Feeling her body suddenly lifeless against his, Jason tightened his hold and bent his head and tried to kiss her ice-cold cheeks, her closed lips, but she laid her hands flat against that breast where she had dreamed of laying her head all the nights of her life and thrust him gently away without a word. Like a child whose favourite toy is broken, he tried to snatch her back to him, crying out in his sudden grief and terror: 'Say something! Speak to me! Please! Don't just look at me like that. I know I have hurt you, only speak to me! It's true I love you, you know it is! You are all I love and I'd give anything in the world to be able to live out my dreams with you. Listen – there's no need for us to part yet. Surely we can still snatch a little happiness, a little joy from life? I may die in this war, die far away from you – so come with me! Let me take you aboard this ship. It sails at dawn and it is still many days to Anvers – and many nights. Let me go on loving you to the end! Let us not refuse this last miraculous gift—'
She felt the fever that possessed him. She knew that he was speaking the truth, that he meant what he said, he really did want her to go with him. As he said, it would mean many more days, many more nights for loving, forging a chain of passion which at the last moment he might not have the courage to break. Then, at Anvers, he might ask her again to follow him across the seas to his own land where she might still live a life of secrecy and sacrifice as his mistress. That too would mean many more nights of love – and she did love him so! It was a terrible temptation…
In the depths of her misery she might have yielded, might have let him persuade her. But then all at once three faces came into her mind: her father's, proud and sardonic, Corrado's, splendid and sad, and then the tiny, soft face of a sleeping brown-haired baby… And with that the weak, desperate and desperately loving Marianne shrank away, driven out by the Marianne d'Asselnat who, on her wedding night and for her honour's sake, had fought the man she loved and left him lying wounded on the floor of Selton Hall, and that same night had sent Jason Beaufort from her. It was no longer possible for her to be any other.
Firmly, now, she pushed him from her and stepped out of the doorway into the icy wind that billowed out her clothes and stung her body like a whiplash. Gripping her hands together tightly inside her muff of black fox fur, she threw her head back proudly and looked for the last time into the pleading eyes of the man she was leaving and who did not deserve that she should abase herself for him.
'No, Jason,' she said gravely. 'I too have a son. I am Princess Sant'Anna.'
Night had fallen. Without looking back, Marianne walked towards the inn which shone through the darkness like a great ship's lantern, or like a beacon through the storm in which her love was foundering.
Epilogue
JOURNEY'S END
MAY 1813
As before, the black and gold iron gates between the pair of stone giants seemed to open of their own accord at the horses' approach. As before, the magical tranquillity of the park descended like a caress upon those who entered.
There was still the same pale, sanded avenue running like a river between the black plumes of cypresses and round, fragrant orange trees to lose itself in the misty spray of the fountains. And yet Marianne was instantly aware of a feeling that something had altered, that these gardens were not quite as they had been three years ago, almost to the day, when she had come there for the first time at the cardinal's side, as one entering an unknown world.
It was a sudden exclamation from Adelaide that gave her the clue to the difference.
'But it's beautiful!' she breathed. 'All those flowers!'
That was it! The flowers! There used not to be any flowers in the gardens, except when the orange and lemon trees were in bloom. Its beauty had derived solely from the contrasting shades of trees and turf and the tossing waters of the fountains where the statues stood unmoving, with an air of infinite boredom. Now there were flowers everywhere, as though a magician in a moment of madness had scattered all the colours of the rainbow over the whole garden. There were pale, fragrant laurels, huge silvery-pink peonies, great purple rhododendrons, pure white lilies and roses, above all roses – an orgy of flowers! Their splendour had brought the great gardens to life. They rioted everywhere, competing with the shining jets of water from the fountains whose refreshing murmur formed a background to the voices of the songbirds. For there were birds, too, as there had not been before, as though the sadness that had weighed on the whole of the enchanted demesne had frightened them away. Now they were singing with all their hearts.
Amused by Marianne's evident surprise, Jolival bent forward and touched her hand.
'Are you awake, Marianne, or are you dreaming? Anyone would think you had never seen these wonderful gardens before.'
She gave a little shiver, as if she were indeed just waking from a dream.
'In a way that's true. I have never seen them like this. There never used to be any flowers, or birds, or any real life at all, I think… It was all like a strange dream.'
'You were very frightened then. You can't have looked properly.' And Jolival laughed and turned to his newly wedded bride for confirmation. But Adelaide shook her head at him and slipped her arm through Marianne's.
'You don't understand at all, my dear. For my part, I think this change has come about because there is a child here now. A child can make even a graveyard burst into blossom.'
Adelaide and Arcadius had been married for a month now. On her return to Paris in the previous January, Marianne had found the two of them living a cloistered life together in the Hôtel d'Asselnat, locked in their shared grief and it was that, little by little, had brought them together. They were both sure that Marianne was dead and they mourned for her with all their loving hearts.
The arrival of official documents confirming Adelaide as the lawful owner of the family mansion in place of Marianne had not helped matters. Quite the reverse, in fact. This unexpected inheritance had finally convinced them that Marianne was really gone, especially as no one had been able to give them the slightest news of her. After that they had suddenly felt very lonely and unwanted, no longer knowing what to do with their lives. The house had become a mausoleum and the two of them settled down behind its drawn curtains to wait for the end, with only Gracchus to wait on them, but a Gracchus who no longer sang.
On the night when the mud-bespattered coach bearing Marianne and Barbe had drawn up below the steps, the travellers had been met by two very old people dressed in deepest mourning and leaning on each other's arms, both of whom had, in good earnest, very nearly died of joy.
That unexpected homecoming had truly been a great and wonderful moment. They had clung to each other for minutes on end, unable to tear themselves away, while Gracchus, having kissed his mistress in his turn, sat down on the front steps and sobbed as if he could never stop.
After that, they had sat up all night telling one another their adventures, Arcadius and Gracchus with the convoy led by General Nansouty and Marianne and Barbe on the long road to Danzig.
There had been eating and drinking, too, and Adelaide, who for a month had scarcely touched a morsel, had suddenly recovered her old voracious appetite. On that memorable night she had accounted all by herself for a whole chicken, a pâtè, an entire dish of prunes and two bottles of champagne.
By daylight, she was slightly grey about the face, but as happy as a queen. And it was then, while she went off to seek her bed with steps that tottered a little, that Jolival turned to Marianne as she stood in the middle of the yellow salon, gazing up at her father's portrait.