Marianne and the Crown of Fire

Epilogue JOURNEY'S END

As before, the black and gold iron gates between the pair of stone giants seemed to open of their own accord at the horses' approach. As before, the magical tranquillity of the park descended like a caress upon those who entered.

There was still the same pale, sanded avenue running like a river between the black plumes of cypresses and round, fragrant orange trees to lose itself in the misty spray of the fountains. And yet Marianne was instantly aware of a feeling that something had altered, that these gardens were not quite as they had been three years ago, almost to the day, when she had come there for the first time at the cardinal's side, as one entering an unknown world.

It was a sudden exclamation from Adelaide that gave her the clue to the difference.

'But it's beautiful!' she breathed. 'All those flowers!'

That was it! The flowers! There used not to be any flowers in the gardens, except when the orange and lemon trees were in bloom. Its beauty had derived solely from the contrasting shades of trees and turf and the tossing waters of the fountains where the statues stood unmoving, with an air of infinite boredom. Now there were flowers everywhere, as though a magician in a moment of madness had scattered all the colours of the rainbow over the whole garden. There were pale, fragrant laurels, huge silvery-pink peonies, great purple rhododendrons, pure white lilies and roses, above all roses – an orgy of flowers! Their splendour had brought the great gardens to life. They rioted everywhere, competing with the shining jets of water from the fountains whose refreshing murmur formed a background to the voices of the songbirds. For there were birds, too, as there had not been before, as though the sadness that had weighed on the whole of the enchanted demesne had frightened them away. Now they were singing with all their hearts.

Amused by Marianne's evident surprise, Jolival bent forward and touched her hand.

'Are you awake, Marianne, or are you dreaming? Anyone would think you had never seen these wonderful gardens before.'

She gave a little shiver, as if she were indeed just waking from a dream.

'In a way that's true. I have never seen them like this. There never used to be any flowers, or birds, or any real life at all, I think… It was all like a strange dream.'

'You were very frightened then. You can't have looked properly.' And Jolival laughed and turned to his newly wedded bride for confirmation. But Adelaide shook her head at him and slipped her arm through Marianne's.

'You don't understand at all, my dear. For my part, I think this change has come about because there is a child here now. A child can make even a graveyard burst into blossom.'

Adelaide and Arcadius had been married for a month now. On her return to Paris in the previous January, Marianne had found the two of them living a cloistered life together in the Hôtel d'Asselnat, locked in their shared grief and it was that, little by little, had brought them together. They were both sure that Marianne was dead and they mourned for her with all their loving hearts.

The arrival of official documents confirming Adelaide as the lawful owner of the family mansion in place of Marianne had not helped matters. Quite the reverse, in fact. This unexpected inheritance had finally convinced them that Marianne was really gone, especially as no one had been able to give them the slightest news of her. After that they had suddenly felt very lonely and unwanted, no longer knowing what to do with their lives. The house had become a mausoleum and the two of them settled down behind its drawn curtains to wait for the end, with only Gracchus to wait on them, but a Gracchus who no longer sang.

On the night when the mud-bespattered coach bearing Marianne and Barbe had drawn up below the steps, the travellers had been met by two very old people dressed in deepest mourning and leaning on each other's arms, both of whom had, in good earnest, very nearly died of joy.

That unexpected homecoming had truly been a great and wonderful moment. They had clung to each other for minutes on end, unable to tear themselves away, while Gracchus, having kissed his mistress in his turn, sat down on the front steps and sobbed as if he could never stop.

After that, they had sat up all night telling one another their adventures, Arcadius and Gracchus with the convoy led by General Nansouty and Marianne and Barbe on the long road to Danzig.

There had been eating and drinking, too, and Adelaide, who for a month had scarcely touched a morsel, had suddenly recovered her old voracious appetite. On that memorable night she had accounted all by herself for a whole chicken, a pâtè, an entire dish of prunes and two bottles of champagne.

By daylight, she was slightly grey about the face, but as happy as a queen. And it was then, while she went off to seek her bed with steps that tottered a little, that Jolival turned to Marianne as she stood in the middle of the yellow salon, gazing up at her father's portrait.

'What are you going to do now?'

Without taking her eyes from that proud face whose faintly ironic stare seemed to follow every move she made, she lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.

