For an instant, Marianne sat rigidly, her arms frozen above her head, then she turned. It seemed to her that the voice was in some way familiar. A man was leaning back against the closed door. His face was very white and he seemed to be struggling against an overwhelming faintness. His eyes were closed and his mouth set in a grim line, his breath came in hoarse gasps, but still Marianne made no move to help him. She sat staring in amazement. The man was dressed in dark blue pantaloons and hessians, with a white shirt. A heavy, black coat was flung over his shoulders and his brown hair was very curly, while to her horror Marianne had no difficulty in recognizing his face. It belonged to her attacker of the rue Cerutti.
Marianne had been correct in her idea that the man was hurt. The explanation of the bloodstains on her dress was now clearly visible on the white shirt, just below the left shoulder, as the man slid to the floor, unconscious.
She watched, petrified, as he collapsed and would probably have sat there wondering still, without doing a thing to help him, if Jonas's voice had not sounded outside the door.
'It is Jonas, mademoiselle. The door is stuck, can you open it?'
The spell was broken. Marianne saw that the man had fallen in such a way as to obstruct the opening of the door.
'Just a moment, Jonas, I will do it.'
She seized the unknown man by the feet and tugged with all her strength to drag him into the middle of the room. He was heavy and it was all she could do to shift him enough to allow Jonas to enter.
'Leave the tray outside. I can't get it open any more,' she told him, pulling on the handle as she spoke. The butler eased himself through the narrow space.
'What is the trouble, Mademoiselle Marianne?' Then, seeing the obstacle. 'Monsieur le Baron! Lordy, he badly hurt!'
'Do you know this man?'
'Surely. He what you might call one of de family. It is de General Fournier-Sarlovèze. Has Madame Fortunée not spoken of him? He can't stay here. We better put him on de bed.'
While the big Negro picked up the wounded man as easily as if he had weighed nothing at all and laid him on the bed, Marianne gathered her scattered thoughts. General the Baron Fournier-Sarlovèze? Of course she had heard of him from Fortunée who had spoken of him with a soft, cooing intonation that spoke volumes to anyone acquainted with the Creole. This was the handsome Francois, one of her three accredited lovers, the other two being the no less attractive Casimir de Montrond, at present an exile in Anvers, and the much less seductive but vastly wealthier Ouvrard. But what else was it that Fortunée had said? Why had Marianne never yet met him in her friend's house? Ah yes, that was it: the man was impossible, 'the worst fellow in the whole army' but also the 'finest swordsman' in that same army. He divided his time between dashing feats of arms and interludes on half-pay brought about by his innumerable affairs of honour. This must be one of those times when he had been sent home until the Emperor was pleased to forget his latest indiscretion.
The thought of Napoleon reminded Marianne of something else her friend had told her and which at the time had shocked her profoundly. Fournier was a child of the Revolution, into which he had thrown himself with enthusiasm, but he hated the Emperor who cordially returned his dislike. Nevertheless, Napoleon continued to offer the hothead employment in his service for the sake of his military prowess, a prowess which had earned him the rank of general and the title of baron. To Fournier, however, these seemed small things beside the fortunes and the honours lavished on the marshals. All in all, especially taking into account her own recent experience, Marianne felt little concern or liking for the man. To some extent, he could even be dangerous and she felt little desire to further her acquaintance with him. It was bad enough to know that Fortunée, for all her devotion to Napoleon, could retain a soft spot for the fellow merely because he was handsome and a tireless lover.
Seeing Jonas occupied, with many exclamations of grief and horror, in pulling off the wounded man's boots and administering some rough first aid to his wound, Marianne turned away and moved towards the door. She would have gone down to warn Fortunée but hesitated to do so, not knowing how her friend meant to approach the banker. Before she could make up her mind, the door was flung open and Madame Hamelin swept in saying: 'I have done all I can and I think —'
She broke off as her eyes went past her friend and widened with horror as they fell upon Jonas, busy by the light of a branch of candles beside the bed.
'François! My God, he is dead!'
She darted past Marianne and ran quickly to the bed, pushing aside Jonas who, with his sleeves rolled up, was beginning to clean the wound with lint. With a cry like a tigress, she flung herself upon her lover's motionless body.
'Gentle Jesus, Madame Fortunée!' Jonas exclaimed protestingly. 'Don't shake him like dat, or you'll kill him right enough. He not dead. He fainted. His wound not grave.'
Fortunée, who Marianne suspected had a secret fondness for high tragedy, paid no attention and continued to shriek and lament at the top of her voice, covering her lover's face with so many passionate kisses that, coupled with the smelling salts applied by Jonas, they finally persuaded him to open his eyes. This sign of life drew a triumphant scream from Madame Hamelin.
'Heaven be praised! He is alive!'
' 'Course he alive,' Jonas said scornfully. 'He only fainted from exhaustion and loss of blood. Don't you maul him like dat, Madame Fortunée. Monsieur le Ba'on he do ve'y well. You see —'
The injured man was endeavouring to raise himself on one elbow. He groaned but managed to smile at his mistress.
'I must be getting old,' he said. 'Dupont got me this time, damn him, but I'll be even with him.'
'Dupont again!' Fortunée exclaimed wrathfully. 'You never set eyes on the man but you must fight him! How long is it? Ten years? Twelve?'
Fournier grinned. 'Fifteen. And since we are well matched with swords, this will not be the last. Haven't you anything to offer a wounded man who —' He broke off as his gaze went past Madame Hamelin to where Marianne was standing with folded arms staring into the fire, waiting for these first transports to be over. 'But – I know you!' he said, clearly searching his memory for a recollection which could not be long in coming. 'Surely, you are —'
'Well, I do not know you,' Marianne declared firmly. 'But I should be grateful if you would spare Fortunée to me for a moment, since I ask nothing better than to leave you to one another's company.'
'Oh my God, my poor darling, I was forgetting you! The shock —' She sprang up and fled with equal impetuosity back to her friend and flung her arms about her. 'I have spoken to Ouvrard,' she whispered. 'I think he will agree but he wants to talk to you. Will you go down to him? He is waiting in the little drawing-room. Jonas, go with Mademoiselle Marianne and bring me a decanter of brandy for the general.'
Without further urging, Marianne turned on her heel, glad to be out of range of Fournier's gaze, in which she could now read a very evident mockery. It seemed that he had recognized her and felt not the slightest shame at the memory of his unforgivable effrontery. As she left the room, she heard him remark thoughtfully to Fortunée: 'I am not acquainted with the name of your charming but strait-laced friend, and yet, I don't know how it is, but I have a vague feeling that I stand somehow in her debt…'
'You are feverish, dearest,' cooed Fortunée. 'I can assure you, you have never met my dear Marianne before. You can't have done.'
Marianne restrained herself from comment with an effort. The wretch knew very well that she could never bring herself to tell her friend the truth about their stormy meeting and, besides, it was of no importance because she was determined that matters should go no further between them. It was not necessary for her to know that this man, with his odious self-assurance, hated the Emperor. She had already ranged him among the people she had no wish to meet again, and she was determined that it should be so. Curiously, as if he had read her thoughts, Jonas murmured in her ear as they went down the stairs: 'If de general stay here some time, Mademoiselle Marianne, we not see much of madame. De last time she and de general not leave their room for mo' dan a week.'