Marianne

'The Emperor! Save the Emperor!'

More shots rang out but hampered perhaps by the darkness and by the speed at which their quarry moved, the riflemen fired raggedly. Even so, one bullet must have hit Jason because he gave a muffled curse and let his hand slip from Marianne's. But the chasseurs were already surrounding them. Rough hands seized them and they were subjected to a barrage of questions:

'Who are you? What do you want? Are you conspirators?'

'The Emperor,' Marianne gasped. 'For the love of heaven, take us to the Emperor – he is in danger.'

'A woman? What are you doing here? How did you get in?'

This time it was the officer in command of the troop, a splendid tall fellow, moustaches bristling under the plumed fur busby. He was already dividing Marianne from her wounded companion but she had eyes only for the brilliant group of men and women rushing excitedly out of the porch, all talking at once. A man had emerged from their midst, a man in a grey coat holding a wide cocked hat under his arm. At the sound of his curt voice, Marianne's heart almost stopped beating for happiness.

'Captain Trebriant! What is going on there?'

The handsome chasseurs had no time to reply. He was still coming smartly to attention, when Marianne wriggled away and flung herself headlong at the Emperor's feet.

'Sire, for pity's sake, listen to me! They mean to kill you! There are men lying in wait for you at Fond-Louvet! There are many of them and your escort is small.'

A low growl of disapproval gave Marianne a clear notion of what the chasseurs of the Guard thought of their own worth. However, Napoleon's eyes had widened a little at the sight of the dirty, dishevelled woman in her tattered, mud-stained garments raising to his face a pair of luminous green eyes he knew.

'What's this? You – and in this condition?' He said, unable to conceal his surprise. 'Where have you sprung from?'

Before Marianne could answer, a tall, fair young woman, in a dress and cloak of violet-coloured velvet sewn with seed pearls, with a simple diadem on her golden hair, broke in.

'Sire, be careful,' she said nervously. 'This woman may be dangerous – or mad!'

Napoleon gave a brief smile which never reached his eyes but in which Marianne, desperate and overawed, saw Charles Denis restored to her for an instant.

'No, no, Hortense, I know her. She is not mad in the least. As for being dangerous—'

'The man who came with her is unconscious, sire,' Captain Trebriant volunteered. 'He is wounded. One of the shots must have hit him.'

'Jason! He is hurt! Oh God—'

Marianne would have sprung to her feet in terror and run to him but the Emperor's iron hand held her fast.

'One moment,' he said sternly. 'Who is this man?'

'Jason Beaufort, an American, sire. He rescued me and brought me here to warn you. He is a brave man. Have his hurts seen to, I implore you, and do not send him to prison.'

'As to that, we shall see. For the present—'

'Sire,' the young woman he had addressed as Hortense spoke again, 'is it necessary to continue this out here? It is very cold—'

'A Queen of Holland feels the cold here!' The Emperor scoffed. 'Whoever saw the like?'

'Maybe, but my mother wishes to see this woman. She is very anxious. You know how sensitive she has always been to rumours of conspiracy.'

'Very well, we'll go in. Duroc, look after this American the heavens have dropped on us and send a patrol to see what is going on at Fond-Louvet. Make it a strong one!' He turned to Marianne. 'How many are these men?'

'About thirty, I think.'

Marianne saw Duroc, her host of Butard, detach himself from the group of ladies and uniformed men but now he was dressed in splendid blue with gold braid. He too, threw her a glance of stupefaction, but it was only for an instant, then he turned and went to Jason who was being supported in the arms of two chasseurs.

'This way,' Napoleon said guiding Marianne none too gently into a marble floored entrance hall adorned with antique busts. The brilliant crowd of onlookers parted before them, out of respect for the Emperor and from obvious disgust at his companion. Marianne, her mind in a ferment, could only think that they must make a strange couple. But she heard his voice whisper in her ear.

'Take care you'll make no allusion to the other night. I will not have the Emp – her caused the slightest pain. I have given her enough already.'

Marianne's heart throbbed with a sudden ache of mingled jealousy and pain. The curt words, the hard grip on her arm all told her that her estimate of her own part in the life of the supposed Charles Denis had been all too correct. She was a plaything, a passing fancy, a momentary distraction, soon forgotten – while she felt her love for him keener than ever. He was treating her almost as a criminal when she had risked her life to save him, when Jason had been shot by his guards. She asked nothing now except to be allowed to go away. She would go with Jason whenever he decided. She knew that she could never live in the same land with him, close to him, without the right even to be near him.

'Your garden is full of odd surprises, Josephine,' he said with assumed lightness, 'look what I have found! The guards found this young person who merely seems to have climbed your wall in company with an American, who has been wounded by a shot.'

Brought back to earth by Napoleon's voice, Marianne saw that she was in a long room decorated in pale green, a music room to judge by its furnishings. A rather plump woman dressed in white cashmere and a great deal of filmy lace was reclining on a sofa done up in light red silk with black trimmings like the rest of the room.

'Bonaparte, please, do not make a joke of it. They told me of a conspiracy—' said the woman, who was none other than the former Empress herself.

She held out trembling hands to him. He took them and gripped them warmly.

'If there is a conspiracy, we shall soon know all about it. Don't upset yourself. Nothing will happen. Which reminds me,' he turned to Marianne who stood speechless, hardly daring to breathe, 'can you tell me who is their leader?'

'Yes, sire. The chevalier de Bruslart.'

'Him again!' Josephine cried and the Emperor frowned.

'Come here, Mademoiselle, and tell us what you know. Here, sit here,—'

She pointed to a low chair but Marianne did not even see it. She was fascinated by the still lovely woman with her pale, transparent skin, heavy mahogany coloured hair and huge Creole eyes, at present red with weeping. But all this was nothing without the truly inimitable grace which made Josephine someone quite exceptional. Every glance, every look on her face showed her love for the husband who had rejected her so that Marianne forgot her jealousy and felt drawn to her by a sympathy as spontaneous as it was unconscious. Both of them loved the same man, both feared for him. That was a much stronger bond between them than the distant tie of blood by which they were united.

'Come,' the former Empress said again. 'Come and sit here.'

Marianne made a faultless court curtsey. 'Madame,' she murmured, 'I dare not. Your Majesty sees how I am dressed – and the harm I might do to these pretty chairs.'

'No matter,' Josephine cried airily with the sudden playfulness which was so much a part of her charming, unpredictable nature. 'I want to talk to you, I want to find out who you are! The truth is, you are a mystery to me. You are certainly dressed like a vagabond but your curtsey is like a great lady's and your voice goes with it. Who are you?'