Gossec was beside himself at the princess's evident incomprehension. Marianne, highly amused, saw him turn gradually brick red with the force of his passion.

'Your serene highness!' he cried. 'It would be a crime unprecedented—'

But her serene highness clung firmly to her idea.

'No, no. You shall see, we will perform wonders! We might present a Spanish entertainment to amuse those poor infantes. They are so dreadfully bored. We'll discuss it later. Now, you must come and let me show you the wonderful flower pieces I have ordered for tonight. You will be enchanted—'

'Madame!' Gossec protested stiffly. 'I am a musician, not a florist.'

The princess gave him a bewitching smile and, slipping her arm affectionately into his, bore the old man irresistibly to the door.

'I know, I know! But you have such taste! Come with me, Charlotte, and you too, M. Fercoc. Put away the music, child, and then you may go up and prepare for this evening. I will arrange the matter of lessons with M. Gossec.'

The latter part of this short speech was clearly addressed to Marianne, bringing her down abruptly from the heights of music to her position as a mere dependant. It hurt, like a small but irritating scratch. The little girl, Charlotte, emerging from the shadows where she had been sitting quietly, made a move as though she would speak to her but instead, docile and obedient, she followed her mother in silence. The tutor's rather solemn figure wound up the procession. Marianne found herself alone in the big room, feeling a little dazed by all that had just happened. Was this fate's answer to her desperate questioning?

The servants had drawn the gold damask curtains. For all its great size, the room seemed close and intimate. The great gilded harp slumbering by a window, the richly glowing music stand, the gold of the piano, lay like precious jewels in a casket. The whole house had taken on a magical, unreal atmosphere. Still somewhat bewildered, Marianne began thinking of the man who had commanded and inspired all this. The princess was only a beautiful goose cap, kind and generous but empty headed. She liked splendour and pretty clothes but she was hardly capable of appreciating the grace of that translucent alabaster figure, the youthful form draped modestly by the sculptor's art in what seemed diaphanous draperies, or of displaying it to such perfection against just that background of dark velvet. Everywhere, the decorations had a kind of sober magnificence, revealing the presence of one guiding hand which Marianne was conscious of a sudden wish to know. Perhaps the owner of that hand would also like her voice and help her to put it to its proper use.

Drawing out this moment of quiet and solitude, Marianne did not hurry to gather up the music. Instead, she went slowly over to the piano and stroked its polished wood, softer than satin. At Selton Hall she had had her own pianoforte, not as beautiful as this one, but she had loved it and had much pleasure from it. An unexpected pain smote her heart suddenly. She saw herself again sitting at that piano, singing to Francis an Irish ballad which had been his favourite. She had learned it especially for him. How did it go?

Slipping on to the stool, Marianne let her fingers roam over the keys, seeking out the notes which her memory at first refused to give up. The ache in her heart became more than she could bear. She had loved Francis then, and had longed with her whole being to win his love. Memory claimed her. She closed her eyes and instantly Francis' face appeared on the screen of her closed lids with such terrifying clarity that Marianne found herself trembling. She had tried so hard to wipe out Francis from her memory as she had wiped him from her heart. She had hoped that his very features would have become strange to her. But no, she remembered too well even now not to be conscious of the pain.

She saw again the grey eyes with their eternal weariness, the handsome, disdainful mouth that could yet smile with such bewitching charm, the thick fair hair and perfect features – the picture was so clear that Marianne opened her eyes to make it go away but they were misted with tears and she seemed to see him still in the shimmering candlelight, she even thought she heard him laugh as though, having sent him to his death, he still returned defying her to drive him from her mind. Yet Marianne felt no remorse for having killed him. She would do it again if she had to because she could not bear the shame he had brought on her, but she had loved him as a child loves and her heart would not forget.

'You must not cry.' A cool, drawling voice spoke suddenly. 'No one here will hurt you.'

