She had a sudden recollection of Princess Schwarzenburg, casting herself into the flames in search of her child. She had gone into the fire as though into a shrine, unhesitating, unflinching, with a blind certainty, the certainty of finding there the being whom she sought. And the bitter, fearful gateway to death had been transformed for her into a triumphal arch, a way of sacrifice freely consented to, an entry into eternal peace. All that was needed was a little, so very little courage!

With eyes wide open, Marianne left the shelter of the bushes and walked towards the fire. She did not tremble. Grief is a powerful opiate against fear and her anguish was stronger than the Indian hemp on which Hindu widows were gorged by their priests to make them throw themselves unresisting on their husbands' pyres. She wanted to escape from pain but wished no one to suffer for her death. An accident… a simple accident… And like the poor princess a little while before, Marianne began to run towards the blaze. She tripped over a stone that lay in her path, but the sharp Stab of pain was not enough to break the spell that held her. She picked herself up and ran on. She seemed to hear her own name called above the roaring in her ears but even that could not stop her. Whoever was calling her, it could only be to bring her back to the monotonous round of a life she no longer had any use for, to a long trance, a death-in-life, rotting gently in solitude. The death she had chosen for herself was cruel but swift and led to a longer peace, one free of memories and regrets.

The heat was so great that she halted at the edge of the inferno and recoiled involuntarily, shielding her face from the hot breath of the flames. She was ashamed of herself at once and, murmuring the first words of a prayer, launched herself forward. Flames caught at the torn rags of her dress and a long tongue of fire licked up her body, so that she screamed with the pain of it. But just as she was about to fall into the white-hot abyss, a black shape descended on her, enveloping her in its dense folds, and she felt herself rolled violently on the ground. At the last moment, someone had come between her and her death, condemning her to live.

Conscious of the weight of a body, she struggled wildly in an effort to escape the paralysing grip which had successfully smothered the flames, trying in her fury to bite the hand which held her. The man, whoever he was, released her, got to his knees and slapped her face, deliberately, twice. Her eyes could make out only a black figure silhouetted against the ruddy glow of the fire, but she hurled herself at it blindly, clawing and scratching in a mad desire to fight back. The man grasped her wrists and held her off. At the same time, a voice said icily:

'Keep still or I will do it again. My God, are you mad! Another instant and you would have been incinerated! You damned little fool! Is there no room in that brainless skull of yours for anything but stupid, selfish vanity?'

Marianne collapsed abruptly, like a taut bowstring released suddenly by a weary archer, and listened to the torrent of abuse which Jason vented on her with as much rapture as if it had been heavenly music. She did not attempt to ask herself by what miracle he was there, by what unspeakable marvel he had managed to snatch her from the flames when she had seen him quit the scene so short a time before. It was enough for her that he was there. His anger was nothing, it proved only that somewhere in his heart he still cared a little, and only to have him kneel there beside her, Marianne would gladly have submitted to being abused the whole night long. Even the crushing pain he was inflicting on her wrists was happiness.

She gave a blissful sigh and, regardless of her burns, sank back on to the grass and smiled with all her heart at Jason's dark form.

'Jason!' she murmured. 'You are here… you have come back…'

Abruptly, he released her wrists and interrupted his tirade to stare with a kind of dazed bewilderment at the graceful figure stretched before him, clad in the tattered shreds of a gold dress through which the flesh showed bruised and torn and streaked with blood. Mechanically, he dragged his sleeve across his sweating brow, pushing back the damp hair, trying to smooth away the mixture of terror and anger which had taken hold of him when he saw that the woman racing madly towards the fire was Marianne. And now she was gazing at him as though at a vision, her great, green eyes sparkling with tears, smiling at him for all the world as if her body were not covered in burns, as if she could not feel them… But he too was unaware of the burns he had sustained in smothering the flames with his own body, conscious only that he had come in time. He felt more tired than he had ever felt in all his life. It was as if the last few minutes had drained him of every particle of strength.

Marianne herself was blissfully happy. For her, the sound and fury all about them no longer existed. Nothing remained but the dark figure, silently regarding her, and breathing heavily because of the pounding of his heart against his ribs. She wanted to touch him, to find in his strength the refuge she had so long sought and she held out her arms to draw him to her. But even as she did so, the movement ended in a gasp of pain, a terrible, stabbing pain which made her feel as if she were being torn apart.

