Adelaide thought for a moment, though the cloud which had come over her face did not lift.

'No,' she said at last. 'I think I can understand that. But it is also said that the new owner of this house is a special favourite of the Emperor's and—'

'I love him,' Marianne interrupted her firmly. 'And I am his mistress. That too, you must understand. Unless it is to difficult—'

'Well, one can at least say that you do not mince your words,' Adelaide said when she had recovered from the shock of Marianne's announcement. 'That you should love him does not surprise me. I did myself until this senseless divorce! I cannot forgive him his arch-duchess.'

'I have been forced to forgive him. He must have an heir.'

'There were other ways he could get one. The Hapsburg blood is worthless. They should know that in France. But this fool has let it go to his head! What can he hope to gain in the way of offspring by mingling his own good Corsican blood, that is pure and rich and noble, with an old strain thinned by intermarriage and hereditary weakness? What Marie-Louise brings him is the inheritance of Mad Jeanne and of Philip II. Much cause for rejoicing there is there! And, by the way, tell me how it is that you, a Frenchwoman, with English blood in you, are passed off as an Italian?'

Marianne sighed and poured another glass of wine for herself. She felt she needed it, if only to recover from hearing Adelaide abusing Napoleon so freely.

'It's a long story.'

'Bah!' the old maid retorted, settling herself more comfortably. 'I've plenty of time. And if I may have a little of this pate—I'm always hungry!' she finished up triumphantly. 'And I'm passionately fond of stories.'

As though they had known one another all their lives, the two of them sat one either side of the little table and attacked the food and Marianne's story with equal relish. Marianne herself had never felt so comfortable. She could not wait, now, to tell the whole story to this quaint old spinster whose twinkling blue eyes regarded her with such a spontaneous sympathy. The words seemed to come of their own accord and in telling Adelaide of all that she had been through, she felt as though she were telling it to the spirits of her house as well. She was making her confession to all the past members of her family and she discovered at the same time that all the hatred and resentment she had built up suddenly left her, as though she were recovering from an illness. She had only one fear, that Adelaide would think that she was mad. But the old lady was not without experience. When Marianne had finished she merely patted her young cousin's hand as it lay on the table and sighed.

'And to think I thought that I had led an exciting life! If you go on at this rate, my dear child, I don't know where you might not end up! But it will be interesting to watch.'

Marianne looked up almost timidly and asked:

'You are not shocked? You do not blame me? I am afraid I may have my honour too cheap!'

'You had no choice! Besides, in all justice, it was Lady Cranmere's honour which suffered. Marianne d'Asselnat has merely followed her heart. You would not have me weep for an English honour? Especially one of such melancholy origin—'

She rose suddenly, shaking crumbs off her grey dress. Then, with a thoughtful look at Marianne, she asked suddenly:

'This American – you are quite sure you are not in love with him?'

What could Adelaide be thinking of to ask such an apparently preposterous question? Had she not understood anything Marianne had told her, or had she some special picture of Jason? For a second, the sailor's tall figure seemed to invade the quiet room bringing with it a rush of sea air, but Marianne thrust it back.

'In love with him? How could I be? I feel friendship for him now, and a certain gratitude, but I told you I loved—'

'So you did. But too much gazing on the sun can make one blind, even to one's own heart. I don't know whether you realized it, but you have just described to me an extraordinarily attractive man, and if I were in your shoes—'

'Well?'

'Well – I think I might have paid my stupid husband's gambling debt! Just to see! He seems to know what he is about, that one – and there's no doubt but he's madly fond of you!'

At the sight of Marianne's stunned face as she sat wondering whether she could have heard right, Adelaide suddenly burst out laughing.

