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'That she has done what you should do, my pet, what any woman in her right mind would do in her case – and in yours. She has taken a lover!'

Too dumbfounded to answer, Marianne merely stared at Fortunée, making the gossip-loving Creole almost purr with satisfaction.

'You need not look so shocked,' she said. 'In my view, Josephine was quite right. Why should she be forced to spend her nights alone, which was already her fate for the most part at the Tuileries? She has lost a throne and found love. And if you ask me, it is no more than justice.'

'Perhaps. Who is he?'

'Count Lancelot de Turpin-Crissé, a magnificent, golden-haired Greek god of about thirty. He is her chamberlain which makes it more convenient.'

Marianne was forced to smile at her friend's sally.

'Novels are not always right, you see,' Fortunée went on. 'Why don't you do the same? Find someone to console you. Wait, I'll help you —' She was making for the writing-table again but Marianne stopped her with a gesture.

'No. It is no good. I don't want some young man muttering inanities into my ear. I love him too much, don't you see?'

'What does that matter?' Fortunée persisted. 'I adore Montrond but if I had to remain faithful to him all the time he is in Anvers I should have gone mad by now.'

Marianne abandoned the attempt to make her friend see her point of view. Fortunée's warm-blooded nature made her more in love with love than with men. The tale of her lovers was endless, the latest being the financier Ouvrard who, if his looks were inferior to those of the handsome Casimir de Montrond, amply made up for this deficiency by a vast fortune in which Madame Hamelin was revelling with innocent enjoyment.

Marianne said with a sigh: 'In spite of this marriage, I would not break with the Emperor.' Thinking that this would be an argument Fortunée could understand, she added quickly: 'He would be sure to hear of it and would never forgive me. Besides, let me remind you that somewhere I have a husband who may reappear at any minute.'

With an instant change of mood, Fortunée returned to her seat by Marianne and asked seriously: 'You have heard nothing?'

'Nothing. Only a note from Fouché last night telling me he had found no trace. Even the Vicomte d'Aubécourt seems to have vanished. Yet I believe Fouché is really looking for him. And Arcadius is scouring Paris and he knows the city as well as any professional sleuth.'

'It is odd, all the same —'

The door of the salon opened as she spoke and, as if conjured up by Marianne's words, Arcadius de Jolival appeared and bowed gracefully to the two ladies. He held a letter in his hand. He was dressed, as ever, with exquisite taste in a blend of olive green and grey relieved by the snowy whiteness of his shirt-front, above which twinkled the bright-eyed inquisitive countenance, with its small moustache and goatee, of Marianne's indispensable friend.

Fortunée greeted him amicably. 'Our friend has been telling me how you spend your time scouring the Paris underworld, yet here you are looking for all the world as if you have just sprung from a bandbox!'

Today,' Arcadius said, 'I have been nowhere more dreadful than Frascati's, eating a great many ices and listening to the chatter of a number of pretty girls. My greatest peril was from a pineapple sorbet which Madame Récamier let slip within an inch of my pantaloons.'

'Still no news?' Marianne's strained face formed a striking contrast to the smiling looks of her companions. Ignoring the anxiety in her voice, Jolival cast the letter he held negligently on to the pile of those already waiting and subjected the cameo ring on his left hand to a critical scrutiny.

'None,' he said casually. 'The man in blue seems to have vanished into thin air like the genie in the Persian fables. I did meet the director of the Théâtre Feydeau, however, and he is somewhat surprised to have heard nothing from you since Monday evening's triumph.'

'I sent a message that I was unwell,' Marianne interrupted pettishly. 'That ought to have satisfied him.'

'Unfortunately it did not. Put yourself in his place. The man discovers a new star of the first magnitude, only to have her vanish instantly. He is full of plans for you, each more Austrified than the last, naturally. He means to put on Die Entführung aus dem Serail followed by a concert composed entirely of lieder and—'

'Impossible,' Marianne snapped. 'Tell the man that to begin with I am not a regular member of the company of the Opera Comique. I was engaged for that one performance only —'

'As our friend well knows,' Arcadius sighed. 'Especially since he is aware of the other offers that have been made to you. Picard wants you for the Opera, for the celebrated "Bardes" which so delighted the Emperor, and Spontini makes your – what shall I say? – your Italianate quality his excuse for demanding you for Paesiello's Barber of Seville with the Italian company. Then there are the salons....'

'That's enough!' Marianne interrupted him irritably. 'I want to hear no more of the theatre for the present. I am quite incapable of working. I may confine myself to concerts.'

'I think it is better not to plague her,' Fortunée intervened at this point. 'She is in no state to bear it.'

She rose and kissed her friend affectionately before going on: 'Are you sure you will not sup with me tonight? Ouvrard is bringing some excellent company – including some very pretty young men.'

'No, really. I don't want to see anyone except yourself, and I don't feel frivolous. Come again soon.'

While Arcadius was seeing Madame Hamelin to her carriage, Marianne threw a cushion on to the floor in front of the fire and sank on to it with a weary sigh. She felt chilled and wondered if from pretending to be ill she was really becoming so. But the sickness was all in her heart, racked by doubts, anxieties and jealousy. Outside, a cold, wet night was setting in, so much in tune with Marianne's own mood that for a moment she glanced almost gratefully at the dark windows framed in gold damask curtains. Why must they talk to her of work? She was like a bird, only able to sing when her heart was light. Besides, she had no wish to fall into the conventional pattern of opera singers. Perhaps the truth was that she had no real vocation for the theatre. The offers made to her held no temptation. Or was it the absence of the man she loved that had caused this curious reluctance to accept?

Her gaze wandered from the window to the hearth and came to rest on the portrait that hung above it. Again, she shivered. All at once she seemed to read in the handsome colonel's dark eyes a kind of ironic pity, not unmixed with contempt for the wretched creature sitting at his feet. In the warm glow of the candlelight, the Marquis d'Asselnat seemed to be stepping out of his smoky background to shame his daughter for proving unworthy of him and herself. The silent condemnation of the portrait was so clear that Marianne blushed. Half in spite of herself, she muttered: 'You cannot understand. Your own love was so simple that I dare say to die together seemed to you a logical conclusion, the perfect consummation. But for me —'

Her attempt to justify herself was interrupted by the sound of Arcadius's soft footfall. He stood for a moment watching the slim figure in black velvet, a dark spot in the bright room, even lovelier perhaps in melancholy sadness than in the fullness of joy. The firelight fell on her high cheekbones and awakened a gleam of gold in her green eyes.

'You must never look back,' he told her softly, 'or look to the past for counsel. Your empire lies before you.'

He trod briskly over to the writing-table, picked up the letter he had brought with him and held it out to Marianne.

'You should at least read this one. A courier, mud to the eyebrows, was handing it to your porter when I came in. He said it was urgent. He looked as if he had travelled a long way in bad weather.'