When she tried to picture this unknown Marie-Louise, who would so soon become a part of the Emperor's life, Marianne still found herself shaking with an anger and jealousy all the greater because she had neither the right nor the opportunity to show them. Napoleon was marrying for purely dynastic reasons. He would listen to no arguments that went against his determination to have a son. He himself was endlessly jealous and watchful, and had questioned Marianne more than once about the real state of her relationship to Talleyrand and, even more, with Jason Beaufort, who he seemed unable to forget. But he would not have countenanced a similar display on her part, or not where his future wife was concerned. And, little by little, Marianne had come to feel an all-embracing sympathy for his divorced wife, Josephine.

One day in the middle of February she had gone with Fortunée Hamelin to call on the ex-Empress. She had found her as melancholy as ever although apparently resigned, but when the Empress's name was mentioned, tears were never far away.

'He has given me a new chateau,' Josephine had said pathetically. 'The chateau of Navarre, not far from Evreux, and says he hopes that I shall like it. But I know why, it is because he wants me to be out of Paris when she arrives – that other!'

'The Austrian!' Fortunée spoke angrily. 'The French have been quick to call her that. They have not forgotten Marie-Antoinette.'

'Oh no. But they are sorry now, and they will do their best to make the niece forget the sufferings of her aunt.'

To Marianne, Josephine was especially kind. She seemed delighted to learn of the distant kinship between them and immediately embraced the younger woman with a quite motherly affection.

'I hope that you, at least, will remain my friend, although your mother gave her life for the late queen.'

'I hope you cannot doubt it, madame. Your majesty shall have no more faithful or loving servant than myself. Make what use of me you will.'

Josephine smiled faintly and brushed Marianne's cheek with her finger.

'Indeed – you love him too! And I have heard that he loves you. Look after him, I beg of you, as far as you may. I foresee grief and disappointment ahead. How can this girl have been brought up as a Hapsburg and to hate the victor of Austerlitz, how can she love him as I do when only six months ago he occupied her own father's palace?'

'And yet, it is said your majesty approved this marriage?'

There had been many rumours to the effect that Josephine had been personally concerned in the choice of her successor.

'One must choose the lesser of two evils. The Austrian was better for the Emperor than the Russian. And I shall always place the Emperor's good before my own personal satisfaction. If you love him truly, cousin, you will do the same.'

Marianne had devoted much thought to those words of Josephine's. Had she, the newcomer, any right to raise the slightest protest to make any complaint of her own sufferings when this woman was prepared to wipe out so many years of glorious memories? Josephine left a throne as well as a husband. The sacrifice that Marianne must make seemed very pale in comparison, though none the less cruel in her own eyes. But at least she had hope for the future in looking forward to a great career as a singer. That in itself was no small blessing.

She had been standing leaning her burning forehead on the cold glass to cool it when she started suddenly. Penetrating the mists of melancholy into which she had fallen, she had heard the sound of footsteps, stealthy, but distinct, on the small wooden staircase that lead up to the attic floor.

Wide awake now, Marianne went to the door, holding her breath. She was not afraid. The sense of being at home in her own house sustained her. It occurred to her that Gracchus-Hannibal might have come into the house for some reason, though why she could not think. Besides, had it been he she would have heard him walking about downstairs, not over her head. No, it was not Gracchus. Then she thought of the mysterious person who had been there on their first visit, of the hiding place which they had never discovered. Had the unknown prowler returned? Yet how could he have got in? He could hardly have lived in the abbe's old hiding place all these weeks without being discovered by the workmen swarming over the house. Softly, with infinite caution, Marianne opened her bedroom door. It gave on to the broad landing at the head of the great stone staircase, and she was just in time to see a glimmer of candle-light in the doorway of the main salon. This time, it was beyond a doubt. Someone was there.

Marianne glanced about her for some weapon. If this were a prowler, then she must have something to defend herself with. But there seemed to be nothing apart from a china vase or a jade statuette standing on a chest of drawers, neither of which would be of much use if it came to a fight. The mysterious visitor might be armed. Suddenly she remembered. Turning back into the room she went quickly over to a beautiful Venetian cabinet which Fortunée had found and presented to her, insisting that she absolutely must have something in the way of local colour. Opening it, she took out a long, flat, satinwood case inlaid with silver. When opened this revealed a pair of magnificent duelling pistols. Napoleon himself had given his mistress this unusual present, one of many.

'A woman like you should always have the means of self-defence to hand,' he had told her. 'I know that you can handle a gun and these may be useful to you one day. The times we live in are not so secure that a woman can be safe, alone and unarmed in her own house.'

Grasping one of these pistols firmly, Marianne loaded it and then, slipping it into the folds of her white gown, made her way back to the landing. She could still see the yellow light. It seemed to be moving about slowly, as though whoever was carrying it were looking for something. Unhesitatingly, Marianne began to walk downstairs.

Before leaving her room, she had kicked off her slippers at the foot of her bed. Now barefooted on the tiled floor, she neither felt the cold nor made the smallest noise. She was not in the least afraid. The weapon cradled in her hand put her on an equal footing with any burglar. What she felt was more a kind of exultation, and a sense of heightened curiosity like that of someone who, after living with a mystery for a long time, suddenly finds the key put into his hand. She no longer had the slightest doubt that the stranger moving about in the salon with a candle at this hour was the same person who had removed the portrait.

