Marianne and the Crown of Fire

He continued his pacing for a minute or two and Marianne, her heart in her mouth, made no move to interrupt him. Suddenly, the Emperor paused and rounded on her. 'Why? Why did he do it?'

'I don't know, Sire. I give you my word. I have been turning the question over and over in my mind ever since and I can find no answer that makes sense. He is a quiet man, of great intelligence and self-control, and a faithful servant of God. Only a sudden madness, possibly.'

'I don't think so. There was some other reason. He did not look like a madman. Myself, I think you do not know him, you are blinded by your affection. He hates me. I saw it in his eyes.'

'It is true, Sire, that he hates you. But it is possible, perhaps, that in speaking as he did – however insolently – he was simply seeking to save your life?'

'Come, come! Was he not one of the rebellious cardinals I sent packing when they refused to solemnize my marriage? San Lorenzo… the name means something to me. And not only that I have heard of him somewhat too frequently on your account. Your marriage was his doing, was it not?'

Marianne's heart sank. Once more, slowly and inexorably, the gulf was widening between her and the Emperor. Soon, perhaps, he would see her, not as the girl he had almost killed, but simply as the near connection of a rebel spy.

'All that your Majesty says is true,' she answered with an effort, 'yet still I beseech you to be merciful. You did promise me—'

'Not that! How could I have guessed? Mad! All women are mad! Free that dangerous plotter! And what then? Why not give him weapons and the key to my bedchamber?'

'Sire, your Majesty is mistaken. I do not ask for his liberty, only for his life. After that your Majesty would be free to imprison him for life in whatever place you chose.'

'A simple matter, to be sure! Here we are a thousand leagues from Paris, surrounded by a ring of fire. What can I do but put him to death? Besides – I cannot grant a reprieve. No one would understand. If he were a Russian, the thing might be possible. But a Frenchman! No, a thousand times no! I cannot do it. What is more, he dared to speak of my son and that I will never forgive. Villain, to call a curse down on the child!'

'Sire!' Marianne begged.

'I said no! Cease your importunities and be done! Ask me something else.'

Despairingly, she saw that she was losing the battle, that he was in haste to be done with the subject. Already, the Mameluke, Ali, was there, to announce that the Emperor's horse was waiting. After him came Duroc, bringing a budget full of bad news: the fire had reached the palace kitchens, debris was beginning to fall on the Arsenal, the wind was strengthening…

Napoleon turned to Marianne, a frown between his brows.

'Well, Madame, I am waiting.'

Beaten, she made her curtsy, her shoulders sagging in defeat.

'Let me see him for a moment, Sire, to say farewell. I ask nothing more.'

'Very well.'

He went quickly to a small writing desk which stood open in a corner and scribbled a few words on a sheet of paper. The pen squeaked and spluttered as he signed it. Then he handed it to Marianne.

'You may have half an hour, Madame, and not one moment longer, for it may be that we shall have to bring the matter to a conclusion sooner than we thought. I will see you later.'

He went out swiftly to where his escort waited in the antechamber. Marianne was left alone in the imperial bedchamber which, now that its owner had left it, had taken on the deserted and uncared-for look of an empty hotel room.

For a little while, like Napoleon himself, she paced up and down, deep in thought, the paper he had given her clutched in one hand. Then, having come to a decision, she went out in her turn. She went in search of Gracchus and Jolival, for she had some instructions to give them.

CHAPTER SIX Monsieur de Beyle

Outside the palace, the atmosphere was stifling. Billows of acrid smoke filled the courtyards and terraces. Partly as a protection against the choking fumes and the sparks and hot ashes borne on the wind, and partly from another, less straightforward motive, Marianne had taken care to wrap herself, despite the heat, in her great travelling cloak, pulling the hood well down over her eyes and holding a handkerchief, soaked in water and eau de Cologne, which she had borrowed from the Emperor's wardrobe, up to her face. Thus attired, she hurried down the grassy slope leading from the level of the palace itself down to the outer purlieus of the Kremlin, which were built at river level.

Seen from close at hand, the Tower of the Secret lost much of its impressiveness. Only half the height of its fellows, owing to an order for its demolition, along with the rest, in the time of the Empress Catherine II, enough of it had remained when the work was discontinued on grounds of expense to provide an exceedingly useful prison.

Two grenadiers were on guard, ensconced in a dark niche at the foot of the stairs. The sight of the imperial signature at the foot of the written order had them saluting respectfully and one of them undertook to guide her up to the floor above, where he paused below a low, arched doorway garnished with enough locks and bolts to have defended a town. Still with the same deferential attitude, he drew proudly from his pocket an enormous turnip watch, which could not have been long in his possession, and declared solemnly: 'I'll be back to let your ladyship out in half an hour, according to his Majesty's orders.'

Marianne nodded to show that she understood. From the moment of her entry into the tower, she had taken care not to let them hear the sound of her voice, merely holding out her permit silently and praying that the men would be able to read. But for the moment, luck was with her.

The cell, an ancient casemate pierced by a single embrasure, was very dark but it did not take her many seconds to make out its occupant. He was seated on a wide stone sill below the narrow window, trying to peer out through the drifts of smoke that penetrated through the slit. His face was very pale and there was a large bruise on one temple where someone must have struck him after his attack on the Emperor. He barely turned his head at Marianne's entry.

They looked at one another for a moment, on his side with a kind of bored indifference and on hers with a choking misery that she could not control. Then the cardinal sighed and asked: 'Why have you come? If it is a reprieve you bring – for I don't doubt you have been begging for one – understand that I don't want it. It will have been bought at too high a price.'

'I bring no reprieve. The Emperor would not listen to my pleas. Moreover, we have long ceased to be on such terms as you imply.'

The prisoner's only reply was a faint shrug and a mirthless laugh.

'Yet I did ask him to spare your life,' Marianne continued. 'God knows I pleaded with him! But it seems that people would not understand if he were to show mercy in a case of such gravity, and in the present circumstances.'

'He is quite right. The last thing he can afford is to be accused of weakness. Besides, I have told you, I prefer death to clemency from him.'

Marianne walked slowly towards him, conscious of a sharp pang, now that she saw him from close to, at the realization of how tired he looked, and how much older than he had done a few nights before, in the passage of St Louis-des-Français. Abruptly, she sank to her knees and, clasping his cold hands, pressed her lips to them.

'Godfather!' she begged. 'Dear Godfather, why did you do it? Why did you say such things to his face? What sort of impulse—'

'An idiotic impulse, isn't that what you mean?'

'It has done you no good! What did you hope to gain by speaking to Napoleon like that? To make him leave Moscow, depart from Russia?'

'Yes, I did. I wanted it with all my heart. You cannot conceive how much I wanted him to be gone from this place, to go back to his own country while there was still time to avert disaster.'