'I thank you,' she said sweetly. 'For myself, your presence took me wholly by surprise.' She laid the faintest of stresses on the 'your'. 'Have you been in Paris long?'
'Two days.'
'Indeed…'
The words were nothing, the merest commonplace such as might have been exchanged by virtual strangers. All of a sudden Marianne found herself wanting to cry. She could not understand it. What had happened to her friend? Could this cold, handsome stranger be the same man who, in the summerhouse at the Hôtel Matignon, had begged her to go with him to America, who had snatched her from the quarries of Chaillot, who had sworn never to forget her and charged Gracchus to watch over her every second of her life?
Even as she sought in vain for something to say that would not be either stupid or inept, she was aware of his eyes scrutinizing every detail of her appearance and she resented it, as if he were doing her an injustice. He had only just reached Paris. He could not have heard yet of her marriage and must be thinking that Napoleon maintained his mistress in extravagant style. His bright eyes went from the emeralds to the gold dress, then back to the emeralds, merciless and accusing.
The silence grew uncomfortable, despite the noise of the fireworks. Marianne dared not raise her eyes to Jason's now, for fear he should see the tears in them. She was about to move away, telling herself wretchedly that there was nothing more to be said between them, when his voice stopped her:
'If you will allow me, Madame—'
Hope welled up, instinctively, released by the half-dozen words. 'Yes?'
'I should like to present my wife…'
'Your…' Marianne's voice failed her. She felt suddenly weak, lost and helpless. Her fan shut with a click and her fingers tightened on it so viciously that several of the slender ivory sticks snapped suddenly, but Jason did not appear to notice her confusion. He held out his hand and drew towards him a woman of whose presence Marianne, absorbed in her own feelings, had not been aware until that moment. Now she stared with all the horror of one seeing a ghost at the slightly-built young woman, dressed in a robe of black lace over an underdress of silver, who stepped out of the shadows behind the American. She wore her dark hair in the Spanish fashion, with a high comb covered by a mantilla of the same lace as her gown, in which was a white rose, matching those which bloomed at her breast. Below the mantilla, Marianne saw a grave young face with finely moulded features and lips which, for all their delicacy, showed a bitter twist surprising in one so young. Her eyes were large, dark and melancholy, surmounted by slim, arched brows pencilled on pale skin. The general impression was of extreme physical fragility but the face revealed both pride and obstinacy.
Whether she was pretty or not, this woman who had stepped from the shadows of a summer night to shatter her new-found happiness, Marianne could not for the life of her have said. There was no room for anything in her vision, her heart or her mind but one vast disappointment which, little by little, became an aching pain. It was like waking from a dream of joy and warmth and light to the greyness of a dull November morning and for an instant Marianne found herself wishing she could close her eyes and slip back into the dream. As though out of a fog, she heard Jason speaking to the stranger and was aware, even through her misery, that he was speaking Spanish:
'I want to make you known to a very old friend of mine. You permit?'
'Of course – if she is indeed your friend.'
The tone, lightly contemptuous and at the same time more than a little suspicious, made Marianne's hackles rise. A little surge of anger momentarily diverted her thoughts from her own grief and actually did her good by helping her to regain her self-command. She smiled dangerously and, in a voice no less disdainful, asked in the purest Castilian: 'Why should I not be, indeed?'
The beautiful brows rose slightly but the answer came perfectly gravely:
'It does not seem that the word friendship is treated here as seriously as I have been used to find it at home.'
'At home? You are Spanish, I think?'
With the instinct of all seafaring men for the approach of a squall, even a mild one, Jason possessed himself of his wife's hand and, tucking it securely within his arm, was quick to answer for her:
'Pilar is from Florida,' he said quietly. 'Her father, Don Agostino Hernandez de Quintana, owned great estates at Fernandina, near our frontier. It's a small town, maybe, but a vast country, less than half-civilized, and Pilar is seeing Europe for the first time.'
The girl looked up at him, her expression as gloomy as ever:
'And for the last, I hope! I have no wish to return, or indeed to remain here, for I dislike it heartily. Only Spain I wished to see, but it is impossible to go there, alas, with this terrible war! And now, querido mio, perhaps you will inform me of this lady's name?'
Marianne seethed inwardly. The girl was a savage! Stuffed full of pride and religious bigotry! And probably an enemy of the Emperor's into the bargain! Was she to spend the whole night meeting barbarians? First that Mongol and now this creature!
She was so angry that it was all she could do to choke back the temper that was making her whole body tremble. And as Jason, unaware of her marriage, opened his mouth to make the introductions, she forestalled the threatened gaffe by saying coldly: 'Let me spare you the trouble. As you yourself said, Mrs Beaufort is very naturally ignorant of society. Allow me to introduce myself, Madame. I am Princess Corrado Sant'Anna. If we meet again, as I sincerely trust we may, you may address me as Serene Highness!'
Denying herself so much as a glance at the shock in Jason's blue eyes, she bowed slightly and then turned away from them to go in search of Talleyrand. The firework display was already coming to an end in a blaze of glory, with the two imperial eagles, the French and the Austrian, colourfully united by the genius of the Ruggieri brothers. There was a burst of applause but Marianne regarded this remarkable pyrotechnic achievement with a jaundiced eye.
It's absurd! she told herself. Pretentious and absurd! And so am I. Flinging my titles at that stupid child! But it was her own fault entirely. I wish the ground had opened and swallowed her up! I wish, yes, I wish she were dead… To think that she is his wife, his wife! The two short syllables stung Marianne like so many wasps. She was seized afresh by the old longing to run away. It was a primitive urge, a legacy perhaps from some remote, nomadic ancestor, which overcame her whenever she was unhappy. It was not cowardice, she was not afraid to face her troubles, but rather a need to hide her feelings from prying eyes and seek her own cure in silence and solitude.
She went with the crowd, automatically, back into the ballroom where the violins were once again in full swing. She had some idea in her head of going straight out to find her carriage, of going home to the quiet of her own house and her own room. She found herself hating this embassy and all the people in it. Even Napoleon, seated on the red and gold throne which had been prepared for him and for Marie-Louise at the far end of the room, no longer had any power over her. She wanted only to go home. But then she saw, coming straight towards her, a group of ladies which included Dorothée and Countess Kielmansegg and a sound of annoyance broke from her at the sight. Now she would have to stand and chatter inanely when all she wanted was peace and quiet to listen to the odd, unhappy murmurings of her heart and try to understand… No, she could not, it was too much…
Almost in the same instant, she caught sight of Chernychev, standing close by in his dark green uniform and watching her. Scarcely thinking what she did, she turned to him:
'You asked for a dance, Count. This one is yours if you will have it'