She reached the foot of the stairs, but although the double doors leading into the main salon stood wide open, she could see nothing beyond the candle-light, now stationary, and the restored fireplace with the last embers dying in the hearth, and the great, empty panel of yellow damask above it. By Marianne's wish nothing hung there because it seemed to her that nothing should be put in place of the vanished picture.

Thinking that the thief, if thief there was, must be going round the room, probably estimating the value of the works of art it now contained, she decided not to go in through the main door. Facing her, the smaller one leading into the Music Room was part open. From there she thought she might be able to see her nocturnal visitor without being seen. Very gently she pushed the door wider and went into the little room to which there already clung a faint fragrance of her chosen scent of tuberoses. Enough light came in from the salon next door to enable her to move about without bumping into the furniture. She saw the music she had put out ready for her lesson tomorrow on the pianoforte, stepped round the big, elaborately gilded harp and reached the door. The velvet curtain offered her a refuge from which to peep into the salon. It was all she could do to hold back an exclamation of surprise. Her visitor was a woman.

From where she stood, Marianne could see her only from the back, but there was no escaping the dress, which seemed to be grey, and the hair bundled up in an untidy knot. She was a small frail looking woman, but she carried herself as straight as a ramrod. In her hand she carried a heavy silver candlestick and she did seem to be making a circular tour of the room. She paused for a moment before the fireplace and Marianne saw her lift her arm so that the candle light fell on the empty space. She heard a short, dry laugh with such a note of mockery in it that she could no longer doubt that she was looking at the thief. But who was she, and what did she want?

A dreadful thought struck her. Suppose this woman were something to do with Fanchon-Fleur-de-lys and the crone were once more on her track? Who could say whether the rest of the gang were not also in the house and any moment the hideous creature and her two associates, the frightful Requin and the pale Pisse-Vinaigre would not suddenly appear? Already, it seemed to her that she could hear the tapping of a stick on the stone floor in the hall.

Then, suddenly, Marianne stopped thinking and sprang forward, driven by an impulse stronger than any reason. The woman had moved on beyond the fireplace and was making for a damask curtain with an air of unmistakable purpose. Marianne realized with horror that she was going to set fire to it. In a flash, she had left her hiding place and taken several strides into the room, the muzzle of her pistol levelled at the unknown. Her voice rang coldly in the silence.

'Can I help you?'

The woman swung round with a cry. Marianne saw a face of no particular age or beauty, or rather one that might perhaps have been beautiful, but for the great arrogant beak of a nose which dominated it. The skin on the fleshless face was dry and sallow and the thick, grizzled hair seemed too heavy for the little head that carried it, but the eyes, an innocent baby blue, were so round with terror as to relieve Marianne instantly of any fears she might have felt. The mysterious wanderer looked exactly like a frightened hen. Calmly, although still without lowering her weapon, Marianne walked towards her, but to her surprise the other woman backed away fearfully holding out trembling hands as though to ward off some nightmarish vision.

'Pierre!' she muttered in a shaky voice. 'Pierre, oh my God!'

'Are you unwell?' Marianne enquired pleasantly. 'And do please put down that candle before you set the house on fire.'

The woman seemed completely overcome. Still staring at Marianne with eyes almost starting out of her head, she reached out a trembling hand and let the candlestick down on the table with a clatter. Her teeth seemed to be actually chattering, and it occurred to Marianne that her behaviour was extremely odd coming from one who had appeared to harbour such violent intentions. She regarded the stranger in some perplexity convinced that she must be dealing with a mad woman.

'Will you be good enough to tell me who you are and why you are trying to set this house on fire?'

Instead of answering, the woman asked a question of her own, but in a voice that trembled so much as to be scarcely audible.

'For – for the love of heaven! Who are you?'

'The owner of this house—'

The stranger shrugged, her eyes still fixed on Marianne's face.

'You cannot be. Your name?'

'Don't you think it is rather for me to ask the questions? But I will tell you. I am called Maria Stella. I am a singer and in a few day's time I shall appear at the Opéra. Does that satisfy you? No. Don't move—'

But ignoring the pistol still trained on her, the strange woman closed her eyes and passed a trembling hand across her brow.

'I must be mad!' she murmured. 'I must have been dreaming! I thought – but it is only some opera singer.'

The inexpressible contempt in her voice aroused Marianne's anger afresh.

'You are insufferable! For the last time, I ask you to tell me who you are and what you are doing here. There are no more portraits to steal.'

The stranger's thin lips, so pale and narrow as to be almost nonexistent, curved in a disdainful smile.

'How did you know it was I?'

'It could be no-one else! Where have you put it?'

'It is no concern of yours. That portrait belongs to me. It is a family heirloom.'

'Family?' Now it was Marianne's turn to be surprised. 'What family?'

'My own, of course! I fail to see how it can interest an Italian singer, but this house belonged to my family. I say 'belongs' because you may not keep it long. It is said that Napoleon means to honour his forthcoming marriage to the niece of Marie-Antoinette by making the purchasers of émigré property disgorge it again.'