'My lord,' she said, 'I am deeply sensible of the honour your serene highness does me, but I cannot accept.'

'And why not, if you please?' Talleyrand said sharply.

'I – I am not a fit person. Your highness is a statesman, a diplomat, I am fresh from the country and in no way fitted for a post of such importance. Even my handwriting—'

'You write an excellent hand, I believe. At least, if this is anything to go by, eh?'

He took some sheets of paper from a drawer as he spoke and, to her horror, Marianne saw that what he held in his hand was the report she had given Floquet that morning. She knew then that she was lost. For an instant, the mahogany furniture seemed to dance before her eyes as though the house itself were falling and she had a momentary impression that the bronze lustre had fallen on her head. But it wasn't in Marianne's nature to go to pieces in a crisis. All her instincts were to stand up and fight. The blood drained from her face with the effort it cost her but she managed to show nothing of the desperate fear which possessed her. With a little curtsey to the prince, she turned on her heel and walked collectedly towards the door.

'In that case,' she said calmly, 'I have nothing more to do here. I am your most serene highness's servant!'

Talleyrand had a long familiarity with the ways of women but it had not prepared him for this.

'Where do you think you're going?'

'To pack,' Marianne answered frigidly. 'I shall then take myself off before your most serene highness decides how to punish me.'

Talleyrand could not help laughing.

'Good God, how should I punish you? I can't even ask my friend Fouché to have you arrested, since it was he who sent you. And I can scarcely see myself doing away with you discreetly in my own library or calling the world to witness the frightful blackness of your little heart. Come back here and sit down and listen to me.'

Marianne obeyed reluctantly. The steady gaze of the prince's pale eyes made her uncomfortable. There was a kind of humorous penetration in them which made her feel as though they could pierce through her clothes, and even her skin, to lay bare her very heart and soul. She was also slightly apprehensive about what was to follow. But, when she was seated once more, Talleyrand smiled.

'My dear child,' he began, 'I have known our Minister of Police, and his methods, for too long not to have learned to beware. We have cordially detested one another for years and our – mutual affection is much too recent, and a great deal too interesting, not to require handling with some degree of caution. So you see, mademoiselle Mallerousse – by the way, are you really called Mallerousse?'

'No,' Marianne replied shortly. 'But you will gain nothing by questioning me further. I shall not soil my true name by dragging it into this business. You may do what you like with me!'

'A tempting offer, eh? Never mind. I am glad to see I was not mistaken in my judgement of you. As for your real name, that does not greatly concern me. You are undoubtedly an Émigré who has re-entered the country illegally and been obliged to accept our dear Fouché's – er – protection. He has a gift for making such bargains. Keep your secret, then, you will tell me of your own accord some day. Now, what are we going to do with you?'

He rose and began walking slowly about the room. Marianne stared down at her green velvet reticule, partly to conceal what was passing in her mind and partly to avoid having to look at the tall black figure moving to and fro across a patch of sunlight. From time to time, the figure would move out of sight and then Marianne was acutely conscious of the eyes resting on her. She controlled her nervousness with an effort. What was he waiting for? What, precisely, did he want with her? Why did he not speak?

She realized suddenly that he had come to a halt behind her. A hand, light yet commanding, rested on her shoulder, almost brushing her cheek.

'I think,' he said at last, 'We shall continue with our plan. There are certain things in which you can be of invaluable assistance to me. As for those services required of you by his grace the Duke of Otranto – well, you will simply go on as though nothing had happened.'

Marianne gave a start.

'What? You – your highness, I mean, wishes me to go on—'

'Most certainly! You will, naturally, show me your letters before giving them to Floquet. It is most desirable from my own point of view that certain exalted circles should be well informed of what takes place in my house. It shows the Emperor is still interested, whatever he may think. Go on, my dear, go on. One way and another, I think, you will be kept very busy. All the same—'

He paused. The hand on Marianne's shoulder seemed to grow a shade heavier, almost threatening. But only for an instant. The next second it had become gentle and caressing, running lightly over the girl's slender neck to the warm nape. Marianne held her breath.

'All the same, I may perhaps request some services – of another kind.'

Instantly, Marianne had torn herself free of the caressing hand and sprung to her feet to face the prince, scarlet with anger. She understood now what he wanted of her, the kind of services he expected in exchange for his promised silence. It was blackmail worse than Fouché's!

'Do not count on me for services of that kind!' she cried fiercely. 'I have spied on you, yes, although my reports contained nothing worth reading! But I will not buy my freedom in your bed!'

Talleyrand's lips quivered, then he laughed outright.

'Are you not, as the princess would say, a little lacking in respect? For shame, Mademoiselle Mallerousse! These are notions and expressions, that go only too well with your foreign name! I meant merely – to ask you to sing, for one or more of my friends, when and where I shall request.'

'Oh. Is that—'

'All? Certainly. Nothing more. My dear Marianne – may I call you by that charming name that suits you so well? – you are very lovely, but I have never enjoyed making love to a woman who yielded to anything but her own desires. Love is like music, an ineffable harmony, and the body merely an instrument, although the most wonderful of all instruments beyond a doubt. If one of the two is out of tune, then that harmony is broken. I dislike false notes – as much as you do yourself.'

