'Who are these men?'

'I don't know. Robbers! They came over the wall—'

The Emperor stood up. His grey eyes, set beneath frowning brows, were hard as stone, as he called out: 'Eugene! Duroc! Over here! It seems there is murder being done now.'

With the viceroy of Italy and the Duke of Frioul hard on his heels, the Emperor of the French sped off as fast as his legs would carry him to the assistance of the Russian attaché. Marianne, assured now of Chernychev's safety, wandered back automatically towards the fountains. She did not know what to do now, or where to go. She watched, beyond either surprise or relief, the arrival of the fire brigade at last, or of what passed for the fire brigade, for they numbered only six men in all, and those more than three-parts drunk. She heard Savary's roars of rage:

'Six of you, only! Where are the rest?'

'We – don't know, General.'

'What of your commander, that fool Ledoux? Where is he?'

'I-in the country, General…'

'Six!' Savary was beside himself with rage. 'Six out of two hundred and ninety-three! And where are the pumps?'

'Here – but there's no water. The conduits in the Grand Boulevards are locked fast and we have not the key.'

'And where is the key?'

The fireman's answer was an evasive gesture which served to madden the already infuriated Chief of Police still further. Marianne saw him turn and hurry away, dragging the unfortunate fireman with him, while the wretched man fought desperately to keep his feet, knowing that any moment would surely bring him face-to-face with an anger far more terrible than any Minister's.

Yet help was forthcoming. The Imperial Guard, summoned by Napoleon and reinforced by a regiment of tirailleurs, was now engaged in attempting to save the embassy and those within. The tall ladder had been fetched from the library in the rue de la Loi and the waters of the fountains had been pressed into service. But Marianne soon lost interest in all that was happening around her. Now that the Emperor had taken charge, everything would be all right. She could hear his ringing tones somewhere in the garden…

Her head ached and her mind was a blank. She felt bruised in every inch of her body and yet was unable to summon up the strength to try and get away, to find a carriage to take her home. Something had snapped inside her and she gazed round, with what was almost indifference, at the scene of unbelievable devastation which filled the gardens. The terrible fire which, in a few minutes, had transformed a happy, elegant assembly of people into a scene of carnage was too much like the circumstances of her own life not to have a profound effect on her. This tragic ball had dealt her the final blow, the last, unbearable wound. And she had no one to blame but herself. How could she have been so blind to her real feelings? There had been so many wrong turnings, so much obstinacy in the face of the evidence, of the advice even of her best friends, so many fruitless struggles against nothing, all culminating at last in this cruel ending which resolved itself into a single image, the image of Jason carrying another woman in his arms, and it had taken all this for the truth to break upon her unwilling eyes at last, blindingly but too late: she loved Jason, she had always loved him, even when she believed herself in love with another, even when she thought she hated him. How could she have failed to realize it when, in her bridal chamber at Selton Hall, she had felt herself swooning under his stolen kiss? How could she have failed to understand in the midst of her joy at seeing him in the caverns of Chaillot, her disappointment when he left Paris without seeing her, excitement at finding the camellias in her dressing-room on the night of her one, public concert, the impatience and, at last, the bitter disappointment when she had looked for him in vain, along all the roads of Italy, right up to the last moment before she pledged herself to an insensate marriage? She could still hear Adelaide saying with quiet concern: 'You are quite sure you do not love him?'

Yes, she had been sure then, in her folly and pride at having enslaved the giant of Europe in the burning chains of sensual passion. For in that bitterest moment of all, Marianne looked clearly at last at the real nature of the bond between her and the Emperor. She had loved him with pride and with terror, with a delight that carried with it a faint, delicious sense of danger and forbidden fruit; she had loved him with all the ardour of her youth and her eager flesh which, through him, had come to know the magic spell born of the perfect unison of two bodies. But she knew now that her love had been made of wonder and gratitude. She had fallen victim to the curious power of attraction he possessed over other human beings and, even suffering from his neglect, the jealousy she had felt was a fierce, burning thing that was somehow stimulating. It was not this pain, this rending agony, this uncontrollable quivering of her whole being at the thought of Jason and Pilar together. And now that she had lost, lost for ever the happiness which had lain so long within her grasp, Marianne felt that she had lost also the will to live.

Feeling that her life was ruined through her own fault, she felt again, more strongly than ever, the sense of being nothing but an empty doll which had haunted her on her arrival at the ball. In her blind folly and pride, she had allowed Jason to slip through her fingers and, turning to another woman, join his life with hers. Pilar was the one who would live with him in the land where the cotton grew, where the black men sang, she would share each moment of his life and sleep at night in his arms, and bear his children…

Around her, the gardens had become a battlefield as the newly arrived troops set themselves to drive out the looters, while medical men were supervising the removal of the injured, many of whom were already past help. More soldiers, armed with buckets of water, were endeavouring to halt the progress of the fire and save the embassy building itself. No one paid any attention to the woman watching from the shelter of a bush.

