It was fifteen days since she had left Lucca. They had travelled by the coast road and then up the valley of the Rhone, making easy stages, partly in order to spare Marianne herself, since she was now in her fourth month of pregnancy and obliged to exercise prudence, and partly to avoid overtaxing the horses. These were no longer the common post horses which had drawn the berline on the outward journey but four splendid animals out of the Sant'Anna stables. They proceeded on average some forty miles a day, stopping each night at one of the posting houses with which the route was provided.
The journey had given Marianne an opportunity to measure just how great was the change in her status. The magnificence of her team, the crest and the crown surmounting it on the berline's panel assured her everywhere of prompt and deferential service. She had discovered that there was something to be said for being a very great lady. As for Gracchus and Agathe, they were clearly bursting with pride at serving a Princess and allowed no one to forget it. One had only to see Gracchus stalking into the inn where they had stayed each morning and announcing grandly that her serene highness's carriage awaited. The one-time errand boy of the rue Montorgueil was developing all the airs and graces of an imperial coachman.
Marianne, for her part, was rather enjoying the leisurely journey. She was not looking forward greatly to returning to Paris where, apart from the pleasant prospect of seeing her dear Arcadius again, she expected little but trouble. The threatening shadow of Francis Cranmere loomed large in her thoughts but she had some anxiety to spare also for the welcome that awaited her from the Emperor. While she was still on the road, her perils were confined to the possibility of an encounter with brigands but so far no alarming figures had appeared to bar the passage of the coach. At least the rural scene had succeeded in washing her mind clear of the mists and fantasies of the Villa Sant'Anna, although it had taken all her willpower to keep her thoughts from dwelling on the evil face of Matteo Damiani and the fantastic figure of the rider in the white mask. Later, she would think about them, later, when she had come to terms with the new life that lay ahead for her. For the present, she had no idea what this would be. She was in Napoleon's hands. It was he who had mapped out the career of the singer, Maria Stella, but what would he make of the Princess Sant'Anna? Certainly the Princess herself was none too sure what to make of her. Here she was, married again, married but without a husband.
Marianne was enchanted by Avignon. It might have been the sun or the broad, lazy river, the warm colour of the old stones or the geraniums that clung to every iron balcony. Perhaps the silky murmuring in the silvery-olive trees had something to do with it, or the musical voices of the women in their striped petticoats gossiping and commenting on the passage of the coach. Whatever it was, it made her want to stay there for a few days before finishing her journey to Paris. She leaned out of the window.
'Gracchus, see if there is a good hostelry here. I should like to stay for a day or two.'
'We can try. There's a large inn over there with a handsome sign.'
The Auberge du Palais, one of the oldest and best-appointed in the region, nestled its thick, ochre-coloured walls and roof of semi-circular Roman tiles up against the Porte de l'Oulle. That it was also a staging post for the diligence was attested by the presence in the yard of that vast, unwieldy vehicle, liberally coated with dust, in the process of disgorging its load of stiff and yawning passengers amid a babel of clanging bells, shouting postillions and joyful cries of greeting from those meeting or being met.
One of the postillions, standing on the roof of the coach, was engaged in handing down boxes, portmanteaux and parcels belonging to the passengers to one of the inn servants. When all the luggage had been unloaded, he picked up several bundles of newspapers and tossed them down also. They were copies of the Moniteur from Paris; one of the bundles burst when the ostler failed to catch it, scattering the papers on the ground.
A stable boy sprang forward to retrieve them but, as he did so, his eye fell on the news contained in the front page and he let out a shout.
'Holy Virgin! Napoleon has sent old Fouché packing. How's that for news!'
There was uproar as patrons and inn servants began talking at once.
'Fouché dismissed? Surely not!'
'Bah! The Emperor must have had enough of him at last.'
'No, you're wrong there. The Emperor's done it to please his new Empress. She wouldn't want to be meeting him every day, not one of the old regicides from the Revolution who sent her uncle to his death!'
Some were delighted at the news, others merely amazed. Provence had never wholly supported the new regime. The region had remained royalist at heart and Fouché's fall was greeted on the whole as a hopeful sign.
Gracchus had remained on his box, observing the little scene, but now Marianne leaned out and called to him again.
'Go and fetch me one of those newspapers,' she said, 'and hurry!'
'At once, my lady. As soon as I have bespoke your lodging.'
'No. This minute! If these people are right, we may not be staying here after all.'
The news concerned her closely. It seemed almost too good to be true that her old persecutor Fouché, the man who had dared, by threats, to introduce her into Talleyrand's household as a spy, who had failed to save her from falling into the hands of Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis and who, worst of all, had permitted Francis Cranmere to roam Paris at liberty, should really have lost the dangerous power which had made him the secret master of the whole country. Marianne could scarcely believe it.
Yet, when she held the paper in her hands, yellowed and dusty from its long journey, she was obliged to accept the evidence of her eyes. Not content with the bare announcement that the Duke of Otranto had been succeeded as head of the Ministry of Police by Savary, the Duke of Rovigo, the Moniteur also published the text of the Emperor's official letter to Fouché.
'The services which you have rendered me on various occasions,' the Emperor wrote, 'have led us to entrust to you the governorship of Rome until such time as Article 8 of the Constitution Act of 17 February 1810 shall come into effect. We expect that you will continue, in this new post, to give further proof of your zeal in our service and devotion to our person…'
Crumpling the paper nervously between her hands, Marianne allowed the joyful news to sink in. It was better even than she had hoped! Exiled! Fouché had been exiled! For there was no mistaking the real meaning of his appointment as governor of Rome; Napoleon wanted Fouché away from Paris. Another item of news, placed at a sufficient distance from that of Fouché's dismissal to ensure that no connection between the two should occur to the man in the street, caught Marianne's eye. On the very day of Fouché's 'retirement', the banker Ouvrard had been arrested in the salon of a brilliant Parisienne hostess, on charges of malversation and acting against the interests of the state. Marianne's thoughts went instantly to Fortunée and the threats which she had uttered against her lover. Had she been responsible for Ouvrard's arrest? And, if that were so, was it through her that Napoleon had learned of Fouché's secret negotiations with England? She was perfectly capable of it, for she was as vindictive to her enemies as she was loyal to her friends.
'What is your highness's will?'
Gracchus's everyday tones broke in on her reverie. After such news there could be no more question of dawdling on the way. She must get back, quickly. Now that he had lost his ally, Francis had ceased to be a danger. She favoured her youthful coachman with the most radiant smile seen on her lips since leaving Lucca.
'Drive on, Gracchus, as fast as you can! I want to be in Paris as soon as possible.'