Marianne glanced about her for some weapon. If this were a prowler, then she must have something to defend herself with. But there seemed to be nothing apart from a china vase or a jade statuette standing on a chest of drawers, neither of which would be of much use if it came to a fight. The mysterious visitor might be armed. Suddenly she remembered. Turning back into the room she went quickly over to a beautiful Venetian cabinet which Fortunée had found and presented to her, insisting that she absolutely must have something in the way of local colour. Opening it, she took out a long, flat, satinwood case inlaid with silver. When opened this revealed a pair of magnificent duelling pistols. Napoleon himself had given his mistress this unusual present, one of many.
'A woman like you should always have the means of self-defence to hand,' he had told her. 'I know that you can handle a gun and these may be useful to you one day. The times we live in are not so secure that a woman can be safe, alone and unarmed in her own house.'
Grasping one of these pistols firmly, Marianne loaded it and then, slipping it into the folds of her white gown, made her way back to the landing. She could still see the yellow light. It seemed to be moving about slowly, as though whoever was carrying it were looking for something. Unhesitatingly, Marianne began to walk downstairs.
Before leaving her room, she had kicked off her slippers at the foot of her bed. Now barefooted on the tiled floor, she neither felt the cold nor made the smallest noise. She was not in the least afraid. The weapon cradled in her hand put her on an equal footing with any burglar. What she felt was more a kind of exultation, and a sense of heightened curiosity like that of someone who, after living with a mystery for a long time, suddenly finds the key put into his hand. She no longer had the slightest doubt that the stranger moving about in the salon with a candle at this hour was the same person who had removed the portrait.
She reached the foot of the stairs, but although the double doors leading into the main salon stood wide open, she could see nothing beyond the candle-light, now stationary, and the restored fireplace with the last embers dying in the hearth, and the great, empty panel of yellow damask above it. By Marianne's wish nothing hung there because it seemed to her that nothing should be put in place of the vanished picture.
Thinking that the thief, if thief there was, must be going round the room, probably estimating the value of the works of art it now contained, she decided not to go in through the main door. Facing her, the smaller one leading into the Music Room was part open. From there she thought she might be able to see her nocturnal visitor without being seen. Very gently she pushed the door wider and went into the little room to which there already clung a faint fragrance of her chosen scent of tuberoses. Enough light came in from the salon next door to enable her to move about without bumping into the furniture. She saw the music she had put out ready for her lesson tomorrow on the pianoforte, stepped round the big, elaborately gilded harp and reached the door. The velvet curtain offered her a refuge from which to peep into the salon. It was all she could do to hold back an exclamation of surprise. Her visitor was a woman.
From where she stood, Marianne could see her only from the back, but there was no escaping the dress, which seemed to be grey, and the hair bundled up in an untidy knot. She was a small frail looking woman, but she carried herself as straight as a ramrod. In her hand she carried a heavy silver candlestick and she did seem to be making a circular tour of the room. She paused for a moment before the fireplace and Marianne saw her lift her arm so that the candle light fell on the empty space. She heard a short, dry laugh with such a note of mockery in it that she could no longer doubt that she was looking at the thief. But who was she, and what did she want?
A dreadful thought struck her. Suppose this woman were something to do with Fanchon-Fleur-de-lys and the crone were once more on her track? Who could say whether the rest of the gang were not also in the house and any moment the hideous creature and her two associates, the frightful Requin and the pale Pisse-Vinaigre would not suddenly appear? Already, it seemed to her that she could hear the tapping of a stick on the stone floor in the hall.
Then, suddenly, Marianne stopped thinking and sprang forward, driven by an impulse stronger than any reason. The woman had moved on beyond the fireplace and was making for a damask curtain with an air of unmistakable purpose. Marianne realized with horror that she was going to set fire to it. In a flash, she had left her hiding place and taken several strides into the room, the muzzle of her pistol levelled at the unknown. Her voice rang coldly in the silence.
'Can I help you?'
The woman swung round with a cry. Marianne saw a face of no particular age or beauty, or rather one that might perhaps have been beautiful, but for the great arrogant beak of a nose which dominated it. The skin on the fleshless face was dry and sallow and the thick, grizzled hair seemed too heavy for the little head that carried it, but the eyes, an innocent baby blue, were so round with terror as to relieve Marianne instantly of any fears she might have felt. The mysterious wanderer looked exactly like a frightened hen. Calmly, although still without lowering her weapon, Marianne walked towards her, but to her surprise the other woman backed away fearfully holding out trembling hands as though to ward off some nightmarish vision.
'Pierre!' she muttered in a shaky voice. 'Pierre, oh my God!'
'Are you unwell?' Marianne enquired pleasantly. 'And do please put down that candle before you set the house on fire.'
The woman seemed completely overcome. Still staring at Marianne with eyes almost starting out of her head, she reached out a trembling hand and let the candlestick down on the table with a clatter. Her teeth seemed to be actually chattering, and it occurred to Marianne that her behaviour was extremely odd coming from one who had appeared to harbour such violent intentions. She regarded the stranger in some perplexity convinced that she must be dealing with a mad woman.
'Will you be good enough to tell me who you are and why you are trying to set this house on fire?'
Instead of answering, the woman asked a question of her own, but in a voice that trembled so much as to be scarcely audible.
'For – for the love of heaven! Who are you?'
'The owner of this house—'
The stranger shrugged, her eyes still fixed on Marianne's face.
'You cannot be. Your name?'
'Don't you think it is rather for me to ask the questions? But I will tell you. I am called Maria Stella. I am a singer and in a few day's time I shall appear at the Opéra. Does that satisfy you? No. Don't move—'
But ignoring the pistol still trained on her, the strange woman closed her eyes and passed a trembling hand across her brow.
'I must be mad!' she murmured. 'I must have been dreaming! I thought – but it is only some opera singer.'
The inexpressible contempt in her voice aroused Marianne's anger afresh.
'You are insufferable! For the last time, I ask you to tell me who you are and what you are doing here. There are no more portraits to steal.'
The stranger's thin lips, so pale and narrow as to be almost nonexistent, curved in a disdainful smile.
'How did you know it was I?'
'It could be no-one else! Where have you put it?'
'It is no concern of yours. That portrait belongs to me. It is a family heirloom.'
'Family?' Now it was Marianne's turn to be surprised. 'What family?'
'My own, of course! I fail to see how it can interest an Italian singer, but this house belonged to my family. I say 'belongs' because you may not keep it long. It is said that Napoleon means to honour his forthcoming marriage to the niece of Marie-Antoinette by making the purchasers of émigré property disgorge it again.'