[Marianne 3] - Marianne and the Privateer

by Juliette Benzoni

  'Indeed, I'm truly sorry, doctor. I wish I could please you. You have looked after me so patiently. But I don't want anything… food least of all. I feel so tired…'

  'And if you don't eat, you'll feel a little more tired every day,' the Emperor's doctor scolded her. 'You have lost a great deal of blood, and you have to make it up again. Good gracious, you are a young woman, and a strong one, for all your dainty looks! One does not die at your age from a miscarriage and a few burns. What do you think the Emperor will have to say to me when I tell him you won't do as I tell you?'

  'It isn't your fault.'

  'Oh ho! If you think His Majesty will believe that! He expects his orders to be obeyed, and we have both had our orders: me to make you better, and you to get better as fast as possible. We've neither of us a particle of choice. I attend the Emperor every morning and he always asks after you, let me tell you.'

  Marianne turned her head on the pillow so that he should not see the tears in her eyes.

  'The Emperor is very kind…' she said in a tight little voice.

  'He is to those he cares for,' Corvisart agreed. 'Tomorrow, at all events, I mean to tell him that you are better. So don't you let me down, Princess.'

  'I'll try not to, Doctor. I'll try.'

  The physician smiled and bent forward on an impulse to pat his patient's cheek affectionately:

  'That's better, my child. That's more what I like to hear. Until tomorrow, then. I'll have a word with your people here and I trust I'll find you've been a good girl and done as you're bid. Your servant, Madame Hamelin.'

  With a bow to the exquisite Creole, Corvisart trod across the room and the door closed softly behind him. At once, Fortunée rose quietly and came to sit on the edge of her friend's bed, enveloping her in a strong scent of roses. Her dress of simple cotton lawn embroidered with tiny coloured flowers was perfect for the warm, summer day, and made her look like a young girl. A huge sun-bonnet of natural straw swung from one white-mittened hand. Looking at her, Marianne felt strangely old and tired, and the expression on her face was so bleak that Fortunée frowned quickly.

  'I don't understand you, Marianne,' she said at last. 'You have been lying here for a week now and you are behaving just exactly as if wanting to be done with your life for good. It's not like you…'

  'It was not like me once. But now, it's true. I do not want to live. What is the use?'

  'Was it so important… the child?'

  Once again, Marianne's eyes filled with tears and this time she made no attempt to restrain them, but let them flow freely.

  'Of course it was important,' she said. 'It was the only thing that mattered in my whole life, my whole reason for living. I could have lived for him, through him. All my hopes were in him, and not only mine…'

  Ever since she had recovered consciousness on that terrible night and learned that she had lost the child, Marianne had been blaming herself bitterly, and most of all for forgetting, all through those dreadful hours, that she was soon to be a mother. From the moment she had set eyes on Jason, everything else that had mattered to her before suddenly ceased to exist before the blinding discovery of the love which she had carried with her unwittingly for months. The garden, illumined by the blaze of fireworks, had been her road to Damascus and she had emerged from it, like Saul, blind, blind to everything around her, blind to the whole world, to her own life, to everything except this love, so deep that she could not contemplate it without a feeling of vertigo. And by risking her own life, by seeking to make an end of it, she had wantonly imperilled that of the child! Not for an instant had she thought of it, or of the man, far away in the villa in Tuscany, who would wait now in vain for news of the birth of that child on whom he had pinned every hope of his hermitic existence.

  Corrado Sant'Anna had married her for the sake of a child of the imperial blood to inherit his name. And now, through her own fault, she, Marianne, had lost all hope of fulfilling her part of the bargain. The prince had been cheated.

  'You are thinking of your mysterious husband, are you?' Fortunée said quietly.

  'Yes. I am ashamed, ashamed, do you understand? Because I feel now as if I had stolen the name I bear.'

  'Stolen it? But why?'

  'I have already told you,' Marianne said wearily. 'Prince Sant' Anna married me only for the sake of the child, because it was the Emperor's and so he was not ashamed to acknowledge it…'

  'So, having lost it, you think yourself unfit to live and, if I understand you correctly, your present plan is simply to go into a decline and die?'

