[Marianne 3] - Marianne and the Privateer

by Juliette Benzoni

  'And proud of it!' the Russian exclaimed, with an unmistakable glance at Marianne. 'Only savages can speak the truth and are not ashamed of their desires. It is my most ardent desire to obtain a dance with the most beautiful lady I ever beheld and, if I may, a smile! I am ready to beg for them on my knees, here and now if need be.'

  This time, Marianne's anger was touched with surprise. She had no doubt that this strange man would do precisely what he said and kneel at her feet right there in the middle of the ballroom, without a thought for the scandal it would cause. She knew that his was one of those wild, fantastic and unpredictable natures of which her instinct had always told her to beware. Talleyrand must have been thinking something similar because he intervened quickly, smiling as ever, but holding a little more firmly to Marianne's arm.

  'You shall have your dance, my dear Count – or so I hope, if Princess Sant'Anna will forgive you your Tartar manners, but do not be in such a hurry. Leave her to me for a while longer. There are a host of people here wishing to meet her before she will be free to indulge in dancing.'

  Chernychev stepped aside at once and bowed in a way that Marianne could not help but find a trifle menacing.

  'I yield,' he said briefly. 'But I shall be back. Until then, Madame.'

  As they resumed their way to the ballroom, Marianne permitted herself a faint sigh of relief and the smile she turned on her escort was full of gratitude:

  'Thank you, Prince, for rescuing me. That Russian is quite inescapable!'

  'So most women appear to think. True, they usually say it rather more languishingly, but who knows, perhaps you too may sigh one day? He has great charm, eh?'

  'Don't count on it. I am afraid I prefer people to be civilized.'

  There was no mistaking the surprise in the look he directed at her. However, he said merely: 'Hmm… I should not have thought it.'

  The much talked-of ballroom which had been erected for this one night was a miracle of beauty and elegance. The blue canvas which formed its fragile walls was hung with shining gauze and swathed in garlands of many-coloured flowers made of fine silk and tulle. A profusion of gilded candelabra carried innumerable candles, lighting up the room like fairyland. The passage leading into it was decorated in the same style. A tall aperture provided a view of the lighted gardens and the ballroom, which had been built over a large, dry pool, was illumined outside by oil lamps in sockets.

  When Marianne entered on Talleyrand's arm, the floor was already filled with couples dancing to the strains of a Viennese orchestra: glittering dresses and uniforms whirling delightfully in the waltz which had been sweeping Europe for some years now.

  'I shall not offer to dance with you,' Talleyrand said. 'It is not an exercise I am fitted for. But I am sure you will not lack for partners.'

  This was true. A crowd of young officers was already forming about Marianne, jostling one another in their eagerness to lead her away in time to that seductive music. She refused them all kindly, fearful of the scene which the Russian was quite capable of enacting, for she could feel his eyes still fixed on her. She had just seen her friend Dorothée de Périgord talking to Countess Zichy and the Duchess of Dalberg and was about to join them when she was prevented by the arrival of Their Majesties, the Emperor and Empress. The orchestra stopped dead and the dancers ranged themselves obediently at either side of the room.

  'We were just in time,' Talleyrand observed, smiling. 'A little later and the Emperor would have been before us. I can't imagine he would have been pleased.'

  But Marianne was not listening to him. Her attention was riveted suddenly on a man whose head rose above those of most of the crowd of guests standing on the far side of the space left for royalty to pass. For a moment she thought she must be seeing things, suffering from a delusion brought about by some wish of her own, so deeply buried in her heart that not even she was aware of it. But those keen features, that thin, fine-boned face, the taut, bronzed skin, dark almost as an Arab's, with the deepset, twinkling blue eyes and firm lips crooked into a half-smile that was both gay and impudent, the thick, unruly black hair that always looked slightly windblown, the careless set of the dark coat across those broad shoulders… surely there could not be another man like that in all the world. And suddenly, quite inexplicably, Marianne's heart gave a joyful leap and cried out his name with certainty long before her lips could bring themselves to frame the word: 'Jason!'

