***

Marianne had never thought that it could take so long to travel the distance from the rue de Lille to the rue de la Tour d'Auvergne. The streets were crowded and the carriage moved forward at walking pace through a city illuminated by fairy lights and the coloured sparks of towering firework displays.

'We should have done better to go on foot,' Jolival remarked. 'It would have been quicker.'

'It is much too far,' Marianne retorted. 'It would be morning by the time we got there.'

'I am not sure it won't be, as it is.'

Yet even they yielded at last to the beauty of Paris that night. The pont de la Concorde was a flaming avenue, its eighty columns garlanded with coloured baubles and surmounted by shining crowns of stars, linked by more lights. All the trees in the Champs Elysées were decked with multicoloured lights and strings of lights bordered every alley. The noble buildings were illuminated and the streets were bright as day. It was thanks to this that as they crossed the place de la Concorde Gracchus was able to avoid running down a few drunkards who had been rather too freely patronizing the fountains running with wine. Things were a little quieter in the rue Saint-Honoré but they were held up for some time in the vicinity of the Conseil d'État where the wedding banquet was in progress.

The Emperor and his bride actually appeared on the balcony, accompanied by the Austrian chancellor, Prince Metternich. Amid scenes of wild enthusiasm, the Prince raised his glass and cried:

'I drink to the King of Rome!'

'The King of Rome?' Marianne said petulantly. 'Who is that?'

Arcadius laughed. 'Have you never heard of the Act of the seventeenth of February last? That is the title which the Emperor's son will bear. You must confess that for a minister of the erstwhile Holy Roman Empire, Metternich displays a grandeur of ideas.'

'He displays a total want of tact! A strange way of reminding that poor little goose that she has been married only for the children she may be expected to bear. See if we can get on a little faster, do. We shall never get there!'

Jolival refrained from comment, guessing that this fresh view of the newly-wedded pair had done nothing to calm Marianne's excited nerves. Gravely, he urged the youthful coachman to 'spring the horses', to which Gracchus replied, with equal gravity, that short of driving over the heads of the crowd this was impossible, but that the stream of traffic was beginning to move again. They reached the boulevards where a new form of distraction intervened. Heralds in gilded livery were throwing handfuls of commemorative coins among the crowd, so that it was impossible to shift the mob that surged about their horses, trying to catch hold of the medals. Marianne's carriage was trapped in the centre of a human tide.

'We shall never get through,' Marianne exclaimed, finally losing patience. 'And we must be almost there. I would rather go on foot.'

'In a satin gown, through that mob? You will be torn to pieces.'

But as she spoke, Marianne had flung open the door and, whipping the pink and gold train of her satin dress over one arm, leaped down among the crowd. She slipped away like a snake, without heeding the frantic cries of Gracchus from his box.

'Mademoiselle Marianne! Come back! Don't do it!'

Jolival had no alternative but to leap out after her, but a handful of medals cast at random by one of the young heralds bounced off the brim of his hat and instantly he found himself buried by dozens of loyal subjects of the Emperor, all avid for medals. As he disappeared from view, Gracchus sprang down and rushed to his assistance, brandishing his whip and shouting.

'Hold on, Monsieur le Vicomte! I am coming!'

Marianne, meanwhile, had succeeded in reaching the entrance to the rue Cerutti without any other damage than the ruin of her coiffure and the loss of her long scarf of quilted satin. However, the evening was exceptionally mild for the time of year, so she ignored this and began to run as fast as the uneven cobbles and the filth in the street allowed to one whose feet were shod in dainty pink satin slippers. The crowd here was much thinner than on the boulevard but even so there were plenty of people walking up and down. However, no one paid much attention to the young woman in her low-cut evening gown. Groups passed by with linked arms, singing for the most part bawdy songs at the tops of their voices, all, directly or indirectly, urging the Emperor to greater prowess in his matrimonial exertions. A few prostitutes in daring gowns with outrageously painted faces roamed from group to group in search of custom and Marianne hurried past, hoping not to be mistaken for one of them.

Once past the Hôtel de l'Empire, she came to a darker patch by the house of the banker Martin Doyen, when suddenly a garden door opened and Marianne ran straight into a man just coming out. He grunted with pain.

