Marianne's eyes opened wide:
'An escort? For me? But on what pretext?'
'Shall we say… as Ambassadress Extraordinary? In fact I am sending you not to Lucca but to Florence, to my sister Elisa. You may easily sort out your differences with your husband without incurring the least danger because I will charge you with messages for the Grand Duchess of Tuscany. I mean my protection to extend to you there, and to have it known.'
'Ambassadress? I? But I am only a woman?'
'I have frequently employed women on other occasions. My sister Pauline knows something of that! And I should not wish to hand you over bound hand and foot to the man you have – yourself – chosen to marry.'
The implication was sufficiently obvious. She was to understand that had she, Marianne, showed more sense, she would have trusted her then lover to provide for her and not gone plunging off into impossible adventures… Judging it better to make no reply, she merely bowed and then sank into the ritual curtsy.
'I shall obey, Sire. And I thank Your Majesty for your care of me.'
Mentally, she was calculating that once in Florence it would be easy for her to reach Venice, much easier than she had feared. She had, as yet, no idea how she meant to settle her differences with Prince Corrado, or what form of arrangement he intended to suggest, but one thing was certain: she would never again live in the great, white villa, beautiful and deadly as one of those exotic flowers whose perfume enchanted but whose juice could kill.
Of course, there was still the matter of the escort. That would have to be got rid of…
The door opened suddenly and Vidocq came in. He merely bowed, gravely, without speaking. The Emperor's body stiffened. His eyes turned to Marianne and met hers and she held his gaze steadily, feeling the colour drain from her face in spite of herself.
'Justice is done!' was all he said.
But Marianne knew before he spoke that Francis Cranmere's head had fallen. Slowly, she dropped to her knees on the stone floor, feeling it warm from the fire, and with bowed head and hands clasped together, began to pray for the man who would never again have power to harm her.
Rather than disturb her prayers, Napoleon moved away silently into the shadows.
The cannons were booming through Paris. Marianne listened to the salvos, standing at the window, with Adelaide and Jolival, counting the number.
'Two… three… four…'
She knew what they meant. The Emperor's child was born. Even before this, in the middle of the night, the great bell of Notre-Dame and the bells of every church in Paris had called to every Frenchman to pray to heaven for a happy issue and in the capital there had been no more sleep for anyone, for Marianne least of all for this was the last night she would spend in her own house.
Her trunks were packed and loaded already on to the great travelling carriage and in a little while, when the promised escort arrived, she would take the road for Italy. The letters she was to present to the Grand Duchess of Tuscany lay on the chest, in all the glory of their red seals and ribbons. The furniture of her bedchamber was already clad in its uniform of dust sheets. There were no flowers in the vases. But Marianne's heart had quitted this house long ago.
Jolival, as nervous as she, was counting aloud. 'Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen… If it is a girl, they say she will have the title of Princess of Venice.'
Venice! It was no more than three months now before Jason's ship would drop anchor in the lagoon. The very name, delicate and colourful as the scintillating glassware of the city's own craftsmen, became clothed in all the varied brilliance of hope and love.
'Twenty…' Jolival counted, '… twenty-one…'
There was a pause, brief but so intense that it might have seemed as if the entire Empire were holding its breath. Then the brazen voices resumed their triumphant clamour.
'Twenty-two! Twenty-three!' Jolival shouted. 'There are going to be a hundred and one! It is a boy! Long live the Emperor! Long live the King of Rome!'
His cry was echoed and magnified as though by magic. Everywhere could be heard windows being flung open, doors slamming and shouting from innumerable throats as the people of Paris poured out into the streets. Only Marianne did not move but stood with eyes closed. So Napoleon had the son he so desired! His pink Austrian brood mare had done what was expected of her. How happy he must be! And proud! She could imagine him making the palace ring with the metallic tones of his voice, the nervous click of his heels… The child was born, and it was a boy… the King of Rome! A fine name, a name to evoke the mastery of the world! A heavy name, too, to lay on such tiny shoulders.
'Come, Marianne! We must drink to this happy birth!'
Arcadius had already loosed the cork from a bottle of champagne and was filling glasses, handing one to each of the two women. His sparkling gaze went from one to the other as he raised the clear crystal glass with the pale golden liquid foaming within: 'The King of Rome!… And to you, too, Marianne. To the day when we shall drink to a son of yours! He will not be a king, but he will be handsome… strong and brave like his father.'
'Do you really think so?' Marianne asked. Her eyes moistened even at the thought of so much happiness.
'I do more than think it,' Arcadius said seriously. 'I am certain of it.'
Draining his glass, he sent it spinning over his shoulder in the Russian fashion to shatter against the marble chimney breast.
'As certain as I am that I have broken that glass.'
Intrigued and not a little amused, the two women followed his example. Then Marianne said:
'Assemble the servants, Arcadius, and have them drink champagne also. I want to leave them happy, because I shall come back to this house happy, or else not at all. And now I am going to dress.'
And she left the room to make ready for the long journey ahead of her. Outside, above the joyous clamour of the cheering Parisians, the cannons were still thundering.
It was the twenty-first of March, 1811.