'What a bargain!' Marianne exclaimed, all the more bitterly hurt because the cardinal was merely repeating, with the same calm assurance, what Talleyrand had said to her earlier.

'Perhaps,' the cardinal admitted equably, 'but if you must dishonour your real name, as well it should be that of the Englishman. One day, you will thank me.'

'That I do not believe! Even if I were willing to give you this promise, even if I would destroy with my own hand the love that is my very life, I could not do it. You do not know all, Eminence. Well, you shall learn the whole truth. I am going to have a child, his child! A Bonaparte!'

'Unhappy girl! More foolish than wretched. You dared to talk of becoming little Marianne of Selton once again! What you have done has placed an irrevocable barrier between you and yours.'

At this revelation, Gauthier de Chazay's composure had finally snapped, but Marianne was conscious of no special dismay. Her only feeling was one of sudden, fierce joy, a triumphant exultation, as if the child that lay mysteriously inside her body had succeeded in that moment in avenging all the hatred and disdain endured by its father at the hands of the royalist émigrés. Her voice was cold as she answered.

'Perhaps, but it is also my chief motive for wishing for a final separation from Francis Cranmere. The Emperor's child must not bear the name of a scoundrel. If you refuse to untie the knot which still binds me to him, I will stop at nothing, nothing, do you hear, not even cold-blooded murder, to erase Francis Cranmere from my life.'

The cardinal must have realized that she meant what she said for even as she saw him blench she was aware of something else, a curious pride glowing in his usually gentle eyes. Marianne had expected anger, violent protests, instead of which there was a sigh and a faint, sardonic smile.

'The exhausting thing about your family,' Gauthier de Chazay observed, 'is your determination. As soon as your will is crossed, you start spitting fire and sparks and threatening to kill everyone. The worst of it is that you not only generally keep your promises but that you are perfectly right.'

'What?' Marianne was aghast. 'You tell me to —'

'To send Francis Cranmere to join his noble forbears? As a man, I see no objection to it, I might even applaud it. As a priest, however, I am obliged to deprecate violence of any kind, however well deserved. No, Marianne, when I say you are right, I mean that you are right to say this unborn child must not bear that man's name, but only because he will be your son.'

Marianne's face glowed suddenly as she felt victory within her grasp.

'Then you will ask for an annulment?'

'Not so fast. Answer me one question first. How long have you known – about the child?'

'Not until today.' In a few words, she told him about the faint-ness which had come over her at the Tuileries.

'Have you – I am sorry to have to ask you such a question but this is no time for delicacy – have you any idea when it happened?'

'Not long ago, I think. Not more than a month at most, less perhaps.'

'A curious way to anticipate the arrival of a new bride,' was the cardinal's comment. 'However, no more of that. Time presses. Listen to what I have to say and do not argue because this is my last word. This is the only way that I am able to help you without betraying either my conscience or my duty. First, you will keep what you have told me strictly to yourself. Do you understand? Keep it absolutely secret for the present. Francis Cranmere must not get wind of it. He could ruin everything and with such a man one must take no chances. Not a word, therefore, not even to those closest to you.'

'I will remember. What else?'

'The rest is up to me. In fifteen days, the time it will take me to reach the Holy Father at Savona, your marriage will be annulled. But in a month you will be married again.'

Marianne wondered if she had heard aright.

'What did you say? I do not understand —'

'No, you heard me quite correctly. I said that in a month you will be married again.'

He spoke in such decisive tones that for the moment Marianne could find nothing to say. She could only stammer, helplessly: 'But that is impossible! Do you know what you are saying?'

'I am not in the habit of talking nonsense and I must remind you of what I said a moment ago. No argument. However, I will make myself perfectly plain. If you are a month pregnant, then in another month you must be wedded to some suitable man whose name both you and your child may bear without blushing for it. You have no alternative, Marianne. And don't talk to me about your love, or your Emperor or your freedom. Think of the child, since child there is to be. He must have a name, and a father, since the man who fathered him can do nothing for him.'

'Nothing?' Marianne said rebelliously. 'He is the Emperor! Surely he is sufficiently powerful to provide for the future of his child?'

'I am not denying his power, although I believe him to have feet of day, but how can you be sure that the future is his to dispose of? What will happen if he should ever fall? And what will happen to you and to the child? Our house will own no bastards, Marianne. You must make this sacrifice to your parents' memory, to the child, to yourself, even. Do you know how society treats an unmarried mother? Does the prospect attract you?'

'Ever since I realized, I have been prepared to suffer, to fight —'

'For what? For whom? To keep your hold on a man who has just been married to another?'

'He was obliged to marry – but I cannot.'

'And why not?'

'He would not permit it!'

The cardinal smiled at that.

'No? You do not know him. Foolish child, he would be the first to marry you off without delay, the moment he knew you carried his child. When one of his mistresses has been without a husband he has always made it his business to provide one. No trouble and no complications, that has always been his motto in affairs of the heart. He has enough of that at home.'

Marianne knew that what he said was true yet she was loth to admit the horrifying prospect which he laid before her.

