Leading Lady (17 page)

‘And you will govern in my place?'

‘I'd thought about that brother of yours – Ah, here he is – But I'm afraid that won't do, will it?' He turned to Max, who had been brought in by two of the Old Guard. ‘Welcome to our discussion, prince.'

‘Treachery,' said Max.

‘I was just explaining to your brother. We have a phrase in France, “
A la guerre comme à la guerre
.” Would you translate that as, “All's fair in love and war”?'

‘I don't see what love has to do with it.' Max was white with fury.

‘Ah, but you will. You three are to be hostages for the good behaviour of your loving Lissenbergers.'

‘And Prince Gustav?' asked Franz.

‘A good question.' Napoleon turned as if to an approved pupil. ‘I really think Prince Gustav poses a problem for all
of us. And one about which I propose to consult an expert. Is Prince Joseph there?' He barked the question at one of his staff.

‘He waits your pleasure, sire.'

‘Then send him in.'

Brother Joseph? Doctor Joseph? Prince Joseph? He had shed his monk's habit and was elegant in court black and stark white cravat. ‘I am to ask your pardon.' He kissed Martha's hand, and, surely, pressed it very slightly. In friendship, in warning? ‘And yours,' to Franz and Max. He held out a hand. ‘I'm glad to meet you honestly at last, brothers.'

‘Brothers? Are you mad? What kind of a jest is this?' Franz turned angrily back to Napoleon.

‘One at your expense, prince. As you will find. I told you that your father presented a problem. I do not think you have quite understood just how much of one. My investigators found Prince Joseph easily enough, and there is not the slightest question of the validity of his claim to Lissenberg. Prince Gustav met his mother when he was a young man on the grand tour, passing through Switzerland. She was the daughter of an aristocratic Lutheran family. There was nothing for it but marriage, so of course he married her. And equally of course abandoned her before the boy was born. Luckily for him – and for you two – she died soon afterwards. Her family gave the child their name and brought him up as their own. They never told him who his father was, not even when Gustav became Prince of Lissenberg. But there is not the slightest shadow of a doubt that he is your older brother and therefore heir to Lissenberg.'

‘A bought title,' said Franz. ‘I think the Lissenbergers would have something to say to that.'

‘If they were asked,' said Napoleon. ‘But they are not going to be, are they? They are going to be told. The only question is,' to Joseph, ‘by you or by me?'

‘Oh, by you, I think, sire,' said Joseph. ‘It is you, after all, who have come, seen and conquered. I merely prepared the ground.'

‘Treachery!' said Max again.

‘I do hope that you will see in the end that it is merely
common sense,' Joseph addressed himself now to both his brothers. ‘The Emperor is going to conquer Europe, you know. Nothing will stop him, and a very good thing for Europe it will be. You know as well as I do that it was time for a breath of modern air on these decadent principalities. Freedom of trade, freedom of thought, freedom of worship! Napoleon brings them all. You must know that in your heart.' He turned to address Franz directly. ‘Since you yourself supported him with passion back in your student days in Paris. And you,' to Max, ‘have surely seen enough of the antique tyranny of what used to be the Holy Roman Empire to recognise the advantage of throwing in Lissenberg's lot with the winning side, when it also happens to be that of enlightenment? And I tell you, brothers, Napoleon promises great things for Lissenberg. Our independence, and a road across the mountains, built by his engineers. All in exchange for willing co-operation.'

‘Willing?' asked Franz.

‘And the Due d'Enghien?' asked Martha quietly.

‘A mistake, ma'am.' Napoleon gave her a quick, sharp look. ‘One that won't happen again. But it is more than time we left for the opera house. You don't want your Lissenbergers cooped up there too long with their anxiety about you. Have I your word of honour, gentlemen, that you will not try to cause trouble, or must I leave the princess behind as hostage for your good behaviour?'

Franz and Max exchanged a quick look. Then: ‘You have our word.'

‘Thank you. And here, in the nick of time, is our last guest.' They had all heard sounds of arrival outside. ‘Greet the lady,' Napoleon told Baron Hals. ‘And bring her here. My guards have orders to obey you. And while we wait for her,' to Joseph, ‘tell me whether you think your father should be present for the announcement tonight?'