  'More or less. But don't imagine I am trying to punish myself. I told you: I just do not wish to live.'

  Fortunée got up and walked nervously over to the window, threw it open and then returned to her place by the bed:

  'If your will to live depends purely on the existence of a child of Napoleon's, then I should think the answer was obvious. Napoleon will give you another and all will be well.'

  'Fortunée!'

  Gasping, Marianne turned a shocked face to her friend, but the Creole only grinned:

  'You may well say Fortunée! like that! Do I shock you? You don't appear to have been quite so squeamish in practice, do you? And if there's one thing I can't endure, it's hypocrisy. Leave that to the experts, like Madame de Genlis, or Madame Campan and her mealy-mouthed set, unless you mean to ally yourself with those mewling dowagers who come flocking back from abroad wailing about the decline in good manners! I like to call a spade a spade! If you want to do right by your invisible husband, you must give him another child, and a child of Napoleon's. Moral: Napoleon must give you another! To my mind, it's as simple as that! Besides, I hear the Austrian is in high hopes, so he may be easy on that score and will have all the more time for you.'

  Marianne regarded her with awe. 'But Fortunée,' she protested, 'don't you know you are immoral?'

  'Of course I know!' Madame Hamelin crowed delightedly. 'And you can't imagine how happy I am to be so! What I have seen of morality all around me makes me sick! All for love, my sweet, and a fig for your principles!'

  As if in endorsement of this declaration of war on conventional principles, there was a sudden report of cannon fire outside, followed almost immediately by a second and then a third. At the same time, borne on the summer breeze, came a sound of solemn, martial music and the murmur of a crowd.

  'What is it?' Marianne asked.

  'Of course, you don't know! It's the state funeral of Marshal Lannes. Today is the sixth of July and the Emperor is having the body of his old comrade-in-arms transferred from the Invalides to the Pantheon. The cortege must have just now left the Invalides.'

  The guns were now firing almost continuously. The melancholy sound of the trumpets and the muffled roll of drums were coming nearer, filling the garden and penetrating into the quiet room, reinforced by the tolling of every bell in Paris.

  'Would you like me to shut the window?' Fortunée asked, impressed by the rumble of these solemn obsequies by which the city paid its tribute, for one day, to one of the greatest soldiers of the age. Marianne made a gesture of refusal. She too was listening, more conscious than she had been perhaps during the contrived gaieties of the marriage celebrations, of the greatness of the man who had taken charge of her fate and who, high as he was, could still find time to watch over her. Her heart stirred as she remembered the hand which had held hers through those first moments of her long agony. He had promised not to leave her and he had kept his word. He always kept his word.

  She had learned from Fortunée, and also from Arcadius de Jolival, how he had stayed at the Austrian embassy, working tirelessly, until the fire was altogether extinguished, rescuing even a simple housemaid who was trapped by the fire in an attic room. She had learned, too, how angry he had been the next day, and of the retribution he had meted out: the Prefect of Police, Dubois, dismissed, Savary severely reprimanded, the architect who had thoughtlessly designed the ballroom arrested, the chief of the fire service relieved of his po
st and measures put in hand without delay for a complete reorganization of the entire force, such as it was. Certainly, it was reassuring to find oneself the object of his solicitude but Marianne knew now that her passion for him had snuffed itself out like a candle, leaving something else in its place, a deeper feeling, perhaps, but how much less ennobling!

  When she spoke, it was in answer to this secret thought. 'I shall never give myself to him again, never…'

  'What?' Fortunée said, startled. 'To whom? To the Emperor? You won't…'

  'No,' Marianne said. 'I can't. Not now.'

  'But – why ever not?'

  Before Marianne could reply, there was a tap at the door and Agathe, her maid, appeared, deliciously neat and fresh in striped cotton dress and starched apron:

  'Monsieur Beaufort is below, Your Highness. He desires to know if Your Highness is well enough to receive him.'

