The cardinal drew up a chair facing Marianne's. 'What do you mean? I have had no news from England since your wedding day.'
'Then you know nothing – nothing at all?'
'No, I assure you. First tell me, what has become of your husband?'
'No,' Marianne said quickly. 'Please, let me tell you in my own way. It will not be easy.'
'I thought that I had taught you not to be put off by what is difficult.'
'And I shall not be. But first you must understand one thing. The Hôtel d'Asselnat belongs to me. The Emperor gave it to me. I – I am that opera singer you mentioned.'
'What—?'
The cardinal had risen to his feet in astonishment. His homely face was a stone mask, devoid of all expression. But in spite of the shock she knew it must be to him, Marianne felt suddenly lighter. The most difficult part was over.
Without a word, the cardinal crossed to a corner of the room where an ivory crucifix hung in a red velvet frame and stood for a moment, upright and not obviously praying, but when he turned and made his way back to Marianne some of the colour had returned to his face. He sat down again, only this time, perhaps in order to avoid looking at his god-daughter, he turned towards the fire, holding out his thin hands to the blaze.
'Tell me,' he said quietly. 'I will hear you to the end.'
Marianne began her story…
The coffee brought by the impassive footman, reverently escorted by the Abbé Bichette, arrived just as Marianne reached the end of her recital. Faithful to his promise, the cardinal had not uttered a word all the time she was speaking, although he stirred restlessly more than once. Now he greeted the arrival of the coffee tray with the relief of a man granted a truce in the midst of a fierce battle.
'Leave it there, Bichette,' he said as the Abbé showed signs of being about to pour for them, no doubt as an excuse to remain in the room. We will serve ourselves.'
The Abbé withdrew, disappointed but submissive, and Gauthier de Chazay turned to Marianne.
'It is a long time since you poured tea or coffee for me, Marianne. I hope you have not forgotten.'
Tears sprang to Marianne's eyes at the recollection the words conjured up of home and childhood. She stripped off her gloves and dropped them on the floor, then went to the little table and began carefully pouring out the fragrant, steaming beverage. Absorbed in her task, she did not look up at her godfather. Neither spoke until, as she handed him his cup, she plucked up courage to ask: 'You – you do not judge me too harshly?'
'I have not the right. I did not like Lord Cranmere, or this marriage, and yet I went away. I know now that I should have stayed to watch over you instead of leaving you as I did. No doubt it was God's will, for a few minutes earlier and you would have caught up with me on Plymouth quay and everything would have been very different. You had no choice. You had to follow your fate and I am not without my part in the way things have gone.'
He paused.
'No, I have no right to say one word of blame, for that would be to blame you for having survived.'
'Then, help me, godfather. Save me from Francis Cranmere!'
'Save you? How can I?'
'Lord Cranmere has never touched me. My marriage to that base man was never consummated. Ask the Holy Father to annul the marriage so that he will have no more rights over me. Let me be myself again and forget that Lord Cranmere ever existed.'
'Will he permit you to forget him so easily?'
'It will not matter when I am no longer bound to him. Save me, godfather! I want to be Marianne d'Asselnat once more.'
The echo of her words lingered in the room as the cardinal drained his cup. Still without speaking, he set it down and remained for a while in contemplation of his clasped hands. Marianne respected his silence, stifling her painful anxiety. Why did he not answer? What was in his mind?
At last he raised his eyelids and looked up at her and Marianne shivered at the unhappiness in his blue eyes.
'It is not in order to become yourself again that you ask for my help, Marianne. Indeed, that is no longer possible, the change in you goes much deeper than the name you bear. You want your freedom in order to belong more fully to the man you love. That is something I cannot countenance because to do so would be to permit you to live openly in a state of sin.'
'What difference would it make? At present I am Napoleon's acknowledged mistress,' Marianne cried, a note of defiance in her voice.
'No. Napoleon's mistress is a woman named Maria Stella, not the daughter of the Marquis d'Asselnat. Make no mistake, child, the post of royal favourite has never been considered an honour in our family. Still less the favourite of an usurper. I will never allow your father's name to be linked with that of Bonaparte!'
A touch of anger came to add to the bitterness of Marianne's disappointment. She knew, as she had always known, that Gauthier de Chazay was a fanatical royalist, but it had not occurred to her that he would allow his loyalty to his king to affect his dealings with her, his god-daughter, the child of his heart.
'I have told you what this man has done to me and means to do even now, godfather,' she said wretchedly. Will you force me to remain tied to such a villain for the sake of some kind of political morality?'
'Not at all. I merely wish in saving you from Cranmere to save you from yourself. Like it or not, you were not born to join your fate with that of Napoleon. Neither God nor the simple, everyday morality of ordinary life, nor what you call political morality, will have it so. This man is about to destroy himself. I will not permit you to destroy yourself with him. Promise me that you will give him up for ever and I promise you that I will have your marriage dissolved within a fortnight.'
'What a bargain!' Marianne exclaimed, all the more bitterly hurt because the cardinal was merely repeating, with the same calm assurance, what Talleyrand had said to her earlier.
'Perhaps,' the cardinal admitted equably, 'but if you must dishonour your real name, as well it should be that of the Englishman. One day, you will thank me.'
'That I do not believe! Even if I were willing to give you this promise, even if I would destroy with my own hand the love that is my very life, I could not do it. You do not know all, Eminence. Well, you shall learn the whole truth. I am going to have a child, his child! A Bonaparte!'
'Unhappy girl! More foolish than wretched. You dared to talk of becoming little Marianne of Selton once again! What you have done has placed an irrevocable barrier between you and yours.'
At this revelation, Gauthier de Chazay's composure had finally snapped, but Marianne was conscious of no special dismay. Her only feeling was one of sudden, fierce joy, a triumphant exultation, as if the child that lay mysteriously inside her body had succeeded in that moment in avenging all the hatred and disdain endured by its father at the hands of the royalist émigrés. Her voice was cold as she answered.
'Perhaps, but it is also my chief motive for wishing for a final separation from Francis Cranmere. The Emperor's child must not bear the name of a scoundrel. If you refuse to untie the knot which still binds me to him, I will stop at nothing, nothing, do you hear, not even cold-blooded murder, to erase Francis Cranmere from my life.'
The cardinal must have realized that she meant what she said for even as she saw him blench she was aware of something else, a curious pride glowing in his usually gentle eyes. Marianne had expected anger, violent protests, instead of which there was a sigh and a faint, sardonic smile.
'The exhausting thing about your family,' Gauthier de Chazay observed, 'is your determination. As soon as your will is crossed, you start spitting fire and sparks and threatening to kill everyone. The worst of it is that you not only generally keep your promises but that you are perfectly right.'