Jason was on his feet in a moment, staring, shocked, as Marianne lay writhing in the grass at his feet:

'What is it? Are you hurt?'

'No – I don't know… the pain… aah!'

He knelt beside her again, bending over her, trying to raise her head which lolled alarmingly, but almost at once a long moan escaped from her blanched lips and her body arched beneath a fresh onslaught of pain. When it had passed, Marianne's face was ashen and she was gasping like a hurt animal. She cast a terrified look at Jason, who was very nearly as white as she. Then she felt something warm and wet between her legs and knew, in a flash, what was happening.

'My – my baby,' she whispered. 'I am losing my baby.'

'What's that? You are – pregnant?'

She nodded, saving her strength for the fresh wave of pain that was building up inside her.

'Of course. You are married. But where is your husband, where is this prince of yours?'

How could he mock her so cruelly when he could see that she was in such pain? She uttered a long moan and clung to his arm with all her strength for support. Then she managed to gasp: 'I don't know. Not here. In Italy!… Help me, for pity's sake!… The child… the Emperor… I…'

The rest was lost in a scream. Leaping to his feet, Jason swore comprehensively and was off like an arrow, making for the group of people standing by a little temple watching as if in a nightmare as the remains of the ballroom and the passage leading into it burned themselves out. It was possible to see beyond them now, to the blackened walls of the embassy, with their shattered windows and the groups of servants and troops still working to extinguish the fires in several of the rooms. Jason saw the Emperor and ran towards him. Marianne had mentioned the Emperor in the same breath as the child.

A few minutes later, Marianne surfaced from a fresh wave of suffering to see two faces bending over her, Jason's and the Emperor's. She heard the Emperor speaking in a strained voice:

'She is having a miscarriage. Hurry. Bring a stretcher. She must be got away from here. And fetch Corvisart – he must be here somewhere, seeing to the injured. You there! Over here!'

Marianne heard no more, nor did she see to whom the last words were addressed. She was aware only that Jason was leaving her and struggled up to call him back. Napoleon's hand forced her gently back again. Then, stripping off his jacket, he rolled it up and placed it beneath her head:

'Hush, carissima mia … do not try to move. You will be all right… do not be afraid. I am with you…'

He groped for her damp fingers and squeezed them gently. She looked up at him gratefully. So he still loved her a little, after all. She was not altogether alone in the world with her broken heart and her pain-racked body. It was good to feel that warm, strong hand holding hers reassuringly. Marianne forgot that she had wanted to die and clung to it, as a frightened child dings to its father. Yet would that handsome officer in the gilded frame have soothed his daughter in her wretchedness with such patient tenderness?

Sunk in another tide of pain, she was yet conscious of being lifted carefully and carried with all possible speed through the ravaged gardens where ashes, still warm, drifted on the night wind. In the intervals of pain she looked eagerly for Jason and not finding him whispered his name. The Emperor's hand tightened on hers. He bent over her:

'I sent him back to his wife. You do not need him now that I am here… He is only a friend…'

A friend… It was the word she would have used herself the day before, and meant it, yet now it tortured her. A friend… only a friend, not even that, perhaps, if this Pilar forbade it! A moment ago, she had believed he had come back to her. But no, it was all over. Jason had gone back to his wife and she had nothing left to hope for, except perhaps death which, a moment ago, had rejected her. She was still losing blood, not fast but enough, perhaps, to drain away her life…

With a little, quivering sigh, she gave herself up to pain.

CHAPTER TWO

Monsieur Carême's Chocolate

Baron Corvisart rolled down his shirtsleeves, fastened his pleated linen wristbands with care and inserted himself into the coat of blue superfine cloth which Fortunée Hamelin was holding ready for him. Then, after a cursory glance at the glass to assure himself that not a hair of his white head was out of place, he returned unhurriedly to the bed and stood for a moment in silent contemplation of the thin, pale face on the pillow, before transferring his gaze to Marianne's hands, like objects carved out of delicate ivory against the whiteness of the sheets.