Marianne

'He had already gone. I threw him out. It was only long afterwards that I met him again – here, in fact, in the house of the Prince of Benevento. Oh – anyway, does all this really matter? How can my life interest you, past, present or future? You have an Empire, subjects, as many women as you want—'

It gave her a kind of awful joy to hurl the inmost feelings of her heart in wild confusion at the feet of this unfeeling man before whom all trembled. Only she was not afraid because not even if the fancy took him to put her to death could he hurt her more than he had done already. She actively enjoyed trying to provoke him and make him angry. Yet, oddly enough, Napoleon did not seem to have heard. His splendid profile was turned away, towards the road and he murmured absently, as though thinking aloud:

'I'd like to know who that devil Talleyrand doesn't know in this world.'

Then, before the choking Marianne could say another word, he turned to her suddenly.

'You know,' he said in a voice full of laughter, 'that it is treason to argue with the Emperor?'

'Argue? Me? – I—'

'Unless you wish to be punished as you deserve, you'd better hurry up and beg my pardon.'

With a quick movement he snapped down the blinds. But, not until Napoleon's lips sought her own, did Marianne realize that he had taken her in his arms.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Once a Merveilleuse

Marianne lay with her head hanging slightly over the edge of the bed, gazing up at the shining bronze gilt eagle with outstretched wings which, high above, surmounted the crown on the great, circular baldachin. In spite of the exhausting and fantastic adventures of the night, and the long love-making which had followed, she was not sleepy. She would sleep later, she was not quite sure when but she did know very well that she would never sleep in this impressive bed. The great curtains of purple velvet fringed with gold, the winged victories, their bronze feet treading globes of lapis-lazuli, even the dais on which the imperial bed was placed, all helped to make her feel that she might as well be sleeping on the throne of France itself. It was simultaneously impressive, flattering and – rather funny. Napoleon, accustomed to it, slept with his head resting on Marianne's shoulder. The glow from a night light of silver gilt threw a gentleness over his wilful features, relaxed now in sleep, bringing back a little of the child he had once been. Overcome by a vast tenderness, Marianne could not take her eyes off him. She wanted to savour this night's happiness to the last drop.

Between the bed and the windows opposite, the great carpeted expanse was dotted with a series of strange islands, her own clothes, ripped off impatiently and scattered to the winds, and his, which he was in the habit of leaving where they dropped as he got out of them. Outside, the freezing night was almost over and the regular footsteps of the sentries reminded Marianne that she was in the Tuileries. But the room in the apartment on the first floor which had belonged to the unhappy Louis XVI, was warm and safe, still vibrant with their kisses and their words and sounds of love. How he had loved her, in those two hours from the time when he had led her in by the small, private door leading directly to his apartment! It was as though he could never have enough of her. He had made her promise she would never leave him, that she would stay with him, and be all his own. And when, timidly, she had mentioned his approaching marriage of which everyone was talking, he had roared with laughter.

'I'm marrying a brood mare!' he had told her crudely, like the soldier he was. 'I need an heir for my throne – but you, you will give me what no other woman can ever give me.'

She had discovered then how hard it was to love an Emperor. Jealousy, the need she had to know everything about him brought a host of questions to her lips which she dared not ask aloud. How could she speak to him of all those women whose names she had heard linked with his? How could she speak of the Polish countess who had gone away to the snows of her own country to give birth to his child? She sensed that he would not endure curiosity from her. So many things that would be possible with an ordinary man were not so with him.

When the thought of that unknown woman he was to marry had made her pensive, Napoleon had drawn her into his arms again, softly and slowly caressing her bare skin with that intimate knowledge which never failed to arouse her. Then, with her heart beating wildly, she had forgotten everything but the furious pumping of her blood, and he had crushed her to him hard.

'I love you and only you,' he told her fiercely. 'That must be enough for you.'

'It will be enough as long as you go on loving me. But I fear it may not be possible. If I must return to my place with Madame Talleyrand—'

'Impossibility is a bugbear for cowards and a refuge for fools! As for going back to that old cow! I have better things in store for you – my sweet, beautiful – wonderful singing bird!'

He had said no more because at that point neither of them had been able to hold out any longer against the demands of their bodies and beyond that point there was no room for anything but silence. And now he was asleep, leaving her to enjoy these moments of warm, full happiness all by herself, counting them out as a miser counts his treasure. She knew she could not stay here in the palace, that soon she would have to go but she did not even begin to wonder where to. She left everything to him, he was all powerful and he was the man she had chosen for her master. Whatever he decided would be right.

A clock from a nearby church struck seven. From the palace courtyard came sharp commands, the click of heels, the clatter of horses hoofs on cobblestones, the distant call of a trumpet. Marianne sighed. The fantastic night which had begun in the quarries of Chaillot and ended, by the strange twist of fate, in the imperial bed, was over.

The door was opened softly. A man entered on tiptoe. Quickly, Marianne pulled the sheet up to her chin. It was Constant, the Emperor's valet, and the man she had already seen that night at Butard. In one hand, he carried a branch of lighted candles, in the other a small tray on which were two steaming cups. Both these, he set down on a small side table, then quickly gathered up the scattered garments and placed them carefully on a chair according to their owners. Marianne watched from between half closed lids that quick, familiar certainty of his movements. Not until he had finished did he approach the bed.

'Sire,' he said loudly, 'it is seven o'clock. I have the honour to wake your majesty.'

As though he had only been waiting for the signal, Napoleon stirred, sat up and gave a light yawn.

'Already?' he said. 'A short night, Constant. What is the weather like?'

'Much warmer, sire, than yesterday. It is raining. May I ask how your majesty is feeling?'

'Wonderful! Ah, tea! Come on, lazy-bones, wake up—'

The concluding remarks were addressed to Marianne who had been covering her embarrassment by pretending sleep. Seizing her by the shoulders, Napoleon shook her vigorously and bundled her up in the sheets, laughing like a child at the same time.

'Come on! Open your eyes! Here, drink this! I always begin the day with a cup of tea or orange! Give it to her, Constant.'

The valet obeyed with a smile after first greeting Marianne pleasantly with: 'I hope madame has slept well?'

She thanked him with a smile and then carried the steaming beverage to her lips before remarking wickedly:

'I did not know that you had English habits, sire?'

'And you know them, don't you? The English have some good ones, you know. One must be their enemy, as I am, to admit it honestly. Any news, Constant?'

'The lady sent for by your majesty awaits your majesty's pleasure in the ante-chamber.'