  'Eh, so it is, upon my word!' said Talleyrand's voice placidly in her ear. 'Our friend Beaufort, to be sure. I knew he was expected but I had no idea he had already arrived.'

  Marianne's eyes unfastened themselves briefly from the American and regarded the diplomat in surprise:

  'You knew?'

  'Don't I always know everything? I knew that a more or less unofficial envoy from President Madison was due in Paris some time soon, ostensibly on a goodwill mission from the United States government, and I knew who it was to be—'

  'Jason! An ambassador? You can't be serious!'

  'I did not say ambassador. I said envoy, and a somewhat unofficial one at that. It is not difficult to understand. Now that his brother is King of Spain, the Emperor is eager to get his hands on the Spanish-American colonies and is carrying out a propaganda campaign there which President Madison is very far from disliking. He has no respect for the deposed king, the imbecile Ferdinand VII and besides, he hopes to get Florida as a reward for his benevolent neutrality. It's Spanish territory but Bonaparte sold Louisiana to the Americans in 1803, so it would appear to be a logical move. Ssh now, here comes the Emperor.'

  Napoleon, dressed as usual in the green uniform of a colonel of Chasseurs of the Guard, had already entered the ballroom. On his arm, Marie-Louise was in pink satin, shimmering with diamonds. They were followed by a brilliant train which included, as well as the Emperor's sisters and his military staff, the charming Prince Eugene, viceroy of Italy, with his wife Princess Augusta of Bavaria, the Duke of Würtzburg, the Queen of Spain, and a whole galaxy of other highnesses.

  Like everyone else, Marianne sank into a stately reverence but her head remained obstinately unbowed, her green eyes still on the tall figure of Jason as he made his bow. He had not seen her. He was not looking in her direction. All his attention was fixed on the doorway through which the royal couple had entered and on the Emperor himself. His direct gaze swept past the new Empress and fastened with a curious intentness on the pale face of the imperial Corsican. He seemed to be seeking something in those Roman features.

  Napoleon passed on, smiling now at his young bride, now at his host, Prince Schwarzenburg, speaking to no one, only nodding genially from time to time to one or other of the guests. He appeared to be in a hurry to reach the gardens where a grand firework display had been arranged and did not spare so much as a glance for the throne which had been set for him; but perhaps his haste was not to be wondered at, for the heat inside the canvas pavilion was growing more oppressive every moment, in spite of the fountains playing everywhere in the grounds.

  Behind the imperial pair and their suite, the mass of guests flowed together like the Red Sea after the passage of the Jews, inspired in part by the courteous wish to keep as close as possible to their sovereigns and, to a still greater extent, by a purely human anxiety not to miss any of the fun. Within seconds, Marianne was submerged in a sea of silks and laces and separated from her partner by a twittering, shrieking throng which bore her irresistibly outside. Jason had vanished amid the swell and not all her efforts could give her a glimpse of him. Talleyrand, she had forgotten altogether. Doubtless he was somewhere in the tide of people.

  Her mind was in a strange, feverish state, raging impatiently against all these people who had come between them just as she was on the point of running to Jason. It did not occur to her until much later to be surprised at the indifference with which she had regarded the Emperor's passing when, not so long before, he had been the centre of all her thoughts. Even Marie-Louise, gazing complacently around the assembled comp
any with her pale eyes brimming with gratified vanity, had failed to irritate as she usually did. Indeed, Marianne had scarcely seen the newly wedded pair, so full was her heart of the new, wholly unexpected and revitalizing joy of seeing Jason once again: Jason, for whom she had waited for so many days in vain! She was not even angry at the thought that he was here, that he must have had her letter and yet had not come to her. Without being aware of it she was already seeking, and finding, all sorts of excuses for him. She had always known, after all, that Jason Beaufort was not like other people.

  She did not catch sight of him again until the first rocket sent a gigantic spray of rose-coloured sparks rushing across the dark sky to fall back softly towards the terraces where the women's jewels rivalled the splendour of the milky way in a shower of light that silhouetted every figure sharply against the massed banks of flowers and shrubs. He was standing with some other people, a little apart, by the balustrade of one of the terraces leading to a grotto illuminated within by a soft, pearly light. He was standing with folded arms, watching the dazzling display as calmly as if he had been watching the courses of the stars from the deck of his own ship. Deftly catching up the long train of her dress over one gloved wrist, Marianne threaded her way between the knots of people, intent on joining him.

