'How do you know this? He may not be at home all day—'

'Yes, but I have certain information that he is expecting an important visitor at about eight o'clock tomorrow evening. Consequently, he will be at home.'

Marianne studied Cranmere curiously:

'How is it you are so well informed? One would think Jason made no move without first informing you.'

'In my trade, my dear, it is often a matter of life or death to know as much as possible, about friends or foes. You are at perfect liberty to disbelieve me, after all, and act as you think best – but do not blame me if your actions lead to disaster.'

Marianne made a gesture of impatience. She wanted only one thing now: to get rid of him and then run to Jason without loss of time, go to him that instant and make sure he would not go to that senseless meeting. But her thoughts were written so clearly on her face that Cranmere had no difficulty in reading them. Putting up one hand carelessly to straighten a fold of his neckcloth, he said idly, as if it were a matter of no importance: 'It will not do you much good to go running out to Passy at this hour of night. You would have the devil of a job to get them to admit you. Señora whatshername – Pilar, isn't it? – guards her marital bliss as closely as the original Jason cherished his Golden Fleece. She is the only person you would be likely to see, whereas, tomorrow, I can promise you the lady will be at Mortefontaine, visiting that poor little bourgeoise from Marseille whom they have turned into the Queen of Spain. It appears that Queen Julie, as they call her, considers it her duty to surround herself with anything even remotely connected with Spain, although on the face of it it seems highly unlikely that she will ever set foot there. Her noble husband much prefers to leave her where she is. Where was I?'

'You were about to take your leave,' Marianne said tartly.

'Have patience. I am in the process of behaving with remarkable gallantry. That is worth the expenditure of a few moments' time. I was saying… ah, yes. I was saying that tomorrow the Señora will be away from home and the field, my dear Princess, wide open for you. Assuming that Beaufort is not altogether a fool, I imagine it will be up to you whether you return home before morning.'

Marianne's cheeks flamed but at the same time her heart missed a beat. The meaning behind Cranmere's last words was only too clear, but while she could not repress a thrill of pure joy at the image they conjured up, she was by no means pleased to hear the innuendo in his sardonic tone. That Francis Cranmere should presume to bestow his blessing on it seemed to her to besmirch her love.

'You think of everything,' she said cuttingly. 'One would think your whole object in life was to throw me into Mr Beaufort's arms.'

Cranmere rustled the notes in his pocket.

'Twenty-five thousand pounds is a goodly sum,' he remarked casually. Then, without warning, his attitude changed. He sprang at Marianne and, seizing her wrist in a painful grasp, began to speak in a low, angry voice:

'Hypocrite! Filthy little hypocrite! You haven't even the courage to confess your love! But it was enough to see your face, the way you were looking at him in the theatre tonight, to see that you were dying to fall into his arms! But that would be too mortifying, wouldn't it? Fancy admitting after that farcical episode at Selton, after all your fine airs of outraged virtue, that you had finally fallen in love with him! Tell me, how often have you regretted your silliness that night? How many nights have you lain alone in your bed thinking of it? Tell me? How many times?'

Wrenching her arm free of his grip, Marianne fled to the bed and seized hold of the gilded bell rope that hung beside it:

'Get out of here! You have your money, now go! At once, or I call the servants!'

The anger cleared like a mist from Francis's taut face. He took a deep breath and turned back to the window with a shrug:

'Never mind, I'm going. At any moment you will tell me it is none of my business and you are right, after all. But I cannot help thinking that – things might have been very different if you had been less foolish.'

'And you less vile! Listen to me, Francis. I regret nothing that is past and I have never done so.'

'Why not? Because Napoleon taught you how to make love and made you a princess?'

Ignoring this, Marianne shook her head. 'You did me a great service at Selton. You gave me a taste for liberty. Your only excuse, if any, is ignorance. You knew nothing about me. You thought that I was made of the same stuff as you and your friends and you were mistaken. As for Jason, I love him, and I am willing to cry it from the rooftops, and I have you to thank for that, too. If I had yielded to your horrible bargain, I should not love him now as I do. If there is any one thing I am sorry for, it is that I did not see at once what kind of man he was and go with him that first night as he asked me. But I am young enough, thank God, and love him well enough to wait for my happiness as long as need be. For I know, I know in my heart that one day he will be mine…'

'Well – I wish you no worse fate!'

