Жюльетта Бенцони - Marianne

She thrust back the unpleasant thought as hard as she could. She had suffered enough for one night. And now, she was going to have him all to herself for a whole week. In a way, she would be Empress herself and she meant to extract every last ounce of happiness from those few days. She did not mean to waste a single second.

She walked with her light step back to the bed and pulled up the covers softly over the sleeping man. Then with infinite caution, she slipped in beside him, and cuddled up close to him, drawing his warmth into her own shivering body. He turned in sleep and put his arm around her, murmuring something indistinct. With a happy sigh she pressed close against his chest and fell asleep, satisfied with the pact she had concluded with herself and with the sleeping master of Europe.

The Grand Trianon, a huge, shimmering, translucent soap bubble of crystal and rose-coloured marble set amongst immemorial trees, unreal and splendid as a dream ship anchored to the shores of heaven, was covered in the early hours of the morning by a soft silent mantle of snow. Far more than the remote splendours of the Tuileries or the rather sophisticated charm of le Butard, it came to stand in Marianne's mind first as an ideal and then, afterwards, as the symbol of paradise lost.

She very soon discovered, however, that Napoleon had his own peculiar ideas of what he called a holiday. When the first ray of cold, wintry sunshine struck through the windows of the Imperial bedchamber, which faced East, like all the private rooms the Emperor had set aside for his own use in the Palace, she found that she was alone in the big bed and that Napoleon was nowhere to be seen. The fire was blazing cheerfully in the hearth, and a frothy lace wrapper lay over the back of a chair but there was no-one else in the room.

Alarmed in case Constant or some other servant should come in, Marianne hastily slipped on the night-gown she had left unused the night before. It was the property of the Emperor's sister, Pauline Borghese, who frequently resided at the nearby Petit Trianon. Next, she put on the wrapper, thrust her feet into a pair of pink velvet slippers and throwing back the heavy black masses of her hair, ran to the window like a happy child. As if in her honour, the park was dressed in an immaculate white splendour, enfolding the Palace within a casket of silence. It was as if heaven had decided to cut off the Trianon from the rest of the world and halt the vast machine of Empire at the gilded gates of the park.

'All mine!' She thought joyfully. 'I am going to have him all to myself for a week.'

Thinking that he might be at his toilet, she turned and made quickly for the adjoining dressing room. Just then Constant came out, calm and smiling as ever, and bowed respectfully.

'May I assist mademoiselle?'

'Where is the Emperor? Is he already dressing?'

Constant smiled and, taking a large enamelled watch from his waistcoat pocket, studied it gravely.

'It is nearly nine o'clock, mademoiselle. The Emperor has been at work for more than an hour.'

'At work? But I thought'

'That he was here for a rest? That is so indeed, but mademoiselle is not yet familiar with the Emperor's idea of a rest. It means simply that he will work a little less. Has mademoiselle never heard his favourite description of himself: "I was born and made for work—"?'

'No,' Marianne said, feeling somewhat disconcerted. 'But then, what shall I do meanwhile?'

'Breakfast is served at ten o'clock. Mademoiselle will have ample time to dress. Afterwards, the Emperor is accustomed to set aside some time for what he calls "recreation". Here he very often takes a walk. After that, he returns to his desk again until six o'clock, when he will dine and then spend the evening in a variety of ways.'

'Good God!' Marianne said weakly. 'How dreadful!'

'It is, indeed, rather taxing. But the Emperor may relax his rule somewhat in honour of mademoiselle. I should add that on Tuesday and Fridays, his majesty generally presides over his Council of State – but this is Wednesday and, by God's grace, the Trianon!'

'And it has been snowing and Paris is a long way away!' Marianne cried so impetuously that the faithful valet's eyes twinkled. 'I hope the Council of State will stay where it is until next Friday.'

'We may always hope. But at all events, mademoiselle need have no anxiety. The Emperor will not allow her to be bored or disappointed with her stay.'

In fact, for a creature like Marianne, bubbling over with youth and vitality, it was wonderful, tyrannous, absurd, agonizing and incredibly exciting all at once. She was discovering Napoleon as he really was and also that daily life with him, even when hemmed in by protocol and etiquette, was a continual adventure. The very first meal she had alone with him was a startling revelation.

