Жюльетта Бенцони - Marianne

Yet, one thought still nagged at her mind. Why had he said she was in danger? Why had he urged her to flee? To that, there was no answer but as she too made her way back to the house, her memory kept repeating like a refrain: 'Hôtel de l'Empire, rue Cerutti – Hôtel de l'Empire, rue Cerutti—' A funny thing, memory.

The town berlin belonging to the Prince of Benevento sped as swiftly as the rough-shod greys could draw it along the promenade de Longchamp, deserted at this late hour. It was eight o'clock in the evening. In summer, the promenade would have been crowded with horses and carriages for some hours yet but the dark, the cold and the snow had long since driven Parisians indoors, the bourgeois to their supper and cards, the fashionable world to the large parties which took place almost every night at this time of the year. Yesterday, it had been the Prince de Cambacéré's, tonight, it was the duc de Cadore, who had replaced Talleyrand as Foreign Minister. This, thought Marianne, was no doubt the reason why Talleyrand was sitting beside her in the berlin rather than dressing for the duke's ball.

Ensconced in the mulberry coloured cushions which matched the paintwork on the great wheels of the carriage, she stared out indifferently at the snow-covered landscape. Longchamp was quite familiar to her now from many drives with the princess and little Charlotte and she did not greatly care to know where she was being taken. Talleyrand had told her that morning:

'Tonight, I mean to take you to the house of a very good friend of mine, and a great lover of music. I want you to be beautiful. Not that that will be difficult but I should like to see you in pink.'

It was the first time the prince had expressed any preference with regard to her clothes and Marianne was surprised, especially since, until that moment, she had believed his taste to incline rather towards cold colours, like blue and green, and she had no pink dress.

'You shall have one tonight,' the prince assured her and sure enough, later in the day a gown had arrived from Leroy which, though extremely simple, Marianne thought perfect. The dress was made of very pale pink satin, frosted with silver but with no other decoration. With it went a great hooded cloak of the same stuff, quilted and bordered with ermine, and a matching muff. The effect, on her, was stupendous, as was proved to her by the smile of satisfaction bestowed on her by the prince as she came down to meet him.

'I believe,' he told her, 'that tonight will be another triumph for you – perhaps your greatest triumph of all—'

Marianne's voice had certainly earned her a very flattering degree of success at private parties but it was a success which bore no relation with what she hoped to meet with in the theatre. She had the good sense to realize that what she had achieved so far was simply a fashionable success, and by its very nature fleeting. For some time, too, she had been feeling less confident of herself, and had worked with less enthusiasm at her singing. In addition, there was the persistent black cab always on her heels wherever she went. It was beginning to haunt her, like some inescapable presage of disaster. She had thought once or twice of going out on foot to see if anyone approached her but she had not dared, held back by a fear which she could not have explained. What was more serious was that, although she had mentioned it in her report, Fouché had made no comment and now Marianne did not know what to think. The prince had not mentioned it, either. It was all very bewildering. It was in her mind to go and see Fouché in the morning.

It was eight days now since the scene with Jason Beaufort and in spite of her expressed determination to forget him, Marianne had not yet succeeded in doing so. Whenever she thought of the American, it was with such a host of contradictory feelings that she felt quite lost. Anger predominated, and resentment, all the more bitter because she had been tempted to accept his offer. She was still too young to remain unaffected by the magic of certain words. Jason had awakened in her a desire for this new life he had described for her, a free life in a new world full of sunshine and warmth. Perhaps he really meant it when he said he wanted to give back a little of what he had taken from her? And, with that thought, Marianne was sometimes on the point of going to him. One morning, when she was out doing some errands for the princess, she even asked the coachman to drive down the rue Cerutti. She had seen the Hôtel de l'Empire at number twenty seven, a building of some elegance with a number of vehicles outside it, and for an instant she had been tempted to stop the carriage and get out, to ask this strange man whom she hated but who fascinated her—

But then she changed her mind. Why should she believe Beaufort's word? He had robbed her of everything, had dared to barter her love and modesty. Who could say if, once they were at sea, he would respect his promise and not claim the shameful rights which he believed were his? And how much more when they were together at the other side of the world! After all, what reason could he have for saving her and from what? What was this danger with which he threatened her if not some imaginary bogey intended purely and simply to make her fall more readily into his snare? Only that morning, Marianne had received a short, unsigned note.

'I am here for another week. To find me after that, you should inquire of my friend Paterson, the American Consul at Nantes. Think again, I urge you, and come with me. Time is short—'

Marianne had merely shrugged and tossed the note into the fire. Today, she did not want to believe Jason Beaufort.

The berlin crossed the Seine and Marianne put her face to the window, rubbing a clear patch on the misted glass with the tip of one gloved finger.

'Are we going out of Paris?' she asked. 'Is it much farther?'

In the dimness of the coach, she could see little of her companion, though she could smell the faint scent of verbena. Since leaving the rue de Varennes, he had seemed to be asleep.

'No, not much farther – the village we are going to is called La Celle Saint Cloud. The friend we are to visit has a most delightful chateau there. It is a charming house, one of the prettiest I know. The king used it formerly as a hunting lodge—'

It was rare for Talleyrand to be so lyrical. Marianne's curiosity was aroused. It was very strange, this former hunting lodge, tucked away in a village that, however close now, was certainly well out in the country. Until now, Talleyrand had taken her mostly to fashionable Parisian hostesses such as Madame de la Laval, Dorothée de Périgord, and the ladies of Bellegarde. But this was quite an expedition.

'Will there be much company?' she asked with assumed indifference. 'Who will be there?'

The prince coughed as though pondering his reply but when he spoke his drawling voice was as smooth as glass.

'No indeed, there will not be much company. Before we get there, my dear child, there are one or two things I must tell you. This is no great party. The friend to whom I am taking you is called simply Monsieur Denis—'

Marianne raised one eyebrow in surprise.

'Monsieur Denis? Denis de—'

'Nothing. He is – a bourgeois, very rich and extremely able and also a very old friend from a time when things were – difficult. He is also an unhappy man suffering from a recent cruel bereavement. To some extent, the visit on which I am taking you is one of charity.'

'Dressed like a princess, and in a ball gown at that, to the house of a man in mourning? Surely, I ought to be more soberly dressed?'

'Mourning is in the heart, my dear child, not in the apparel. In the darkness which surrounds him, M. Denis needs to see the dawn. It was my wish that you should be that dawn.'

Something rather too unctuous in the prince's tone increased Marianne's already awakened curiosity. He sounded over enthusiastic and not wholly sincere. Who was this bourgeois person who owned a former hunting lodge and who one visited dressed as though for a ball? She was immediately agog to know more.

'I wonder that your Highness should take so much trouble for a man so far removed from him. Is he really an old friend?'

'Very old,' Talleyrand said quite seriously. 'You would be surprised how many bourgeois I number among my acquaintance, and even among my friends. There are a good many even in the Imperial Court, although dressed up, I grant you, in high-sounding titles.'

'Then why has this M. Denis none?'

'Because such things have no interest for him. He has no need to be count or marquis. He is – himself, and that is enough. Tell me, Mademoiselle Mallerousse, I hope you are not shocked at the thought of singing for a bourgeois?'

She sensed the mocking smile in the shadow of the carriage.

'Of course not,' she murmured. 'I only hope he is not one of those former members of the Convention, a regicide—'

'He would not be my friend,' Talleyrand interrupted her with some severity. 'You may rest easy on that score.'

Under the cover of the fur rug wrapped about their knees, the prince's hand sought Marianne's and held it gently. Lowering his voice to a more confiding tone, he added:

'You will discover that people in this country sometimes do funny things, but never without a reason. What I ask of you this evening is a personal service, a favour, if you like. This man's name is not a noble one, but his heart is and his grief deserving of your sympathies – to the extent of forgetting to mention it to our friend Fouché, eh? He need not know of this visit—'