'Marianne! Have you been in a fight? Was it the Austrian, perhaps? If so, she must be in a fine state, and you are heading for the Vincennes prison!'

'I've been fighting his majesty's worthy subjects,' Marianne retorted, 'and with some maniac who tried to rape me behind a garden door!'

'My dear, what fun!' Fortunée clapped her hands delightedly. 'Tell me all.'

Marianne glared at her friend. Fortunée was looking more than usually radiant tonight. Her dress of yellow muslin trimmed with gold embroidery set off the warm colour of her skin and her rather full lips to admiration. Her dark eyes were shining like coal-black stars beneath her long, sweeping lashes. Her whole being radiated warmth and happiness.

'There is nothing to laugh at,' Marianne said bitterly. 'Apart from my wedding day, this has been the worst day of my life! I – I am half-dead with worry and so dreadfully unhappy —'

Her voice broke and great tears rolled from her eyes. Fortunée stopped laughing instantly and put her arms around her friend, enveloping her in a powerful scent of roses.

'You are crying? And I was laughing at you! Oh, my poor pet, I am sorry. Quickly, tell me what has happened. But first, you must take off that rag and let me find you another dress.'

She was unfastening the ruined dress as she spoke when all at once she paused with a cry, pointing to a dark stain on the crumpled fabric.

'Blood! You are hurt?'

'Good heavens, no,' Marianne said in surprise. 'I don't know where it can have come from. Unless —'

Suddenly, she recalled the exclamations of pain which she had drawn from her attacker, and the disorder of his dress, with his coat flung over his half-open shirt. He could have been wounded.

'Unless what?'

'Nothing. It does not matter. Oh, Fortunée, you must help me or I am lost.'

In quick, broken sentences, but growing calmer as she talked, Marianne described her terrible day, Francis's threats and demands, the abduction of Adelaide and, finally, the impossibility of laying hands on thirty thousand livres in the next forty-eight hours, short of selling her jewels.

'I can lend you ten thousand,' Madame Hamelin said soothingly. 'As for the remainder…' She paused for a moment, regarding Marianne's reflection in the mirror through half-closed eyes. While Marianne had been talking, Fortunée had stripped off the rest of her friend's clothes and, fetching a sponge and a flask of Cologne from her dressing-room, had busied herself wiping away the dust of the streets and rubbing her friend down comfortingly.

'What of the remainder?' Marianne asked, when Fortunée still said nothing.

Madame Hamelin gave a slow smile and, picking up a huge swan's-down puff began gently powdering her friend's breast and shoulders.

'With a fine body like yours,' she said coolly, 'that should not be difficult to come by. I know a dozen men who would give that much for a single night with you.'

Marianne gasped. 'Fortunée!' She had recoiled instinctively and was scarlet to the roots of her hair. Her indignation had no effect on the Creole's smiling calm. She only laughed.

'I keep forgetting your obsession with the idea of a single love and your regrettable faithfulness to a man who, for the present, is doing all he can to get another woman with child. Little fool, when will you learn that your body is a wonderful instrument of pleasure and that it is a crime against nature to neglect it so tragically? It is senseless!'

'Senseless or not, I will not sell myself!' Marianne declared hotly. Fortunée shrugged her beautifully-rounded shoulders.

'The trouble with you aristocratic people is that you feel obliged to use grand words for the simplest things. Well, I will see what I can do for you.'

She went to the wardrobe and brought out a charming white silk dress adorned with huge appliquéd tropical flowers.

'Put this on, you chaste little guardian of the sacred flame of love, while I go and see whether I can sacrifice myself in your place.'

'What are you going to do?' Marianne inquired uneasily.

'Don't worry, I shan't sell myself to the highest bidder. I am merely going to ask my friend Ouvrard to be so obliging as to lend us the twenty thousand that we need. He is shockingly wealthy and I dare say he will deny me nothing. He is downstairs. Moreover, since he has not been in high favour with the Emperor, he will probably be delighted to serve one as close to his majesty as yourself. Sit down and rest. I will tell Jonas to bring you up some champagne.'

'You are a darling!' Marianne said, and meant it.