  Marianne's cheeks were suffused with a wave of crimson:

  'He is here? Downstairs? No, no, I cannot—'

  'I dare say you may not know, my lady, but the gentleman has called every day since the accident and when I told him this morning that you were better—'

  Fortunée, who had been a bright-eyed observer of Marianne's abrupt change of colour, judged it time to take a hand in the matter:

  'Ask the gentleman to wait a moment, will you, Agathe. And then you may come back and help me to make your mistress presentable. Be off with you now!'

  Appalled at the very idea of coming face-to-face with the one man who had figured so persistently in her thoughts ever since the ball, Marianne tried to protest. She looked a fright, she knew she did! She was so pale and thin… No normal man could help, but be horrified at the spectacle she presented! Madame Hamelin, ignoring all this, refrained from pointing out to her friend that, for a woman so wholly determined on renouncing her existence, she was showing highly interesting symptoms of agitation at the prospect of a visit from a gentleman. She confined herself to ascertaining that the Monsieur Beaufort in question was in fact the American who had vanished from her friend's life so abruptly at about the same time as she herself had entered it. This being confirmed, she set to work.

  Quick as a wink, Marianne found herself nestled amid the voluminous folds of an exquisite confection, all pink ribbons and snowy lace, her hair combed out, her face rendered a little less pallid by discreet reference to the rouge-pot and her person so liberally besprinkled with Signor Gian-Maria Farina's excellent Cologne that it made her sneeze. The room began to exhale delicious odours of bergamot, rosemary, lemon and lavender.

  'Nothing is more abominable than the smell of a sick-room,' Fortunée declared, arranging a rebellious curl with a flick of one clever finger. 'There. That will do now.'

  'But, Fortunée, what are you up to?'

  'Oh… nothing. Just an idea of mine. Now I shall leave you.'

  'No!' Marianne almost shrieked. 'No, you must not!'

  Fortunée did not argue but went and seated herself in a chair by the window with an alacrity which suggested that her proposal had been made with no very serious intention. She was, in fact, burning with curiosity and by the time Jason, admitted by Agathe, crossed the threshold of Marianne's room that indefatigable man-hunter was lying in wait for him, securely ensconced behind a book which she had picked up at random, in the posture of the perfect sick-room attendant. But, above the leaves, her black eyes made an instant appraisal of the visitor.

  He, after a slight bow to the stranger, directed his steps towards the bed in which Marianne lay watching his advance with an unfamiliar feeling of breathlessness. With his clear eyes, tanned face and energetic movements, Jason seemed to bring the whole wide ocean with him into the sea-green bedchamber.

  To Marianne, he seemed to have swept away the four walls of the room and let the sea air blow in in great, sweeping gusts, yet in reality he had done nothing. He had only strolled across the room and bowed and uttered some polite expressions of satisfaction at finding her sufficiently recovered to receive him. Overcoming her feelings with an effort, she managed to force herself to answer audibly:

  'I have been wishing to thank you for saving me,' she whispered, in what she hoped was an ordinary, conversational tone. 'But for you, I do not know what might have happened—'

  'Well, I do,' Jason retorted coolly. 'You would have been like Madame de Schwartzenburg and the Princess de la Leyen and a good many more. Just what, may I ask, did you think you were after to that inferno? Not the Emperor, at all events. He was in the garden, helping the rescue work.'

  'Is there no one but the Emperor I might have been seeking in the fire? In fact, it was something else, I think.'

  'Someone dear to you, I imagine. A member of your new husband's family, perhaps? Which reminds me' – a tiny smile twisted one corner of his mouth although his blue eyes remained unwarmed – 'which reminds me, you must tell me all about this marriage. So unexpected, was it not? Where did you dig up the impressive name and title? Another present from the Emperor? He has certainly been generous this time, though scarcely more than you deserve. It suits you better to be a princess than a singer.'