'My duty. It is time I – for me to grow up, Jolival. And besides – I'm tired of adventuring. You wear yourself out and tear yourself to pieces, and all to no avail. There's Sebastiano – I want to think of him now.'

'Of him alone? There is someone else with him, remember.'

'I've not forgotten. It must be possible to find some sort of happiness in making another person happy. And he more than deserves it, Jolival!'

He nodded, paused for a moment and then said tentatively: 'And – you'll have no regrets?'

She gave him the same proud glance as she had given Jason Beaufort at the moment of parting. But now there was no anger in it. It was as calm and limpid as sunlight on the sea.

'Regrets? I don't know. All I do know is that for the first time for a long while I feel at peace with myself.'

The interminable journey had left her very tired and so she decided to rest for a little while before going on to Italy. The house, needless to say, was still hers to stay in for as long as she pleased. They saw a few friends, among them Fortunée Hamelin, who cried like a schoolgirl when Marianne told her of her meeting with François Fournier. Talleyrand, too, as biting and affectionate by turns as he had ever been, but visibly suffering from a good deal of nervous strain, like Paris itself, which Marianne scarcely recognized. The city was very grim. The Emperor had come back almost furtively and then, after him, week by week, the survivors of what had been the finest army in the world. Sick and wounded men, dragging frostbitten limbs. Many would never rise again from the beds they had gone through so much to reach. And yet it was said that the Emperor was already trying to assemble a new army. The recruiting sergeants were hard at work. For Prussia was raising its head again, encouraged by the disastrous Russian campaign, fostering small rebellions here and there, mustering arms and allies. In the spring, Napoleon would be off again with fresh troops, and Paris was beginning to murmur.

Yet, one piece of good news there was in these dark days. It came to Jolival through his lawyer, and it was good news in keeping with the times, for it, too, told of a death. Jolival's estranged wife was dead. Septimanie, Vicomtesse de Jolival, had succumbed to a severe inflammation of the lungs, contracted while accompanying the Duchess of Angoulême on charitable errands in the vicinity of Hartwell in the chill of the English winter.

Jolival was not hypocrite enough to weep for her. He had never loved her and she had played little part in his tempestuous life, but he was too fine a gentleman to betray any ill-timed rejoicing.

Marianne did it for him. She had not failed to notice, with pleasure and affection, the bond that had developed between her cousin and the Vicomte de Jolival. Jolival's behaviour to Adelaide held a tenderness and consideration that revealed his feeling for her. And so, on the day that she announced to them her intention of leaving for Lucca almost at once, she went on to say point-blank: 'Now that you are free, Jolival, why don't you marry Adelaide? The two of you get on so well together and it would at least give you some proper status in the family, instead of being merely a sort of adopted uncle.'

Jolival and Adelaide both blushed as red as each other. Then Jolival said quietly, and with evident emotion: 'My dear Marianne, it would give me the greatest happiness – but I am not the most eligible of husbands. I've no money, no estates, still less any expectations. A carcass that's seen better days—'

'Well, I'm not precisely the Queen of Sheba,' Adelaide murmured, fluttering like a schoolgirl. 'But I do think I might make a good wife if I were to be asked.'

'That's settled then,' Marianne told them, smiling. 'You shall be married and then come with me to Italy. It shall be your honeymoon.'

And so, on a late afternoon in April, when the air still had a nip in it, Adelaide d'Asselnat and Arcadius de Jolival were married in the lady chapel of the church of St Thomas Aquinas, with Prince Talleyrand and Madame Hamelin as witnesses. The Vicomte stood straight as an arrow, his dress a symphony of exquisite pearly grey, while Adelaide at his side was radiant in heavy Parma violet silk with a bouquet of violets in her hand, and looking ten years younger in a matching silk bonnet with feathers in it. Afterwards there was a delicious supper at the magnificent Hotel de Talleyrand in the rue St Florentin, where the Vice Grand Elector had been living for the past year and more, since selling Matignon to the Emperor, at which the great Carême deigned to display the full fruits of his genius.

It was just before midnight on the same night that a man in black came knocking on the door of the house in the rue de Lille. He was heavily cloaked and his face was hidden by a mask, but he bowed to Marianne as to a queen. He extended his black-gloved hand without a word, showing her a gold disc engraved with the four letters: A.M.D.G.