She was fascinated by the great fire. She could feel the heat of it even where she stood. The trees nearest to it had caught fire and long, greedy tongues of flame were shooting up triumphantly from the mass of timbers and falling tree trunks. There were no more screams now, no more groans, only the loud voice of the fire, filling the night. Marianne listened, her eyes full of tears, as if out of that blazing heart might come the answer to her own searing pain. A line from Shakespeare floated up from the depths of her memory: 'One fire burns out another's burning.' Her love for Jason, so suddenly made clear to her, had quenched her love for the Emperor, leaving only kindness and admiration like glowing gems amid the dying ashes. But what fresh fire would come to put out the love that racked her now, before despair brought her to the verge of madness? Jason was far away by now. He had borne his young bride away from this scene of carnage and at that very moment he was probably at her side, calming her fears with soft caresses and whispered words of love. He had forgotten all about Marianne, and his forgetfulness was death to her. Revelation had come too late. It had destroyed her, as lightning destroys the tree it strikes. Nothing remained for her now but to tiptoe quietly away for ever…

She had a sudden recollection of Princess Schwarzenburg, casting herself into the flames in search of her child. She had gone into the fire as though into a shrine, unhesitating, unflinching, with a blind certainty, the certainty of finding there the being whom she sought. And the bitter, fearful gateway to death had been transformed for her into a triumphal arch, a way of sacrifice freely consented to, an entry into eternal peace. All that was needed was a little, so very little courage!

With eyes wide open, Marianne left the shelter of the bushes and walked towards the fire. She did not tremble. Grief is a powerful opiate against fear and her anguish was stronger than the Indian hemp on which Hindu widows were gorged by their priests to make them throw themselves unresisting on their husbands' pyres. She wanted to escape from pain but wished no one to suffer for her death. An accident… a simple accident… And like the poor princess a little while before, Marianne began to run towards the blaze. She tripped over a stone that lay in her path, but the sharp Stab of pain was not enough to break the spell that held her. She picked herself up and ran on. She seemed to hear her own name called above the roaring in her ears but even that could not stop her. Whoever was calling her, it could only be to bring her back to the monotonous round of a life she no longer had any use for, to a long trance, a death-in-life, rotting gently in solitude. The death she had chosen for herself was cruel but swift and led to a longer peace, one free of memories and regrets.

The heat was so great that she halted at the edge of the inferno and recoiled involuntarily, shielding her face from the hot breath of the flames. She was ashamed of herself at once and, murmuring the first words of a prayer, launched herself forward. Flames caught at the torn rags of her dress and a long tongue of fire licked up her body, so that she screamed with the pain of it. But just as she was about to fall into the white-hot abyss, a black shape descended on her, enveloping her in its dense folds, and she felt herself rolled violently on the ground. At the last moment, someone had come between her and her death, condemning her to live.

Conscious of the weight of a body, she struggled wildly in an effort to escape the paralysing grip which had successfully smothered the flames, trying in her fury to bite the hand which held her. The man, whoever he was, released her, got to his knees and slapped her face, deliberately, twice. Her eyes could make out only a black figure silhouetted against the ruddy glow of the fire, but she hurled herself at it blindly, clawing and scratching in a mad desire to fight back. The man grasped her wrists and held her off. At the same time, a voice said icily:

'Keep still or I will do it again. My God, are you mad! Another instant and you would have been incinerated! You damned little fool! Is there no room in that brainless skull of yours for anything but stupid, selfish vanity?'

Marianne collapsed abruptly, like a taut bowstring released suddenly by a weary archer, and listened to the torrent of abuse which Jason vented on her with as much rapture as if it had been heavenly music. She did not attempt to ask herself by what miracle he was there, by what unspeakable marvel he had managed to snatch her from the flames when she had seen him quit the scene so short a time before. It was enough for her that he was there. His anger was nothing, it proved only that somewhere in his heart he still cared a little, and only to have him kneel there beside her, Marianne would gladly have submitted to being abused the whole night long. Even the crushing pain he was inflicting on her wrists was happiness.

She gave a blissful sigh and, regardless of her burns, sank back on to the grass and smiled with all her heart at Jason's dark form.

'Jason!' she murmured. 'You are here… you have come back…'

Abruptly, he released her wrists and interrupted his tirade to stare with a kind of dazed bewilderment at the graceful figure stretched before him, clad in the tattered shreds of a gold dress through which the flesh showed bruised and torn and streaked with blood. Mechanically, he dragged his sleeve across his sweating brow, pushing back the damp hair, trying to smooth away the mixture of terror and anger which had taken hold of him when he saw that the woman racing madly towards the fire was Marianne. And now she was gazing at him as though at a vision, her great, green eyes sparkling with tears, smiling at him for all the world as if her body were not covered in burns, as if she could not feel them… But he too was unaware of the burns he had sustained in smothering the flames with his own body, conscious only that he had come in time. He felt more tired than he had ever felt in all his life. It was as if the last few minutes had drained him of every particle of strength.

Marianne herself was blissfully happy. For her, the sound and fury all about them no longer existed. Nothing remained but the dark figure, silently regarding her, and breathing heavily because of the pounding of his heart against his ribs. She wanted to touch him, to find in his strength the refuge she had so long sought and she held out her arms to draw him to her. But even as she did so, the movement ended in a gasp of pain, a terrible, stabbing pain which made her feel as if she were being torn apart.