She reached the foot of the stairs, but although the double doors leading into the main salon stood wide open, she could see nothing beyond the candle-light, now stationary, and the restored fireplace with the last embers dying in the hearth, and the great, empty panel of yellow damask above it. By Marianne's wish nothing hung there because it seemed to her that nothing should be put in place of the vanished picture.
Thinking that the thief, if thief there was, must be going round the room, probably estimating the value of the works of art it now contained, she decided not to go in through the main door. Facing her, the smaller one leading into the Music Room was part open. From there she thought she might be able to see her nocturnal visitor without being seen. Very gently she pushed the door wider and went into the little room to which there already clung a faint fragrance of her chosen scent of tuberoses. Enough light came in from the salon next door to enable her to move about without bumping into the furniture. She saw the music she had put out ready for her lesson tomorrow on the pianoforte, stepped round the big, elaborately gilded harp and reached the door. The velvet curtain offered her a refuge from which to peep into the salon. It was all she could do to hold back an exclamation of surprise. Her visitor was a woman.
From where she stood, Marianne could see her only from the back, but there was no escaping the dress, which seemed to be grey, and the hair bundled up in an untidy knot. She was a small frail looking woman, but she carried herself as straight as a ramrod. In her hand she carried a heavy silver candlestick and she did seem to be making a circular tour of the room. She paused for a moment before the fireplace and Marianne saw her lift her arm so that the candle light fell on the empty space. She heard a short, dry laugh with such a note of mockery in it that she could no longer doubt that she was looking at the thief. But who was she, and what did she want?
A dreadful thought struck her. Suppose this woman were something to do with Fanchon-Fleur-de-lys and the crone were once more on her track? Who could say whether the rest of the gang were not also in the house and any moment the hideous creature and her two associates, the frightful Requin and the pale Pisse-Vinaigre would not suddenly appear? Already, it seemed to her that she could hear the tapping of a stick on the stone floor in the hall.
Then, suddenly, Marianne stopped thinking and sprang forward, driven by an impulse stronger than any reason. The woman had moved on beyond the fireplace and was making for a damask curtain with an air of unmistakable purpose. Marianne realized with horror that she was going to set fire to it. In a flash, she had left her hiding place and taken several strides into the room, the muzzle of her pistol levelled at the unknown. Her voice rang coldly in the silence.
'Can I help you?'
The woman swung round with a cry. Marianne saw a face of no particular age or beauty, or rather one that might perhaps have been beautiful, but for the great arrogant beak of a nose which dominated it. The skin on the fleshless face was dry and sallow and the thick, grizzled hair seemed too heavy for the little head that carried it, but the eyes, an innocent baby blue, were so round with terror as to relieve Marianne instantly of any fears she might have felt. The mysterious wanderer looked exactly like a frightened hen. Calmly, although still without lowering her weapon, Marianne walked towards her, but to her surprise the other woman backed away fearfully holding out trembling hands as though to ward off some nightmarish vision.
'Pierre!' she muttered in a shaky voice. 'Pierre, oh my God!'
'Are you unwell?' Marianne enquired pleasantly. 'And do please put down that candle before you set the house on fire.'
The woman seemed completely overcome. Still staring at Marianne with eyes almost starting out of her head, she reached out a trembling hand and let the candlestick down on the table with a clatter. Her teeth seemed to be actually chattering, and it occurred to Marianne that her behaviour was extremely odd coming from one who had appeared to harbour such violent intentions. She regarded the stranger in some perplexity convinced that she must be dealing with a mad woman.
'Will you be good enough to tell me who you are and why you are trying to set this house on fire?'
Instead of answering, the woman asked a question of her own, but in a voice that trembled so much as to be scarcely audible.
'For – for the love of heaven! Who are you?'
'The owner of this house—'
The stranger shrugged, her eyes still fixed on Marianne's face.
'You cannot be. Your name?'
