'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?'