  The Emperor had nothing to do with it! My marriage was arranged by my family. You may remember my godfather, the Abbé de Chazay, from Selton, he—'

  'What? So this time it was he who found you your new name? You know, you are quite the most astonishing woman of my acquaintance. I never know who you will be the next time I meet you…'

  He paused and glanced significantly at Fortunée. She, her curiosity satisfied, and probably thinking that the conversation seemed to be taking a strange turn, judged it advisable to withdraw. She rose and moved with dignity towards the door. Marianne made a move to restrain her, then changed her mind. If Jason meant to be disagreeable, she preferred to face him alone. Fortunée must have realized, in any case, that in trying to present Marianne to advantage, she had been wasting her time. Jason observed her departure with one eyebrow raised, then turned back to Marianne with a saturnine grin:

  'Charming woman. Now, what was I saying… Ah, yes, that one never knows what name you will be using next. I met you as Mademoiselle d'Asselnat, then, almost immediately, you became Lady Cranmere. The next time we met, in the Prince of Benevento's house, you were Mademoiselle Mallerousse. Not for long, though. The moment my back was turned, a wave of the imperial wand and you were transformed into that ravishing Italian singer called, what was her name? Maria Stella? Now, you are still Italian, am I right? Only you have become a princess, a – what was it you called yourself? Serene Highness, wasn't it? It's not easy for an American citizen like me to understand these things…'

  Marianne listened with incredulity to this flow of calculated insult, delivered in a cordial, conversational tone, and asked herself what devious ends her visitor was pursuing. Was he mocking her, or was he trying to show her that the warmth of friendship which had developed in the underground caves of Chaillot had changed into a quiet, amiable contempt? If that was it, she thought she could not bear it, but she had to know. Turning her head wearily on the lace pillow, Marianne closed her eyes and sighed:

  'I was told that you had called to inquire of me every morning since the ball and, in my innocence, I thought this a sign of friendship. I see that I was mistaken. You merely wished to assure yourself that I should soon be in a fit state to endure the shafts of your sarcasm. I am afraid you will have to excuse me. Unfortunately, I am not yet sufficiently restored to fight you on equal terms…'

  There was a short silence. To Marianne, behind her closed eyelids, it seemed to go on for ever. For a moment, she thought that he had gone, and she was on the point of opening her eyes anxiously to see when she heard him laughing. She swung her head round instantly, eyes blazing with indignation:

  'You can laugh?'

  'I'll say I can! You are a truly remarkable actress, Marianne. You nearly took me in for a moment. But one look at the gleam in your eyes is enough to give you away.'

  'But it's true. Baron C
orvisart—'

  'Has just left. I know. I met him. He told me you were very weak, certainly, but I know now that your weakness is only physical. Praise God, your spirit is unharmed and that was all I wanted to know. Forgive me. I was only trying to get a reaction out of you. Since that night, I have been living with the fear that it might no longer be possible.'

  'But why?'

  'Because,' he said seriously, 'the woman I saw at the ball and during the fire was not the woman I had known. She was cold, distant, there was nothing in her eyes. It was the look of a woman who goes seeking death. You had everything a human being could ask for: wealth, beauty, honours, the love of a great man – and you were going to have a child. And yet you wanted to die a dreadful death. Why, Marianne?'

  A rush of warmth pervaded her whole being, reawakening the nerve centres which had been numbed by despair and physical suffering. So his cruelty and indifference had been a pose? Seeing him there, beside her, with that drawn look on his face which betrayed how deeply he felt, she felt a sudden, keener awareness of her love for him. The feeling was so strong that for an instant she had a wild impulse to tell him the truth, tell him that it was grief at the thought that she had lost him which had made her want to die. She was on the point of confessing at that moment how much she loved him and how wonderful her love seemed to her, but she recollected herself just in time. The man before her was a married man. He no longer possessed the right, or even the will perhaps, to listen to a declaration of her love. What had brought him here was simply friendship. And Marianne was fundamentally too honest not to respect the marriages of others, even if her own experience had proved doubly disastrous.

  Even so, she summoned up the courage to smile, unaware that her smile was more heartbreaking than tears, and as he repeated 'Why?', she answered at last: 'Perhaps because of all those very things, or because most of it is only a snare and a delusion. The Emperor is married, Jason, and happy in his marriage… I am nothing to him now beyond a loving and devoted friend. I believe he loves his wife. For my part—'