A mute, now? Marianne began to wonder suddenly whether this M. Denis did not bear a false name, hiding something else. The owner of an ill-gotten fortune, perhaps, living luxuriously but discreetly deep in the woods, away from the prying eyes of Fouché's men, or else some noble stranger conspiring against the regime. Fouché had certainly implied that there were some doubts in high places as to Talleyrand's loyalty. There were suggestions that if he had not yet betrayed the Emperor, it would not be long before he did. This simple but unlikely name of M. Denis was almost certainly a cloak for some dangerous character, an agent of the Tsar perhaps, or even of England?

'What do you mean to sing first?' Duroc asked.

'An air by Paer – one I am very fond of.'

'M. Denis will be delighted. He too likes Paer who is, as you probably know, conductor of the court orchestra.'

'Has M. Denis been long in France?' Marianne asked the question point blank but with apparent casualness.

Duroc stared. 'Er – for some time, yes. Why do you ask?'

The sound of a carriage in the gravelled court outside released Marianne from the necessity of a reply which she might have found awkward to make. Instantly, Duroc was on his feet while Marianne hurried over to take up her position by the instrument, her back to the door. The impassive Hassani was already playing the opening bars as Duroc hastened out to the vestibule. All at once, Marianne found herself in the grip of an attack of terrible stage fright. Her hands were icy cold and she had to clasp them tightly to keep them from trembling while an unpleasant shiver ran down her spine. She cast a look of such desperate appeal at the expressionless pianist that he glanced back at her sternly. From outside, came the sound of voices, footsteps – she had to take the plunge or else ruin Talleyrand's great surprise.

Hassani's stern gaze became imperative. Marianne opened her mouth and was wholly astonished to hear her own voice come out, sounding as warm and relaxed as though the terrible fright had not gripped her throat at all.


'Oh joy comes ever slowly,

But fleeteth fast away,

While youth is sad and lonely,

And lives but for a day—'


As she sang, Marianne was aware of a quick step in the tiled hall, a step which stopped short in the doorway of the room. After that, she heard nothing more but she had a piercing sense of someone there, watching her – the strange thing was that, far from making her uncomfortable, his presence seemed to her to release her from some unconscious anxiety, that it was friendly and reassuring. Her fright had flown away as though by magic and Marianne's voice soared forth with a warmth and fullness such as she had never known. Once again, music had come to her rescue. Its power over her was never failing, always fresh and constantly renewed. She let it carry her away, fearless and unresisting, knowing that the love between her and her music was real. There could be no betrayal here. The final words of the song fell like a sigh from the young lips:


'… false flattering hopes are lost

And love alone remains…'


It ended and silence fell. Hassani, eyes lowered, let his hands slip down on to his knees and Marianne felt the spirit go out of her. Feeling suddenly horribly nervous, she dared not turn her head to the fire where she knew someone was standing. A voice spoke brusquely:

'Excellent. Sing again, mademoiselle. Do you know "Plaisir d'Amour"?'

She looked at him at last. She saw a man of slightly less than average height, and rather fat without being in any way gross or heavy. He was leaning on the mantlepiece, dressed in a black coat, black stock and white kerseymere pantaloons covered, she saw to her astonishment, with black marks that were undoubtedly ink stains. She could even see where he had wiped his pen on them. They ended in knee boots armed with small silver spurs. M. Denis's hands and feet were small and neat but it was his face which held Marianne's attention. She had never seen one like it. In colour, a very pale ivory, it had the classic beauty of a roman mask. His black hair, worn short and straight, fell over his forehead, emphasizing the dark blue, rather deep-set eyes. Those eyes were not easy to meet but their expression was unforgettable. In his hand, M. Denis held a gold and tortoiseshell snuff box whose principal use seemed to be to distribute snuff liberally over his person and everything around him.

'Well?' he said.

Marianne reddened, conscious that she had been staring at him in a way that was scarcely polite and turned her eyes away hastily.

'I do know it, indeed.'