‘No,' said Joseph. ‘He has no part to play in this.'

But no one was paying attention. All eyes were fixed on the big doors which had been thrown open to admit a flamboyant, well-remembered figure. Minette de Beauharnais had grown from a pretty girl to a striking young woman. The blond curls that had tended to straggle a little had been swept up into a Grecian knot, the slightly vacuous pink and white face had
achieved a firm hint of character. ‘Uncle, I'm late! Forgive me!' She swept up the hall, her Parisian draperies making every woman feel a frump.

‘You are just in time.' He accepted her kiss with more pleasure than Martha had expected, held her affectionately in his arm as he presented Prince Joseph. ‘The other princes I believe you know of old.'

‘I most certainly do.' With a wicked look for Max. ‘And dear Martha! What happiness to meet you again. And to congratulate you on your marriage.'

‘You should congratulate me,' said Franz.

‘Is it just the moment for that? But of course I do, most heartily. And I look forward to hearing my other old friend, Cristabel the other married lady, sing for us. She is quite the rage here in Lissenberg, by what I hear.' Another naughty look for Max. ‘Am I to condole with you, prince?'

There was no chance for a private word before they reached the opera house, hardly time for thought. Minette de Beauharnais insisted on driving with Martha and Franz, and kept up a constant stream of chatter: about Paris, about parties, and above all about her Uncle Napoleon whom she seemed to adore. When they arrived, Martha had the sensation of being in a dream, helpless. Napoleon was being received with military honours by his own troops, drawn up outside the opera house. Behind them, she could see the anxious faces of the mass of Lissenbergers who had not found room within.

Inside, the house was hushed, almost deadly quiet, as Napoleon walked briskly to the one gold chair that awaited him, and the rest of them found their places below and beside him. What now? A rattle of drums, the orchestra struck up the ‘
Marseillaise
', and the audience shuffled awkwardly to its feet, presumably warned in advance. Martha's hand reached for her husband's. Joseph had vanished; the rest of them sat still in their places at the front of the house.

When it was over, Joseph appeared on the stage. Briefly, unemphatically, he told them what had happened, ending with Napoleon's guarantee that no one would be hurt so long as everyone co-operated, and his promise of a road out through the mountains. This got him a faint cheer, the first reaction from the stunned audience. Martha felt the tension in the house, alive, dangerous. Joseph must be aware of it too. He ended on a sombre note, half threat, half promise, stepped back: ‘Let the opera begin.'

The orchestra plunged into the overture with a good deal more enthusiasm than it had showed for the ‘
Marseillaise'.
The audience gave a little sigh, and Martha grasped Franz's hand convulsively. No way Napoleon could know yet, but this was
the overture not to
Night of Errors
but to last year's prize-winning opera, Franz's own
Crusader Prince.
Joseph would know. What would he do about it? What could he? And how would Napoleon react when it dawned on him that instead of this year's comic opera, mocking the twin princes, he was watching the one that had sparked off last year's revolution? Cristabel's idea, of course, and Franzosi, under notice, did not care what he did. They must have rehearsed like demons all afternoon. Franz's music was coming over even more powerful than Martha remembered it.

The curtain rose at last to show Desmond Fylde, the crusader prince, taking leave of his wife and court. Sitting beside and below him, Martha felt rather than saw Napoleon recognise what was happening. He did not move a muscle. Whatever he would do, he was not going to do it yet. Joseph, beyond Minette on the other side, was equally still. Desmond Fylde seemed nervous at first, and she could hardly blame him, but Cristabel was singing like someone possessed, and gradually the rest of the cast caught fire from her. This was going to be a memorable performance in more senses than one. The audience, restless and rustling with surprise to begin with, had sensed this too. It was going to be one of the rare occasions when an opera becomes more than a public performance, becomes a ritual shared by singers and audience. Martha's last detached thought, before she surrendered to the group emotion, was to wonder what in the world Cristabel would do with her last aria, the one that Franz had secretly rewritten last year, so that her final call for freedom was actually the signal for revolution. Franz must be thinking of this too. Whatever happened, they were in for it. His hand pressed hers. Whatever the outcome, this was worth it.