'Don't you think it is rather for me to ask the questions? But I will tell you. I am called Maria Stella. I am a singer and in a few day's time I shall appear at the Opéra. Does that satisfy you? No. Don't move—'
But ignoring the pistol still trained on her, the strange woman closed her eyes and passed a trembling hand across her brow.
'I must be mad!' she murmured. 'I must have been dreaming! I thought – but it is only some opera singer.'
The inexpressible contempt in her voice aroused Marianne's anger afresh.
'You are insufferable! For the last time, I ask you to tell me who you are and what you are doing here. There are no more portraits to steal.'
The stranger's thin lips, so pale and narrow as to be almost nonexistent, curved in a disdainful smile.
'How did you know it was I?'
'It could be no-one else! Where have you put it?'
'It is no concern of yours. That portrait belongs to me. It is a family heirloom.'
'Family?' Now it was Marianne's turn to be surprised. 'What family?'
'My own, of course! I fail to see how it can interest an Italian singer, but this house belonged to my family. I say 'belongs' because you may not keep it long. It is said that Napoleon means to honour his forthcoming marriage to the niece of Marie-Antoinette by making the purchasers of émigré property disgorge it again.'
'No doubt that is why you wished to set fire to this house?'
'I could not see the house in which the Asselnats had lived and suffered become the setting for an actress's wanton revels! As for my name—'
'I will tell it you,' Marianne interrupted her, realizing at last who stood before her. 'Your name is Adelaide d'Asselnat. And I will tell you something else as well. When I came in just now, you looked at me with a kind of terror because you were struck by a resemblance—'
'Perhaps, but that was an illusion—'
'Was it then? Look at me more closely!' Now it was Marianne's turn to seize the silver candlestick and hold it near her face. 'Look at my face, my mouth, my colouring! Go and find the picture you took away and put it beside me. You will see that I am indeed his daughter!'
'His daughter? But how—'
'His daughter, I tell you. The daughter of Pierre d'Asselnat, Marquis de Villeneuve and of Anne Selton! Maria Stella is not my real name, only a pseudonym. My name is Marianne Elizabeth d'As—'
She had no time to say more. Mademoiselle d'Asselnat must have had more than her share of excitement for one day. With a little sigh she subsided on to the salon carpet in a dead faint.
***
Marianne succeeded, with something of an effort, in getting the little old spinster on to one of the sofa's standing near the fireplace. Next, she stirred up the fire as best she could, lit some more candles to give a better light, and then made her way down to the kitchen in the basement in search of something to revive her cousin. The evening's melancholy had flown away as though by a miracle, and, all things considered, the discovery of this remarkable Adelaide she had believed confined to the depths of Auvergne under the watchful eye of the imperial police, an eye which now seemed somewhat lacking in watchfulness, might well qualify as a miracle. She had earlier promised to plead her cousin's cause with the Emperor but, with the selfishness of all those in love, she had let it go out of her mind during the enchanted days at the Trianon. Yet now that this d'Asselnat had dropped from heaven like a dusty, grey spider, she was suddenly as happy as though she had been given a present.
As she moved abou
t filling a tray at random with a bottle of wine, glasses, plates, a pate which she happened to come across in the larder and a big chunk of bread, she caught herself humming the tune from 'The Vestal' which she was studying at that moment. At the same time she was racking her brains to remember what the duc d'Avaray and then later on Fouché had said about her turbulent relative. 'An old mad creature,' the first had called her, 'the friend of Mirabeau and La Fayette', 'a somewhat undesirable relative for one in your situation,' the second had said. From all this and from her own observations, Marianne concluded that Adelaide was certainly no ordinary person and this pleased her.
Whatever the case, mad or not, dangerous or not, Marianne had firmly made up her mind to try and make friends with this one remaining member of her family. When she returned to the salon with her tray, she saw that the few hearty slaps she had administered to her before leaving had produced their effect. Adelaide's eyes were open and she was sitting upright on the sofa where Marianne had left her lying down, gazing about her with the bemused expression of one who had seen a ghost. She looked up suspiciously at the pale smiling figure coming towards her.