  It was not easy. The terrace between Marianne and Jason was packed tight with guests, all pressing inward around the carpeted area where chairs had been placed for Napoleon and Marie-Louise. Marianne had to push her way past a number of persons who stood gazing upwards, wholly absorbed in what was, beyond a doubt, a very remarkable spectacle. But she was, almost without realizing it, in the condition of a swimmer who, at the end of her strength, had felt her foot touch on the shifting, sandy bottom. She wanted to reach Jason and to reach him now. She had waited too long already.

  At last she climbed the three steps leading up to the grotto and as she did so the sky blazed into golden fire from innumerable rockets, surrounding her with such a halo of bright light that the eyes of the occupants of the little terrace were drawn instinctively to the lovely creature who, in her gown and her fabulous jewels, seemed the very spirit of the ball incarnate.

  Jason Beaufort, standing a little apart from the group, leaning against an outsized urn filled with flowers, saw her too. A world of feelings flashed for an instant across his set face: surprise, disbelief, admiration, happiness – but only for an instant. Then he was moving forward very coolly to bow before her:

  'How do you do? I confess that, coming to Paris, I had hoped to have the pleasure of seeing you, but I did not think to find you here. Allow me to compliment you – you are exquisite tonight.'

  'But I—'

  Thrown off her balance, Marianne stared at him uncomprehendingly. His tone, so coldly formal, almost ceremonious – when she had come to meet him with hands outstretched, a heart overflowing with gladness, within an ace of casting herself into his arms? What could have happened to turn Jason – her friend and the only man, apart from Jolival, whom she trusted in this vile world – into this polite, disinterested stranger? What, not even a smile? Nothing but worn-out conventionalities?

  Stiffened by pride, she managed with a painful effort to dominate her disappointment and accept the slap which fate had dealt her. Up went her head, while her fan fluttered quickly, hiding the trembling of her fingers as she schooled her features to a smile and her voice to the necessary social lightness.

  'I thank you,' she said sweetly. 'For myself, your presence took me wholly by surprise.' She laid the faintest of stresses on the 'your'. 'Have you been in Paris long?'

  'Two days.'

  'Indeed…'

  The words were nothing, the merest commonplace such as might have been exchanged by virtual strangers. All of a sudden Marianne found herself wanting to cry. She could not understand it. What had happened to her friend? Could this cold, handsome stranger be the same man who, in the summerhouse at the Hôtel Matignon, had begged her to go with him to America, who had snatched her from the quarries of Chaillot, who had sworn never to forget her and charged Gracchus to watch over her every second of her life?

  Even as she sought in vain for something to say that would not be either stupid or inept, she was aware of his eyes scrutinizing every detail of her appearance and she resented it, as if he were doing her an injustice. He had only just reached Paris. He could not have heard yet of her marriage and must be thinking that Napoleon maintained his mistress in extravagant style. His bright eyes went from the emeralds to the gold dress, then back to the emeralds, merciless and accusing.

  The silence grew uncomfortable, despite the noise of the fireworks. Marianne dared not raise her eyes to Jason's now, for fear he should see the tears in them. She was about to move away, telling herself wretchedly that there was nothing more to be said between them, when his voice stopped her:

  'If you will allow me, Madame—'

  Hope welled up, instinctively, released by the half-dozen words. 'Yes?'