Then Marianne knew that this was the messenger of whom Cardinal de Chazay had told her in Odessa. Hurrying to her bedchamber, she took from her desk the diamond drop that she had carried with her faithfully through so many perils. She did not even pause to take it from its leather bag for one last time, but went straight down again and placed it in the messenger's hand. He bowed once more, then turned and went away. She had not even heard his voice. Nor, indeed, had he heard hers, for neither of them had uttered a single word. But when the heavy front door had closed behind the man in black, Marianne sent for Gracchus.

'You can be ready to leave now,' she told him. 'I have nothing more to do here.'

The post-chaise bowled on through the park, with Gracchus sitting on the box in all his former dignity. It reached the vast spreading lawn where the white peacocks were wont to parade majestically, came in sight of the house and drew up at last at the foot of the broad sweep of stone steps lined with white and gold footmen, one of whom stepped forward quickly to throw open the door.

Marianne sprang out, disregarding Jolival's proffered hand, her eyes looking instinctively for the turbanned figure of Turhan Bey. She was followed by Adelaide and by Barbe, and Barbe it was who suddenly clasped her hands together with a soft exclamation.

'Oh! What a little darling!'

Marianne turned. A strange little procession was coming along the driveway from the stables. Rinaldo, the head groom and formidable ruler of the magnificent Sant'Anna stables, was leading a minute grey donkey by the bridle and, perched on its back, held upright by Dona Lavinia's careful hand, was a laughing, black-haired baby boy. And Marianne thought that Rinaldo could not have looked more proud and happy if he had been leading the Prince's favourite stallion, the splendid Ilderim himself.

Dona Lavinia, meanwhile, had caught sight of the travellers and started so violently that she all but let go of the child. But it was only for an instant and then Marianne, standing rooted to the spot by the emotion that swept over her, heard her cry out incredulously.

'Her Highness! Oh God, it is her Highness!'

The next moment she had lifted the protesting boy out of the saddle and was running forward with him bouncing in her arms.

'Hush, my treasure,' she told him, laughing and crying at once, when he objected to this cavalier treatment. 'It's your Mama!'

'Mama – Mama—' At the sound of the baby voice Marianne's heart melted in her breast.

In that instant all the shyness that had paralysed her a moment before suddenly vanished and she leapt forward in her turn, to reach Lavinia only just in time to prevent her from attempting the impossible feat of curtsying with Sebastiano in her arms. Her own arms had gone out to take the child, but then she paused.

His head resting on Lavinia's shoulder, he was looking at her with the mixture of curiosity and alarm that children frequently accord to strangers and Marianne found herself powerless to move. She stood with her hands clasped before her, just as Barbe had done a few seconds before, her eyes devouring this child of hers and her heart turned upside down at the beauty of him.

Sebastiano was big for his fifteen months. His little round face was illumined by a pair of huge green eyes, the very image of his mother's. The white suit he wore showed up the warm golden colour of his neck and his plump little arms. His curly head was black and shining and when all at once he smiled, Marianne caught the gleam of three or four white teeth in the tiny mouth.

Meanwhile, Lavinia was gently detaching the baby's arms from round her neck.

'Well?' she said softly. 'Take him, my lady. He is yours.'

The child made no resistance, as Marianne, in the flurry of heart, had feared he might. He simply went from one pair of arms to the other as if it were something he did every day of his life. Marianne felt the touch of the little bare arm against her neck.

'Mama—' the baby said crooningly. 'Mama.'

Then and only then, holding back her tears for fear of frightening him, did she dare to kiss him. A tide of love rolled over her and drowned her, a torrent that swept away the last doubts, the last hint of regret, while a voice within her whispered in terror as it died away: 'You might never have seen him… You might never have held him in your arms… You might never…'

Carrying her son as proudly as any empress, and with Lavinia at her side, Marianne walked back to the little group at the foot of the steps. They, too, had been moved to tears by the little scene which they had looked forward to, ever since leaving Paris, with an impatience not unmixed with apprehension. Jolival greeted Lavinia as an old acquaintance and introduced his wife. Then, as they were all about to go inside, Marianne plucked up courage to ask the question which had been on the tip of her tongue all along.

'The Prince – my husband—Shall I be permitted to see him?'

