Жюльетта Бенцони - Marianne

Furiously, Marianne dashed away the tears which ran unbidden down her face. She was impatient now to return to Fortunée Hamelin and her friend Jolival. For the present, they alone were real to her. Never had she felt such a rush of warmth and affection as she did now. At the thought of Fortunée's little bright salon where, very soon, she would be sitting down to the fragrant morning coffee which Jonas made so well, Marianne felt her pain ease a little.

The coach descended the hill of St-Cloud towards the bridge. But shimmering in the mist beyond the tree and beyond the quick silver band of the river, she saw the blue-tinged roofs of Paris topped by so many grey-white plumes from the smokey chimneys. For the first time, she was struck by the sheer size of the city. Paris lay stretched at her feet like a huge, tame animal and suddenly she had an irresistible desire to master this beautiful quiet monster, and make it cry out for her more loudly still than it would cry out for her rival when she drove for the first time through its streets.

To conquer Paris, to win first Paris and then all France and all the vast Empire, that, surely, was a task inspiring enough to soothe the bitterest regrets of the heart? In a few weeks' time, Marianne would be facing her first battle with this great and fiercely artistic city, whose seething life she could feel almost like the blood in her own veins. There was no time to waste now if she were to be prepared to face that fight.

Filled with a sudden impatience, she leaned forward and tapped on the little window to attract the coachman's attention.

'Faster!' she told him. 'I am in a hurry.'

At the bridge of St-Cloud, the rough-shod horses sprang into a gallop and at the barriére de Passy, while the dragoons vanished into the morning mist, the carriage with the imperial arms plunged hell for leather across Paris, as though already charging to the attack.

That night, a proclamation appeared on all the walls of the capital.

'A marriage will take place between his majesty the Emperor Napoleon, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation and her Imperial and Royal Highness the Arch-duchess Marie-Louise, daughter of His Majesty the Emperor Francis, King of Bohemia and of Hungary…'

There was no going back now. Fate was on the move, and, while Marianne was endlessly rehearsing with Gossec a melody from 'Nina, or the Lovesick Maid', Napoleon's sister Caroline Murat, Queen of Naples and Grand Duchess of Berg, and Marshall Berthier, Prince of Neuf Châtel and Wagram, were already making ready for their journey to Vienna to bring back the bride.

Marianne kicked with one small gold satin slipper at a log which had rolled out of the grate. She picked up the tongs and rearranged the smouldering logs before returning to curl up again in the big armchair at one side of the fire, and resumed her musings. It was Tuesday, the 13th March, 1810, the day on which she had moved into the Hôtel d'Asselnat, repaired in record time by one of those miracles which only the Emperor knew how to create. This was her first evening in her own home. For the first time for many weeks, Marianne was absolutely alone.

This was how she had wanted it. She would have no-one to come between herself and the ghosts of her family for this, her first acquaintance with the old house in its new dress. Tomorrow, the doors would open wide for her few friends, for Arcadius de Jolival who had taken lodgings in a house nearby, for Fortunée Hamelin with whom Marianne meant to celebrate her entry into possession worthily, for Talleyrand who, in these last weeks, had been a discreet and attentive friend, for Dorothée de Périgord, who had promised to bring the best society to call on her, and, lastly, for her teacher Gossec, who would come tomorrow as he did every morning, to help prepare her for her first contact with the public of Paris. Tomorrow, there would be all sorts of things, known and unknown, faces that would all soon be familiar. But tonight, she wanted to be alone, to listen to the silence of her house. There must be no stranger, however friendly, to disturb her first meeting with her own memories.

The servants, carefully hand-picked by Madame Hamelin, would not arrive until tomorrow. Mademoiselle Agathe, the young ladie's maid, would not be coming to take possession of the little room which had been set aside for her near Marianne's own until after eight o'clock. Only young Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche, newly promoted to the rank of coachman, was in the house, and even he had his own quarters in an outbuilding. He had orders not to disturb Marianne on any account. She had found it by no means easy to escape from the attentions of her friends. Fortunée in particular had been decidedly unwilling to leave Marianne all alone in the great house.

