'We'll wait here. How much farther, do you think?'
'Not far,' the other man answered. He was a large, floridly handsome fellow with brown, curly hair. At present he was occupied in doing his best to shield a vast, plumed hat beneath his cloak. 'But why wait here with water dripping down our necks from these abominably leaky, rustic gutters when we might seek shelter in some farm-house?'
'Your stay in Naples has done you no good, Murat,' the Emperor said mockingly. 'Are you frightened of a few drops of rain?'
'Not for myself, but for my dress. I shall be obliged to greet the Empress wearing sodden plumes, like a wilting palm tree!'
'If you dressed more plainly, you would have nothing to worry about. You should do as I do.'
'Your style of dress is deplorably sober, sire, as I have always said. You cannot go to meet an Archduchess dressed like a shopkeeper.'
This remarkable exchange gave Marianne time to regain control of herself. The breathless pounding of her heart had stopped and jealousy was giving way a little to sheer feminine curiosity. So this was the famous Murat, the King of Naples and the Emperor's brother-in-law. Despite his impressive height and the splendours of the blue uniform glimpsed beneath the enveloping black cloak, Marianne thought there was a vulgarity in his features and an excessive swagger in his bearing. He might be the finest horseman in the Empire but if that were so he should take care never to be seen without his horse. On foot, he seemed only half a man. But Napoleon was speaking again.
'I told you, I wish to take the Archduchess by surprise and show myself to her without frills. And I want to see her in her plain travelling dress. We'll step out into the road when the cortege comes in sight.
A sigh loud enough to reach Marianne's ears indicated Murat's opinion of this plan but he said resignedly: 'Very well, we'll wait.'
'Now don't look so gloomy. All this is very romantic, you know. Must I remind you that your own wife is with Marie-Louise? Aren't you glad to see Caroline again?'
'Oh yes, but we have been man and wife long enough for the first shock to have worn off. Besides —'
'Hush! Don't you hear anything?'
All the occupants of the church, the watchers and the watched, strained their ears. There was a rumbling in the distance, like an approaching storm, still faint and very far away but coming slowly nearer.
'Ah yes,' Murat agreed, with evident relief. 'That must be the coaches. Yes, surely —' The King of Naples plunged bravely out into the rain and after a quick glance along the road came running back, crying: 'I can see the leaders of the escorting hussars! Your bride approaches, sire!'
In an instant, Napoleon had joined him, while Marianne, drawn by a curiosity she could not help, crept forward into the church doorway. She was in no danger of being seen. The Emperor's attention was all on the long string of carriages now coming at a smart pace down the road towards them, led by a mounted escort in colours of blue and mauve. Marianne could feel the tension in him from where she stood, and it came to her suddenly how much it meant to him, the arrival of this daughter of the Habsburgs to whom he looked for his heir and through whom he would ally himself at last with the blood royal of Europe. To fight back her growing anguish, she strove to remember his contemptuous words: 'I am marrying a womb.' It was no good. Everything in her lover's attitude (gossip even said that he had insisted on learning to dance in his new bride's honour) betrayed how impatiently he had been waiting for the moment when his future wife would come to him. Even this schoolboy prank in which he had indulged in the company of his brother-in-law! He could not bear to wait for the next day's official, ceremonial meeting at Pontarcher.
Napoleon stood in the centre of the road and the hussars were already reining in their mounts at the sight of his familiar figure, crying: 'The Emperor! It is the Emperor!' The words were echoed a moment later by the chamberlain, M. de Seyssel, who came riding up, but Napoleon ignored them all. Oblivious of the driving rain, he was running towards the big coach drawn by eight steaming horses and tugging open the door without waiting for it to be opened for him. Marianne caught a glimpse of two women inside before one leaned forward and exclaimed: 'His majesty, the Emperor!'
But Napoleon, it was clear, had eyes only for her companion, a tall, fair girl with a pink and white complexion and round, somewhat protuberant blue eyes, now bulging more than usual with alarm. Her pouting lips were trembling as she tried to smile. She was dressed in a plain green velvet cloak but on her head she wore a startling confection of multicoloured feathers that resembled the crest of a moulting parrot.
Marianne, standing a few yards away devouring the Archduchess with her eyes, experienced a fierce spasm of joy at the realization that Marie-Louise, if not precisely ugly, was certainly no more than passable. Her complexion was good enough but her blue eyes held no intelligence and the famous Habsburg lip combined with an overlong nose to produce a face lacking in charm. And then she was so badly dressed! She was fat, too, too fat for a young girclass="underline" in ten years she would be gross. Already there was a heaviness about her.
Eagerly, Marianne looked at the Emperor who was standing with his feet in a puddle gazing at his future wife, trying to gauge his reactions. Surely, he must be disappointed. He would bow formally, kiss his bride's hand and then return to his own carriage which was already undergoing repairs — but no, his voice rang out gaily:
'Madame, I am delighted to see you!'
Oblivious of his drenched clothes, he sprang into the coach and caught the fair girl in his arms, kissing her several times with an enthusiasm that drew a prim smile from the other occupant of the vehicle, a pretty, blonde woman whose pearly skin and dimpled charms were not destroyed by the fact that her face was over-fleshed and her neck too short. The innocence of her expression was belied by a sardonic glint in her eye which Marianne did not quite like. This must be Napoleon's sister, Caroline Murat, one of the most notorious harpies in court circles. Her husband, having first kissed the Archduchess's hand, returned alone to the plain travelling coach while Napoleon settled himself in the seat facing the two women and addressed the coachman who still stood beside the vehicle with a beaming smile.
'Drive on to Compiègne, and don't spare the horses!'
'But sire,' the Queen of Naples murmured protestingly, 'we are expected at Soissons. There is to be a supper, a reception.'
'Then they can eat their supper without us. It is my wish that my lady wife spend tonight in her own house! Drive on.'
Caroline's lips tightened at the snub but she retired into her corner and the carriage moved off, affording Marianne a last glimpse through her tears of Napoleon smiling blissfully at his bride. A shout of command and the escort quickened their pace to a trot. One by one, the eighty-three vehicles of the new Empress's train moved past the church. Marianne stood leaning on the wet stones of the Gothic porch and watched them unseeingly, so deep in her own miserable thoughts that Arcadius had at last to shake her gently to rouse her.
'What now?' he asked. We ought to go straight back to the inn. You are soaked to the skin, and so am I.'
Marianne looked at him strangely.
'We are going to Compiègne…'