Corrado Sant'Anna had married her for the sake of a child of the imperial blood to inherit his name. And now, through her own fault, she, Marianne, had lost all hope of fulfilling her part of the bargain. The prince had been cheated.
'You are thinking of your mysterious husband, are you?' Fortunée said quietly.
'Yes. I am ashamed, ashamed, do you understand? Because I feel now as if I had stolen the name I bear.'
'Stolen it? But why?'
'I have already told you,' Marianne said wearily. 'Prince Sant' Anna married me only for the sake of the child, because it was the Emperor's and so he was not ashamed to acknowledge it…'
'So, having lost it, you think yourself unfit to live and, if I understand you correctly, your present plan is simply to go into a decline and die?'
'More or less. But don't imagine I am trying to punish myself. I told you: I just do not wish to live.'
Fortunée got up and walked nervously over to the window, threw it open and then returned to her place by the bed:
'If your will to live depends purely on the existence of a child of Napoleon's, then I should think the answer was obvious. Napoleon will give you another and all will be well.'
'Fortunée!'
Gasping, Marianne turned a shocked face to her friend, but the Creole only grinned:
'You may well say Fortunée! like that! Do I shock you? You don't appear to have been quite so squeamish in practice, do you? And if there's one thing I can't endure, it's hypocrisy. Leave that to the experts, like Madame de Genlis, or Madame Campan and her mealy-mouthed set, unless you mean to ally yourself with those mewling dowagers who come flocking back from abroad wailing about the decline in good manners! I like to call a spade a spade! If you want to do right by your invisible husband, you must give him another child, and a child of Napoleon's. Moraclass="underline" Napoleon must give you another! To my mind, it's as simple as that! Besides, I hear the Austrian is in high hopes, so he may be easy on that score and will have all the more time for you.'
Marianne regarded her with awe. 'But Fortunée,' she protested, 'don't you know you are immoral?'
'Of course I know!' Madame Hamelin crowed delightedly. 'And you can't imagine how happy I am to be so! What I have seen of morality all around me makes me sick! All for love, my sweet, and a fig for your principles!'
As if in endorsement of this declaration of war on conventional principles, there was a sudden report of cannon fire outside, followed almost immediately by a second and then a third. At the same time, borne on the summer breeze, came a sound of solemn, martial music and the murmur of a crowd.
'What is it?' Marianne asked.
'Of course, you don't know! It's the state funeral of Marshal Lannes. Today is the sixth of July and the Emperor is having the body of his old comrade-in-arms transferred from the Invalides to the Pantheon. The cortege must have just now left the Invalides.'
The guns were now firing almost continuously. The melancholy sound of the trumpets and the muffled roll of drums were coming nearer, filling the garden and penetrating into the quiet room, reinforced by the tolling of every bell in Paris.
'Would you like me to shut the window?' Fortunée asked, impressed by the rumble of these solemn obsequies by which the city paid its tribute, for one day, to one of the greatest soldiers of the age. Marianne made a gesture of refusal. She too was listening, more conscious than she had been perhaps during the contrived gaieties of the marriage celebrations, of the greatness of the man who had taken charge of her fate and who, high as he was, could still find time to watch over her. Her heart stirred as she remembered the hand which had held hers through those first moments of her long agony. He had promised not to leave her and he had kept his word. He always kept his word.
She had learned from Fortunée, and also from Arcadius de Jolival, how he had stayed at the Austrian embassy, working tirelessly, until the fire was altogether extinguished, rescuing even a simple housemaid who was trapped by the fire in an attic room. She had learned, too, how angry he had been the next day, and of the retribution he had meted out: the Prefect of Police, Dubois, dismissed, Savary severely reprimanded, the architect who had thoughtlessly designed the ballroom arrested, the chief of the fire service relieved of his post and measures put in hand without delay for a complete reorganization of the entire force, such as it was. Certainly, it was reassuring to find oneself the object of his solicitude but Marianne knew now that her passion for him had snuffed itself out like a candle, leaving something else in its place, a deeper feeling, perhaps, but how much less ennobling!
When she spoke, it was in answer to this secret thought. 'I shall never give myself to him again, never…'
'What?' Fortunée said, startled. 'To whom? To the Emperor? You won't…'
'No,' Marianne said. 'I can't. Not now.'
'But – why ever not?'
Before Marianne could reply, there was a tap at the door and Agathe, her maid, appeared, deliciously neat and fresh in striped cotton dress and starched apron:
'Monsieur Beaufort is below, Your Highness. He desires to know if Your Highness is well enough to receive him.'
Marianne's cheeks were suffused with a wave of crimson:
'He is here? Downstairs? No, no, I cannot—'
'I dare say you may not know, my lady, but the gentleman has called every day since the accident and when I told him this morning that you were better—'
Fortunée, who had been a bright-eyed observer of Marianne's abrupt change of colour, judged it time to take a hand in the matter:
'Ask the gentleman to wait a moment, will you, Agathe. And then you may come back and help me to make your mistress presentable. Be off with you now!'
Appalled at the very idea of coming face-to-face with the one man who had figured so persistently in her thoughts ever since the ball, Marianne tried to protest. She looked a fright, she knew she did! She was so pale and thin… No normal man could help, but be horrified at the spectacle she presented! Madame Hamelin, ignoring all this, refrained from pointing out to her friend that, for a woman so wholly determined on renouncing her existence, she was showing highly interesting symptoms of agitation at the prospect of a visit from a gentleman. She confined herself to ascertaining that the Monsieur Beaufort in question was in fact the American who had vanished from her friend's life so abruptly at about the same time as she herself had entered it. This being confirmed, she set to work.
Quick as a wink, Marianne found herself nestled amid the voluminous folds of an exquisite confection, all pink ribbons and snowy lace, her hair combed out, her face rendered a little less pallid by discreet reference to the rouge-pot and her person so liberally besprinkled with Signor Gian-Maria Farina's excellent Cologne that it made her sneeze. The room began to exhale delicious odours of bergamot, rosemary, lemon and lavender.
'Nothing is more abominable than the smell of a sick-room,' Fortunée declared, arranging a rebellious curl with a flick of one clever finger. 'There. That will do now.'
'But, Fortunée, what are you up to?'
'Oh… nothing. Just an idea of mine. Now I shall leave you.'
'No!' Marianne almost shrieked. 'No, you must not!'
Fortunée did not argue but went and seated herself in a chair by the window with an alacrity which suggested that her proposal had been made with no very serious intention. She was, in fact, burning with curiosity and by the time Jason, admitted by Agathe, crossed the threshold of Marianne's room that indefatigable man-hunter was lying in wait for him, securely ensconced behind a book which she had picked up at random, in the posture of the perfect sick-room attendant. But, above the leaves, her black eyes made an instant appraisal of the visitor.