'Don't look at me like that,' she exclaimed. 'One would swear you had set eyes on the devil! Let me tell you, my girl, I'm not such an old maid as you may think. Believe me, there is some good even in the most troubled times! But for the Revolution, I should still be a canoness in some aristocratic convent and no doubt bored to death! But thanks to it, I have been able to discover that virtue does not have all the charm it is cracked up to have and store up one or two fragrant memories that I may tell you about later, when we know one another better. But just remember this. There has always been hot blood in the family, and you won't be the first! And with that I'll bid you goodnight—'

Marianne could not have been more astonished if a thunderbolt had fallen on her. She was discovering that nothing she had ever thought about Adelaide came half-way near the truth, and she would have to begin all over again. The mere fact that she had mentioned Beaufort had been enough to bring him back, tenacious and encroaching, into Marianne's mind though she still persisted in trying to drive him out again. Why? Marianne began to have strange doubts. Could she perhaps have loved the American? Oh dear, it was clear that she was still very young and there was still a great deal she had to learn!

She became aware that Adelaide was walking purposefully in the direction of the kitchen staircase and called out to stop her.

'But – where are you going?'

'Down to the cellar, child. I forgot to tell you it communicates with that of Mrs Atkins. A circumstance I discovered not long ago but one which I have found very useful ever since you changed the locks. Goodnight.'

She walked on but Marianne called after her.

'Cousin!'

It was only one word but there was a world of feeling in it. It suddenly seemed to Marianne that in Adelaide she had rediscovered something of her Aunt Ellis and that cry was the product of her need for some of the warmth of kinship. Adelaide paused in the doorway as though something tangible had struck her. She turned slowly, a look of strain on her face.

'Yes?'

'Why – why must you go on living with a friend when there is this house, our house? It is too big for me. I – I need someone – you! I will ask the Emperor to pardon you and then we can—'

She could not go on. There was a silence. Blue eyes and green eyes met and held one another with an intensity that was far beyond words. Was it an illusion, or was that a tear that gleamed for a moment under the older woman's lashes? She pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose vigorously.

'I dare say I'd better move,' she muttered. 'It's dreadfully gloomy here with nothing over the fireplace.'

Patting her tottering pile of hair into place with an air of stern determination, Adelaide turned and marched firmly in the direction of the cellar.

Left alone, Marianne gazed at her surroundings in triumph. It seemed to her that now, suddenly the old house was really itself again, that only now had the old walls begun to live and to accept their new dress. The wheel had come full circle. The house had got its soul again and Marianne a home.


***

Six days later, on the 19th March, the streets around the Théâtre Feydeau were crammed with carriages all turning in to deposit their elegantly dressed contents beneath the round arches of the former Theatre de Monsieur. Women muffled in expensive furs from beneath which came the occasional gleam of jewels, heads crowned with flowers, feathers and diamonds, men in huge overcoats that concealed splendid uniforms or dark coats studded with decorations. In spite of the persistent rain which had been drenching Paris for some days, all that was most distinguished by rank or fortune in the French capital was thronging to the doors of the famous Theatre.

The choice of the Théâtre Feydeau was a late one and due particularly to the size of the auditorium which was much larger than that of the opera in the rue de la Loi. It had also been thought that an Italian singer would find herself more at home on a stage traditionally the preserve of the Italian Comedy and then of the Opéra Comique, rather than at the Opéra where ballet was generally the chief spectacle. The dancers were notoriously averse to sharing the limelight, while the Theatre Feydeau was truly the temple of bel canto. If the Director of the Opéra, Picart, had felt some twinges of regret at the fabulous takings which would not come his way, he consoled himself by thinking of the trouble it would have called down on his head from the temperamental Auguste Vestris, that 'god' whom age did not mellow and who ruled as a despot over a theatre which he regarded as his own personal property.

The members of the Feydeau company, the celebrated Dugazon, the lovely Phyllis and Madame de Saint-Aubin and their male counterparts, the irresistible Elleviou and his colleagues Gavaudan, Martin, Solie and Chenard, had all displayed great deference to the imperial command and declared their willingness to welcome the singer Maria Stella whose great fame, most of it due to the efficient publicity which sprang full-grown from Fouché's fertile brain, had gone before her.