[Marianne 3] - Marianne and the Privateer

by Juliette Benzoni

  Not far from the imperial box, Prince Cambacérès, huge and smothered as usual in gold-braid, slumbered in his seat, sunk in the pleasures of a good digestion, while next to him, Gaudin, Minister of Finance, elegant and old-fashioned at the same time in his coat of the latest cut and bob-wig, seemed to find his snuff-box infinitely more absorbing than what was going forward on the stage. In another, darkened box, Marianne caught sight of Fortunée Hamelin, deep in whispered conversation with an unidentifiable hussar who, in turn, was attracting apparently idle but actually extremely penetrating glances from the exquisite Madame Récamier. Next door, in the quartermaster-general's box, his wife, the beautiful Countess Daru, in a gown of peacock blue satin, was sitting dreamily beside her cousin, a young civil servant by the name of Henri Beyle with a broad, plain face redeemed from the commonplace by a magnificent brow, a bright and piercing eye and a sardonic curve of the lips. Finally, in a large centre box, Marshal Berthier, Prince of Wagram, sat dividing his attentions between his wife, a homely and good-humoured Bavarian princess, and his mistress, the tempestuous, wickedly sharp-tongued and grossly overweight Marchesa Visconti whose long-standing liaison with him was a source of never-failing irritation to Napoleon. Of the remainder of the audience, a great many were strangers to Marianne; Austrians, Poles, Russians and Germans who had come to Paris to attend the wedding celebrations and at least half of whom clearly had not the faintest comprehension of Racine. Among them, the palm of beauty undoubtedly belonged to the dazzling Countess Atocka, handsome Flahaut's latest conquest. These two were sitting in a box discreetly to one side, she radiant, he still a little pale from his recent illness, but neither with eyes for anything but each other.

  'Talma does not stand a chance!' Marianne thought, but just then the act came to an end amid thunderous applause as those who had failed to understand or simply failed to listen sought to make amends for their lapse. 'The Emperor has to be here,' she told herself, 'to make them really pay attention. When he is in the audience, no one dares to breathe.'

  The curtain came down and at once the auditorium was filled with the noise of laughter and conversation. Good manners demanded that all the men should now become extremely active, paying courtesy calls on the wives of all their friends, who, for their part, sat in their boxes receiving visitors with as much grace and dignity as if they had been in their own homes. Some of the boxes were large enough to have small salons attached to them in which refreshments – sweets, ices and drinks – were served. The theatre was just another excuse for the gossip and idle chat so dear to society's heart.

  Marianne was familiar with the custom and as soon as the curtain fell on the bowing actors she found herself waiting feverishly for what would happen. Would Jason come to speak to her, or would he stay in Talleyrand's box with the prince's other guests? She was burning with eagerness to see him close-to, to touch his hand and seek in his eyes for such a look as he had given her during their mad drive to Malmaison. Even supposing that he were to leave the box, would he come to her – or would the precious visit fall to some other woman's share? Perhaps Chernychev's presence at her side would put him off? Perhaps she ought not to have saddled herself with him, after all? But she need not have worried.

  Chernychev, like most other men, had risen and was excusing himself with an air of boredom: he must leave her for a moment. Princess Pauline was beckoning to him with a gesture which brooked no refusal.

  'Go, by all means…' Marianne spoke absently, her eyes and her thoughts elsewhere, concerned only to conceal her joy as she saw Talleyrand get to his feet with the help of his stick and prepare to leave the box in company with Jason. Marianne's eyes were bright with impatience. If Jason was with Talleyrand, the two of them must be coming to call on the Princess Sant'Anna. She was going to see him!

  However, her inattention was not lost on Chernychev. He frowned and said shortly: 'I do not like to leave you alone.'

  'I shall not be alone for long. Go now, the princess is waiting.'