'But, godfather, think! Marriage is something so important, so serious. Can you expect me to walk into it blindly to trust my whole life to a complete stranger, to put myself wholly in his power, day after day, night after night? Can't you see that my whole being would rise in revolt?'

'I understand first and foremost that you mean to do your utmost to remain Bonaparte's mistress, against all reason, and that you are no stranger to the realities of love. But it is possible to marry a man and live apart from him. From what I hear, the beautiful Pauline Borghese spends little enough of her time with poor Camillo. But I repeat, within a month you must be married.'

'To whom? To speak with such certainty, you must have someone in mind. Who is it?'

'That is my affair. You need not be afraid, the man I will choose for you, have already chosen, will not give you any cause for reproach. You will not lose the freedom you hold so dear, provided that you behave discreetly. But do not think I wish to constrain you. You may choose for yourself if you wish, and if you can.'

'How can I? You have forbidden me to tell anyone that I am expecting a child and I could not deceive anyone like that.'

'If there is a man, worthy of you and your name, who loves you enough to marry you in these circumstances, I should not oppose it. I will inform you where and when you are to come to me so that the marriage can take place. If you are accompanied by a man of your own choice, I will marry you to him. If you are alone, you will take the person I offer you.'

'Who will that be?'

'No more questions. I will say nothing more. You will have to trust me. You know I love you like my own daughter. Do you agree?'

Marianne nodded slowly, all her joy and pride evaporating in the face of grim reality. Ever since her discovery that she was pregnant, she had been carried along on the tide of exaltation that came from knowing she carried the Eagle's son within her and for a little while she had believed that this would enable her to hold her own before the world. But now she knew that her godfather had reason on his side, for however much she might scorn the opinion of others for herself, had she the right to force her child to carry the stigma of illegitimacy? There were those in society, she knew, who were not the children of those whose names they bore. The charming Flahaut was the son of Talleyrand and all the world knew it, but he owed his brilliant military career to the fact that his mother's husband had obliterated the stain that would have closed society's doors to him. Had not Marie Walewska returned to the snows of Walewice in order that her husband, the old count, might be able to acknowledge her unborn child? Marianne had sense enough to know that her own heart and her love must bend before necessity. She had, as the cardinal had said, no alternative. Yet at the very moment of acceptance which would seal her fate as surely as that final 'I will', she made one last effort to fight.

'I implore you, let me see the Emperor at least, speak to him… He may find a solution. Give me a little time.'

'Time is the one thing I cannot give you. We must act very quickly, and I can tell from your expression that you do not know when you will see Napoleon again. Besides, what is the use? I have told you: when you tell him, he will solve the problem in the only way possible, by marrying you to one or other of his own people, some fellow of dubious lineage, the son of an innkeeper or groom, and you, a d'Asselnat whose ancestors rode into Jerusalem with Godfrey of Bouillon and into Tunis with St Louis, will have to thank the creature humbly for taking you! The man I have in mind will ask nothing of you, and your son will be a prince.'

This harsh reminder of her position struck Marianne like a blow. She had a sudden vision of her father's proud, handsome face, the noble bearing of the portrait in the gilded frame, and then, set against the misty background of childhood, the less handsome but kindlier features of her Aunt Ellis. Surely their ghosts would be justified in turning their backs with anger on a child who could not accept the sacrifices which honour demanded? They had subdued their whole lives to that same sense of honour, even to the ultimate sacrifice. Marianne saw, as clearly as if they had risen suddenly out of the shadows of the library, the long line of her forbears, French and English, all of whom had fought and suffered to preserve intact their ancient name and the principle of honour. In that moment, she gave in.

'I agree,' she said firmly.

'In good time! I was sure you would.'

'Let it be understood clearly,' Marianne added quickly. 'I agree in principle to be married in a month, but between now and then I shall do all I can to find a husband of my own choosing.'

'I see no objection, providing always that you choose one who is worthy of us. All I ask is that you come, alone or otherwise, at the place and time I shall appoint. Let us call it a bargain, if you like. I will release you from Francis Cranmere, and you will protect your honour or pledge yourself to accept the man I shall bring you. Is it agreed?'

'A bargain is a bargain,' Marianne said. 'I pledge myself to honour this one.'

'Very well. In that case I shall set about fulfilling my part of the bargain.'

He moved to a tall writing desk which stood open in a corner, and taking a sheet of paper and a pen, wrote a few words. Meanwhile, Marianne poured herself another cup of coffee. She had no thought of going back on the words she had uttered, but one disturbing possibility occurred to her which she hastened to put into words.

'Supposing that I fail to find someone, may I ask one favour, godfather?'

He looked round at her without speaking, waiting to hear what she would say.

'If I must accept the husband of your choice, please, I beg of you, think of the child and do not make him bear the name of one who is his father's enemy.'

The cardinal smiled and dipped his pen in the standish with a tiny shrug.

'Not even my loyalty to the king would tempt me to anything so base,' he said with gentle reproach. 'You know me well enough. No such thought should ever have occurred to you.'

He finished what he was writing, sanded it, then folded it and affixed a wafer. He held it out to Marianne.