'You bloody fool!' he said, pushing her back roughly. 'Can't you look where you are going?'

Then, almost at once, he saw who his assailant was and chuckled.

'My apologies. I did not see you were a woman. But you hurt me.'

'Do you think I enjoyed it?' Marianne retorted. 'I am in a hurry.'

Just then another group of revellers passed by, armed with a lantern. The light fell on Marianne and on the unknown man.

'By God!' the man said, 'you're a beauty! Perhaps this is my lucky day, after all. Come here, my sweeting, you are just what I've been looking for.'

Dazed by his sudden change of tone, Marianne saw that the stranger, who wore a black coat flung hastily over an ill-fastened white shirt, had a military air, that he was tall and lithe with an arrogant, slightly plebeian cast of features, framed by thick, dark hair, so curly as to be almost frizzled. Too late, she realized that the sight of her low-cut bodice and the black curls round her brow had made him take her for a woman of the streets. His hand drew her irresistibly through the door from which he had emerged while with the other he slammed it fast behind them, thrusting her back against the wooden panels, his body close to hers. He was kissing her ardently, while his hands were restlessly exploring the fastenings of her dress.

Angry and half-stifled Marianne reacted instantly, biting the lips that forced themselves on hers and pushing desperately at her assailant. She struck out as hard as she could with what little strength she had left and found to her surprise that the man stepped back with another gasp of pain.

'You little bitch! That hurt —'

'Good,' Marianne said grimly. 'You brute!'

With all her might, she delivered a ringing slap to her attacker's cheek. He staggered under the blow, allowing Marianne, who was feeling for the latch with her other hand, to wrench the door open and tumble out into the street. As luck would have it, a band of students and their girls from the boulevard were passing, filling the street, and tossing about the medals they had won. Slipping among the noisy throng, she managed, at the cost of a few knocks and kisses, to find herself at last outside the doors of Notre-Dame de Lorette, with her attacker nowhere in sight. From there, she was able to make her way painfully up the steep hill, arriving, somewhat out of breath, at Fortunée's house.

All the windows were ablaze with light. Crystal chandeliers shone through the windows between the long, golden-yellow curtains. The sound of voices and laughter wafted out into the street against a soothing background of violins. Casting her eye over the waiting carriages to see if hers was among them, Marianne, with a sigh of relief, hurried up the steps to where Madame Hamelin's enormous Negro major-domo, Jonas, stood impressively on the steps, dressed in his handsome suit of purple and silver.

'Jonas, take me to madame's room and tell her I am here. I cannot appear in public like this.'

The elegant pink dress was torn and crumpled and stained in several places. Marianne's hair was coming down and she looked, indeed, very much what the unknown gallant had taken her to be. The big Negro rolled his eyes at her.

'Lordy, Mademoiselle Marianne. You are surely in some state!' he exclaimed. Whatever happen to you?'

Marianne laughed lightly. 'Oh, nothing very much. I came here on foot, that is all. Take me upstairs, quickly. I should die of shame if anyone were to see me.'

'Yes, mademoiselle. Come this way, quick.'

Jonas led her through a doorway and up a set of back stairs to his mistress's room where he left her to go in search of Fortunée. With a sigh of relief, Marianne sank down on to a soft stool, cushioned in apple green silk, that stood before a tall mahogany pier glass inlaid with bronze. The image reflected back at her from the mirror was pitiable indeed. Her dress was ruined, her hair in a tangled mass of unruly dark curls, and the rouge which she had used on her lips smeared all over her face by the stranger's greedy kisses.

Angrily rubbing her cheeks with a handkerchief which she found lying on the floor, Marianne scolded herself for a fool. A fool to have jumped out into the crowd in her passion for haste, and still more a fool for listening to Arcadius in the first place. It would have been far better to have gone to bed and waited until the morning to visit Fortunée, rather than embarking on this crazy journey across a city full of revellers. How could she hope to find thirty thousand livres tonight of all nights! The only result was that she was tired to death, her head ached and she looked a fright.

Madame Hamelin came hurrying in to find her friend on the verge of tears, scowling at herself in the mirror. Fortunée promptly burst out laughing.