  'I should like to present my wife…'

  'Your…' Marianne's voice failed her. She felt suddenly weak, lost and helpless. Her fan shut with a click and her fingers tightened on it so viciously that several of the slender ivory sticks snapped suddenly, but Jason did not appear to notice her confusion. He held out his hand and drew towards him a woman of whose presence Marianne, absorbed in her own feelings, had not been aware until that moment. Now she stared with all the horror of one seeing a ghost at the slightly-built young woman, dressed in a robe of black lace over an underdress of silver, who stepped out of the shadows behind the American. She wore her dark hair in the Spanish fashion, with a high comb covered by a mantilla of the same lace as her gown, in which was a white rose, matching those which bloomed at her breast. Below the mantilla, Marianne saw a grave young face with finely moulded features and lips which, for all their delicacy, showed a bitter twist surprising in one so young. Her eyes were large, dark and melancholy, surmounted by slim, arched brows pencilled on pale skin. The general impression was of extreme physical fragility but the face revealed both pride and obstinacy.

  Whether she was pretty or not, this woman who had stepped from the shadows of a summer night to shatter her new-found happiness, Marianne could not for the life of her have said. There was no room for anything in her vision, her heart or her mind but one vast disappointment which, little by little, became an aching pain. It was like waking from a dream of joy and warmth and light to the greyness of a dull November morning and for an instant Marianne found herself wishing she could close her eyes and slip back into the dream. As though out of a fog, she heard Jason speaking to the stranger and was aware, even through her misery, that he was speaking Spanish:

  'I want to make you known to a very old friend of mine. You permit?'

  'Of course – if she is indeed your friend.'

  The tone, lightly contemptuous and at the same time more than a little suspicious, made Marianne's hackles rise. A little surge of anger momentarily diverted her thoughts from her own grief and actually did her good by helping her to regain her self-command. She smiled dangerously and, in a voice no less disdainful, asked in the purest Castilian: 'Why should I not be, indeed?'

  The beautiful brows rose slightly but the answer came perfectly gravely:

  'It does not seem that the word friendship is treated here as seriously as I have been used to find it at home.'

  'At home? You are Spanish, I think?'

  With the instinct of all seafaring men for the approach of a squall, even a mild one, Jason possessed himself of his wife's hand and, tucking it securely within his arm, was quick to answer for her:

  'Pilar is from Florida,' he said quietly. 'Her father, Don Agostino Hernandez de Quintana, owned great estates at Fernandina, near our frontier. It's a small town, maybe, but a vast country, less than half-civilized, and Pilar is seeing Europe for the first time.'

  The girl looked up at him, her expression as gloomy as ever:

  'And for the last, I hope! I have
no wish to return, or indeed to remain here, for I dislike it heartily. Only Spain I wished to see, but it is impossible to go there, alas, with this terrible war! And now, querido mio, perhaps you will inform me of this lady's name?'

  Marianne seethed inwardly. The girl was a savage! Stuffed full of pride and religious bigotry! And probably an enemy of the Emperor's into the bargain! Was she to spend the whole night meeting barbarians? First that Mongol and now this creature!

  She was so angry that it was all she could do to choke back the temper that was making her whole body tremble. And as Jason, unaware of her marriage, opened his mouth to make the introductions, she forestalled the threatened gaffe by saying coldly: 'Let me spare you the trouble. As you yourself said, Mrs Beaufort is very naturally ignorant of society. Allow me to introduce myself, Madame. I am Princess Corrado Sant'Anna. If we meet again, as I sincerely trust we may, you may address me as Serene Highness!'

  Denying herself so much as a glance at the shock in Jason's blue eyes, she bowed slightly and then turned away from them to go in search of Talleyrand. The firework display was already coming to an end in a blaze of glory, with the two imperial eagles, the French and the Austrian, colourfully united by the genius of the Ruggieri brothers. There was a burst of applause but Marianne regarded this remarkable pyrotechnic achievement with a jaundiced eye.

  It's absurd! she told herself. Pretentious and absurd! And so am I. Flinging my titles at that stupid child! But it was her own fault entirely. I wish the ground had opened and swallowed her up! I wish, yes, I wish she were dead… To think that she is his wife, his wife! The two short syllables stung Marianne like so many wasps. She was seized afresh by the old longing to run away. It was a primitive urge, a legacy perhaps from some remote, nomadic ancestor, which overcame her whenever she was unhappy. It was not cowardice, she was not afraid to face her troubles, but rather a need to hide her feelings from prying eyes and seek her own cure in silence and solitude.