'May – may your highness forgive me,' Marianne said in a low voice, feeling horribly ashamed. 'I behaved foolishly and I beg your pardon. Naturally, I should be glad to be of service.'

'So I should hope. And now, since we are agreed, give me your hand. We'll shake hands on it like our American friends, as befits two people who understand one another. There is a great deal of good in these American fashions, and on the whole, I approve of them although they are often somewhat direct for my taste.'

His smile was disarming and Marianne returned it frankly. Her fingers shook a little as she placed them timidly in the prince's hand but his grip was quick and firm.

'I shall send for you tomorrow morning, if the princess does not need you.'

'Your most serene highness's to command—'

A brief curtsey and Marianne found herself out in the corridor feeling rather dazed and bewildered but extraordinarily relieved. She had rebelled too much against her position and her resentment against Fouché was too strong for her not to feel inwardly delighted at this reversal of the situation, especially since she could not help liking the aristocratic Talleyrand much more than the wily Fouché. Her nightmare was at an end. She was no longer a spy. In future she would not be betraying the roof that sheltered her and could enjoy the comfort and luxury she had found there with a quiet mind, devoting herself wholly to her music until such time as Gossec should help her make her debut as a singer.

It was too late for her lesson. A glance into the music room showed her that Gossec had gone but Marianne was too happy to let that worry her. She was on her way up to her own room humming a little tune when her thoughts turned suddenly to the vehicle which had followed her all morning and she had a sudden impulse to see if it was still there. She turned and ran back down the stairs, across the hall and out into the courtyard. Beside the main portico, with its double row of ionic columns giving on to the impressive stone sweep that formed the main approach to the mansion, there was a small postern which was never closed during the day. This, Marianne opened and, slipping outside, hurried along the wall to the corner. Her newly acquired spirits fell a little when she saw that the black carriage was still there.

It was still there later in the afternoon when Marianne went out with the princess and little Charlotte for a drive along the new embankments which the imperial government was constructing along the Seine.


***

There was a change. Marianne noticed it first that evening, when, on their return from their drive, Madame Talleyrand asked her to go with her to her room. When they got there, she flung herself on a sofa with a weary sigh and announced:

'There will be company tonight, as you know, child, but I am too tired to go down. I shall stay in my room.'

'But – what will his most serene highness say should your highness not be there to receive your guests?'

The erstwhile Madame Grand smiled sadly.

'Nothing. His highness will do very well without me. I daresay he may even be thankful.'

Suddenly, Marianne felt very sorry for her. This was the first time the princess had shown any signs of bitterness but since her entry into the household, Marianne had had daily opportunities to observe the purely decorative and useless role she filled in her husband's house. Talleyrand was polite to his wife, but that was all. He scarcely spoke to her except to inquire for her health or to make some other commonplace remark. Apart from this, his charm was reserved for the numerous women who buzzed around him constantly in a rustling, scented swarm. Madame Talleyrand seemed to accept this state of affairs with equanimity, hence Marianne's surprise at her melancholy mood on this occasion. She wondered whether the indifference were merely a well-mannered cloak for a real wound. Her surprise was still greater when the princess added that she would not need her that evening and that instead she should be ready to make her appearance in the salon after dinner.

'Without your highness?'

'Yes, without me – the prince desires that you shall sing. The great Czech, Dussek, is to play, with Niederman the harpist and the violinist Libon. You are to complete the concert.'

Marianne felt slightly daunted at the prospect of appearing in the company of three such brilliant performers. In spite of Gossec's daily lessons and his warm encouragement and praise, she was not yet sufficiently sure of her voice and talent. On the other hand, the fact of singing before such a splendid gathering could be important for her. But she must speak to Gossec first and agree with him what she was to sing. Whatever happened, she was well aware that the order came from a higher authority and that there could be no question of declining. This was all part of the new agreement between herself and Talleyrand. She could only obey even if, privately, she considered that the prince had lost little enough time in making her perform her part.

A little before eleven that evening, Marianne emerged from her room and made her way to the great salon. The guests who had not been present at the dinner were beginning to arrive and the party about to begin. The courtyard and the street had been filled for several minutes past with the rattle of carriages and the jingle of harness, accompanied by the shouts of coachmen and lackeys, almost drowning the strains of violins rising from below.

Passing a long mirror, Marianne paused. However little enthusiasm she felt for the evening, she knew she looked her best. Her dress of almond green tulle suited her to perfection, although she acknowledged some doubts about the deep décolletage. Despite the small spray of lilac at its lowest point, it was cut to the very limits of decency, displaying to advantage the golden skin and full, rich curves of her breasts and shoulders. The hands that held the music of the song she was to sing were clad in long, lilac mittens and there were a few sprays of lilac caught up with ribbons of green tulle among the crown of glossy, dark ringlets piled high on her head. Marianne decided she looked very nice. This was a discovery she owed to Paris, to Leroy and to this elegant household who had taught her to understand her own beauty. Until then, she had not really been aware of it, although she had already discovered her power to arouse desire in men. But now, she was sure of it. Perhaps because a man like Talleyrand had told her. He had taught her, in a way, to look at herself and she was not yet tired of the novel enjoyment.