Marianne

'Do not count on me for services of that kind!' she cried fiercely. 'I have spied on you, yes, although my reports contained nothing worth reading! But I will not buy my freedom in your bed!'

Talleyrand's lips quivered, then he laughed outright.

'Are you not, as the princess would say, a little lacking in respect? For shame, Mademoiselle Mallerousse! These are notions and expressions, that go only too well with your foreign name! I meant merely – to ask you to sing, for one or more of my friends, when and where I shall request.'

'Oh. Is that—'

'All? Certainly. Nothing more. My dear Marianne – may I call you by that charming name that suits you so well? – you are very lovely, but I have never enjoyed making love to a woman who yielded to anything but her own desires. Love is like music, an ineffable harmony, and the body merely an instrument, although the most wonderful of all instruments beyond a doubt. If one of the two is out of tune, then that harmony is broken. I dislike false notes – as much as you do yourself.'

'May – may your highness forgive me,' Marianne said in a low voice, feeling horribly ashamed. 'I behaved foolishly and I beg your pardon. Naturally, I should be glad to be of service.'

'So I should hope. And now, since we are agreed, give me your hand. We'll shake hands on it like our American friends, as befits two people who understand one another. There is a great deal of good in these American fashions, and on the whole, I approve of them although they are often somewhat direct for my taste.'

His smile was disarming and Marianne returned it frankly. Her fingers shook a little as she placed them timidly in the prince's hand but his grip was quick and firm.

'I shall send for you tomorrow morning, if the princess does not need you.'

'Your most serene highness's to command—'

A brief curtsey and Marianne found herself out in the corridor feeling rather dazed and bewildered but extraordinarily relieved. She had rebelled too much against her position and her resentment against Fouché was too strong for her not to feel inwardly delighted at this reversal of the situation, especially since she could not help liking the aristocratic Talleyrand much more than the wily Fouché. Her nightmare was at an end. She was no longer a spy. In future she would not be betraying the roof that sheltered her and could enjoy the comfort and luxury she had found there with a quiet mind, devoting herself wholly to her music until such time as Gossec should help her make her debut as a singer.

It was too late for her lesson. A glance into the music room showed her that Gossec had gone but Marianne was too happy to let that worry her. She was on her way up to her own room humming a little tune when her thoughts turned suddenly to the vehicle which had followed her all morning and she had a sudden impulse to see if it was still there. She turned and ran back down the stairs, across the hall and out into the courtyard. Beside the main portico, with its double row of ionic columns giving on to the impressive stone sweep that formed the main approach to the mansion, there was a small postern which was never closed during the day. This, Marianne opened and, slipping outside, hurried along the wall to the corner. Her newly acquired spirits fell a little when she saw that the black carriage was still there.

It was still there later in the afternoon when Marianne went out with the princess and little Charlotte for a drive along the new embankments which the imperial government was constructing along the Seine.

***

There was a change. Marianne noticed it first that evening, when, on their return from their drive, Madame Talleyrand asked her to go with her to her room. When they got there, she flung herself on a sofa with a weary sigh and announced:

'There will be company tonight, as you know, child, but I am too tired to go down. I shall stay in my room.'

'But – what will his most serene highness say should your highness not be there to receive your guests?'

The erstwhile Madame Grand smiled sadly.

'Nothing. His highness will do very well without me. I daresay he may even be thankful.'

Suddenly, Marianne felt very sorry for her. This was the first time the princess had shown any signs of bitterness but since her entry into the household, Marianne had had daily opportunities to observe the purely decorative and useless role she filled in her husband's house. Talleyrand was polite to his wife, but that was all. He scarcely spoke to her except to inquire for her health or to make some other commonplace remark. Apart from this, his charm was reserved for the numerous women who buzzed around him constantly in a rustling, scented swarm. Madame Talleyrand seemed to accept this state of affairs with equanimity, hence Marianne's surprise at her melancholy mood on this occasion. She wondered whether the indifference were merely a well-mannered cloak for a real wound. Her surprise was still greater when the princess added that she would not need her that evening and that instead she should be ready to make her appearance in the salon after dinner.

'Without your highness?'

'Yes, without me – the prince desires that you shall sing. The great Czech, Dussek, is to play, with Niederman the harpist and the violinist Libon. You are to complete the concert.'

Marianne felt slightly daunted at the prospect of appearing in the company of three such brilliant performers. In spite of Gossec's daily lessons and his warm encouragement and praise, she was not yet sufficiently sure of her voice and talent. On the other hand, the fact of singing before such a splendid gathering could be important for her. But she must speak to Gossec first and agree with him what she was to sing. Whatever happened, she was well aware that the order came from a higher authority and that there could be no question of declining. This was all part of the new agreement between herself and Talleyrand. She could only obey even if, privately, she considered that the prince had lost little enough time in making her perform her part.

A little before eleven that evening, Marianne emerged from her room and made her way to the great salon. The guests who had not been present at the dinner were beginning to arrive and the party about to begin. The courtyard and the street had been filled for several minutes past with the rattle of carriages and the jingle of harness, accompanied by the shouts of coachmen and lackeys, almost drowning the strains of violins rising from below.

Passing a long mirror, Marianne paused. However little enthusiasm she felt for the evening, she knew she looked her best. Her dress of almond green tulle suited her to perfection, although she acknowledged some doubts about the deep décolletage. Despite the small spray of lilac at its lowest point, it was cut to the very limits of decency, displaying to advantage the golden skin and full, rich curves of her breasts and shoulders. The hands that held the music of the song she was to sing were clad in long, lilac mittens and there were a few sprays of lilac caught up with ribbons of green tulle among the crown of glossy, dark ringlets piled high on her head. Marianne decided she looked very nice. This was a discovery she owed to Paris, to Leroy and to this elegant household who had taught her to understand her own beauty. Until then, she had not really been aware of it, although she had already discovered her power to arouse desire in men. But now, she was sure of it. Perhaps because a man like Talleyrand had told her. He had taught her, in a way, to look at herself and she was not yet tired of the novel enjoyment.

She lingered a moment before the glass, enjoying her own radiant reflection enhanced by the soft candlelight. Her green eyes were sparkling and there was a moist sheen on her lips, and suddenly, Marianne sighed. How she would have loved to look as beautiful as this a year ago! Then, perhaps Francis would have loved her for herself and not for her fortune. Perhaps they might really have been happy together! But Francis was dead and this dazzling reflection was only the ghost of Marianne d'Asselnat inhabiting the body of a stranger, a homeless wanderer whose flesh was already a woman's flesh but whose heart held nothing now but emptiness. And yet, it would have been good to love and be loved, to make of this useless beauty a gift for the eyes of a man in love.