'But he is not properly married! The real marriage service is to take place in Paris in several days' time. Tonight, the Emperor should have —'

'— slept at the Chancellory, I know. He is merely making sure of his bargain. And there is nothing for you to upset yourself about. Lord, my dear, you've only to look at yourself in your mirror, even now, when you look more like a sodden spaniel than a celebrated cantatrice, and then cast an eye at that poor little dumpling who is to give us an heir to the throne. Nearly every man in Paris is at your feet! Yes, even that Austrian fellow is hanging about downstairs for news of you! You let the Emperor get on with his job. If you'll permit me to say so, you won't find him a worse lover because he's a husband.'

Marianne did not answer. What was the use? No man could ever understand what she felt at that moment. She was not such a fool, nor Fortunée Hamelin sufficiently discreet, that she could believe herself the first woman who had tried to hold the master of Europe. Napoleon had adored his first wife and betrayed her time after time. Even when he was deeply in love, this craving for change, this irresistible urge to polygamy, was part of the very essence of the man. And yet, however much she reasoned with herself, Marianne could not ease the dull pain in her heart. Did the physical shape of the woman he held in his arms matter so little to him? If that were so, why had he chosen her, Marianne? How deeply had she really stirred him? What place did she hold between his memories of Josephine and those of the golden haired Marie Walewska with whom he was said to have been so wildly in love in Warsaw?

Thinking that she was falling asleep, Corvisart softly drew the curtains round the bed and departed, accompanied by Arcadius. He had given her a cordial to drink and prescribed mustard plasters, rest and warmth. Before the door closed, Marianne heard him say in a low voice: The crisis is past and I think the chill will lead to no ill effects. It will keep her quiet at least.'

Marianne chuckled underneath her blankets. Quiet! When she could feel fresh forces bubbling up inside her, strengthened, perhaps, by her fever? She was not the woman to waste time lamenting her fate. She was a born fighter and now on this, another woman's wedding night, she suddenly found a new sense of purpose in her own life. Dislike was the first motive, a dislike so strong that it almost amounted to hatred for this Austrian – this great, indolent pink and white doll. There followed, naturally, the urge to cross swords with her, and measure her power over Napoleon's mind, heart and senses.

Why not deal her fickle lover tit for tat? Why not use against him the oldest weapon of all those with which the Devil has stocked the feminine arsenal: the self-same jealousy which had been tormenting Marianne herself for the past week? Already, she was famous. All Paris knew her name, her voice, her face. She had every means at her disposal to get herself talked about, from Fouché down to the news-sheets and Fortunée's witty gossip. How would the Emperor react to hear her name persistently coupled with that of some other man? It might be interesting to see.

'The whole of the Imperial Guard is in love with you,' Fortunée had said. It would be silly not to use their infatuation to penetrate a little further into the mysteries of Napoleon's heart. Of course, the experiment must be only in appearance, not in fact.

When Arcadius, on tiptoe, crept back into the room to see that all was well, she fixed him suddenly with her bright green eyes.

'That Austrian – the prince – is he still downstairs ?'

'Er – yes. It was he who insisted on my coming up to see that you needed nothing. At this very moment he is earnestly questioning the doctor about your condition. Why do you ask?'

'Because he was very kind and I did not thank him as I should. Will you do that for me tonight, Arcadius, and tell him that I shall be happy to see him tomorrow?'

Clearly, this request came as a surprise to Jolival. He stared.

'I will do that certainly, but —'

Before he could finish, Marianne had wriggled down into the bedclothes and, turning on her side, gave a very obvious yawn.

'Good night, dear friend. Go and get some rest. You must need it. It is very late.'

The church dock not far away was striking midnight and Marianne's sleepiness was not altogether feigned. The fever was making her drowsy. Tomorrow she would see the Austrian and be very nice to him. He might even offer her a seat in his own carriage for the journey back to Paris, and once back in the city she would feel better placed to win her battle with the two men in her life: the fight for freedom from Francis Cranmere and the fight for love with Napoleon.

