And so, all in all, the days passed not unpleasantly, yet with each new morning Marianne felt her fears returning. She took to watching for the post and studying Talleyrand's expression closely to see if, in the news which reached him from Paris, there might not have been some hint about the Beaufort affair.
One morning, Marianne and the prince walked out a little way along the tree-lined road beside the lake near the chateau. Talleyrand's walks were invariably brief, because of his lame leg, but the weather was so fine, the morning so clear and fresh that both had found the urge to take a turn on foot quite irresistible. The countryside was filled with the scents of hay and wild thyme, the sky was white with doves playing tag around the three grey towers of the chateau and the calm waters of the lake shimmered with iridescent blue and silver, fit to make a fairy's gown.
The man and girl were strolling peaceably along beside the water's edge, throwing bread to the ducks and laughing at the harassed quacking of a mother-duck in her efforts to control a particularly unruly brood of ducklings, when one of the prince's manservants came hurrying towards them holding something white in his gloved hand.
'Post, eh?' Talleyrand remarked with just the faintest shade of irritation. 'It must be urgent to set them running after us.'
There were two letters, one for Talleyrand, the other for Marianne. The prince raised his eyebrows at his own, which was sealed with the Emperor's arms, but Marianne fell on hers eagerly, recognizing the extravagant curlicues which passed for handwriting with Jolival. She tore open the wafer with Arcadius's martlets arrayed upon it and scanned the few lines within. A despairing cry broke from her. Arcadius wrote to tell her that Mrs Atkins had quitted her house in the rue de Lille 'for the country' but that there was no means of finding out whereabouts in the country she might be. This had happened on the very day Adelaide d'Asselnat had returned home. As for the records of the prison at Vincennes, they contained no reference to any political prisoner by the name of Francis Cranmere – only the traces where a page had been torn out of the book. Whoever they were who had dedicated themselves to the ruin of Jason Beaufort and the disruption of relations between France and America, they appeared to have left nothing to chance.
Marianne's eyes filled with tears as she crumpled Jolival's letter nervously between her fingers. At the same time, she heard her companion saying testily: 'Why does he need me to unveil his confounded column! This means that I shall be obliged to interrupt my treatment. And I have not the least desire to return to Paris, eh?'
But Marianne was conscious only of the last words. 'Return to Paris? You are returning?'
'I must. I have to be there for the Emperor's birthday on the fifteenth of August. This year, to add to the magnificence of the occasion, His Majesty has decided to hold the unveiling of the bronze column he has set up in the Place Vendôme in honour of the Grand Army, made from the metal of twelve hundred and fifty cannon captured at Austerlitz. I am not at all sure it is such a brilliant idea. It can scarcely be very agreeable to the new Empress, seeing that a good half of the cannon in question belonged to Austria. But the Emperor is so delighted with the figure of himself as a Roman emperor which is to surmount the column that I suppose he wants all Europe to have an opportunity of admiring it.'
But Marianne's thoughts were very far from the column in the Place Vendôme, so far indeed as to make her forget even her manners and break in on the prince unceremoniously:
'If you are going back to Paris, take me with you!'
Take you, eh? What for?'
By way of a reply, Marianne held out Jolival's letter. Talleyrand read it carefully and slowly. By the time he reached the end there was a deep furrow between his brows, but he returned the letter without comment.
'I must go back,' Marianne said again after a moment, in a choking voice. 'I cannot stay here, safe in the sunshine, while Jason is in this dreadful danger. I – I think I should go mad. Let me come with you.'
'You know that you are forbidden to go – or I to take you. Don't you think you will only make matters worse for Beaufort if the Emperor hears that you have disobeyed him?'
'He will not hear. I shall leave my baggage and my servants here with orders to admit no one to my room and to say that I am ill in bed and will see no one at all. It will cause no surprise. I did very much the same before you arrived. The people here probably think I am mad anyway. With Gracchus and Agathe here, I know that no one will enter my room and find out the deception. Meanwhile, I will go back to Paris disguised as – let me see – yes, disguised as a boy. I shall be one of your secretaries.'
'Where will you go to in Paris?' the prince objected, looking not at all relieved. 'Your house is being watched, you know that. If the police were to see you going in you would be arrested on the spot.'
'I thought…' Marianne began, sounding suddenly rather shy.
'That I would take you in? Yes, well, I thought of it myself for a moment, but it would not do. You are known to everyone in the rue de Varennes and I do not think everyone is to be trusted. There is a likelihood that you would be betrayed and that would not help matters, either for you or for myself. I am not, you will recall, on the best of terms with His Majesty… even if he has asked me to go and unveil his column!'
'Then it can't be helped. I will go somewhere else – to a hotel perhaps.'
'Where your disguise would be seen through in a moment. No, you are being altogether foolish, my child. But I believe I have a better idea. Go and make what arrangements you need. We are leaving Bourbon this evening. I will see that you have some man's clothes and you can pass as a young secretary of mine until we reach Paris. Once there, I will take you to – but you will see. No need to speak of that now. You are set on this piece of folly?'
'I am,' Marianne said firmly, flushed with joy at a degree of assistance she had scarcely dared to hope for. 'I feel that if I am near him, I shall find some way to help him.'
'He is a lucky man,' the prince said with a faint, rather wistful smile, 'to have such a love. Ah, well, I seem to be fated to refuse you nothing, Marianne! And perhaps, after all, it may be best to be within reach. An opportunity may occur, and if it should, you will be there to take advantage of it. For the present, let us go in. Good heavens, child! What are you doing?' The last words were accompanied by a vain attempt to draw back his hand which Marianne had carried gratefully to her lips. 'Haven't I chosen you for my daughter, after all? I am merely trying to prove myself a tolerable father, that is all. Though I can't help wondering what your own father would say to all this!'
Arm in arm, the lame prince and the young girl made their way slowly back to the village, leaving the lake to the company of the ducks.
Eleven o'clock was striking from the Quinquengrogne Tower when Talleyrand's coachman set his team bowling along the road to Paris. As the coach began to move, Marianne looked up to the window of her room and saw, behind the closed shutters, the glimmer of the lamplight showing through, just as it had done every night since her arrival. No one would ever think that it shone on an empty bed, in an empty room. Gracchus and Agathe had received strict orders, although Gracchus, especially, had proved hard to convince. He had been deeply shocked to think that his beloved mistress could consider setting out on such a perilous adventure without his stalwart support. Marianne had been obliged to promise that she would send for him as soon as possible, and certainly at the first hint of danger.