'Are you feeling better now, cousin?' Marianne asked, putting her tray down on a small table.
Mechanically, the little spinster pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes and stretched out her hand for the proffered glass of wine. She swallowed a full glass with an ease denoting a certain familiarity and then sighed deeply.
'Yes, I feel better now. And so you are his daughter? You are so like him, I should not even have to ask. Except for the eyes. Pierre's eyes were black, and yours—'
'I have my mother's eyes.'
Adelaide's thin face hardened with a look of anger.
'The Englishwoman's eyes! I know!'
'Did you – did you dislike my mother?'
'I hate the English. I never wished to know her. What need had he to seek a wife from among her hereditary enemies?'
'He loved her,' Marianne said gently. 'Does that not seem to you a sufficient reason?'
Adelaide did not answer, but her expression told Marianne much more than any words. She guessed the tragedy of the plain girl, secretly in love with her handsome cousin only to see him one day fall in love with a girl so exquisitely lovely that there was no longer any question of fighting. She understood why Adelaide d'Asselnat had begun to live somewhat apart from her family, why she had sought her friends among the intellectuals whose heads were full of great, revolutionary ideas. The brilliance of Versailles which had suited the young married couple so well must have been painful to this night bird who had sucked in the new ideas greedily as a thirsty traveller coming upon an unexpected spring of fresh water. But then—
'What did you do during the Terror?' Marianne asked suddenly, seized by a terrible suspicion. Surely this old maid's frustrated love would not have driven her to associate with those who had turned the ideal of a revolution into a blood bath? But there was no shadow in the candid blue eyes that looked into hers. Adelaide shrugged.
'What could I do? I went to ground in Auvergne. Those great minds which had worked for the people's good had become the enemies of the Convention. To Robespierre's men, I was simply an aristocrat, and hence meat for the guillotine. I had to go. My house in the Marais was given to a rope-maker from the Faubourg St-Antoine who turned it into a livery stable. And I knew that I had nothing to fear from our peasants at Villeneuve who were all devoted to the family. I had thought to end my days there, but when Bonaparte became Napoleon I, I had a mind to see just what kind of a man he was who could make victory follow at his heels like a well-trained dog. I came back to Paris—'
'To this house?'
'No. That was not possible. But I came here very often to think about – about those who were no more. That was how I came across the portrait in one of the attics. Probably your father had it put away because its warlike subject could not help but remind your mother how often France and England had been at war. I liked coming here. For all its dilapidated condition, it made me feel at home.'
'Where did you live?'
'With a friend. She died, three months ago, and I was forced to look for somewhere else. But while there, I had met someone who had a house nearby and was willing to rent me a pair of rooms—'
She broke off and, for the first time, she smiled, a smile so amazingly young and mischievous that Marianne was astounded. Suddenly, her frowsty cousin was twenty years old.
'—and now I am going to surprise you,' she went on, 'my landlady is English, she is that famous Mrs Atkins, who also tried to save the Royal Family and especially the unfortunate little King Louis XVII. But she was drawn to me by my name and her extraordinary kindness made me forget her nationality.'
'But you have been in this house? I heard you just now come down from the attic. I suppose you must know the secret hiding place?'
'Of course I know it. It was made such a long time ago. And I used to play there as a child. The d'Asselnats have not always been the most obedient subjects and there have been troubles from time to time with the king – or with the Regent as the case might be. The hiding place was useful. I hid there when you came with those others who were with you. But I did not see your face. You wore a veil. What I suffered to think that this old house, so full of memories for me, was to belong to an actress!'
