'See! That is my son. The portrait is by Gerard. Bausset brought it to me from Paris on the eve of the Moskva. It is my most precious possession. See how beautiful he is.'

'Very beautiful, Sire.'

Filled with a despair she could not comprehend, she stared down through her tears at the picture of a fine, fair-haired baby boy who looked back gravely, in spite of the muslins and the garlands of flowers which were his scanty clothing. The Emperor's voice had dropped to a confidential murmur, yet there was an urgency in his words:

"You too have a son. You told me what a fine boy he was. You say you cannot help loving Beaufort, but what of your son, Marianne? Is it so easy to cease loving him? You know it is not. If you persist in this mad quest for an impossible happiness, in running after a man who already has a wife – for the Señora Beaufort still exists, you know, however much you may seek to forget her – so, if you persist, the day will come when the longing to see your child again will be more than you can bear, even, indeed especially, if you have other children by then, for he will be the one whose love you have never known.'

Marianne could bear no more. She let go of the portrait and threw herself at full length on the sofa, torn by shattering sobs that made her whole body tremble. She scarcely heard the Emperor when he murmured: 'Weep! It will do you good. Stay here. I will come back soon.'

And weep she did, for how long she did not know, nor was she even very sure what she was weeping for. For the life of her, she could not have said who was the cause of the despair that racked her, whether it was the man she so persistently adored or the child so suddenly recalled to her mind.

At last she felt herself being lifted up and a gentle hand wiping her face with a cloth drenched in eau de Cologne, which made her sneeze.

She opened her eyes and saw Constant bending over her with such an anxious expression that, for all her wretchedness, she had to smile.

'It's a long time since you last had to take care of me, Constant, my friend.'

'It is indeed, Princess. I have often thought so with regret. Do you feel better now? I have made some more coffee.'

She took the scalding cup and drank the contents almost at a gulp, conscious only that she felt better almost at once. Then, realizing that the room was empty but for the faithful valet, she asked: 'Where is the Emperor?'

'In the next room which he has made his office. It appears that fresh fires have broken out along a smaller river which is called the Yaouza, in the vicinity of a mansion of the name of Balachov where the King of Naples has established his headquarters.'

Marianne was on her feet at once and running to the windows, but these did not look in the right direction and she saw nothing beyond a slight haze of smoke to the east.

'I told him there would be more,' she said tensely. 'Perhaps this new outbreak will make him decide to pull out.'

'I hardly think so,' Constant observed. 'Withdraw is not a word known to His Majesty. Any more than the word retreat. He does not know the meaning of it. And that in spite of any danger. See,' he added, showing her a fat, green portfolio which he had just extracted from a travelling trunk, 'look at this folder. Do you see the laurel crown that is stamped on it in gold leaf?'

Marianne nodded. Constant sighed and his finger traced, almost tenderly, the design stamped on the leather.

'That crown is the same as the one he placed on his own head in Notre Dame on the day of his coronation. Look at the design of the leaves. They are pointed like the arrows of our old archers and, like them, go straight for their goal.'

'But they may be destroyed. What will become of your laurels in the midst of the fire, my poor Constant?'

'A halo, your Highness, and shining all the brighter in time of trouble. A flaming crown, as you might say.'

He broke off as the Emperor's quick footsteps sounded outside and withdrew, with a deep bow, to the far end of the room, just as Napoleon came in. His face was clouded now and his frowning brows were drawn down like a bar above his steely-grey eyes.

Thinking that she must be in the way, Marianne sketched a curtsy.

'With your permission, your Majesty—'

He glared at her frostily.

'Save your curtsy, Princess. There is no question of your leaving. I wish you to stay. You have a recent wound, let me remind you, and I've no intention of letting you go running off to be a prey to all the hazards of war.'

'But Sire – I can't!'

'Why not? Because of your – forebodings? Are you afraid?'

She shrugged her shoulders faintly, more from weariness than disrespect.

