Behind the imperial pair and their suite, the mass of guests flowed together like the Red Sea after the passage of the Jews, inspired in part by the courteous wish to keep as close as possible to their sovereigns and, to a still greater extent, by a purely human anxiety not to miss any of the fun. Within seconds, Marianne was submerged in a sea of silks and laces and separated from her partner by a twittering, shrieking throng which bore her irresistibly outside. Jason had vanished amid the swell and not all her efforts could give her a glimpse of him. Talleyrand, she had forgotten altogether. Doubtless he was somewhere in the tide of people.

Her mind was in a strange, feverish state, raging impatiently against all these people who had come between them just as she was on the point of running to Jason. It did not occur to her until much later to be surprised at the indifference with which she had regarded the Emperor's passing when, not so long before, he had been the centre of all her thoughts. Even Marie-Louise, gazing complacently around the assembled company with her pale eyes brimming with gratified vanity, had failed to irritate as she usually did. Indeed, Marianne had scarcely seen the newly wedded pair, so full was her heart of the new, wholly unexpected and revitalizing joy of seeing Jason once again: Jason, for whom she had waited for so many days in vain! She was not even angry at the thought that he was here, that he must have had her letter and yet had not come to her. Without being aware of it she was already seeking, and finding, all sorts of excuses for him. She had always known, after all, that Jason Beaufort was not like other people.

She did not catch sight of him again until the first rocket sent a gigantic spray of rose-coloured sparks rushing across the dark sky to fall back softly towards the terraces where the women's jewels rivalled the splendour of the milky way in a shower of light that silhouetted every figure sharply against the massed banks of flowers and shrubs. He was standing with some other people, a little apart, by the balustrade of one of the terraces leading to a grotto illuminated within by a soft, pearly light. He was standing with folded arms, watching the dazzling display as calmly as if he had been watching the courses of the stars from the deck of his own ship. Deftly catching up the long train of her dress over one gloved wrist, Marianne threaded her way between the knots of people, intent on joining him.

It was not easy. The terrace between Marianne and Jason was packed tight with guests, all pressing inward around the carpeted area where chairs had been placed for Napoleon and Marie-Louise. Marianne had to push her way past a number of persons who stood gazing upwards, wholly absorbed in what was, beyond a doubt, a very remarkable spectacle. But she was, almost without realizing it, in the condition of a swimmer who, at the end of her strength, had felt her foot touch on the shifting, sandy bottom. She wanted to reach Jason and to reach him now. She had waited too long already.

At last she climbed the three steps leading up to the grotto and as she did so the sky blazed into golden fire from innumerable rockets, surrounding her with such a halo of bright light that the eyes of the occupants of the little terrace were drawn instinctively to the lovely creature who, in her gown and her fabulous jewels, seemed the very spirit of the ball incarnate.

Jason Beaufort, standing a little apart from the group, leaning against an outsized urn filled with flowers, saw her too. A world of feelings flashed for an instant across his set face: surprise, disbelief, admiration, happiness – but only for an instant. Then he was moving forward very coolly to bow before her:

'How do you do? I confess that, coming to Paris, I had hoped to have the pleasure of seeing you, but I did not think to find you here. Allow me to compliment you – you are exquisite tonight.'

'But I—'

Thrown off her balance, Marianne stared at him uncomprehendingly. His tone, so coldly formal, almost ceremonious – when she had come to meet him with hands outstretched, a heart overflowing with gladness, within an ace of casting herself into his arms? What could have happened to turn Jason – her friend and the only man, apart from Jolival, whom she trusted in this vile world – into this polite, disinterested stranger? What, not even a smile? Nothing but worn-out conventionalities?

Stiffened by pride, she managed with a painful effort to dominate her disappointment and accept the slap which fate had dealt her. Up went her head, while her fan fluttered quickly, hiding the trembling of her fingers as she schooled her features to a smile and her voice to the necessary social lightness.

'I thank you,' she said sweetly. 'For myself, your presence took me wholly by surprise.' She laid the faintest of stresses on the 'your'. 'Have you been in Paris long?'