Strong in this resolution, Marianne closed her eyes and sank into a restless sleep, broken by confused dreams. Strangely enough, neither the Emperor nor Francis Cranmere entered into those dreams. Marianne was struggling for breath in the green depths of some infernal jungle, enmeshed in silvery tentacles of weird vegetation, in flowering lianas that opened gaping mouths: she tried to cry out but no sound came from her lips. The more desperately she fought, the more terrifying became the feeling of suffocation. The green jungle rose and filled her mouth and covered her, and instantly it had changed into a raging sea with mountainous waves looming above her head. Marianne felt her strength failing, she was drowning. Then suddenly a hand appeared, groping down, down through the greenish depths, growing larger and larger until it held her in a warm grip and drew her back abruptly into the light. The figure of a man was there, etched against an angry sky, and Marianne knew quite suddenly that it was Jason Beaufort. He was looking at her with an expression of mingled sorrow and anger.

'Why are you so bent on destroying yourself?' he said. 'Why… why… why…?'

The voice dropped and faded away until it was no more than a whisper; the black cloak swirled about the retreating figure which suddenly became a bird and flew away into a livid purple sky.

With a scream and a sob, Marianne awoke. The fire had gone out and the room was dark except for the faint glow of a night light. Outside, all was still, the only sound the steady rattle of torrential rain upon the window-panes. Marianne shivered. She was bathed in sweat but her fever seemed to have abated.

Sleep in that sopping bed being out of the question, she got up and stripped off the sodden sheets and the nightgown that clung damply to her body. Then, wrapping herself in the blankets, she lay down on the bare mattress and pulled the big red eiderdown over her. Not once had she turned to look at the white shape of the palace opposite. Her strange dream still had her in its spell and her mind reached back to it almost with regret. She had not thought of the American for a long time but now it came to her suddenly that her present trials would have been easier to bear if he had been there. In spite of all that had occurred to drive them apart, she had grown to value the feeling of quiet strength that clung to him, the love of adventure and excitement, even the cool, un-romantic practicality which had so repelled her at first. With a wry smile, she thought that if there was one man with whom she might actually have enjoyed making Napoleon jealous, that man was Jason. But would she ever see him again? Who could tell where on the high seas his fine new ship might be sailing at that moment? A ship whose name she did not even know.

Better to try and put him out of her mind. Besides, the Austrian Prince would serve her purpose just as well, or any one of her many admirers.

Sighing, Marianne fell asleep again, to dream this time of a tall ship flying under full sail over a grey sea. And the figure carved at the prow bore the hawk-like features of Jason Beaufort.

CHAPTER THREE

Imperial Wedding

Marianne returned home the following evening in the carriage of Prince Clary und Aldringen, having left Arcadius de Jolival to see to the horses. She was not yet fully recovered from the high fever brought on by her long ride in the rain but she was possessed by a frantic haste to leave Compiègne behind her. The mere sight of the palace was so intolerable to her that she would have faced another long ride in the wet if necessary to escape from a town which had been buzzing since daybreak with speculation about Napoleon's amazing disregard of protocol.

She was so distraught that Arcadius set out immediately after breakfast to find her a carriage. He had no need to go farther than the inn yard. The Emperor had kept Leopold Clary at his side until the arrival of his new bride, but now the Prince was bound with all speed for Paris, carrying despatches from his sovereign to the Austrian ambassador, Prince von Schwartzenberg. Hearing that the beautiful songstress who had aroused his admiration on the previous evening was in search of a vehicle to carry her to Paris, the young Austrian's delight knew no bounds.

'Say to Madame Maria Stella that my carriage and myself are hers to command.'

An hour later, Marianne drove out of Compiègne in the young diplomat's company while Jolival directed his steps somewhat gloomily towards the stables. The fact was that Marianne's faithful mentor was more than a little perplexed. There was nothing inherently suspicious in this sudden friendliness towards a young man who, only a few hours earlier, had been a total stranger to her, and yet it was so unlike Marianne's usual behaviour that Arcadius could not help wondering if there were more behind it than met the eye.