Marianne and The Masked Prince

Juliette Benzoni Marianne and The Masked Prince

Part I THE MAN WITH THE SCARRED FACE

CHAPTER ONE Appointment at 'La Folie'

Abruptly, Napoleon ceased pacing up and down the room and came to a stop in front of Marianne. The girl huddled in the big arm-chair by the fire gave a sigh of relief. Even deadened by the thick carpet, that regular pacing racked her nerves and made her head throb. So much had happened in the course of that fantastic evening that she was too exhausted to be conscious of anything beyond the splitting ache in her head. There had been the thrill of her first appearance on stage at the Théâtre Feydeau, her stage-fright and, above all, the inexplicable appearance in one of the stage boxes of the man she believed she had killed, followed by his equally mysterious disappearance. Enough to overcome a much stronger constitution than Marianne's!

With an effort, she opened her eyes and saw that he was watching her, his hands clasped behind his back and an anxious look on his face. Was he really anxious, or merely vexed? The pressure of his smart, silver-buckled shoe was digging a hole in the pale carpet, while the quiver of his thin nostrils and a certain steely glint in his blue eyes betokened an incipient burst of temper. Marianne asked herself suddenly if the man before her was her lover, the Emperor, or an examining magistrate. In the ten minutes that had elapsed since he burst in on her he had said little, but she could sense the questions in the air. The quiet room with its blue-green watered silks, bright flowers and sparkling crystal, so peaceful and reassuring a few moments before, had taken on a fragile, transitory air. Sure enough, the peace was shattered in an instant by his curt voice.

'Are you sure what you saw was not an hallucination?'

'An hallucination?'

'Yes. You could have seen someone who looked like… like this man. Someone quite different. It is hardly likely that an English nobleman could be at large in France, going to theatres, even sitting in the Chancellor of State's own box and no one any the wiser! My police are the best in Europe.'

In spite of her shock and exhaustion, Marianne bit back a smile. So that was it: vexation rather than anxiety was uppermost in Napoleon's mind, for the simple reason that the efficiency of his police force was in question. Yet God alone knew how many foreign spies were loose in France at that moment! Marianne sighed wearily.

'Sire, I know the vigilance of your Minister of Police as well as you do, better perhaps, and I meant no reflection upon him. But there can be no doubt the man I saw was Francis Cranmere and no other.'

Napoleon made a movement of irritation but controlled it at once and came to sit at the foot of Marianne's sofa. His tone was markedly softer as he asked: 'How can you be sure? You yourself told me that you barely knew this man.'

'One does not easily forget the face of a man who has destroyed one's life. Besides, the man I saw had a long scar on his left cheek.'

'And what does that prove?'

'Only that I gave it him, with the point of a rapier, to make him fight,' Marianne said quietly. 'I scarcely think any accidental resemblance would go so far as to reproduce a scar known here only to myself. No, it was he and from now on I am in danger.'

Napoleon laughed and drew Marianne into his arms with a movement of spontaneous tenderness.

'Now you are talking nonsense. Mio dolce amor, how could you be in danger while I love you? Am I not the Emperor? Do you know how powerful I am?'

The terror which had been gripping Marianne's heart miraculously relaxed its hold. Once again she was conscious of the extraordinary sense of security which only he could give her. He was right when he said that nothing could touch her while he was there but – that was just the trouble. He was going away. With an impulse of childish fear she clutched his shoulder.

'You are the only one I trust. But you are leaving me, leaving Paris. You will be far away.'

She had a vague, momentary hope that he would offer to take her with him. Why shouldn't she go to Compiègne too? True, the new Empress was due to arrive in a few days but surely he could install her in a house in the town, away from the palace but not too far? She might have broached her desire but already he had laid her back against the cushions and risen to his feet with a swift glance at the ormulu clock on the mantelshelf.

'I shall not be away long. I will send for Fouché when I get back and give him strict orders concerning this house. In any case, he must scour Paris for this Cranmere. Give him a complete description of the man tomorrow morning.'

'The Duchess of Bassano said she saw a Flemish gentleman, the Vicomte d'Aubécourt, in the box. Perhaps Francis is going by that name?'

'Then the Vicomte d'Aubécourt shall be found and Fouché shall report to me in detail. Don't worry, carissima mia, I will be watching over you, even from a distance. And now I must leave you.'

'So soon! Can't you stay with me tonight, at least?'

Marianne regretted her plea as soon as the words were out. If he was in such haste to leave her, she should not have pleaded with him to stay, as if she did not trust him or herself. But in her heart she was a prey to all the demons of jealousy. In a moment he was leaving her to go to another woman. There were tears in her eyes as she watched him cross to pick up his grey coat from the chair where he had flung it as he entered. Only when he had put it on did he look at her and answer.

'I had hoped so, Marianne, but when I got back from the theatre I found a host of despatches waiting to be answered before I leave. Do you know I left six people waiting in my antechamber to come to you?'

'At this time of night?' Marianne's voice held disbelief.

He moved swiftly to her side and tweaked her ear.

'Always remember, little one, the official day-time visitors are not always the most important. I hold more nocturnal audiences than you might imagine. Now, good-bye.'

He bent and kissed her lightly on the lips but Marianne did not respond. She uncoiled herself from her chair and went to fetch a branch of candles from her dressing-table.

'I will escort your majesty,' she said, a little chill of formality in her voice. 'All the servants except the porter will be in bed.'

She had opened the door and was about to precede him to the stairs when he caught her back.

'Look at me, Marianne. You are cross with me, aren't you?'

'I should not presume so far, sire. I am honoured that your majesty can spare your valuable time to remember your humble servant.'

Before she could complete her stately curtsey, Napoleon laughed and, taking the candles firmly from her hand, pulled her roughly to her feet and into his arms.

'My love, I swear you are jealous. It suits you. I told you once before you should have been a Corsican. God, but you are beautiful like that, with your eyes blazing like emeralds in the sun! You are dying to abuse me roundly, only you dare not. I can feel you trembling...'

The laughter died out of his face as he spoke. Marianne knew from his sudden pallor and the tightening of his jaw how much he wanted her. Then his head was buried in her neck and he was covering her shoulders and her breast with kisses. It was he who was trembling now while Marianne, her head thrown back, her eyes closed, listened to her racing heart and gave herself to his caresses. A wild thrill of happiness, made up of pride as much as love, surged through her at the realization that her power over him was as great as ever. At last he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the big bed and dumped her down unceremoniously. Moments later the exquisite white dress, which had dazzled all Paris so short a time before, lay in ruins on the carpet, while Marianne lay in Napoleon's arms, gazing up at the canopy of sea-green watered silk rippling over her head.