  It was true. Pauline Borghese was again beckoning to the Russian. Suppressing a movement of irritation, Chernychev made his way to the door of the box but before he could pass through he was obliged to stand aside to permit Fortunée Hamelin to enter. Crisp as a lettuce in a dress of bright green brocade trimmed with tiny crystal beads that made her look as if she had just stepped out from a fountain, Fortunée smiled at him provocatively:

  'It seems Her Highness does not care to see her favourite stallions disporting themselves in pastures new,' she said with a chuckle. 'You had better run, my dear Count, or I fear you will get a sad welcome!'

  The handsome colonel took her at her word, without pausing to take up the challenge. Fortunée was notorious for the freedom of her language, a freedom which in her was by no means unbecoming. She was smiling brightly as she came forward to greet her friend, and Marianne, turning, forced herself to smile back, hiding her annoyance at this unwanted company. The box was suddenly filled with the scent of roses.

  'Well!' Madame Hamelin sank into a chair beside her friend. 'My dear, I simply could not resist coming over to hear all about it. When I saw our American friend in the dear prince's box—'

  Marianne glanced at her with somewhat sardonic amusement. 'And what have you done with your hussar?' she inquired.

  'Sent him off to drink coffee. He was showing a distinct tendency to fall asleep, and that, I promise you, is more than I can allow! It's a positive insult! But tell me, dearest, is that prune-faced Murillo in the black lace really our fascinating pirate's lawful wedded wife? She reeks of the most Catholic realm of Spain, I grant you that. I should think she probably puts incense behind her ears!'

  'Yes… That is Señora Pilar. And Jason is not a pirate—'

  'The more's the pity! If he were he wouldn't clutter himself up with a lot of worn-out prejudices that are as dusty as the Spanish sierras themselves. But pirate or not, I do sincerely trust he may be on his way here now to call on you?'

  'Possibly…' Marianne smiled faintly. 'But don't count on it.' It seemed to her that the two men were taking a very long time to pass through the intervening corridor.

  'Gracious! Talleyrand is no fool and if he has him in tow we're sure to have them here at any moment. And don't worry—' She patted her friend's knee reassuringly. 'I don't mean to play gooseberry, you know. I've a host of things to say to the dear prince. So you may have your little talk…'

  'With that pair of black eyes glaring at us? Have you seen how the Señora looks at me!'

  'Black eyes, black looks!' the Creole said philosophically. 'Personally, I think I might find it rather amusing. You can't think what fun it is, teasing a jealous wife.'

  'Talking of black eyes, who is the woman in black sitting on the Prince of Benevento's other side? Elderly, but still rather striking…'

  'What? You don't know her?' Fortunée exclaimed, genuinely surprised. 'Why, she and her husband, that gingery old Scot who looks like a heron asleep on one leg, are close friends of Talleyrand's. Have you never heard of Mrs Sullivan? The beautiful Eleonora Sullivan and the Scotsman Quintin Crawfurd?'

  'Oh! Is that who she is?'

  Marianne remembered now a bitter little confidence she had received from Madame de Talleyrand at the time when she had been acting as her companion. The princess had spoken angrily about a Mrs Sullivan as an adventuress who had been the morganatic wife of the Duke of Würrtemberg and implicated in innumerable conspiracies: she had lived with an English agent, Quintin Crawfurd, whom she had finally married for the sake of his great fortune. Marianne recalled also that the princess's antipathy had been motivated chiefly by the fact that Mrs Sullivan, although very far from young, retained a singular power to fascinate men, and in particular Talleyrand, whose relations with her were a source of anxiety to the princess because they appeared to be compounded of a curious mixture of physical attraction and business dealings. It was the Crawfurds who had sold the magnificent Hôtel Matignon to the prince and they now lived in his old home
in the rue d'Anjou.

  'I don't like to have that woman here,' Madame de Talleyrand had said. 'She reeks of underhand affairs.'

  Madame Hamelin, however, waited patiently while her friend studied Mrs Crawfurd, who seemed to exert a considerable fascination for her. She, like Pilar, was dressed in black but in a heavy, dull black silk which had the austerity of mourning.

  'Well?' Fortunée asked quietly. 'What do you think of her?'

