Marianne bowed her head. Cranmere's web had been artistically woven. He had performed his function as a spy for England to admiration and at the same time exercised his remarkable criminal talents by actually extorting money from his victim. Marianne had paid to join Jason in the trap which the Englishman had dug before their feet. She understood now the scale of the means which had been employed and also the curious behaviour of the man Perez in allowing himself to be caught (having been amply paid for his services, no doubt, and given assurances of his personal safety) in order to make quite sure of his former captain's conviction. Now that international interests were involved, Jason's chances had grown very much slimmer.
'But you mentioned the American ambassador,' she said. 'Can he do nothing for Jason?'
'Be sure that John Armstrong has already done everything possible but if Beaufort is convicted of espionage and coining, as well as murder, then he can only seek the Emperor's clemency.'
'The Emperor!' Marianne broke out. 'Yes, what of the Emperor? Why will he not see me, at least? A few moments' audience and he should have known all and Jason would be free!'
'I am not altogether sure why, Marianne. In such a case as this, the Emperor cannot act until all has been made clear. The matters at stake are too grave. Moreover, he cannot be wholly sorry to teach you a lesson – punish you a little for finding consolation so easily – he is a man, after all, you know. Finally, there is one witness against Beaufort whom Napoleon is forced to consider seriously, if only in the name of common morality, and you know how he cherishes the respectability of his court. The author of the anonymous letter and the seaman Perez may well be scoundrels, but can you say the same of Señora Beaufort?'
There was a deathly silence in the little room. In her mind, Marianne was echoing Talleyrand's last words, seeking some sense in them other than the immediate, horrifying implication. She found none, and at last she found her voice to ask hoarsely, still trying not to believe what she had heard: 'Are you telling me that—'
'That Jason's wife has turned against him? Unfortunately, yes. The poor creature is crazed with jealousy and she believes unalterably that you are her husband's mistress. She admits no doubt of her husband's guilt. According to her, and no fury was ever more vehement, Beaufort would be capable of anything where you are concerned, even murder!'
'But – she is mad! Stark mad! Insane… this is the most criminal folly. After this, dare you look me in the face and tell me that she loves Jason?'
Talleyrand sighed again as he answered, in his old, cynical tone: 'Perhaps. You see, Marianne, she comes of a fierce and passionate race to whom a betrayal of love can be paid for only in blood, and an injured woman may deliver up her unfaithful lover unflinchingly to execution – and then wall herself up alive in some unrelenting nunnery to spend the remainder of her life in expiation. Yes, Pilar is a dangerous woman and, as ill luck will have it, she knows that Jason loves you. She knew you at the first glance.'
'Knew me? How could she? She had never seen me.'
'You think not? I gather the figurehead of the Sea Witch is more than a little like you. Some of these wood-carvers are very skilful, you know – and some husbands remarkably obtuse! But it may be that, knowing their stay was to be a brief one, Jason hoped that Pilar might never have occasion to meet you – or, if she did, might fail to recognize the resemblance.'
For a moment, Marianne stared at her old friend. She was wholly overcome by this unexpected proof of love and hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry, but in her heart she knew that she had never doubted Jason's love for her. She had always known that he loved her, even when she had driven him away from her that night at Selton, but this simple, almost childlike proof of it touched the deepest and most sensitive chord in her. To think that she had hated that ship, had thrown it at Jason's head continually that he had purchased it from the sale of Selton! And all the time he had made it, as it were, this unexpected extension of Marianne herself…
She rose quietly and Talleyrand made no move to stop her. He was not looking at her. He was sitting with his chin sunk in the immaculate folds of his neckcloth, absently tracing with the tip of his cane the primitive design of roses decorating the carpet.
A board creaked as Marianne moved to the window which opened on to a tiny balcony. She had picked up a blue shawl from a chair and hugged it round her shoulders. She felt chilled to the soul, despite the August heat of the sun, but when she leaned on the worn iron balcony rail she was not conscious of any warmth.
Outside, everything rejoiced in the tranquil beauty of a fine summer's day. From next door, young Charlotte's voice could be heard chanting in clear tones one of the rhyming games that children love. Farther off, by the pump, three women in blue skirts and flowered petticoats were chattering away to one another in the local patois, now and then bursting into shrieks of laughter. They wore the charming costume of the region with easy grace and their rosy faces glowed with happiness under their complicated double headdresses made up of a frilled cap surmounted by a coquettish little hat cocked up before and behind and known delightfully as 'à deux bonjours'. Some children were playing at quoits under a tree and the Prince of Benevento's grooms were leading the coach horses away to the stables, while in the distance could be seen a rather touchingly old-fashioned sedan chair with drawn curtains, conveying some invisible curiste to or from the baths. On all these things the sun poured down his golden beams. Only Marianne seemed excluded, and she wondered why, even in this scene of rural peace where everyone was happy, she should have to bear such a weight of grief and suffering. She had believed that she was pitted only against a handful of villains, the stupidity of the police and Napoleon's displeasure. Instead, she found herself at the centre of a vast and dangerous political intrigue in which neither she nor Jason counted for anything. It was rather as if she had been condemned to imprisonment for eternity and could look out at the world of the living only through the bars of a dungeon. Perhaps the truth was that she was not fashioned for such a world. The world to which she belonged was one of fury and violence that would not allow her to live in peace. It was to that world she must return.
She turned from the balcony and went quickly back to Talleyrand, who had been watching her attentively through half-closed eyes. She met his light blue gaze steadily:
'I am going back. I must see this woman, speak to her. I have to make her understand—'
'What? That you love her husband as much as he loves you? Do you really think that will make her change her mind? This Pilar is like a rock. Besides, you will not get near her. She has the whole of the Queen of Spain's guard to protect her, and if I know Julie Clary she will be only too delighted to play the queen for the benefit of the only one of her subjects who has ever asked for her assistance. At Mortefontaine, Pilar is surrounded, hemmed in by ladies- and gentlemen-in-waiting who are more effective than any castle walls. She has asked never to be left alone and her request has been granted. No visitors. No messages even, unless they are addressed to the queen. Do you think,' Talleyrand said wearily, 'do you think I have not tried? I was politely shown the door. What chance would you have? Your reputation is, to say the least, unlikely to recommend you to those pious ladies!'