'I should die of fright if it were me!' she had declared roundly.

'What is there to be afraid of?' Marianne had answered. 'There I shall really be at home.'

'Yes, but remember, the portrait and the prowler comes here—'

'I think he must have gone for good now. And besides, the locks have been changed.'

It was true that all attempts to trace the mysterious visitor had been unsuccessful. There was no sign of the missing portrait of the Marquis d'Asselnat in spite of all Arcadius' investigations. A time had come when Marianne had begun to wonder if she had not really dreamed it all. If Fortunée and Arcadius had not been there also, she would have begun to doubt her own memory.

Wrapped in a long house gown of white cashmere, its high neck and long sleeves edged with ermine, Marianne looked round her at the big, bright, cosy room which tonight had become her own.

Her eye rested in turn on the soft blue-green hangings, the exquisite laquered corner cupboards, the small chairs upholstered in a gaily flowered Abusson, the great bed draped in changeable taffettas, and came to rest at last on a big caledon vase filled with lilac, irises and huge tulips. The blaze of colour and freshness made her smile. Those flowers were like a presence in themselves, his presence.

They had arrived that morning, armfuls of them, brought by the gardeners of St-Cloud, and the whole house was full of them, but the best of all were in Marianne's own room. She found them better company than any human being because she was conscious of their fragrance even when she was not looking at them.

Marianne closed her eyes. Several weeks had passed since those days at the Trianon, but she was still living under their spell. And it would be much, much longer before she ceased to regret their brevity. It had been an instant of paradise which she would cherish for ever in her inmost heart, like a tiny, delicate and fragrant plant.

Marianne got up from her chair with a sigh, stretched and went across to one of the windows. On the way her foot brushed against a newspaper that lay on the floor. It was the latest number of the Journal de l'Empire and Marianne was all too familiar with its contents. In it the people of France were informed by the writer, Joseph Fievée, that on this day, the 13th of March, their future Empress had left Vienna with her household. She had already been married to the Emperor by proxy in the person of Marshal Berthier. In a few days, the Empress would be in Paris and then Marianne would no longer have the right to cross the threshold of the great bedchamber in the Tuileries, where she had been so many times since her return from the Trianon that she had finally begun to feel at home there.

When she tried to picture this unknown Marie-Louise, who would so soon become a part of the Emperor's life, Marianne still found herself shaking with an anger and jealousy all the greater because she had neither the right nor the opportunity to show them. Napoleon was marrying for purely dynastic reasons. He would listen to no arguments that went against his determination to have a son. He himself was endlessly jealous and watchful, and had questioned Marianne more than once about the real state of her relationship to Talleyrand and, even more, with Jason Beaufort, who he seemed unable to forget. But he would not have countenanced a similar display on her part, or not where his future wife was concerned. And, little by little, Marianne had come to feel an all-embracing sympathy for his divorced wife, Josephine.

One day in the middle of February she had gone with Fortunée Hamelin to call on the ex-Empress. She had found her as melancholy as ever although apparently resigned, but when the Empress's name was mentioned, tears were never far away.

'He has given me a new chateau,' Josephine had said pathetically. 'The chateau of Navarre, not far from Evreux, and says he hopes that I shall like it. But I know why, it is because he wants me to be out of Paris when she arrives – that other!'

'The Austrian!' Fortunée spoke angrily. 'The French have been quick to call her that. They have not forgotten Marie-Antoinette.'

'Oh no. But they are sorry now, and they will do their best to make the niece forget the sufferings of her aunt.'

To Marianne, Josephine was especially kind. She seemed delighted to learn of the distant kinship between them and immediately embraced the younger woman with a quite motherly affection.

'I hope that you, at least, will remain my friend, although your mother gave her life for the late queen.'

'I hope you cannot doubt it, madame. Your majesty shall have no more faithful or loving servant than myself. Make what use of me you will.'