The bouquet of camellias! So that was how they had got into her dressing-room! Marianne remembered the shock of joy she had felt, seeing them there on her dressing-table, and her disappointment when she realized that Jason was not in the audience. And instead of the friend she sought, she had seen Francis…
The remembrance of her feelings at that moment made Marianne forget her momentary wrath. The little conspiracy between the two men was really rather touching. It was also the best of omens for the demand she hoped to make of the American!
Her face relaxed a little. 'Well?' she said. 'So you heard from him. But where did the letters come?'
To my grandma's,' Gracchus admitted, blushing harder than ever, 'the washerwoman in the route de la Revoke.'
'But if you knew he was to put in at Bayonne,' Marianne persisted, 'why did you not go there directly? Surely you must have guessed when I sent you to Monsieur Patterson?'
'Mademoiselle Marianne,' the young man answered gravely, 'when you give me an order, I don't question it. That's a matter of principle with me. I did think a bit, I'll own, but if you saw fit not to tell me straight out, then you had your reasons for it.'
Marianne could only bow before this proof of discretion and obedience.
'I am sorry, Gracchus. I was wrong and you were right. You are a good friend. Now, tell me quickly what Monsieur Beaufort said when you gave him my letter.'
Settling herself unceremoniously at the foot of the bed, she waited like an expectant child, but Gracchus shook his head.
'I never found him, Mademoiselle Marianne. When I got there, the Sea Witch had been at sea for twelve hours and left no word of her next port of call. All they could tell me was that she had been heading north.'
All Marianne's happiness melted away and misery came flooding back.
'What did you do then?' she asked through dry lips.
'What could I do? I hurried back to Nantes, thinking M'sieur Jason might put in there, and I gave the letter to M'sieur Patterson and I waited. But nothing came.'
Marianne bowed her head, overcome by a sudden bitter disappointment she had no power to hide.
'It is over then,' she said softly. 'He will not get my letter.'
'Why shouldn't he?' Gracchus protested, nearly dropping his quilt in his distress at the sight of the tears gleaming on Marianne's cheek. 'He will still have it quicker than if he was in America! M'sieur Patterson told me he generally puts in at Nantes when he is in those waters. He said the Sea Witch must have urgent business elsewhere but she would surely come there before long. I would have waited longer but I began to fear you would be fretting yourself. Besides' – he raised his voice in an effort to impress Marianne with his own confidence – 'the consul promised to pass the word to every captain sailing out of Nantes to tell the Sea Witch, if they met her, there was an urgent letter waiting, so you see!'
Marianne sighed and stood up. 'You are a good lad, Gracchus,' she said, feeling a little comforted. 'I will reward you as you deserve.'
'Not to worry about that. Are you happy now? Truly?'
'Truly. You did all you could have done. It is out of our hands now. Take this evening off, I shall not need you again tonight.'
Gracchus looked anxious. 'How have you managed without me all this time? You haven't got another man?'
Marianne smiled faintly. 'Simpler than that. I have merely stayed at home. You know I could not replace you.' And leaving the faithful Gracchus much comforted by this assurance, she went downstairs, only to find Jeremy waiting for her with an expression that seemed to presage the direst of catastrophes. Marianne was too well acquainted with his air of settled melancholy to be seriously deceived but tonight her nerves were on edge and Jeremy's long face was more than she could stand.
'Well?' she demanded. 'What is it now? Has one of the horses cast a shoe or has Victoire made an apple tart for supper?'
Instantly, the butler's mournful look changed to one of deep offence. With great solemnity, he turned and lifted a silver salver from a side table and proffered a letter to his mistress.
'If mademoiselle had not departed so hastily,' he murmured, 'I should have given mademoiselle this letter. A messenger, very dusty, brought it a short while before mademoiselle's coachman returned. I believe it to be urgent.'
'A letter?'
The single, folded sheet, sealed with red wax, had clearly travelled far, for the paper was stained and crumpled, but Marianne's fingers trembled as she took it. The seal was a simple cross but she recognized her godfather's hand. This letter was her sentence, a life sentence, crueller perhaps than a sentence of death.
Marianne walked slowly up the stairs, the letter still unopened in her hand. She had known that it must come one day but she had hoped against all hope that she would have her own answer. Now she was putting off the moment of opening it as long as possible, knowing that when she read it it would seem like an implacable decree of fate.
Reaching her own room, she found her maid, Agathe, putting away some linen in a drawer. One glance at her mistress's white face made Agathe exclaim: 'Mademoiselle is so pale! Let me take your outdoor things off first. And after that, I will fetch you a hot drink.'
Marianne hesitated for a moment then she laid the letter on her writing-table with a sigh.
It meant a few minutes' respite, but all the time Agathe was removing her street dress and half-boots and replacing them with a soft house dress of almond-green wool trimmed with bronze ribbons and matching slippers, her eyes kept turning to the letter. She picked it up at last and retired with it to her favourite chair beside the fire, feeling slightly ashamed of her childish weakness. As Agathe slipped noiselessly from the room with the clothes she had discarded, Marianne slid a determined finger under the seal and smoothed out the letter. It was brief and to the point. In a few words, the cardinal informed his god-daughter that she was to be at Lucca in Tuscany on the fifteenth of the following month and should take rooms at the Albergo del Duomo.
'You will have no difficulty in procuring a passport to travel,' the cardinal continued, 'if you declare your object as being to take the waters at Lucca for the sake of your health. Ever since Napoleon made his sister Elisa Grand-duchess of Tuscany he has looked favourably on those who wish to visit Lucca. Do not be late.'
That was all. Marianne turned the letter over in disbelief. What? Nothing more?' she murmured incredulously. 'Not one word of affection! No explanation! Merely instructions to present myself and advice about procuring a passport. Not one word about the man I am to marry!'
The cardinal must be very sure of himself to write in such terms. This meeting meant that her marriage to Francis Cranmere was already dissolved but it meant, in addition, that somewhere under the sun a stranger was preparing to marry her. How could the cardinal have failed to realize the terrors this stranger must hold for Marianne? Was it really so impossible to say a few words about him? Who was he? How old? What did he look like? What kind of man was he? It was as if Gauthier de Chazay had led his god-daughter by the hand to the entrance of a dark tunnel and left her there. It was true he loved her and desired her happiness but Marianne felt suddenly like a helpless pawn in the hands of an experienced player, an object to be manipulated by powerful forces in the name of the honour of her family. Marianne was beginning to find out that the freedom for which she had been fighting was nothing but an illusion, it had all been for nothing. She was once again the daughter of a great house, passively accepting a marriage which others had arranged for her. Centuries of pitiless tradition were dosing on her like a tombstone.
Wearily, Marianne tossed the letter into the fire and watched it burn before she turned to take the cup of hot milk Agathe brought for her, curling her cold fingers round the warm porcelain. A slave! She was no better than a slave! Fouché, Talleyrand, Napoleon, Francis Cranmere, Cardinal San Lorenzo: they could all do as they pleased with her. Life could use her as it would. It was pitiful!