Without another word, he stepped out on to the balcony, climbed over the balustrade and began to let himself down. Marianne reached the window in time to see his white hands cling for a moment to the wrought-iron balcony rails. Then there came the muffled thud of a falling body, followed almost at once by quick, light footsteps making for the wall of the neighbouring house. Half-unconsciously, Marianne followed him out on to the balcony and walked quickly up and down, striving to calm her agitated nerves and at the same time put some order into her confused thoughts.

Her first impulse was to ring for Gracchus to put the horses to and drive her to Passy that instant, but Francis's words had not been without their effect and in spite of all her knowledge of him she could not but grant their plausibility. Who could say how that Spanish woman would react to the sight of Marianne on her doorstep in the middle of the night? Would she even agree to warn her husband? Or would her dislike of Marianne provide her with all the reasons she needed to disbelieve every word of what she had to say? And even supposing that she, Marianne, were to attempt to attract Jason's attention by a scene, the result would only be to create a scandal that would do no one any good. Nor did the idea of sending Gracchus alone with a note make more appeal to her, knowing as she did that she would not rest until she knew for certain that Jason was safe. It might take all her tears and entreaties to make him renounce a meeting on which he might have pinned great hopes. Probably the best thing to do would be to wait until morning and then go to Beaufort.

Despairingly, Marianne brushed her forehead with a trembling hand and took two or three deep breaths in an attempt to still the frenzied beating of her heart. The night was still and warm. The distant heavens were bright with stars and from the garden came the sad, silvery note of the little fountain and a scent of roses and honeysuckle. It was a night made for those in love to be together and Marianne sighed at the strange, persistent twists of fate by which she, whom so many men desired, seemed doomed to everlasting loneliness. A wife without a husband, mistress without a lover, mother robbed prematurely of the child whose fragile form she had so often cradled in imagination. Surely this was a kind of injustice, a mockery on the part of fate? What were they doing now, the men whose influence had helped to shape her life? The one who had just left so swiftly, with that strange expression of weariness in his eyes, what was he doing now, in the house of that quiet, romantic Mrs Atkins whose whole life was spent in a long wait for the return of the child of the Temple, the little Louis XVII whom she was convinced that she had helped to escape from his prison? And the masked horseman of the Villa Sant'Anna whose own dreadful solitude seemed to seek an echo in that of his wife in name only, what was he doing now? As for what Napoleon might be doing, amid the splendours of Compiègne, in the company of his Austrian woman – apart, of course, from nursing his sweet-toothed bride through another of her frequent attacks of indigestion – Marianne could imagine it quite well, but the thought gave her no pain. The warmth and brilliance of the imperial sun had dazzled her for a time, but now the sun had set into an horizon of ordinary domestic bliss and had lost something of his fascination in the process.

Infinitely more heartbreaking was the thought of Jason, threatened with deadly danger yet closeted, even then, alone with Pilar in the beautiful house beside the Seine which Marianne had more than once admired. The big, terraced gardens must be especially lovely at this hour of a summer's night… but how could that stiff Pilar who hated France feel the potent spell of its old-world charm? She would most likely be happier shut up in some dim oratory, all alone, praying to her own proud and implacably just God!

Abruptly, Marianne turned her back on the night with its strong evocations of the past, and went crossly back into the room. One of the candles on the chimney-piece was smoking, on the point of going out, and she snuffed the whole lot, leaving the room with no other light than the soft, pink glow shed by the small lamps placed at the bedside. But the room, with its dim, mysterious light and the soft, inviting bed, had no longer any power to attract Marianne. She had just made up her mind to go to Passy at once, whatever might be the consequences. She knew that she would never rest until she had seen Jason, even if she had to rouse the whole district and trample over the body of the odious Pilar to do so. But first, she must get out of that dress…