  'Strange! Still beautiful, to be sure, but she would appear to greater advantage in a less gloomy colour…'

  Fortunée gave a little gurgle of laughter. 'She is in mourning, for her favourite lover. Not quite a month ago, if you remember, the Swedes killed Count Fersen, poor Marie-Antoinette's cavalier.'

  'He was that woman's lover?'

  'Yes, indeed. The poor queen had a rival, although she did not know it. At one time, let me tell you, they made a very pretty ménage à trois: Eleonora, Fersen and Crawfurd, but it was a ménage of conspirators and both Quintin and Eleonora were deeply involved in the affair at Varennes. I am sure they did all they could to help the royal family to escape from Paris. So, I need hardly tell you that the Emperor is not very popular in the rue d'Anjou.'

  'And he allows it? And that man is English?' Marianne said in horror.

  'And a long-standing agent of Pitt's. Yes, my sweet, he allows it. It is part of the magic of our dear prince's personality. He answered for them. It is true, of course, that just at this moment he could do with someone to answer for him, but that is life…'

  It seemed as if Marianne could not tear her eyes from the box where the two black-clad women sat on either side of the empty chair as if keeping some ominous vigil. At last she said softly: 'How she stares at me, that Mrs Crawfurd. She might be trying to learn my face by heart. Why is she so interested in me?'

  'Oh, as to that…' Fortunée opened her reticule and took out one of her favourite violet-scented chocolates. 'I think it is the Princess Sant'Anna who interests her. Her maiden name, you know, was Leonora Franchi and she was born at Lucca. She probably knows all about your mysterious husband and his family.'

  'Yes, perhaps she may…'

  All of a sudden, the strange woman seemed to take on a new dimension. Once connected with the irritating aura of secrecy surrounding Corrado Sant'Anna she ceased to appear suspicious to Marianne and became only desperately interesting. Too many times, since losing the child, she had asked herself what Prince Sant'Anna's reaction would be, so that she could not but feel the temptation now to approach anyone who might be able to help her unravel the enigma he represented. There were moments when in spite of the dread which had driven her from the villa, she still blamed herself for cowardice. The terror she had gone through in the little temple had grown blurred with time. Very often, in the long hours while she lay ill, and especially in the endless nights, her mind had gone back to the fantastic figure of the rider in the white mask… He meant her no harm, had in fact saved her from the criminal madness of Matteo Damiani. He had carried her back to her own room, tended her, perhaps… put her to bed… and at the recollection of how she had woken to find her bed strewn with flowers, Marianne's heart beat wildly once again… He loved her, perhaps, and she had run away, like a scared child, instead of remaining there to drag from the masked Prince Sant'Anna the secret of his hermit-like existence. She should have – yes, she should have stayed! She might even have left there a chance to find peace and, who could tell, even a kind of happiness?'

  'Dreaming?' Fortunée's voice sounded teasingly in her ear. 'What were you thinking of? You were staring at the Sullivan as if you meant to hypnotize her.'

  'I'd like to meet her…'

  'Nothing simpler! Especially as the wish is undoubtedly mutual. But—'

  Before she could finish, the door opened and Talleyrand, with Jason at his heels, made his way into the box. There was an interlude of bowing and of dainty fingers raised to masculine lips before the incorrigible Creole, having first favoured Jason with a smile so dazzling that it could not fail to contain a strong element of flirtatiousness, laid her hand compellingly on the prince's arm and guided him inexorably from the box, announcing that she had something of the very greatest secrecy to impart to him. Marianne and Jason were left alone.

  Instinctively, Marianne had pushed her chair back into the comparative shadow of the back of the box. Out of the direct light, she felt less vulnerable and it was easier to forget Pilar's black gaze fixed on her. It was so little to ask, a moment alone together in the midst of this great chattering throng, but for Marianne everything to do with Jason, everything that came from him or related to him, had become infinitely precious. Their surroundings vanished in an instant: the red and gold furnishings, the glittering crowd of people with their idiot noises, the refined artificiality of it all. It was as if Jason possessed some strange power of breaking down any setting in which he found himself, however civilized, and substituting for it his own world, made to his own size and with the strong, sea-scent of adventure blowing through it.

