Rebellion welled up in her. To the devil with that absurd promise of secrecy which had been extorted from her! She desperately needed a friend to advise her and for once she could do as she wanted! She felt choked with anger, misery and disappointment. She needed the relief of speech. She marched quickly to the bell-pull and tugged it twice, with decision. In a moment Agathe came running.
'Has Monsieur de Jolival returned yet?'
'Yes, mademoiselle, a moment ago.'
'Then ask him to come here. I wish to speak to him.'
'I knew there was something the matter,' was all Arcadius said coolly when Marianne had put him in possession of the facts. 'And I knew that you would have told me if it lay in your power to do so.'
'And you are not shocked? You are not cross with me?'
Arcadius laughed, although there was little gaiety in his laughter.
'I know you, Marianne. Your own distress when you are obliged to conceal something from a true friend makes it cruel as well as absurd to be angry with you. There was little else you could have done in the present case. Your godfather's precautions were fully justified. What are you going to do now?'
'I have told you: wait until the last possible moment for Jason and if he does not come – go to meet my godfather as he says. Do you see any alternative?'
To Marianne's surprise, Arcadius coloured violently, then rose and walked about the room in an agitated manner, his hands clasped behind his back. At last he came back to her, looking embarrassed.
There might have been an easier one for you. I know that my life has been unsettled but my family is a respectable one and you could have become Madame de Jolival without blushing for it. The difference in our ages would have protected you from any – any importunities on my part. I should have been more a father to you than a husband. Alas, it is no longer possible.'
'Why not?' Marianne asked gently. Arcadius's reaction had not taken her wholly by surprise.
Arcadius flushed scarlet and turned his back on her before he answered in a muffled voice. 'I am already married. Oh, it is old history now,' he added quickly. He turned back to her. 'I have always done my best to forget it but the fact remains that there is, somewhere, a Madame de Jolival who, whatever her title to that name, at least prevents me from offering it to any other.'
'But Arcadius, why did you never tell me? When I first met you in the quarries of Chaillot you were at odds with Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis because, if I remember rightly, she was trying to force you to marry her niece Philomena. She was actually keeping you a prisoner on that account. Why did you not tell her that you were married?'
'She would not believe me,' Jolival said pathetically. 'She even said that if it were so it need present no obstacle. They would merely be obliged to remove my wife. Now, I dislike Marie-Simplicie intensely – but not as much as that! As for you, I did not tell you the truth at first because I did not know you very well and I feared that your principles might forbid you to keep me with you; and you are so exactly the daughter I would have wished to have.'
Much moved, Marianne rose at once and going to her old friend slipped her arm affectionately through his.
'We are both equally guilty of deception, my friend! But you need not fear. I would not have lost you for the world; no one, since my aunt died, has taken such care of me as you have. Will you let me ask you one question? Where is your wife?'
'In England,' Jolival said gruffly. 'Before that, she was at Mittau and before that in Vienna. She was one of the first to flee when the Bastille was attacked. She was a close friend of Madame de Polignac while I – well, our political ideas could not have differed more.'
'And – you had no children?' Marianne asked, almost timidly, but unexpectedly Jolival laughed.
'It is clear that you have never set eyes on Marie-Simplicie. I married her to please my poor mother and to settle an interminable family squabble, but I assure you that it went no further than my name! Besides, quite apart from her ugliness, her pride and her religion would probably have made her shy from such gross, animal contact as we call love. She is at present one of the ladies-in-waiting to the Duchess of Angoulême and, I am sure, perfectly happy, from what I hear of that princess. They can join together in praying to God to confound the Usurper and restore France to the delights of an absolute monarchy, so that they can return to Paris to the cheerful clatter of chains as the leaders of the Empire are led off to the galleys! She is a very gentle, devout woman is Marie-Simplicie.'
Marianne dropped a light kiss on her friend's cheek. 'Poor Arcadius. You do not deserve that. I am sorry I raked up all these memories you were trying so hard to forget. Only tell me, how long will it take me to reach Lucca?'
'It is about six hundred miles,' Arcadius replied, with a speed that showed how glad he was to talk of something else. 'The road takes you by Mont Cenis and Turin. We should be able to cross the pass at this time of the year, with luck, and with good post horses, should cover between twenty-five and thirty leagues a day.'
'That is if we make halts every night,' Marianne said. What if we sleep in the coach and simply stop to change horses?'
'I should not advise it, especially for a woman. And you would need at least two coachmen. Gracchus could never do it alone. You must reckon on fifteen days at the best, Marianne. You cannot travel so fast in the mountains.'
'Fifteen days! That will mean leaving on the first of May! It does not leave much time for Jason to come. Suppose – suppose one were to travel on horseback?'
This time Jolival laughed outright.
'It would be much slower. You could not keep up a pace of sixty miles a day for very long. You would need to be in training, with a hide like a cavalryman's to stand such a journey. Have you heard the story of the courier of Friedland?'
Marianne shook her head. She loved Arcadius's stories.
'Of all the Emperor's couriers,' Jolival began, 'there was one who was especially swift, and he was the rider named Esprit Chazal, known as Moustache. On the day after the battle of Friedland, Napoleon wanted to send the news to Paris as fast as possible. To begin with, he decided to entrust it to his brother-in-law,
Prince Borghese, one of the best horsemen in the Empire, but twenty-four hours later he sent his famous Moustache off with the same news. After fifty leagues, Borghese changed his horse for a travelling coach and travelled day and night. Moustache, for his part, made do with what he had: post horses and his own endurance. He rode day and night and in nine days, would you believe it, he had covered the four hundred and fifty leagues between Fried-land and Paris – and arrived before Borghese. A remarkable exploit! But it nearly killed him and Moustache is a giant, carved in granite. You are no Moustache, Marianne my dear, even if you have far greater courage and endurance than most women. I will procure as stout a carriage as I can and we will travel —'
'No,' Marianne said swiftly. 'I want you to stay here.'
Arcadius gave a start and his brows drew together.
'Here? Why? On account of this promise made to your godfather? Are you afraid that —?'
'Not in the least, but I want you to stay and wait for Jason as long as possible. He may come after I have left, and if there is no one here to meet him he cannot try to come after me. He is very strong, a sailor and I have no doubt an excellent horseman. It may be' – she hesitated and now it was her turn to blush – 'for my sake, he may try and emulate Moustache's exploit.'