Жюльетта Бенцони - Marianne

'I am your majesty's to command,' she murmured with death in her heart. 'Command me, sire, and I will obey.'

'I should hope so. Accept the clothes and hot water her majesty is good enough to offer you, but hurry! You must be ready to go with me to Paris within the hour.'

'Sire,' Fouché offered graciously, 'I can easily take charge of Mademoiselle. I am returning to Paris and I can set her down in the rue de Varenne.'

His willingness to oblige earned the Duke of Otranto a swift, angry glare.

'When I need your advice, Fouché, I shall ask for it. Off you go, mademoiselle, and be quick.'

'May I at least know what has become of my companion?' She asked with a measure of determination.

'In the Emperor's presence, Mademoiselle,' Napoleon retorted, 'you need concern yourself with no one but yourself. Matters are already sufficiently black for you. Do not make them worse.'

But it would take much more than Napoleon's anger to make Marianne desert a friend.

'Sire,' she said in a tired voice, 'even one under sentence of death has the right to care of a friend. Jason Beaufort was hurt trying to save you and—'

'And in your view, my behaviour is thoroughly ungrateful? Don't worry, Mademoiselle, your American friend is not seriously hurt. A ball in the arm, and I daresay not the first. Captain Trebriant is at this moment looking for the carriage he says he left on the road. After which, he will go quietly back to Paris.'

'In that case, I want to see him!'

Napoleon's fist smashed down on a fragile lemonwood table with such force that it broke beneath the blow.

'Who dares to say "I want" to me! Enough! You will see this man only with my permission and when I think fit! Fouché, since you are so keen on acting as escort, you may see to this Beaufort—'

The Minister of Police bowed and with an ironical glance, accompanied by a discreet shrug of the shoulders, he took leave and withdrew.

She watched him as he went through the door, round-shouldered and beaten. It was a sight that should have given her pleasure but the man whose anger she had just witnessed was too far removed from the charming Charles Denis. She understood now why they called him the Corsican ogre! But, for all her present fury, Marianne could not pretend to herself that she did not like that masterful tone.

Josephine had watched this scene without interfering. But when Fouché had gone she rose and took Marianne's arm where she stood rooted to the spot.

'Obey, child. One must never cross the Emperor – whatever his commands.'

Marianne's eyes, still flaming with revolt, met Josephine's sad, gentle ones. Despite her own love for Napoleon, she could not help feeling drawn to this lonely woman who was so kind to her and seemed to give no thought of the strangeness of her situation. She did her best to smile and then, bending quickly, placed her lips on the pale hand of the dethroned Empress.

'I obey you, madame.'

The Emperor gave no sign of hearing this final piece of defiance. He stood with his back to the two women, staring out of the window and twisting the fringe of a gleaming watered silk curtain nervously between his fingers. Without another word, Marianne dropped a curtsey to Josephine and followed the maid summoned by Queen Hortense. As she went, she wondered if there would ever come a time when she would be able to choose her own clothes and not be obliged to borrow from all and sundry.

***

Half an hour later, wearing a dress and coat belonging to Madame de Recusant, the former Empress's lady-in-waiting who was more or less the same size as herself, Marianne took her place with drooping head and heavy heart in the Imperial berlin. She was not even conscious of the amazing honour done her. For her, it meant nothing because she cared not whether the ill-humoured little man who sat next to her were Emperor or not. Since he did not love her, she would a hundred times have preferred any stranger. The burning memories of Butard lay between them a source of hideous anguish now, which only increased her pain and wretchedness. The man she loved had changed suddenly into some kind of judge, as icy and indifferent as justice itself. Any fears she might have of the journey which lay ahead were because she knew what power this ruthless man possessed to make her suffer.

She had said her thanks and farewells to Josephine and the gentle Creole had made her promise to come and visit her again while, at the same time, casting an appealing glance at the Emperor which he pretended not to see. But even this evidence of kindness had failed to comfort Marianne. This, she did not doubt, was the last stage in her ordeal. Tomorrow, she would try and find Jason and go away with him at last. But for tonight, she did not even wonder what Napoleon meant to do with her.

Just before the door closed, Duroc's head was poked into the carriage.

'To – the Trianon, sire?'

