Marianne's brief uneasiness subsided but curiosity remained, sharper than ever. Although it made little difference to her who she sang for, having promised the prince to do so when it was his wish, she was now impatient to arrive and see what kind of a man this M. Denis could be for the vice grand elector of the Empire to hold him in such regard.

'I am sorry,' she said gently. 'I will be pleased to sing for your poor friend.'

'Thank you.'

The berlin was now climbing quite a steep hill. The horses had slowed down considerably but Lambert, the coachman, was holding them with a sure hand so that they did not slip. The glass in the windows was misting up again and in the well-padded interior of the carriage silence fell again as each relapsed into their own thoughts. Marianne remembered suddenly that as they left the house she had not noticed whether the intolerable black cab was still there but then forgot about it again and her mind turned instead to the mysterious M. Denis. She was glad she was not obliged to mention him in the tiresome daily reports which it was still her painful task to write although, thanks to Talleyrand, they had become a mere formality. But why had Fouché said nothing in reply about the black cab? Unless it belonged to him. After all why not?


White against the black background of the forest, the pavilion of Butard seemed dreaming on the shores of the frozen lake which spread below its terrace. Soft golden light came from its tall windows to lie in bright splashes on the frozen snow. Its low pediment decorated with a relief of a hunting scene loomed out of the night and the woods like an enchanted place. It may have been her sharpened curiosity which made her expect wonders, but Marianne was captivated by it at once.

She scarcely saw the footman in dark livery who lowered the steps for her when the carriage had passed through the gates into the circular forecourt, and she made her way to the open doorway like one in a dream. She stepped into a small entrance hall, decked with flowers and pleasantly warm from a good fire burning in the wide hearth. A staircase vanished into shadows above. But Marianne had no time to look about her very closely. Before her, the footman was opening the door into a blue and white salon with a domed ceiling surrounded by a frieze of cupids playing among the leaves.

The pretty, delicate lacquered furnishings belonged to the previous century. They were upholstered in blue and white striped silk and gave the impression that their chief purpose was as a foil to the huge bunches of iris and pink tulips that were cunningly arranged on all sides. A large baroque mirror over the fireplace gave back a reflection of the room in the light of tall, pink scented candles. Bow windows looked out across the balcony to the frozen lake and causeway running across it. Marianne's eyes had gone straight to the lovely old harpsichord that stood by one of the windows. The wooden floor, covered by a big Beauvais carpet, creaked softly under the pressure of Talleyrand's stick and limping steps. The room was quite empty. But then a door opened and a man appeared.

Thinking that this must be the mysterious M. Denis, Marianne looked at him with interest. He was of medium height, fair and far from good-looking with sharp features and brown eyes that squinted slightly. But his face looked open and intelligent with a naturally kindly expression that appealed to Marianne although she was a trifle taken aback by the bright green clothes for a man supposedly in mourning.

He held out his hand, smiling, and came quickly to meet the new arrivals.

'A positively military punctuality, I declare! How do you do, my dear prince, and so this is the young lady.'

'Yes indeed, my dear Duroc, this is Mademoiselle Mallerousse whose matchless voice you have often heard me praise. Is – M. Denis not yet here?'

'No, not yet,' answered the man addressed as Duroc, 'but he will not be long. In the meantime, I have ordered a light supper for you. I thought you would be cold after your long journey.'

He led Marianne with the utmost politeness to a mauve velvet sofa near the fire and helped her off with her cloak. Slightly overawed by the extreme elegance of her surroundings and also by the unmistakably military bearing of this stranger with the bourgeois name, Marianne submitted in silence. Her confusion at his frankly admiring glances made her drop her eyes so that she missed the glance which he exchanged with Talleyrand. The prince declined to part with his furred overcoat.

'No thank you. Mademoiselle Mallerousse will be glad to warm herself but I must be off.'

Marianne, who was warming her hands at the fire, started.

'What! Is your highness leaving me?'

He crossed over to her and taking one of her hands in both his, dropped a swift kiss upon it.