The housekeeper's face broke into a beaming smile which left her utterly confused.

'But of course you shall see him, my lady,' Lavinia cried, 'just as soon as he returns.'

'Returns? Is he not at the villa? Oh my God! Do you mean he is away—?'

She had a sudden sense of disappointment, a disappointment so sharp that she herself could not understand it. For months now she had been living with the thought of meeting this strange, attractive man once more, of being with him and sharing the inhuman life that he had chosen for himself, and now she was finding that she must wait longer yet to offer him the gift of herself that she had come to make.

She was so disappointed that it came as something of a shock to hear Lavinia laugh and she did not take in immediately what she was saying.

'No, your Highness, he is not away from home. He is not here at the moment, that is all. But he'll not be long. He has only gone out to the fields.'

'Oh, he has gone—' And then, abruptly, she understood. 'Dona Lavinia, do you mean he has gone out? Outside – in broad daylight?'

'Yes, my lady. The nightmare and the curse are all done with now. You see, he wanted there to be flowers everywhere and all the old, bad memories to be wiped away – for the child's sake. He could not go on living secluded as he had done. The child loves him and would not have understood. It was not easy, but I managed to convince him at last, with Father Amundi's help. And then, when we came back here, we gathered all the servants together, and all the tenants on the estate as well. They were all here, at the foot of these very steps. Father Amundi spoke to them, and then I said a few words, for they all know me and I am one of them, and then at last the Prince came and he burned the white leather mask in the sight of them all.'

'And what then?' Marianne asked anxiously.

'Then? Why then they knelt, every one of them, as though in church, and after that they cheered and cheered until the echoes rang. And they made a feast for two whole days because their prince had shown them his face at last. Listen! Here he comes!'

The sound of galloping hoofbeats made itself heard, waking memories for Marianne. That thunderous beat had haunted her nights in the dark days after her marriage, beating time to the wild gallop of a snow-white stallion. The noise grew louder, nearer, and then in a moment Ilderim and his rider were soaring like white lightning over a tall hedge. The horse came on, leapt again and sailed over the basin of a fountain as lightly as a swallow. Sebastiano, in Marianne's arms, was shouting joyfully: 'Papa! Papapapa!'

Marianne kissed him gently on his little nose and handed him to Lavinia. Then, slowly and steadily, she walked back down the steps and across the lawn to meet the man on the horse. He was on her like a thunderbolt. It seemed likely that he had not even seen her. Yet even then she did not flinch, held spellbound by the wild beauty of that gallop, and in imminent danger of being ridden down if Corrado could not master Ilderim in time.

But there was no question of his mastery of that kingly animal who for so long had been his only friend. Only a few yards away from Marianne, who still had not made the slightest move to avoid him, the great horse reared back, slender legs pawing the air, then dropped on all four feet and stood quietly while his rider sprang lightly to the ground.

Marianne saw then that the bronzed god of her recollection had indeed become a man. He was dressed like any country gentleman going about his land on a summer's day, in well-cut dark breeches, soft leather boots and a white shirt, open at the neck to reveal the dark, smooth muscles of his throat. But his blue eyes were smiling and there was a light in them that she had not seen before.

She was gazing at him so intently that it did not even occur to her to speak. She felt as if she were waking from a dream when he gently took her hand and brushed it with his lips.

'You are welcome,' he said in the low, deep voice that had always moved her so strangely. 'Have you come – to pay us a visit?'

She guessed that even now he could not quite believe that she had come back and that, chivalrously, he was offering her this one last avenue of escape. Yet it seemed to her that in his voice she caught a note of anguish that smote her heart.

'No. I have come to stay, if you still want me to. I have come to be your wife, Corrado, wholly and entirely. I do not ask you to forgive me for all that you have suffered on my account but I am offering myself to you. Will you have me?'

For a moment they stood without speaking. The Prince's blue eyes gazed into hers as though seeking to plumb their uttermost depths, and Marianne was overwhelmed at the passionate desire she read in them, yet the green eyes did not flinch or turn away.

Then, gently, almost timidly, he drew her into his arms.

'What man ever turned his back on the dream of a lifetime?' he murmured.

Marianne knew that night that this was not the first time Corrado Sant'Anna had made her his own, and that the mysterious lover of Corfu had returned to her.