'You're quite right,' Marianne acknowledged honestly. 'Just now, I asked him to kiss me before he went. He would not, because… because he believed he could not control himself if he touched me. And it's true, I did regret it, and I still do because in my heart I don't care in the least about Pilar or Sant'Anna. It's him I love and him I want. No one else… not even the Emperor. And yet… in a fortnight, Jason will be gone. He will have left France with his wife, perhaps for ever.'
'If you go about it the right way, he may still leave but he'll be back… and fast! As soon as he's taken his lady wife home, I daresay.'
Marianne shook her head dubiously:
'Jason is not like that. He is sterner, more unbending than I ever thought. And—'
'Love moves mountains, and can turn the wisest heads.'
'What can I do?'
'Get up, for a start!'
Fortunée put out her hand and gave the bell an energetic tug. When Agathe appeared in answer to the summons, she demanded to know if everything was ready. Receiving an answer in the affirmative, she gave the order to 'bring it up immediately'. Then she turned back to Marianne.
'First,' she said firmly, 'you have to get back your strength. And downstairs is just the very thing for you. Talleyrand has seen to that, bless him!'
Before Marianne could open her mouth to ask any questions, a strange procession entered the room. It was led by Agathe, who flung wide the double doors. She was followed by Jeremy, the butler, looking every bit as gloomy as if he were presiding at a funeral, although he was succeeded by nothing more alarming than a pair of footmen bearing between them a large silver tray surmounted by a formidable array of pots, jars and cups, after whom came a third footman carrying a small, portable stove. After these again, came two under cooks upholding with a more than religious reverence a small, silver-gilt saucepan which was apparently extremely hot. Finally, bringing up the rear with all the majestic gravity of a priest approaching the altar to perform a more than usually sacred rite, appeared the celebrated Antonin Carême, the Prince of Benevento's own cook, and the genius whose services half Europe, including the Emperor, envied him.
Marianne had not the least idea what the famous chef could be doing with all this paraphernalia in her bedchamber, but she had lived long enough in Talleyrand's household to realize that Carême's attendance represented an immense honour of which good manners demanded she should show a proper appreciation, or risk being classed by Carême, who, like all true artists, was dreadfully sensitive, as wholly beyond the pale.
She therefore hastened to respond to the bow bestowed on her by the king of cooks and schooled herself to listen with due attention to the speech which he addressed to her once safely arrived in the middle of the room. From it, she learned that Monsieur de Talleyrand, deeply concerned for the health of Her Serene Highness and discovering to his great distress that she was refusing all sustenance, had taken long counsel with himself, Carême, and that the two of them had concluded that Her Serene Highness must be offered such choice selection of delicacies as would most speedily restore her to health and strength, and that these must be presented to her in such a way as to make refusal an impossibility.
'I informed His Highness that I should personally attend Your Highness's bedside and prepare for you with my own hands an infallible restorative of such powerful recuperative properties that it has revived even the most failing spirits… I trust I may prevail upon Your Highness to accept what it is my privilege to offer.'
The implication was clear that, short of provoking some unimaginable cataclysm, refusal was out of the question. Amused by all this polysyllabic eloquence, Marianne indicated graciously, in language very nearly as florid as his own, her delight in the prospect of tasting another of Monsieur Carême's matchless creations. Only then did she inquire politely what it was she was required to consume.
'A chocolate, Madame, a simple chocolate, the recipe for which is in fact an invention of Monsieur Brillat-Savarin, although I have had the honour of perfecting it. I do not hesitate to prophesy that, after a single cup of this magic beverage, Your Highness will feel another woman.'
To feel herself another woman was in fact the very thing that Marianne longed for above all. Especially if by some miracle that other woman could possess a heart wholly free from any attachment. But Carême had interrupted his flow of speech for a moment and, with his rich coat of plum-coloured velvet covered by a huge, stiff, white apron carefully draped about his person by one of his assistants, had commenced his office. The small saucepan was placed upon the stove and the lid solemnly removed, allowing a fragrant steam to escape into the room. Then, with the aid of a golden spoon, Carême embarked on an exploration of the various jars which his acolytes held deferentially open for his inspection, at the same time resuming his discourse:
'I may say that this chocolate, the result of many earnest cogitations by the most distinguished minds, is, in itself, a veritable work of art. The actual chocolate, at present contained in this receptacle, was cooked yesterday, in accordance with the recommendations of that expert judge, Madame d'Austerel, Superior of the Convent of the Visitation at Belley, so that by allowing it to stand for twenty-four hours the required smoothness might be imparted to the texture. It was concocted initially from three varieties of cocoa: Caraque, Sainte-Madeleine and Berbice, but in order to create what Monsieur Brillat-Savarin has so aptly called 'invalid chocolate' we must have recourse to the subtle skills of the Chinese, adding to it vanilla, cinnamon, a trifle of mace, pulverized cane sugar and, above all, a few grains of ambergris, which constitute the prime element in the almost magical virtues which this beverage may be said to possess. My own personal contribution is expressed in a little honey of Narbonne, some roasted almonds, finely ground, fresh cream and a few drops of fine Cognac. Now, if Your Highness will oblige me…'
As he spoke, Carême had been adding the various ingredients to his chocolate. Then, after letting it simmer for a few moments, he filled a delicate porcelain cup and, still with the most elaborate care, placed it upon a small tray which he bore majestically to Marianne's bedside. The tented canopy of sea-green silk became filled with the fragrant odour of chocolate.
Conscious of taking part in a kind of ritual, and of Carême's stern eye upon her, daring her to find fault with it, Marianne carried the cup to her lips and sipped at the boiling liquid. The taste, in so far as it was possible to taste anything so very hot, was very sweet and not unpleasant, although, in her opinion, the scent of ambergris did nothing to improve it.
'It's very good,' she ventured, after two or three painful sips.
'You must drink it all,' Carême commanded her imperiously. 'It is necessary to imbibe a certain amount before the effects are felt.'
Marianne took her courage in both hands, swallowed heroically and succeeded in getting down the whole scorching cupful. A rush of warmth invaded her body and she felt as if a river of fire were running down inside her. Scarlet as a boiled lobster and beaded with perspiration, yet curiously invigorated, she fell back on her pillows and favoured Carême with what she hoped was a grateful smile:
'I feel better already. You are a wizard, Monsieur Carême.'
'I, no, Princess, but the cooking, yes indeed! I have prepared enough for three cups and I trust Your Highness will drink them all. I shall return tomorrow at the same time and make you some more. No, no, it is no trouble. A pleasure, I assure you.'