Marianne and The Masked Prince

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Abruptly, Napoleon ceased pacing up and down the room and came to a stop in front of Marianne. The girl huddled in the big arm-chair by the fire gave a sigh of relief. Even deadened by the thick carpet, that regular pacing racked her nerves and made her head throb. So much had happened in the course of that fantastic evening that she was too exhausted to be conscious of anything beyond the splitting ache in her head. There had been the thrill of her first appearance on stage at the Théâtre Feydeau, her stage-fright and, above all, the inexplicable appearance in one of the stage boxes of the man she believed she had killed, followed by his equally mysterious disappearance. Enough to overcome a much stronger constitution than Marianne's!

With an effort, she opened her eyes and saw that he was watching her, his hands clasped behind his back and an anxious look on his face. Was he really anxious, or merely vexed? The pressure of his smart, silver-buckled shoe was digging a hole in the pale carpet, while the quiver of his thin nostrils and a certain steely glint in his blue eyes betokened an incipient burst of temper. Marianne asked herself suddenly if the man before her was her lover, the Emperor, or an examining magistrate. In the ten minutes that had elapsed since he burst in on her he had said little, but she could sense the questions in the air. The quiet room with its blue-green watered silks, bright flowers and sparkling crystal, so peaceful and reassuring a few moments before, had taken on a fragile, transitory air. Sure enough, the peace was shattered in an instant by his curt voice.

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