The servants, carefully hand-picked by Madame Hamelin, would not arrive until tomorrow. Mademoiselle Agathe, the young ladie's maid, would not be coming to take possession of the little room which had been set aside for her near Marianne's own until after eight o'clock. Only young Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche, newly promoted to the rank of coachman, was in the house, and even he had his own quarters in an outbuilding. He had orders not to disturb Marianne on any account. She had found it by no means easy to escape from the attentions of her friends. Fortunée in particular had been decidedly unwilling to leave Marianne all alone in the great house.
'I should die of fright if it were me!' she had declared roundly.
'What is there to be afraid of?' Marianne had answered. 'There I shall really be at home.'
'Yes, but remember, the portrait and the prowler comes here—'
'I think he must have gone for good now. And besides, the locks have been changed.'
It was true that all attempts to trace the mysterious visitor had been unsuccessful. There was no sign of the missing portrait of the Marquis d'Asselnat in spite of all Arcadius' investigations. A time had come when Marianne had begun to wonder if she had not really dreamed it all. If Fortunée and Arcadius had not been there also, she would have begun to doubt her own memory.
Wrapped in a long house gown of white cashmere, its high neck and long sleeves edged with ermine, Marianne looked round her at the big, bright, cosy room which tonight had become her own.
Her eye rested in turn on the soft blue-green hangings, the exquisite laquered corner cupboards, the small chairs upholstered in a gaily flowered Abusson, the great bed draped in changeable taffettas, and came to rest at last on a big caledon vase filled with lilac, irises and huge tulips. The blaze of colour and freshness made her smile. Those flowers were like a presence in themselves, his presence.
They had arrived that morning, armfuls of them, brought by the gardeners of St-Cloud, and the whole house was full of them, but the best of all were in Marianne's own room. She found them better company than any human being because she was conscious of their fragrance even when she was not looking at them.
Marianne closed her eyes. Several weeks had passed since those days at the Trianon, but she was still living under their spell. And it would be much, much longer before she ceased to regret their brevity. It had been an instant of paradise which she would cherish for ever in her inmost heart, like a tiny, delicate and fragrant plant.
Marianne got up from her chair with a sigh, stretched and went across to one of the windows. On the way her foot brushed against a newspaper that lay on the floor. It was the latest number of the Journal de l'Empire and Marianne was all too familiar with its contents. In it the people of France were informed by the writer, Joseph Fievée, that on this day, the 13th of March, their future Empress had left Vienna with her household. She had already been married to the Emperor by proxy in the person of Marshal Berthier. In a few days, the Empress would be in Paris and then Marianne would no longer have the right to cross the threshold of the great bedchamber in the Tuileries, where she had been so many times since her return from the Trianon that she had finally begun to feel at home there.
When she tried to picture this unknown Marie-Louise, who would so soon become a part of the Emperor's life, Marianne still found herself shaking with an anger and jealousy all the greater because she had neither the right nor the opportunity to show them. Napoleon was marrying for purely dynastic reasons. He would listen to no arguments that went against his determination to have a son. He himself was endlessly jealous and watchful, and had questioned Marianne more than once about the real state of her relationship to Talleyrand and, even more, with Jason Beaufort, who he seemed unable to forget. But he would not have countenanced a similar display on her part, or not where his future wife was concerned. And, little by little, Marianne had come to feel an all-embracing sympathy for his divorced wife, Josephine.
One day in the middle of February she had gone with Fortunée Hamelin to call on the ex-Empress. She had found her as melancholy as ever although apparently resigned, but when the Empress's name was mentioned, tears were never far away.
'He has given me a new chateau,' Josephine had said pathetically. 'The chateau of Navarre, not far from Evreux, and says he hopes that I shall like it. But I know why, it is because he wants me to be out of Paris when she arrives – that other!'
'The Austrian!' Fortunée spoke angrily. 'The French have been quick to call her that. They have not forgotten Marie-Antoinette.'
'Oh no. But they are sorry now, and they will do their best to make the niece forget the sufferings of her aunt.'
To Marianne, Josephine was especially kind. She seemed delighted to learn of the distant kinship between them and immediately embraced the younger woman with a quite motherly affection.
'I hope that you, at least, will remain my friend, although your mother gave her life for the late queen.'
'I hope you cannot doubt it, madame. Your majesty shall have no more faithful or loving servant than myself. Make what use of me you will.'
Josephine smiled faintly and brushed Marianne's cheek with her finger.
'Indeed – you love him too! And I have heard that he loves you. Look after him, I beg of you, as far as you may. I foresee grief and disappointment ahead. How can this girl have been brought up as a Hapsburg and to hate the victor of Austerlitz, how can she love him as I do when only six months ago he occupied her own father's palace?'
'And yet, it is said your majesty approved this marriage?'
There had been many rumours to the effect that Josephine had been personally concerned in the choice of her successor.
'One must choose the lesser of two evils. The Austrian was better for the Emperor than the Russian. And I shall always place the Emperor's good before my own personal satisfaction. If you love him truly, cousin, you will do the same.'
Marianne had devoted much thought to those words of Josephine's. Had she, the newcomer, any right to raise the slightest protest to make any complaint of her own sufferings when this woman was prepared to wipe out so many years of glorious memories? Josephine left a throne as well as a husband. The sacrifice that Marianne must make seemed very pale in comparison, though none the less cruel in her own eyes. But at least she had hope for the future in looking forward to a great career as a singer. That in itself was no small blessing.
She had been standing leaning her burning forehead on the cold glass to cool it when she started suddenly. Penetrating the mists of melancholy into which she had fallen, she had heard the sound of footsteps, stealthy, but distinct, on the small wooden staircase that lead up to the attic floor.
Wide awake now, Marianne went to the door, holding her breath. She was not afraid. The sense of being at home in her own house sustained her. It occurred to her that Gracchus-Hannibal might have come into the house for some reason, though why she could not think. Besides, had it been he she would have heard him walking about downstairs, not over her head. No, it was not Gracchus. Then she thought of the mysterious person who had been there on their first visit, of the hiding place which they had never discovered. Had the unknown prowler returned? Yet how could he have got in? He could hardly have lived in the abbe's old hiding place all these weeks without being discovered by the workmen swarming over the house. Softly, with infinite caution, Marianne opened her bedroom door. It gave on to the broad landing at the head of the great stone staircase, and she was just in time to see a glimmer of candle-light in the doorway of the main salon. This time, it was beyond a doubt. Someone was there.