'Your Majesty must know that I am not. But I left my young coachman outside and there are old friends waiting for me at the Rostopchin Palace who may be anxious—'

'Then they need not be. You are in no danger with me, so far as I know. As to the Rostopchin Palace, Trévise's grenadiers are billeted there, so your friends are not without protection. Never mind. I won't have you worrying, or making some foolhardy attempt to escape. Who brought you here?'

'Major Trobriant.'

'Another old friend,' the Emperor commented sardonically. 'There seems to be no end of them. Well, I will have him sent for to go and pick up your Jolival and the – Irishman, I think you said he was? They should be brought here. There's room in this place to lodge an army, thank God! Constant will see to you and tonight we will sup together. That is not an invitation, Madame,' he added, seeing Marianne about to beg him to excuse her. 'It is an order.'

There was nothing for it but to obey. Marianne swept a low curtsy and then followed the valet who, with the confidence of a man long used to finding his way about the most extensive palaces, led her by way of two corridors and a small staircase to a comfortable room with windows almost directly above the Emperor's, only rather more dusty.

'We'll see what we can do by way of chambermaids tomorrow,' he told her with a reassuring smile. 'For tonight, if your Highness would kindly make allowances…'

Left to herself, Marianne did her best to calm her agitated spirits and to shake off the misery that oppressed her. She felt lost and abandoned, in spite of the undoubted concern Napoleon had shown for her, and that at a time when he must have had other things to do than trouble himself with a woman's private emotions. What was it he had said? That perhaps he still loved her? No, that must be impossible. He had said it only to comfort her. The one he loved was his little blonde Austrian. Besides, what did it matter now? What was more serious, and more disturbing also, was that bold, categorical declaration of his. With what remorseless logic he had demonstrated that she was not a woman dedicated to a single love, that she might be susceptible to the attractions of other men besides Jason. How could he fail to see that that was false, that she loved him, had never loved anyone else but him, not even after Corfu when—

She clasped her hands together tightly and a shiver ran down her spine. Corfu! Why had that name come to her mind just then? Was it because, unconsciously, something in her mind was trying to prove the Emperor right? Corfu – the cave – and the fisherman, that mysterious lover whom she had never seen but in whose arms she had experienced total fulfilment, an intoxication such as no other man had ever given her, not even Jason. That night she had behaved like a wanton, and yet she had not regretted it, not once. Far from it. The memory of that invisible lover, whom she privately thought of as Zeus, remained to charm and trouble her.

'I must be mad!' she exclaimed wildly, clutching her head in her hands as though she would tear out such sacrilegious thoughts. But that she could not do. Everything Napoleon had said went on going round and round in her head, driving agonizing furrows through her brain and raising a thousand questions which she knew she could not answer, yet which resolved themselves at last into one single question: could she really know herself so little?

Confronted with the most difficult problem she had ever had to face, Marianne lost all consciousness of time. Hours must have passed while she sat deep in thought, for the sun was long past its zenith when there was a tap at the door and Constant reappeared. Finding her still seated bolt upright on a low, straight-backed chair, he exclaimed: 'There, I don't believe your Highness has rested at all, and you looked so tired…'

Marianne tried to smile at him and, failing, drew an ice-cold hand across her brow.

'Yes, I am tired. What time is it?'

'Gone six o'clock, Madame. And the Emperor is asking for you.'

'Good God! And I've not even combed my hair—'

'That is of no account. His Majesty has something he wishes you to see – something very serious.'

Her heart missed a beat.

'Serious? My friends—'

'Have arrived – quite safely, never fear. But come quickly.'

This time he took her to a kind of antechamber where an extraordinary scene met her eyes. A number of men were grouped about a stretcher on which lay a figure draped in red. The Emperor was standing beside the stretcher and next to him was a distinguished-looking man whom Marianne had never seen before. Reclining on a bench a little way off, enveloped in a dressing-gown several sizes too big for him, was Jolival, a pale-faced Gracchus at his side.

Marianne felt a wave of relief at the sight of them.

'Thank God, you are here—' she was beginning, when Napoleon beckoned her to him.