Жюльетта Бенцони - Marianne and The Masked Prince

'My dear Princess, you don't know what you are saying! You are a great deal too pretty for our charming, scatterbrained Pauline, while as for Madame Mother, if you want to die a speedy death of boredom, then I advise you to join the company of grave and pious ladies who make up her entourage.'

'Very well,' Marianne said with a sigh of resignation. 'I admit defeat once more. I will be a lady-in-waiting. But for the love of heaven, my dear Duke, do nothing to hasten the signature of that decree! There will be time enough.'

'Oh, with a bit of luck, I can drag it out until August, or even September.'

September? Marianne's smile returned at once. By September her condition would be sufficiently obvious to excuse her from appearing at court since, according to her calculations, the baby should be born early in December.

They had reached the steps and Marianne extended her hand impulsively for the Grand Marshal to kiss.

'My dear Duke, you are a darling! And, and what is more to the point, a very good friend.'

'I preferred your first,' he told her, with a comical grimace, 'but I will be content with friendship. Good-bye for the present, fair lady.'

The sun was setting in a blaze of orange light that made the sky behind the hills of Saint-Cloud seem on fire. The promenade de Longchamp was full of people, a gay, colourful crowd of gleaming carriages, handsome men on horseback, light-coloured gowns and brilliant uniforms. The evening was so mild that Marianne was glad not to hurry home. She was trying out a new carriage that day, an open barouche which Arcadius had ordered as a surprise for her homecoming. With its green velvet cushions and gleaming brass-work, it was both luxurious and comfortable. This splendid equipage attracted a good deal of notice, as also did its occupant. Women stared curiously, and men with an admiration divided equally between the ravishing young woman who reclined on the cushions and the four snowy Lippizaners handled with superb aplomb by Gracchus, glowing with pride in his new livery of black and gold.

Marianne lay back, lulled by the gentle movement of her carriage, and breathed in the warm air, heavy with the sweet scent of acacia and chestnut trees in bloom. Her dreamy gaze took in just enough of the brilliant, passing throng to enable her to recognize a face or return a bow.

At one point, however, the two lines of vehicles were brought to a halt to allow a passage to the numerous retinue of Prince Cambacèrés. During the enforced halt, Marianne's wandering attention was caught and held by a man on horseback who stood out oddly in the colourful crowd. Riding a beautiful chestnut at a gentle trot along the grass track beside the road, he seemed to take no notice of the blockage, merely bowing from time to time to one of the many women, who all smiled at him.

Marianne could tell from his dark-green uniform with red flashes, from the Cross of St Alexander on his high collar and the peculiar shape of his black cocked hat with its cockade, that the man was a Russian officer, although the Cross of the Legion d'Honneur gleamed on his breast.

He was a superb horseman. That much was clear from his easy seat, combining gracefulness with strength, and from the muscular thighs, beautifully moulded by white buckskins. His figure, also, was distinctive: his shoulders were extremely broad but his waist as slim as a young girl's. The most extraordinary thing about him was his face which was very fair with narrow side-whiskers that grew like faint slivers of gold on his cheeks. The features had the absolute regularity of a Greek statue but the eyes, set at a slant, were fierce and of an intense green which betrayed Asiatic blood. The man had some Tartar in him. He was coming towards Marianne's carriage and as he neared it, he rode more slowly.

At last, he stopped altogether, only a few paces away from Marianne, but it was to look curiously and with great attention at her horses. He examined each one carefully, from head to tail, moved slightly back to study the effect as a whole, and then edged closer again. Then his eyes turned to her. The same procedure was repeated. The Russian officer sat his horse two yards away, inspecting her with the attentive look of an entomologist discovering some rare insect. His eye roved in insolent appreciation from her thick, dark hair to her face, already flushed deep red, to the slender column of her neck, her shoulders and her breast, which Marianne hastened to cover with the black and gold cashmere. Bursting with indignation and feeling unpleasantly like a slave put up for sale, Marianne tried to annihilate this unmannerly individual with her glance, but, lost in his contemplation, he seemed not to notice it. More, he actually extracted a glass from his pocket and put it to his eye the better to scrutinize her.

Marianne leaned forward hastily and dug the tip of her sunshade smartly into Gracchus's arm.

'I do not care how you do it,' she said, 'but get us out of here! This person seems determined to stay where he is until Judgment Day.'

The youthful coachman glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

'It would appear your Serene Highness has an admirer. I'll see what I can do. In fact, I think things are beginning to move.'

The long line of carriages was indeed beginning to move again. Gracchus flicked the reins but still the Russian officer did not stir. He merely turned slightly in the saddle so as to follow the carriage and its occupant with his eyes. This was enough: 'Boor!' Marianne flung at him.

'Don't you upset yourself, Highness,' Gracchus told her. 'He's a Russian and everyone knows Russians don't know what's what. They're all savages. I dare say that one doesn't speak a word of French. It was his only way of telling you he thought you were beautiful.'

Marianne said nothing. There could be no doubt of the man's ability to speak French. The language was part of the normal education of all noble Russians and this one was evidently not born in a hovel. He was a thoroughbred, for sure, but his behaviour merely went to prove that it was possible to belong to the Russian nobility and remain horribly ill-bred. Oh well, she told herself, the important thing was to have got rid of him! It was lucky he had not been going her way.

But when her carriage passed through the handsome triple iron gate of the Porte Mahiaux she heard her coachman say casually that the Russian officer was still there.

'What? Is he following us? But he was going towards Saint-Cloud?'

'Maybe he was but he's not going there now. He's right behind us.'

Marianne looked round. Gracchus was right. The Russian was there, a few yards behind, following the carriage as calmly as if that had always been his place. When he saw her looking at him, he even had the audacity to give her a beaming smile.

'Oh!' Marianne cried aloud. This is too much! Spring 'em, Gracchus! As fast as you can!'

'Spring 'em?' Gracchus said in horror. 'We'll have someone over if I do.'

'You can avoid them. Spring them, I said. Now is the time for those horses to show their paces, and you your skill!'

Gracchus knew that it was useless to argue with his mistress when she spoke in that tone. The whip cracked. The carriage set off at a spanking pace along the route de Neuilly, traversed the place de l'Étoile, and thundered down the Champs Elysées. Gracchus, standing up on his box like a Greek charioteer, shouted out warnings with the full force of his lungs whenever he perceived a pedestrian. All these, indeed, stopped in their tracks and stared, spellbound, at the sight of the smart barouche tearing past, drawn like the wind by four snow-white horses, with a horseman riding hell for leather in pursuit. The Russian's quiet following after the carriage had turned into a mad race. When the officer saw the barouche break into a gallop, he set spurs to his horse and set off in enthusiastic pursuit. His cocked hat was gone but he showed no sign of caring. His fair hair streamed in the wind as he urged on his mount with barbaric cries that matched Gracchus's shouts. It was not a sight to pass unnoticed.