'Don't be a fool! Not the Trianon, or Saint-Cloud. To the Tuileries! And send a messenger ahead to say I'm coming!'

'As your majesty commands.'

The door banged shut and the coach moved off towards the lighted gate. All around were the rhythmic hoofbeats of the escort of chasseurs. Marianne had noted that, in suggesting the Emperor's possible destination, Duroc had taken good care to say nothing about Butard. That was no doubt a name which must never, never be uttered again. It could not be other than highly disagreeable to the Master of Europe even to remember what had passed between himself and one of Fouché's spies.

Once through the gate amid the clatter of arms being presented, the road stretched before them. Marianne closed her eyes, partly to hold back the tears that would come and partly to breathe in the smell of Spanish jasmine and snuff which filled the carriage. The green velvet cushions were impregnated with it and she breathed in almost furtively, like a thief, because it alone had power to conjure up the sweet, tormenting memories she so longed to forget. Even the smell of him was a tiny fragment of happiness.

Suddenly, she heard him speak.

'This American, what is he to you? Your lover?'

She answered, without looking at him, trying to hide her pain.

'Only a friend – a faithful friend. Tonight, he rescued me from the prison where I had been held ever since—' her voice died away. Then, all at once her fighting instinct revived, she felt the need to give back blow for blow and turned on him. 'You have asked me a great many questions about my past life, sire, why have you not asked what I have been doing this past week and more?

'No need. I know.'

'You know? How?'

'While you were being cleaned up, I asked a few questions. I am grieved at what has happened – but that is beside the point. Where did you meet this American?'

Marianne was revolted by the monstrous egotism this persistence revealed. She flung the words at him like a challenge, unable to control herself longer.

'He was the man to whom Francis Cranmere lost all that I had brought him – myself included!'

'So, I was right. He is your lover.

'Because you suppose me capable of fulfilling such a bargain? Because you think it possible that when someone comes to a young girl on her wedding night and says: "Your husband is not coming I am going to take his place. I won you at cards", she will instantly open her arms and her bed to him? I believe I told you I had killed Lord Cranmere.'

'But you have not, to my knowledge, killed Jason Beaufort?'

'He had already gone. I threw him out. It was only long afterwards that I met him again – here, in fact, in the house of the Prince of Benevento. Oh – anyway, does all this really matter? How can my life interest you, past, present or future? You have an Empire, subjects, as many women as you want—'

It gave her a kind of awful joy to hurl the inmost feelings of her heart in wild confusion at the feet of this unfeeling man before whom all trembled. Only she was not afraid because not even if the fancy took him to put her to death could he hurt her more than he had done already. She actively enjoyed trying to provoke him and make him angry. Yet, oddly enough, Napoleon did not seem to have heard. His splendid profile was turned away, towards the road and he murmured absently, as though thinking aloud:

'I'd like to know who that devil Talleyrand doesn't know in this world.'

Then, before the choking Marianne could say another word, he turned to her suddenly.

'You know,' he said in a voice full of laughter, 'that it is treason to argue with the Emperor?'

'Argue? Me? – I—'

'Unless you wish to be punished as you deserve, you'd better hurry up and beg my pardon.'

With a quick movement he snapped down the blinds. But, not until Napoleon's lips sought her own, did Marianne realize that he had taken her in his arms.

Marianne lay with her head hanging slightly over the edge of the bed, gazing up at the shining bronze gilt eagle with outstretched wings which, high above, surmounted the crown on the great, circular baldachin. In spite of the exhausting and fantastic adventures of the night, and the long love-making which had followed, she was not sleepy. She would sleep later, she was not quite sure when but she did know very well that she would never sleep in this impressive bed. The great curtains of purple velvet fringed with gold, the winged victories, their bronze feet treading globes of lapis-lazuli, even the dais on which the imperial bed was placed, all helped to make her feel that she might as well be sleeping on the throne of France itself. It was simultaneously impressive, flattering and – rather funny. Napoleon, accustomed to it, slept with his head resting on Marianne's shoulder. The glow from a night light of silver gilt threw a gentleness over his wilful features, relaxed now in sleep, bringing back a little of the child he had once been. Overcome by a vast tenderness, Marianne could not take her eyes off him. She wanted to savour this night's happiness to the last drop.