'Two days.'

'Indeed…'

The words were nothing, the merest commonplace such as might have been exchanged by virtual strangers. All of a sudden Marianne found herself wanting to cry. She could not understand it. What had happened to her friend? Could this cold, handsome stranger be the same man who, in the summerhouse at the Hôtel Matignon, had begged her to go with him to America, who had snatched her from the quarries of Chaillot, who had sworn never to forget her and charged Gracchus to watch over her every second of her life?

Even as she sought in vain for something to say that would not be either stupid or inept, she was aware of his eyes scrutinizing every detail of her appearance and she resented it, as if he were doing her an injustice. He had only just reached Paris. He could not have heard yet of her marriage and must be thinking that Napoleon maintained his mistress in extravagant style. His bright eyes went from the emeralds to the gold dress, then back to the emeralds, merciless and accusing.

The silence grew uncomfortable, despite the noise of the fireworks. Marianne dared not raise her eyes to Jason's now, for fear he should see the tears in them. She was about to move away, telling herself wretchedly that there was nothing more to be said between them, when his voice stopped her:

'If you will allow me, Madame—'

Hope welled up, instinctively, released by the half-dozen words. 'Yes?'

'I should like to present my wife…'

'Your…' Marianne's voice failed her. She felt suddenly weak, lost and helpless. Her fan shut with a click and her fingers tightened on it so viciously that several of the slender ivory sticks snapped suddenly, but Jason did not appear to notice her confusion. He held out his hand and drew towards him a woman of whose presence Marianne, absorbed in her own feelings, had not been aware until that moment. Now she stared with all the horror of one seeing a ghost at the slightly-built young woman, dressed in a robe of black lace over an underdress of silver, who stepped out of the shadows behind the American. She wore her dark hair in the Spanish fashion, with a high comb covered by a mantilla of the same lace as her gown, in which was a white rose, matching those which bloomed at her breast. Below the mantilla, Marianne saw a grave young face with finely moulded features and lips which, for all their delicacy, showed a bitter twist surprising in one so young. Her eyes were large, dark and melancholy, surmounted by slim, arched brows pencilled on pale skin. The general impression was of extreme physical fragility but the face revealed both pride and obstinacy.

Whether she was pretty or not, this woman who had stepped from the shadows of a summer night to shatter her new-found happiness, Marianne could not for the life of her have said. There was no room for anything in her vision, her heart or her mind but one vast disappointment which, little by little, became an aching pain. It was like waking from a dream of joy and warmth and light to the greyness of a dull November morning and for an instant Marianne found herself wishing she could close her eyes and slip back into the dream. As though out of a fog, she heard Jason speaking to the stranger and was aware, even through her misery, that he was speaking Spanish:

'I want to make you known to a very old friend of mine. You permit?'

'Of course – if she is indeed your friend.'

The tone, lightly contemptuous and at the same time more than a little suspicious, made Marianne's hackles rise. A little surge of anger momentarily diverted her thoughts from her own grief and actually did her good by helping her to regain her self-command. She smiled dangerously and, in a voice no less disdainful, asked in the purest Castilian: 'Why should I not be, indeed?'

The beautiful brows rose slightly but the answer came perfectly gravely:

'It does not seem that the word friendship is treated here as seriously as I have been used to find it at home.'

'At home? You are Spanish, I think?'

With the instinct of all seafaring men for the approach of a squall, even a mild one, Jason possessed himself of his wife's hand and, tucking it securely within his arm, was quick to answer for her:

'Pilar is from Florida,' he said quietly. 'Her father, Don Agostino Hernandez de Quintana, owned great estates at Fernandina, near our frontier. It's a small town, maybe, but a vast country, less than half-civilized, and Pilar is seeing Europe for the first time.'

The girl looked up at him, her expression as gloomy as ever:

'And for the last, I hope! I have no wish to return, or indeed to remain here, for I dislike it heartily. Only Spain I wished to see, but it is impossible to go there, alas, with this terrible war! And now, querido mio, perhaps you will inform me of this lady's name?'