She stopped abruptly and a deep blush spread over her plain features. Marianne understood her feelings and knew a moment's anxiety. She was discovering that this woman who, a moment ago had been no more than a vague name to her, had suddenly become someone almost dear. Perhaps it was the fact that the same blood ran in both their veins, but more probably because of the strange life which Adelaide herself had lead, an unconventional life which had even taken her to prison. The two of them ought to understand one another. And so Marianne decided to have done with half truths once and for all.
'I am not an actress,' she said gently. 'Indeed I have never sung in public yet, except in a few private houses. The reason I have chosen to be a singer, is because I want to be free to live my life. I make my first appearance in a few day's time. Does that shock you dreadfully?'
Adelaide thought for a moment, though the cloud which had come over her face did not lift.
'No,' she said at last. 'I think I can understand that. But it is also said that the new owner of this house is a special favourite of the Emperor's and—'
'I love him,' Marianne interrupted her firmly. 'And I am his mistress. That too, you must understand. Unless it is to difficult—'
'Well, one can at least say that you do not mince your words,' Adelaide said when she had recovered from the shock of Marianne's announcement. 'That you should love him does not surprise me. I did myself until this senseless divorce! I cannot forgive him his arch-duchess.'
'I have been forced to forgive him. He must have an heir.'
'There were other ways he could get one. The Hapsburg blood is worthless. They should know that in France. But this fool has let it go to his head! What can he hope to gain in the way of offspring by mingling his own good Corsican blood, that is pure and rich and noble, with an old strain thinned by intermarriage and hereditary weakness? What Marie-Louise brings him is the inheritance of Mad Jeanne and of Philip II. Much cause for rejoicing there is there! And, by the way, tell me how it is that you, a Frenchwoman, with English blood in you, are passed off as an Italian?'
Marianne sighed and poured another glass of wine for herself. She felt she needed it, if only to recover from hearing Adelaide abusing Napoleon so freely.
'It's a long story.'
'Bah!' the old maid retorted, settling herself more comfortably. 'I've plenty of time. And if I may have a little of this pate—I'm always hungry!' she finished up triumphantly. 'And I'm passionately fond of stories.'
As though they had known one another all their lives, the two of them sat one either side of the little table and attacked the food and Marianne's story with equal relish. Marianne herself had never
felt so comfortable. She could not wait, now, to tell the whole story to this quaint old spinster whose twinkling blue eyes regarded her with such a spontaneous sympathy. The words seemed to come of their own accord and in telling Adelaide of all that she had been through, she felt as though she were telling it to the spirits of her house as well. She was making her confession to all the past members of her family and she discovered at the same time that all the hatred and resentment she had built up suddenly left her, as though she were recovering from an illness. She had only one fear, that Adelaide would think that she was mad. But the old lady was not without experience. When Marianne had finished she merely patted her young cousin's hand as it lay on the table and sighed.
'And to think I thought that I had led an exciting life! If you go on at this rate, my dear child, I don't know where you might not end up! But it will be interesting to watch.'
Marianne looked up almost timidly and asked:
'You are not shocked? You do not blame me? I am afraid I may have my honour too cheap!'
'You had no choice! Besides, in all justice, it was Lady Cranmere's honour which suffered. Marianne d'Asselnat has merely followed her heart. You would not have me weep for an English honour? Especially one of such melancholy origin—'
She rose suddenly, shaking crumbs off her grey dress. Then, with a thoughtful look at Marianne, she asked suddenly:
'This American – you are quite sure you are not in love with him?'
What could Adelaide be thinking of to ask such an apparently preposterous question? Had she not understood anything Marianne had told her, or had she some special picture of Jason? For a second, the sailor's tall figure seemed to invade the quiet room bringing with it a rush of sea air, but Marianne thrust it back.
'In love with him? How could I be? I feel friendship for him now, and a certain gratitude, but I told you I loved—'
'So you did. But too much gazing on the sun can make one blind, even to one's own heart. I don't know whether you realized it, but you have just described to me an extraordinarily attractive man, and if I were in your shoes—'
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