She began to sing the well known tune with a degree of feeling that was beyond her control. Something was happening in the inmost depths of her being, something she did not understand but which made her identify with the music with a passionate intensity of which she would never have believed herself capable. But now, as she sang, she was not afraid to look at M. Denis. She had never felt drawn to any man as she did to him and, unable to hide the feelings which her mobile face betrayed with absolute honesty, she kept her green eyes firmly fixed on the stranger's blue ones so that the words of love in the song seemed to be meant for him alone.


'As long as these slow waters glide

Downstream by the meadow's side,

I will love you…'


But as the plaintive words of the lament fell from her lips, she saw M. Denis slowly abandon his indolent posture, put away the snuff box with an impatient air and gradually draw nearer. His eyes, too, never left her face. He was looking at her intently, looking at her as no man before had ever dared to look at her. And it seemed to her that if that look were suddenly removed, in that instant she would cease to live. Her eyes filled with tears. She could feel her heart beating under the frosted satin of her dress, so strongly that it seemed it must burst. She was happy, troubled and frightened all at once, but she knew that she could go on singing all night long only for the pleasure of having him look at her like that.

When the last note died away, Marianne and M. Denis stood face to face. Still without taking his eyes off her, he snapped his fingers sharply.

'Go, Duroc. And you too, Hassani.'

The friend and the pianist vanished instantly but Marianne had no thought of protest. It was quite natural, in the order of things. In a few minutes this stranger with the ridiculous name had become for her more important than anything in the world and Marianne tried in vain to find a name for the feeling, urgent and primitive, which overwhelmed her. It was as though she had never lived for anything but this moment. Now, she did not even want to know who this man was, whether he was really called Denis, or whether he was some noble, perhaps dangerous person. No, he was there, and all was well.

She stood with her back against the harpsichord, gripping it with cold hands, her bosom rising and falling as she watched him come closer, and closer still. He smiled at her and she felt her heart melt before the charm of that smile.

'When I was a child,' he said confidingly, 'I often wondered what it was Ulysses heard, tied to the mast of his ship, while his companions' ears were stopped with wax. He begged them to untie him so that he might throw himself in the water and swim to the sirens' voices. I know now what he felt.'

The sirens. Jason Beaufort too had likened her to the sirens – what was it he had said? Marianne could not remember exactly. Besides, was there still a Jason Beaufort somewhere? Had he ever existed? Had she herself ever lived before this minute or had she just been born?

In spite of his french name, the strange Monsieur Denis must be a foreigner. He had a slight accent which made her think of Italy. For an instant the thought that he was a foreign conspirator revived but Marianne dismissed it as of no importance. He could be what he liked. She knew already that he had become the most important thing in her life. The great emptiness which had brought her to the brink of accepting the future held out to her by Jason Beaufort was there no more.

Very gently, M. Denis took Marianne's hands and held them in his own, which were warm and firm. He was shocked to find how cold they were.

'You're frozen! Come close to the fire—'

He made her sit on the sofa, then placed himself beside her and drew the table towards them.

'You will eat something?'

'No – please, truly.'

'Don't tell me you aren't hungry. At your age one is always hungry. I used to eat – here, a little of this quail pate, a thimbleful of Chambertin – Chambertin is the king of wines. I never drink anything else. No? This is absurd! You must prefer champagne. Now, a little champagne?'

'I – that is – I have never drunk it,' Marianne said anxiously, watching him fill a crystal glass with sparkling golden wine.

'Then now if ever is the time to begin!' M. Denis told her gaily. 'You will like it. There is not a woman in the world who does not like champagne! It puts a sparkle in the eyes – although,' he added leaning a little closer, 'it is true that yours need no such artifice. I have seen many emeralds not so bright.'

He poured the wine for her as he spoke with the dexterity and attentiveness of a lover. A little nervously, Marianne set her lips to the glass, then she smiled. The wine was cold, sparkling and fragrant – altogether marvellous! Her host was watching her out of the corner of his eye and smiling.

'Well?'