It came to Marianne then that the face she had half glimpsed in the light and taken for the ghost of Francis was quite real. She brushed the tears quickly from her eyes and was able to see him more clearly. He was a man with light-coloured hair which he wore rather long, making a frame for his face. He was very tall with a strong chin and a scornful curl to his lip which gave him a somewhat proud and insolent appearance. High cheek-bones, an impudent retrousse nose and strongly sensual mouth added to the enigmatic character of his face. His skin was very pale and so were the hard, sapphire eyes, seemingly half asleep beneath heavy lids. He was dressed in black which threw up the whiteness of his high cravat and had about him an extraordinary air of quiet power.

Marianne sprang to her feet so quickly that she almost knocked over the candelabra. The man came forward, leaning on the gold-knobbed cane he held. Marianne saw that he walked with a limp and knew, at last, who was before her.

'My lord!' she stammered and then stopped, unable to think of anything to add to this ceremonious beginning.

'You know me then? That is more than I can say of you, eh, mademoiselle?'

He spoke in a slow, deep voice essentially undramatic. It was a voice that seemed to remain always on one level and that, more than anything else, conveyed the perfect measure of its owner's self control.

'Marianne, my lord, Marianne Mallerousse.'

'Marianne? A pretty name, and one that suits you But with your face – and your voice, one is not called Mallerousse, eh?'

Talleyrand had a habit of punctuating his remarks with this interjection It was not so much a question as a little trick acquired in the course of his long career as a diplomat, and one which had the advantage of provoking in his unsuspecting listener a disposition to agree with his previous remark.

'My voice?' Marianne said in a low voice, feeling her heart beating fast.

A wave of the gold-knobbed cane towards a pillar at the shadowy end of the room.

'I have been standing there for some time, listening. As I was passing, just now, I heard you singing but was careful not to show myself. I like to be alone to indulge my admiration.'

He had come very close now and stood a head taller than she, bending on her the hypnotic glance whose power had been felt by so many women. Marianne sank respectfully into a deep curtsey, deliberately pointing the distance that lay between the prince and herself.

'Your serene highness is too kind.'

Her confidence was slowly returning. Far from being overawed by Talleyrand's presence and by the danger which lay in wait for her each moment, Marianne was aware of a sensation of release and a relaxation of tension in finding herself at last face to face with him. He was very much the grand seigneur, a true nobleman. With all due allowances, he belonged to her own class and her own kind, in whose veins ran the best blood of France and England. All the rest, his wife included, were mere puppets dressed in the trappings of nobility, but he was different. Behind that mild hauteur and simple elegance lay centuries of history. What was Fouché next to him? A backstairs spy seeking to drag her down to the same level as himself. And now, this man too had been struck by her voice, although expressing his delight with less outward enthusiasm than Gossec.

He did not bow but gave her his hand to rise before asking softly:

'You are quite sure your name is Mallerousse, eh?'

'Quite sure, my lord. It grieves me if it is not to your Highness's liking.'

'Bah! A name may be changed. A simple accident of birth. One would expect you rather to be a duchess, my dear. But what is such a lovely, unknown nightingale doing in my house?'

'Madame Sainte Croix sent me. I am her Highness's new reader.'

Talleyrand laughed at that.

'It is the world upside down! Old crows associate with birds of paradise! That means you are from Brittany, eh?'

'Indeed. I came by the Brest mail, yesterday.'

'Astonishing! Brittany must have changed a great deal to produce such blooms. I had thought there was nothing there but heather and broom – but their roses are finer than our own. One day, child, you shall tell me your story. I think it would amuse me. Such eyes!'

Pinching Marianne's chin casually between thumb and forefinger, he tilted up her face and gazed earnestly at the light reflected in her green eyes.

'Just like the sea,' he murmured in a soft, dreamy voice. 'The sea has just that colour and sparkle when sunlight plays on it. And such lips—'

The insolent face hovered close to them and Marianne recoiled instinctively flushing with shame at the familiarity which told her clearly just how far she had sunk.

'My lord,' she said sharply, 'Bretonne I may be, but that does not mean—'

He gave a low, sardonic chuckle.

'Wise too? And witty? Surely, Mam'zelle Mallerousse, you have too many talents for a mere reader?'