrand had succeeded, with the Tsar's help, in marrying off to his nephew a few months previously. She was very young, sixteen at the most, and Marianne had thought her on the whole rather plain, thin, sallow and gauche, although dressed in a style of elegance that betrayed the hand of Leroy. Her one beauty, but that quite remarkable, was her enormous eyes which seemed to fill the whole of her small face. They were of a strange colour which seemed at first to be black but was in fact dark blue merging into brown. But Marianne had been struc
k by the little princess's air of breeding and the wilful, slightly arrogant way she had of throwing back her head as children did when they were determined not to show that they were frightened or unhappy. Of the husband, she could recall very little; a personable but undistinguished youth in the splendid uniform of a hussar officer.

  Monsieur Fercoc, the tutor, who had chatted to her for a while, had also remarked, in discreetly veiled terms, on the relations existing between Talleyrand and the Duchess of Courlande, Dorothea's mother. He had pointed out the blonde duchess, sitting with three other women; they were no longer young, but their air of assurance, verging on insolence, clearly recalled the old court of Versailles. All three had been Talleyrand's mistresses and remained his most devoted admirers. Their loyalty to him was limitless and very nearly blind.

  'The three Fates!' Marianne had thought with the unconscious cruelty of seventeen, ignoring the fact that these women retained the traces of great beauty. However, there were too many people in the room for her to dwell on them for long.

  On the other side of the door, Talleyrand was still endeavouring to soothe the angry girl.

  'I am surprised at you, Dorothée. I should never have believed you capable of listening to every piece of gossip that circulates in Paris. To most of these busybodies, a friendship between a man and a woman can mean only one thing—'

  'Why do you have to lie to me?' the young woman burst out furiously. 'You know quite well it is not gossip but pure truth! Gossip may be all very well but I know, I know I tell you! And I am ashamed, so terribly ashamed when I see two heads getting together behind a fan and eyes looking first at me, and then at my mother! And this is a shame that I will not endure. I am a Courlande!'

  The last words rose almost to a scream. Marianne, standing stock-still in the darkened gallery, heard the prince cough dryly but when he spoke again she noticed that his voice had taken on an icy hardness.