Marianne felt an aching bitterness creep over her as he spoke. In an instant, all the confidence which she had based on the power of her love, on her influence with Napoleon, collapsed and fell in ruins. She knew that he cared for her, loved her perhaps as much as he was capable of loving any woman, but no more. The love the Emperor might feel for a woman of flesh and blood could not compete with the love he bore his Empire and his name. He had loved Josephine, had married her, crowned her, yet Josephine had been forced to step down from the throne and make way for this pink Austrian cow. He had loved the Polish countess, she had borne his child, and yet Marie Walewska had been packed off back to Poland in the depth of winter to bring the fruit of that love into the world. What were Marianne and all her charms beside the one to whom he looked for an heir to inherit his Empire and his name? Bitterly, Marianne recalled the careless tone in which he had said to her: 'I am marrying a womb!' That womb was more precious to him than the greatest love on earth.
Her eyes filled with tears and she saw through a glittering mist the bright forms of the newly-married pair, apparently borne up upon a sea of heads. Francis's voice came to her, persuasive and insinuating, as though out of a dream.
'Be sensible, Marianne, and be satisfied with your own power – a power it would be foolish to throw away for the sake of a few hundred ecus! What are fifty thousand livres to the queen of Paris? Boney will have given you as many again within the week.'
'I have not got them,' Marianne said shortly, angrily snuffing out an impending tear with the tip of her finger.
'But you will have in – shall we say – three days? I will let you know where and how to get them to me.'
'And what assurance have I that if I give them to you this will be the end of your infamous demands?'
Francis stretched his long arms with the lazy grace of a big cat and smiled a sleepy smile.
'None, I grant you, unless it be that I shall not be in need of money – for a while. One can always write a new pamphlet…'
'Which I shall have to face sooner or later? Oh no. If that is how it is, Lord Cranmere, you get nothing from me! Sooner or later, you will attack me, when I have no more money, perhaps. No. You may do your worst. You shall not have your fifty thousand livres!'
Marianne was thinking hard as she spoke. She would go to see Fouché, or even the Emperor, if that were possible, this very night. She would tell them of the danger threatening her and then she would go away, anywhere, so that if Fouché's men failed to stem the tide of pamphlets, at least there would be distance enough between her and Napoleon to prevent their names being linked again. She would go, perhaps, to Italy, where her voice would enable her to earn a living and where she might possibly find her godfather and get this dreadful marriage annulled. Then, when she was Marianne d'Asselnat again (she had noticed that her maiden name was not mentioned in the pamphlet), she might be able to approach Napoleon afresh. For the second time, Lord Cranmere's voice interrupted her plans.
'Ah, I was forgetting,' he said, on a note of gentle mockery. 'Knowing the impulsiveness of your character and your regrettable passion for disappearing without trace, I have taken additional precautions – in the person of the eccentric female who seems to act towards you as a mother and a chaperon but who is, I believe, your cousin.'
Marianne's heart missed a beat and she found herself suddenly at a loss for air.
'Adelaide?' she gasped. 'What is this to do with her?'
'Why, a good deal, I think. If you knew me better, my dear, you would know that I am not the man to start a game without several trumps in my hand. Mademoiselle d'Asselnat received a message purporting to come from you and by this time should be safely in the care of friends of mine. If you wish to see her again alive...'
Marianne realized suddenly, from the anguish that tore her heart, just how fond she had grown of Adelaide. She closed her eyes so that he should not see the tears which started into them. The devil! He had dared to lay hands on that kindly, devoted old maid! Marianne knew now that he was hand in glove with Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis and her gang, and felt sickened at the thought of her cousin in their hands. She knew them, knew how cruel and unscrupulous they were and their hatred for all those connected, however remotely, with the imperial regime.
'You dared!' she muttered through clenched teeth. 'You dared to do that and you think by this means to bring me to agree? Well, I shall find her. I know the den of that evil creature who sits grinning at us.'
'You may find her,' Francis retorted coolly, 'but I warn you, if Fouché's spies start poking their dirty noses into my friend Fanchon's territory, they will find only a corpse.'
'You would not dare!'
'Why not? On the other hand, if you behave sensibly, as I hope and do as I ask nicely, then I can promise to restore her to you unharmed.'
'Do you expect me to believe the word of a —'
'A scoundrel,' Francis finished for her. 'I know. It seems to me you have no choice. First find the fifty thousand livres I need, my sweet Marianne. I promise I will not call on your generosity again for – a year, let us say. And now —'
He heaved himself up from the velvet cushions and took the hand which Marianne was still too stupefied to withdraw and carried it to his lips. At the last moment, her slim fingers slipped from Francis's gloved hand, as though instinctively.
'I hate you,' she said dully. 'Oh, how I hate you!'
He gave his twisted smile. 'That does not disturb me. With some women, hatred has more spice than love. I shall have my money!'
'You shall have it, but take care. If you harm one hair of my cousin's head, there is no hiding-place in all Europe safe enough to keep you from my vengeance. That I swear by my father's memory, I will kill you with my own hands, even if I die for it!'
She shook her gloved fist in Lord Cranmere's face. The smile left Francis's lips and he flinched before the cold fury in her glittering green eyes. The pallor of that lovely face, the anguish so clearly written there, had their effect on the Englishman, touched, perhaps, some forgotten chord in his selfish, cynical nature. He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it, shrugged, like a man seeking to shift a burden from his shoulders, and stepped down from the carriage. When he stood beside it, he muttered without looking up: 'If you do as I require, nothing unpleasant will happen. And you can forget these tragedy airs – they reek of the boards, you know.'
He was gone before Marianne could recover enough to retort. What was the use? Through the tears she was no longer able to restrain, she saw him climb in to the curricle, take the reins, and back the vehicle away. The wedding procession had moved out of sight past the swing bridge by the Tuileries and the crowd was already dispersing among the side-shows, the sweetmeat stalls and the open air buffets, and the fountains which would soon begin to flow with wine. But Marianne saw none of this.
Overwhelmed by a terrible feeling of defeat and helplessness, she sat motionless in her seat, her hand clenched on the shining handle of her parasol, her cheeks wet with tears that dropped unheeded on to her lace gown. It did not occur to her to summon Arcadius or to command the carriage to drive on. Her whole mind was concentrated on her cousin and what that elderly woman might be enduring at the hands of Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis and her minions. Jolival, however, had seen Lord Cranmere leave the carriage and had instantly leaped down from the box to rejoin Marianne.