Desmond Fylde strode off to the wars. Cristabel appeared, ravishing as always in tunic and hose, disguised as a page to follow him, and the curtain fell for what should have been the one long interval. But the orchestra went on playing. The audience, restless for a few moments, stilled to listen as Franzosi, at the fortepiano, skilfully led his musicians through a series of variations and so into the second act overture. Nobody stirred. Risking a glance, Martha saw Napoleon
sitting very still, apparently absorbed. Nothing was going to happen. Not yet.

The second half went even better than the first, she thought, and felt Franz thinking so too. He had written the part specially for Cristabel, and she was superb. Chained in a dungeon because her husband had never recognised the page who had saved his life, and had come home to accuse her of unfaithfulness, she sang only of hope and forgiveness. For a moment Martha's concentration failed; would she and Franz find themselves in a dungeon tonight? In separate dungeons?

Now Cristabel was facing the ordeal of red-hot ploughshares and emerging in triumph, unscathed. At last, she threw off her white penitent's robes, to reveal herself in page's doublet and hose and accept her husband's recognition and anguished call for pardon. She moved forward and a shiver went through the audience as she began her final aria. Last year it had been a summons to battle, this year she made it a dirge. ‘Freedom,' she sang at last. ‘Freedom … freedom,' on a dying fall.

Tears were running down Martha's cheeks. She had not cried all day, found it a relief and wondered how many women in the audience were doing the same. Last year, the opera had ended violently at this point, but now the chorus took one step forward for Franz's finale. It should have been a paean of hope for the future, a rousing chorus of love and joy, but here too something had subtly changed. The words were the same; the music the same; what they did with them was another matter, sad beyond belief. And, gradually as they sang, one after another, they moved quietly off the stage, until only Cristabel was left. She moved forward, looked straight at Napoleon on his golden throne and sang, very quietly, the words of her aria again: ‘Freedom, freedom, freedom …' She dropped him a deep curtsy, and the curtain fell.

No revolt this time. The applause was passionate but subdued, Cristabel's message taken. And before it had ended Napoleon was on his feet, his guards clearing a passage for him, the audience backing to left and right, whispering together, and the rest of the court followed him out. A hand reached out to touch Martha's. ‘God keep you,' breathed Frau Schmidt.

There was a guard in the carriage with them on the way back, and when they reached the castle he shepherded them into the great hall, where Napoleon now stood on the dais. Franz's hand was firm on hers. So long as we are not separated, she thought, I can face anything, and knew he was thinking it too.

Napoleon was formidably calm. ‘I must congratulate you on your opera.' He did not give Franz his title. ‘And on the common sense of the Lissenbergers. We should have all been sorry if the evening had ended differently.' It was the most restrained of icy threats. ‘And I am glad to think you will have no trouble in earning a living, when I see fit to release you to do so. Next spring, maybe, when the winter's production from your mines is safe in my hands, and work on the road has begun. And I hope you will use your enforced inactivity this winter to write me an opera as good as the one we have just heard. I will not venture to suggest a theme.' He turned to Joseph. ‘Close guard, I think, for both your brothers until winter shuts the road out. After that, I leave it to your discretion, as I do so much else. And now, I'll say goodbye since I must be on my way first thing in the morning. I leave everything in your capable hands, Prince Joseph.'

‘You may,' said Joseph.

Formal goodnights. A nightmare of civilities. Martha wanted to scream, to curse, to break through this masquerade. Franz's hand on hers was a warning. There was nothing to be gained by a scene, much to be lost. Minette kissed her goodbye. ‘Take care of yourself and your brilliant husband, my dear creature, and I shall look forward to seeing you in the spring. And you –' This, with emphasis, for Joseph.

‘At your service.' Had she intended him to kiss the hand she held out?

No chance of a word alone with Max. As Napoleon turned away, their guard was at their side, leading them, thank God, to their own apartments. Not the cold cells tonight. But there were new locks on their doors. ‘I shall be outside,' said the guard, ushering them in.