She had been slightly puzzled when, as he opened the door for her, Constant had murmured in her ear:

'Mademoiselle would be advised to waste no time at the table in contemplating his majesty, especially if mademoiselle should be at all hungry, or she may be in some danger of rising from the table without having swallowed a morsel.'

But, once seated facing the Emperor across the large mahogany table, she forgot the warning. The table was laid with an exquisite blue Sevres breakfast service and a great deal of cut glass, which went very well with the cutlery and the silver-gilt epergne. Napoleon attacked his food as though it were an English redoubt, but his eating habits were so eccentric that Marianne gazed at him in astonishment. He began with the cheese, swallowing a large slice of Brie, then, after selecting and disposing of a tiubele milanaise, proceeded rapidly to an almond cream before finishing up by gnawing at a wing of chicken Marengo. All that in the space of ten minutes, to the accompaniment of two glasses of Chambertin, and a shower of splashes and stains inseparable from such speed. Marianne, having practically fainted with horror at seeing him attack his chicken, had just decided that meals at the French court must be taken backwards, as in China, and was beginning at random on the almond cream, when Napoleon wiped his lips, threw his napkin down on the table, and exclaimed:

'What, not finished yet? You are a slow coach. Come along, hurry up, coffee will be here in a moment.'

Marianne was obliged to follow him with a sinking heart while Dumas, the butler, long accustomed to the vagaries of the Imperial digestion, did his best to hide a smile. The coffee, boiling hot and strong, went down Marianne's throat like a ball of fire, but her heroism earned her a beaming smile from Napoleon.

'Bravo!' he said, slipping his arm into hers. 'I too like my coffee very hot! Now go and fetch a coat and we'll go out. We must take advantage of this weather.'

In the bedroom she found Constant waiting imperturbably with a coat lined with miniver, and a hat and muff of the same fur, also borrowed from the wardrobe of the Princess Borghese, as well as a pair of pattens for the snow. As he helped her into the warm coat, Constant murmured softly:

'I did warn mademoiselle. But don't worry, when the Emperor returns to his desk I will see that a substantial collation is served to mademoiselle in here. Otherwise, since dinner will be the same as breakfast, mademoiselle would be in some danger of death by starvation.'

'And is it always like this?' Marianne sighed, calling to mind, with a good deal of admiration, the gracious figure of Josephine who had lived this life for years on end. Then as she slipped her hands into her muff, she added in a different tone: 'Tell me, Constant, what would the Emperor's sister say if she knew I was wearing her clothes?'

'Nothing at all. Her highness would be in no way disturbed. She has so many dresses, coats and garments of all descriptions that she scarcely knows what belongs to her. The Emperor, and with some reason, has nicknamed her Our Lady of Frippery. Mademoiselle may see for herself! But hurry now, the Emperor does not like to be kept waiting.'

Marianne ran to meet Napoleon, thinking that a faithful servant was indeed a blessing of the gods. She was duly grateful for the help, at once friendly and discreet, which she received from the imperial valet. But for him, God alone knew how many mistakes she might have made!

He was waiting outside in the pillared walk, wearing a huge, frogged great-coat that made him look almost as broad as he was long, striding up and down so fast that Marianne wondered for a moment whether their walk might not turn out to be more in the nature of a military exercise. But he stopped when he saw her and tucking Marianne's arm beneath his own, said quietly: 'Come, and see how lovely it is.'

Arm in arm, they strolled across the vast, snow-covered park watched over by a still, sad population of statues. They walked beside frozen lakes where a queen had once skated, and where the bronze tritons and sea gods now turned slowly green in the loneliness of forgotten things, as uncared for as the cupid with the dolphin standing by his pool in the Hôtel d'Asselnat. The farther they went from the Trianon, the more they seemed to be entering an enchanted domain where time itself stood still.

They walked for a long time in silence, happy simply to be together, but gradually the tragic stillness of this park where everything had been created for the honour and glory of the most brilliant of all the kings of France, seemed to have an effect upon Napoleon. He stopped by the side of a great dead pool in the midst of which Apollo's chariot seemed to be striving uselessly to break free of its icy setting. Before them a long perspective of tall trees ended in the distance in a line of large and noble buildings. Marianne's hand tightened on her companion's arm.