  Speechless, she sat gazing at him with eyes luminous with joy. She had forgotten everything, even the very presence in the theatre of Chernychev, whom she had nevertheless deliberately chosen as her escort for the evening. Because Jason was here beside her, all was well. Time could stand still, the world come to an end, nothing else mattered.

  Looking at him, she was conscious of a deep feeling of happiness and she tried vainly to understand how she could have failed to guess, how she could have missed the impalpable signs by which two beings who love each other are bound together secretly and which would have told her that she could never love any other man.

  And even the knowledge that he belonged to another woman could not quench that happiness, as if the love she felt for Jason were of a kind that nothing human could touch.

  Jason, however, did not appear to share her speechless happiness. His eyes had barely rested on her as he made his bow, and then had slipped away towards the far corner of the auditorium, as if he had indeed nothing to say. He stood with arms folded, his lean face turned in the direction of the royal box as if to find there the answer to the problem that made his fine-drawn face look sterner than ever and brought that dark, brooding look into his eyes…

  To Marianne, this silence soon became unbearable, unbearable and insulting. Had Jason come to her box for no better reason than to show the world how little he cared for her? When she spoke, it was with unconscious wistfulness:

  'Why did you come here, Jason, if you can find nothing to say to me?'

  'I came because the prince asked me to go with him.'

  'Is that all?' Marianne's heart contracted. 'Do you mean to say that but for Monsieur de Talleyrand you would not have come to see me?'

  'Precisely.'

  The curtness in his voice stung Marianne and she began to ply her fan with quick, nervous movements.

  'Charming!' she said, with a tiny laugh. 'I suppose you are anxious not to offend your wife who, I see, has her eye strictly upon us? Well, I would not wish to detain you. Pray return to her.'

  'Don't talk such nonsense,' Jason ground out through his teeth. 'Mrs Beaufort has nothing to say to what I may do or not do, nor would she dream of it. I should not have come because you had no need of my presence. I think you made your feelings abundantly clear tonight.'

  'Did I indeed?' Marianne said furiously. 'Is that what you think? And, pray, where am I at fault in appearing in public escorted by a very gallant gentleman to whom I owe my life?'

  This time their eyes met, Jason's dark with anger and contempt, Marianne's glittering with rage. He gave a harsh crack of laughter:

  'That is something you should ask your husband, my dear! Your latest husband, I mean. This Tuscan prince who seems to fill so negligible a place in your life! You have not been married three months and far from staying at home like any decent woman on your own estates, you flaunt yourself half-naked in that ridiculous costume in the company of the most notorious rake in t
wo hemispheres, a man who boasts that no woman has ever denied him!'

  'If I did not know that America was a land of barbarians,' Marianne flung back at him, crimson as the feathers in her hair, 'that would have taught me! Not content with being a pirate, or sea rover or whatever, and then a special, and my goodness what a very special, envoy! Now you must needs turn preacher! The Reverend Beaufort! It sounds very well, to be sure! And I can assure you that with a little practice your sermons will be admirable! But then of course when one numbers among one's forebears—'

  'At least I number some respectable women! Women who knew enough to stay at home!'

  Jason's face might have been carved out of stone and there was a saturnine twist to his mouth which made Marianne want to hit him.

  'To hear you, anyone would think I chose my own fate! As if you didn't know—'

  'I know all right. All of it. While you were obliged to struggle for your life or liberty you had right on your side – and I admired you for it. Now, you have one right only: to repay the man who gave you his name by at least showing some respect for that name.'

  'And how have I failed to respect it?'

  'Not three months ago you were known to be the Emperor's mistress. Now you are generally regarded as the mistress of a Cossack famed more for his valour in the boudoir than on the battlefield.'

  'Aren't you exaggerating a little? Let me remind you that the Emperor decorated him with his own hand at Wagram, and Napoleon is not in the habit of handing out decorations to all and sundry.'

  'I appreciate the ardour with which you spring to his defence. What better proof of love could he ask.'