She kissed her hand to the disappearing cloud of yellow muslin, then turned her attention to the dress which Fortunée had bestowed on her. She slipped it on hastily, in case Jonas should come in and catch her unawares, then, finding a silver brush and ivory comb upon the dressing-table, she proceeded to untangle her dark hair. A sense of peace stole over her, divinely restful after the miseries of the preceding hours. Fortunée's morals might leave a good deal to be desired, but her whole personality breathed a vitality and a warm humanity that could cheer the chilliest soul. The beautiful Creole was one of those simple, uncomplicated people endowed by nature with the power of giving without asking for anything in return. She would give of her help, her time, her affection, money and sympathy all with the same generosity and saw not the slightest reason why she should not give as freely of something as natural as her body. She was not one of those women who use their virtue as an excuse for treating men with a coldness and cruelty that could drive them to despair. No one had ever killed themselves for Fortunée. She could not bear to see anyone suffer, especially when that suffering could be eased by a few hours of love. Moreover, she had the rare talent of being able, once love was past, to make faithful friends of her often inconstant lovers. Certainly, in the present instance, Marianne had no doubt that she would use all her charms to extract from her rich lover the huge sum of money needed by her friend.

Smiling inwardly at the thought of this friendship, Marianne was busy winding her newly-plaited hair in a crown about her head when she heard the door click shut behind her. Thinking it was Jonas bringing the promised champagne, she did not turn but went on with her task.

'I don't know who you are – ' a voice spoke gaspingly from the other side of the room – 'but for pity's sake – fetch Madame Hamelin.'

For an instant, Marianne sat rigidly, her arms frozen above her head, then she turned. It seemed to her that the voice was in some way familiar. A man was leaning back against the closed door. His face was very white and he seemed to be struggling against an overwhelming faintness. His eyes were closed and his mouth set in a grim line, his breath came in hoarse gasps, but still Marianne made no move to help him. She sat staring in amazement. The man was dressed in dark blue pantaloons and hessians, with a white shirt. A heavy, black coat was flung over his shoulders and his brown hair was very curly, while to her horror Marianne had no difficulty in recognizing his face. It belonged to her attacker of the rue Cerutti.


**

Marianne had been correct in her idea that the man was hurt. The explanation of the bloodstains on her dress was now clearly visible on the white shirt, just below the left shoulder, as the man slid to the floor, unconscious.

She watched, petrified, as he collapsed and would probably have sat there wondering still, without doing a thing to help him, if Jonas's voice had not sounded outside the door.

'It is Jonas, mademoiselle. The door is stuck, can you open it?'

The spell was broken. Marianne saw that the man had fallen in such a way as to obstruct the opening of the door.

'Just a moment, Jonas, I will do it.'

She seized the unknown man by the feet and tugged with all her strength to drag him into the middle of the room. He was heavy and it was all she could do to shift him enough to allow Jonas to enter.

'Leave the tray outside. I can't get it open any more,' she told him, pulling on the handle as she spoke. The butler eased himself through the narrow space.

'What is the trouble, Mademoiselle Marianne?' Then, seeing the obstacle. 'Monsieur le Baron! Lordy, he badly hurt!'

'Do you know this man?'

'Surely. He what you might call one of de family. It is de General Fournier-Sarlovèze. Has Madame Fortunée not spoken of him? He can't stay here. We better put him on de bed.'

While the big Negro picked up the wounded man as easily as if he had weighed nothing at all and laid him on the bed, Marianne gathered her scattered thoughts. General the Baron Fournier-Sarlovèze? Of course she had heard of him from Fortunée who had spoken of him with a soft, cooing intonation that spoke volumes to anyone acquainted with the Creole. This was the handsome Francois, one of her three accredited lovers, the other two being the no less attractive Casimir de Montrond, at present an exile in Anvers, and the much less seductive but vastly wealthier Ouvrard. But what else was it that Fortunée had said? Why had Marianne never yet met him in her friend's house? Ah yes, that was it: the man was impossible, 'the worst fellow in the whole army' but also the 'finest swordsman' in that same army. He divided his time between dashing feats of arms and interludes on half-pay brought about by his innumerable affairs of honour. This must be one of those times when he had been sent home until the Emperor was pleased to forget his latest indiscretion.