Marianne and the Privateer

When it was over, she bowed her face into her trembling hands and said exhaustedly: 'You know it all now, Sire. I swear to you that every word of all that I have told you is the simple truth.' She took her hands from her face and added quickly: 'And I say that Lord Cranmere's visit to me was the start of the tragic events which—'

'Wait a moment, we are not there yet,' Napoleon interrupted her curtly. 'You have sworn that all this is the absolute truth.'

'And I will swear it again, Sire!'

'No need. If it was as you say, you must bear the proof upon your person. Let me see.'

Marianne stared at him wildly, scarlet to the roots of her dark hair:

'You mean – the burn? But, Sire, it is – it is on my hip!'

'Well? Take off your clothes.'

'Here?'

'Why not? No one will come in. And I believe I am right in thinking it will not be the first time you have undressed in my presence? Time was, and not so long ago, you even appeared quite glad to do so.'

Marianne's eyes filled with tears at this cool, sardonic reference to a time which would always count amongst her most cherished memories, although it seemed to her now to belong to another life.

'Sire—' she said weakly, 'that time is – is more remote now than – than perhaps Your Majesty realizes…'

'I do not see it so. And if you wish me to believe you, Madame, you must prepare yourself to bring proof. If not, you may go. I shall not detain you.'

Slowly, Marianne rose. A lump came and went in her throat, a lump of misery and shame. It was too much. Had he loved her so little, then, that he could demand from her this painful sacrifice of her modesty and of all that had once existed between them? He had been right when he reminded her that once she had gladly offered her body to his gaze, because then his very gaze had been a caress. But he was looking at her now as coldly as a slave merchant inspecting a new piece of goods. And that was not all. There was a gulf between the woman of Butard and Trianon and the woman who, on the hard boards of a prison, had given herself so passionately to the man whose life might now depend on the wreck of her most intimate feelings.

Not looking at him, she began to unfasten her close-fitting green spencer. Her fingers trembled over the black silk frogs but the short jacket dropped to the ground, followed by the long riding skirt, shift and petticoat. Crossing her arms modestly over her breast, she turned so that he could see her injured hip.

'There, Sire,' she said without expression.

Napoleon bent forward. When he straightened once more his eyes were rather grim and he held Marianne's gaze locked in his for a moment in silence.

'You must love him,' he said softly at last.

'Sire!'

'No. Don't speak. It was that I wanted to know, you see. You do not love me any more, do you?'

Her eyes were searching his now:

'I do love you, indeed I do… only – differently.'

'That is what I said. You are… fond of me.'

'But yourself, Sire? What of your feelings for me – are they still the same? Is the Empress not… very close to your heart?'

He gave her one of his rare, very charming smiles:

'Yes. You are quite right. And yet… it will be a long time, I think, before I can look at you without a tremor. Put your clothes on.'

While she, trembling now with haste, pulled up her shift and skirts and refastened her spencer, Napoleon turned to rummage among the papers cluttering his desk as if he were searching for something. At last, he unearthed a large sheet of paper covered with fine writing and already sealed with the great imperial seal and held it out to Marianne.

'Here,' he said. 'This is what you came for, isn't it, at the risk of breaking both our necks? Jason Beaufort's pardon? You see, I attended to it before you came. It is all ready.'

'A pardon, Sire?… Oh, God! How happy you have made me!… Is this nightmare really at an end? He will go free?'

Napoleon frowned and took back the reprieve. The friend had gone, transformed abruptly into the Emperor once more:

'That I did not say, Madame. I have spared your American pirate's life because I know – although I have no formal proof – that he did not kill Nicolas Mallerousse. But the charge of smuggling remains, as does that of the counterfeit English notes. To make matters worse, it is the talk of every chancellery and I cannot ignore an allegation of such seriousness. Beaufort will not lose his head, therefore, but neither can he go free.'

The flame of happiness in Marianne's heart dwindled to a pale glimmer.

'Sire,' she said in a low voice, 'I can assure you that he is innocent of these as of the other.'

'Your word is a frail defence against overwhelming evidence.'

'If you will only let me explain – tell you what I believe happened and how, then I am certain—'

'No! Ask no more, Madame. It is out of my power to grant your request. Be glad that I have spared his head. I do not say the chain gang is a rest cure, far from it, but men survive – some even return.'

Or escape, Marianne thought, her mind going suddenly to the nonchalant figure of Jason's curious fellow-prisoner. But the Emperor was continuing:

'As to yourself, you are naturally perfectly free to return to your own home whenever you so wish. Your cousin awaits you there, together with that odd character whom you seem to have adopted as another of your "uncles". I have to tell you that he returned from his mission to Monsieur Fouché two days ago. So you have no need to remain in hiding… where did you go, by the way, when you – er – decided to retire from the world at Bourbon l'Archambault?'

Relieved of her most pressing anxiety, Marianne allowed herself a smile.

'Is there anything you do not know, Sire?' she asked.

'A great deal too much. Particularly since I have been obliged to do without the Duke of Otranto. About you, for example. What refuge did you find?'

'No refuge, Sire. A prison,' Marianne told him, determined to conceal as far as possible the parts played by Crawfurd and his wife, and also by Talleyrand. 'Jason Beaufort's wife, who has taken shelter with the Queen of Spain, had me carried off and kept prisoner in a barn on an island on the Mortefontaine estate. I managed to escape, thank God—'

Napoleon's fist was brought down angrily on a small table which cracked ominously under the shock:

'This is not the first time I have heard it suggested that my sister-in-law's house has become, unknown to herself, an asylum for all kinds of people. She is good-natured to the point of stupidity. Tell her any tale and she throws open her purse and her house! But this is too much. It shall be seen to. Now, Princess,' drawing his watch from his fob and giving it a quick glance, 'you have leave to withdraw. I have an audience with Madame de Montesquiou in a few moments, concerning her appointment as governess to the King of Rome – or the Princess of Venice, as may be. Go and rejoin your friend and, in future, do as I tell you. I hope to see you again very soon.'

The interview was over. Watched approvingly by the master, Marianne sank into the deep, formal curtsy which protocol demanded, so low that she was almost kneeling. Then, again in accordance with court etiquette, she backed her way to the door, while the Emperor rang a bell to summon Rustan.

She had reached the door when he stopped her with a gesture:

'Oh, by the by, your friend Crawfurd is also back in the nest. They had been keeping him in a deserted farmhouse somewhere near Pontoise and released him with no other harm than that resulting from the necessity he was at to walk all the way home. A somewhat painful exercise for a man with a gouty foot.'

For an instant, Marianne was speechless. Napoleon's expression was stern but his eyes were laughing. With another wave of his hand, this time of dismissal, he added suddenly: