Marianne

The ivory mask had grown so deathly pale that Marianne found herself exulting wickedly in her power to hurt him. Disregarding the menacing gesture he made, she stood her ground as the Emperor bore down on her, eyeing her relentlessly. Nor did she flinch when Napoleon caught her wrists in a grip of steel.

'Per bacco!' he swore. 'Do you dare—?'

'Why not? You asked for the truth, sire, and I have told it you. I was about to take him in my arms, as one would do to anyone one wished to comfort, like a mother with a child—'

'Cease this farce! Why should you comfort him?'

'For a bitter grief – the grief of a man who finds his love again only to see her in love with another, and worse than that, with the one man it is forbidden him to hate, because he worships him! Can you dare say that does not merit some comfort?'

'He has done you nothing but harm and yet you could feel such compassion for him?'

'He harmed me, yes, but I think that I did worse to him unwittingly. I want to forget the wrongs that lay between us and remember only what we suffered together and that Jean Le Dru saved my life, and more than that, when I was washed up from the sea into the hands of the wreckers.'

Napoleon was silent. Marianne could see his taut face close to hers. His fingers bruised her wrists until the pain brought tears into her eyes. He was breathing hard and she was conscious of the hot breath on her eyeballs.

'Swear to me,' he rasped into her face, 'swear to me that he has never been your lover…'

The moment she dreaded had come and Marianne almost swooned with the anguish of it. She could not lie and yet she had to lie to him, to the man she loved more than all else. If she refused him the oath he demanded he would banish her without mercy. Within the space of a few minutes she would have left the Trianon, banished like a slave who had ceased to please, for she knew that he would give no quarter. Already he was growing impatient, was shaking her roughly.

'Swear, I tell you! Swear, or get out!'

No, that she could not take. They could not ask her to tear out her own heart. Mentally praying for forgiveness, she closed her eyes and with a little moan—

'I swear,' she said. 'He has never been my lover…'

'That is not enough. Swear by the great love you say you bear me!'

The pain of her wrists made her cry out.

'For pity's sake! You're hurting me!'

'Never mind. I want the truth—'

'I swear, swear there was never anything between us – I swear it by the love I bear you!'

'Take care! If you are lying, our love will not endure…'

'I am not lying!' she cried in terror. 'I love only you… and I have never loved that boy. I feel nothing for him but pity – and a little kindness.'

Only then did the terrible fingers relax their hold.

'Good,' the Emperor merely said. He took a deep breath. 'Remember you have sworn.'

Superstitious, like all Corsicans, he attached an almost fanatical importance to oaths and feared the vengeance of fate on perjury. But the ordeal had been too much for Marianne. Once the cruel hands no longer supported her, she fell to the ground, convulsed with sobs. She was broken by the fright she had endured and also by shame that was already overwhelming her for her perjured oath.

But she had been forced to do it, as much for Napoleon himself as for the wretched Le Dru.

For an instant longer, the Emperor remained motionless, as though petrified, listening perhaps to the chaotic pounding of his own heart as it slowly returned to normal. The hand he brushed across his forehead was trembling slightly. Then, suddenly, he seemed to become aware of the desperate weeping that filled the room. He looked down and saw the girl huddled at his feet in heartbroken tears, and at the pitiful sight the demon jealousy relaxed its grip at last. Kneeling swiftly, he put his arms around her and gently raised the tear-stained face to his and began covering it with kisses.

'Forgive me – I am a brute but I cannot bear the thought of another man touching you. Don't cry now, mio dolce amore – It's all over now. I believe you—'

'T-truly?' she sobbed. 'Oh, you must believe me – or the grief of it would kill me. I couldn't bear it.'

He laughed suddenly, the young, lighthearted laughter that sometimes followed his worst rages.

'I will only let you die of love. Come, we must wipe out all this.'

He helped her to her feet and holding her close against him led her softly to the bed. Marianne went with him, scarcely conscious. But he was right, only love could restore them to what they had been before the arrival of the courier from Madrid. She felt the silk counterpane beneath her shoulders and closed her eyes with a sigh.

Some while later, as Marianne emerged from her happy trance, she saw Napoleon leaning on his elbow gazing earnestly at the great purple bruise that marked one of her wrists. Thinking that she could guess his thoughts, she tried to draw her hand away but he held it fast and laid his lips to the place. She expected some word of regret but all he said was:

'Promise me you will not try to see that boy again.'

'What! Are you still afraid—'

'Not in the least! But I should prefer you not to see him. Love is too strong.'

She smiled a little sadly. What a man he was, and how hard it was to understand him. When he himself was actually on the point of taking a new bride, he could still demand that his mistress break off all connection with another man whose only fault was that he loved her. She might perhaps have said something of this, when another idea came to her. Very well, it should be tit for tat. She would make a bargain with him.

'I promise,' she said sweetly, 'but on one condition—'

He stiffened at once and jerked away from her a fraction.

'A condition? What is it?'

'That you repair the hurt I inflicted without meaning to. Don't let him go back to that dreadful Spain where he will get killed for nothing, for a country he does not know and cannot understand. Send him back to Baron Surcouf. One word from you and he will certainly forgive him and take him back. Then he will have the sea again, and the life he loves, and a man he loves to serve under, and so he will more easily forget me.'

For a moment there was silence. Then Napoleon smiled. He gave Marianne's earlobe a gentle, loving little tug.

'There are times, carissima mia, when you make me feel ashamed, and I tell myself I do not deserve you. Of course I promise. He shall not go back to Spain…'

When Marianne took her seat at the supper table two hours later, she found beside her place a green leather case stamped with the imperial arms. Inside, were two wide bracelets of chased gold set with a pattern of seed pearls but when, the next day, she sought discreetly for news of Jean Le Dru, she learned that he had left the palace at dawn in a closed carriage for an unknown destination.

She experienced a momentary sadness but she was bound by her promise and, when all was said, only one thing mattered to her. The single cloud that had nearly overshadowed these few days of happiness had disappeared, leaving her free to enjoy the last hours of this wonderful gift from heaven in peace. There was so little time.

On the last evening, though she desired above all to leave him an unforgettable memory, it was all Marianne could do to smile. She felt deathly sad. For dinner, the last they would have alone together, she dressed with special care, striving to make herself more beautiful than ever. Her dress of heavy, pale-pink silk moulded every line of her body. Her neck and shoulders rose from the draped and silvered corsage as though from a huge, dew be-spangled flower, and not a single jewel broke the pure line of her throat. The high-piled curls held in place by silver ribbon showed off the graceful poise of her head. But the green eyes under their soft, sepia lashes were bright with unshed tears.