'I am not leaving, my child, I am entrusting you. I must go back. My old friend the Baroness de Stael has been given permission to travel to America with her son. She passes through Paris tonight. I wish to say goodbye to her and see her off on her journey to Morlaix where her ship is already waiting. But have no fear. My friend Duroc will look after you like a father and when you have finished charming our poor friend he will see you taken home in his own carriage.'

'I hope you do not doubt that,' Duroc said with a warm smile, 'and that I do not frighten you, mademoiselle?'

'No – no, not at all,' Marianne replied returning his smile with an effort. She thought he seemed very nice but she was bewildered. Why had Talleyrand not told her he would not be staying with her? He had never behaved in such a way before. However, with his usual subtlety, he must have realized what was going through the girl's head because he leaned on his stick and bent down towards her.

'I feared to alarm you and startle your timidity before you had seen this reassuring fellow! To tell you the whole truth, I wish your voice to be a surprise for my friend Denis. When you hear the sound of his carriage outside, then start to sing – but don't tell him that I am responsible for this pretty surprise.'

'But – why not?' Marianne said bewilderedly. 'If you think it an agreeable surprise, then he must be grateful to you—'

'Exactly. I do not want his gratitude – or not at the moment. He shall know the truth but not just yet. For the present, I want no other feelings, however slight, to interfere with the pure joy that he will have in finding you.'

Marianne understood less and less but she was highly intrigued. What a strange, complicated, mysterious man the prince seemed to be. And why should he think it necessary to speak to her in this rather over-emphatic way, that was so unlike his usual manner? She was grateful to Duroc when, in his own way, he expressed her feelings.

'You have some funny ideas, sometimes, prince. But you would not be yourself if it were not so. Have a safe journey.'

Watching her temporary host go with Talleyrand into the hall, Marianne wondered what could be this Duroc's position in M. Denis' household. Was he a relation? Or merely a friend? Was he perhaps the brother of the lady for whom the mysterious bourgeois was in mourning? No, the green suit made it equally unlikely that he was the dead woman's brother. A cousin perhaps, or a childhood friend entrusted with the running of the house – no, certain mannerisms, a way of holding his head, even the way he walked, the tread of a man more used to boots than pumps, made it certain he was a soldier. Duroc's return interrupted? Marianne's musings. He was accompanied by a superior servant of some kind dressed in black and pushing before him a small table on which a collation was set out. Under his powdered wig, the man's round pink face reflected all the grave solemnity becoming in the servant of a great house. He bowed to Marianne with a touch of condescension which astounded her. This Denis must undoubtedly be some frightful upstart, puffed up with conceit in his luxurious way of life, if even his servants felt entitled to give themselves airs. Like master, like men! M. Denis must be quite intolerable! However, Duroc was saying:

'Put that table in front of mademoiselle, Constant, and then leave us.'

'Am I to serve your—'

'No, no, that will do.' Duroc cut him short hurriedly. 'We will serve ourselves, I tell you—'

The butler retired with dignity but Marianne had not missed the unfinished address and wondered what title he had been on the point of giving Duroc. It seemed to her that, since the mysterious Denis had not yet arrived, she might take advantage of his absence to try and find out a little more about him. She gratefully accepted a cup of soup but refused any other refreshment.

'Should I not be singing when Mr Denis comes in? He cannot find me at table.'

'That is so. But it will be enough to begin when we hear the carriage.'

Marianne glanced at the harpsichord.

'Must I accompany myself?'

'No – no of course not. What am I thinking of? Wait one moment.'

He was showing signs of increasing nervousness. Marianne sipped her soup and smiled inwardly. All things considered, the adventure was proving enjoyable and she was more and more curious to set eyes on this odd bourgeois whose arrival spread such panic in his household. Duroc returned a few moments later accompanied by a thin, austere looking young man with long hair and a dark complexion. Not glancing at Marianne, the young man picked up the roll of music she had brought with her and sat down at the harpsichord. Duroc returned to his guest, looking considerably relieved.

'There, now we are ready. You may give M. Hassani any instructions you wish, but do not look for a reply. He is a mute,' he added in a low voice with a glance at the pianist.