Жюльетта Бенцони: Marianne and The Masked Prince

'My decision? Have I decided anything?' Marianne was more and more at sea.

'Of course you have. I wonder you should not have thought of it yourself. And while you have the minister to hand, ask him to try and find out what has become of your reverend godfather, that Jack-of-all-trades, Gauthier de Chazay. We shall be wanting him shortly. Even while he was still a little nobody of a priest he had the Pope in his pocket, and you can't imagine how useful the Pope can be when it comes to dissolving a marriage. Are you beginning to understand now?'

Marianne was indeed beginning to understand. Adelaide's idea was so brilliant and so simple that she scolded herself for not thinking of it sooner. The marriage was never consummated and besides it had been contracted with a Protestant: it should be possible, even easy, to get it annulled. Then she would be free, wholly, wonderfully free, without even her husband's death upon her conscience. But even as she called to mind the grave little figure of the Abbé de Chazay, Marianne was conscious of a creeping uneasiness.

She had thought of her godfather so often in the time since she had stood on the quay at Plymouth and gazed despairingly after the little vessel's fast-disappearing sails. She had thought of him sadly but hopefully at first, but a slight anxiety had grown with the passage of time. What would he say, that man of God, so fiercely upright in all matters of honour, so blindly loyal to his exiled king, if he knew his god-daughter was masquerading as Maria Stella, an opera singer and the Usurper's mistress? Would he ever understand what it had cost Marianne in suffering and blighted hopes to reach her present state and the happiness it held for her? Certainly if she had caught up with the Abbé on the Barbican at Plymouth her destiny would have been a very different one. He would probably have gained admittance for her to some convent where she would have been given every opportunity, in prayer and meditation, to expiate what she had never ceased to regard as the righteous execution of her husband. But although she had often thought of her godfather's affection and goodness with real regret, Marianne was well aware that she did not in the least regret the life that would have been hers in the convent.

Finally, Marianne put something of her doubt into words by saying to her cousin:

'It would make me more than happy to see my godfather again, cousin, but don't you think it would be selfish of me to seek him out merely to get my marriage annulled? Surely the Emperor —'

Adelaide dapped her hands.

'But what a good idea! Why did I not think of it? Of course, the Emperor is the very man!' She went on in an altered tone: 'The Emperor on whose orders the Pope was put under arrest by General Radet, the Emperor who kept the Pope a prisoner at Savona, the Emperor who was excommunicated by His Holiness last June in his splendid bull " Quum memoranda" – the Emperor is the very man we need to present a request for annulment to the Pope. He could not even procure the dissolution of his own marriage to that poor, sweet Josephine!'

'Oh,' Marianne said, crestfallen. 'I had forgotten. But do you really think my godfather… ?'

'Will get you your dissolution for the asking? I don't doubt it for an instant. We have only to discover the dear Abbé and all will be well. Liberty!'

Adelaide's rush of enthusiasm inclined Marianne to attribute some of her optimism to the champagne, but there was no doubt the old lady was right and that their best recourse in this situation was to rely on the Abbé de Chazey, although it was disappointing to discover a field in which Napoleon was not all-powerful. But how soon could the Abbé be found?

Fouché snapped shut the lid of his snuff-box, restored it to his pocket and shook out his lace ruffles with old-world grace.

'If, as you seem to think, this Abbé de Chazay forms one of the entourage of Pius VII, he must be at Savona and it will be an easy matter to trace him, and bring him to Paris. Your husband, however, is another matter.'

'Is it so difficult?' Marianne said quickly. 'If he and this Vicomte d'Aubécourt are one and the same?'

The Minister of Police had risen to his feet and was pacing the room slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. His progress had none of the Emperor's nervous energy. It was slow and thoughtful but, even so, Marianne found herself wondering why men felt it necessary to walk about in order to conduct a conversation. Was it a fashion started by Napoleon?

Fouché's perambulations brought him to a stop in front of the portrait of the Marquis d'Asselnat which brooded arrogantly over the gold and yellow harmonies of the salon . He stared at it for a while, as if waiting for an answer, then turned his heavy eyes on Marianne.

'Are you so sure?' he said slowly. There is no evidence to connect Lord Cranmere with the Vicomte d'Aubécourt.'

'I know that. But I should at least like to see him, to meet him.'

'Even yesterday, that would have been simple. The handsome Vicomte lodged in the rue de la Grange-Batelière, at the Hôtel Pinon. Since his arrival here he has been a constant visitor at the house of Madame Edmond de Périgord, having come armed with a letter of introduction from the Comte de Montrond who is at present in Anvers.'

Marianne nodded, a frown forming between her eyebrows. She experienced a twinge of doubt. Ever since the night before she had been acting on the assumption that Francis was the Vicomte d'Aubécourt. She had clung to the idea, as though to prove to herself that she was not suffering from hallucinations. But Francis as a visitor in the house of Talleyrand's niece? Madame de Périgord, by birth Princess of Courland and the richest heiress in all Europe, had been a real friend to Marianne when she was living as lectrice to Madame de Talleyrand. It was true that Marianne was not in her friend's company so often that she was familiar with all her connections, but she felt that she would have known if Lord Cranmere had begun to form part of Dorothée de Périgord's court.

'If it was at Anvers,' she said at last, 'that the Vicomte became acquainted with Monsieur de Montrond, that proves nothing. There have always been close ties between the Flemish and the English.'

'I agree, but I doubt whether, as an exile under police surveillance, the Comte de Montrond would dare to frank an Englishman disguised as a Fleming, and therefore a spy. Surely that would be taking too great a risk? I do not doubt that Montrond is capable of anything but only if it is worth his while and, if I remember rightly, the man you married gambled away your fortune on the spot. I have little reliance on Montrond's goodwill unless bolstered by financial incentives.'

It was all too logical, as Marianne was regretfully obliged to concede. Very well, Francis might not be concealing his identity under the name of the Flemish Vicomte, but he was certainly in Paris. At last, with a weary sigh, she said: 'Have you heard of any vessel come secretly from England?'

Fouché nodded. 'An English cutter put in by night a week ago on the isle of Hoedic to pick up a friend of yours, the Baron de Saint Hubert, whom you met in the quarries of Chaillot. Naturally, I did not hear of it until after the cutter had sailed out again, but the fact that it took someone off does not mean that it could not previously have landed another passenger from England.'

'How can we find out? Is…' Marianne paused, struck by a sudden thought which made her green eyes shine. Then she went on, more quietly: 'Is Nicolas Mallerousse still in Plymouth? He might know something about the movements of ships.'

The Minister of Police grinned wickedly and made her a mocking bow.

'Do me the kindness of believing that I thought of our worthy Black Fish long before you did, my dear. However, it so happens that just at present I am ignorant of the whereabouts of our remarkable son of the seas. There has been no news of him for a month past.'