Marianne and the Rebels

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  A single sentence repeated itself endlessly in her brain, with cruel insistence, like an ironic refrain:

  'He didn't wait for me… He didn't wait…'

  Jason had sailed across two seas and an ocean for this meeting, yet his patience and his love had not endured beyond five days. He had not sensed that she, whom he claimed to love, was there, close at hand; he had not heard her desperate cries. Now he was going away, sailing out to sea, to the sea that was his other mistress, this time, perhaps, for ever. How could she reach him now, how call him back?

  She was gasping for breath and her heart was knocking painfully in her chest, but she ran on, her eyes, blinded with tears, fixed on the ever-widening dazzle of sunlight between ship and shore. It danced before her like an ultimate sign of hope, drawing her like a lover. A few more steps and she would plunge into it…

  A strong hand grasped her just as she reached the very end of the quay.

  She was on the point of casting herself, borne on an irresistible impulse, straight into the water, when she found herself pulled up short and overborne. She looked up and found herself face to face with Lieutenant Benielli, who was staring at her as if he had seen a ghost.

  'You?' he ejaculated, as he recognized the frenzied woman whom he had just saved from suicide. 'Is it you? .. It's unbelievable!'

  But Marianne had reached the point where the sight of Napoleon himself could not have surprised her. She did not even recognize who was holding her, seeing him only as an obstruction to be circumvented. She struggled furiously in his arms, fighting desperately to escape.

  'Let me go!' she screamed. 'Let me go!'

  Fortunately the Corsican lieutenant had a firm grip, but his patience was short. It came to an end abruptly and he gave his prisoner a smart shaking in an effort to silence the screams which were attracting everyone on the quay. Some of those who approached were looking quite ugly, seeing only that a member of the 'occupying' forces was molesting a young woman. Conscious that he was in a minority, Benielli opened his mouth and yelled:

  'Dragoons! To me!'

  Marianne herself did not see the arrival of Benielli's reinforcements. She continued to scream and struggle until the exasperated lieutenant silenced her with a neatly delivered blow from his fist. Instead of into the waters of the harbour, Marianne plunged into merciful unconsciousness.

  When she came round from the effects of this involuntary swoon, under the influence of a compress of aromatic vinegar held under her nose, it was to find herself looking at the lower half of a black and yellow striped dressing-gown and a pair of embroidered slippers which seemed somehow familiar. She had worked that design of roses on a black background with her own hands.

  She raised her head, reviving the pain in her injured jaw, and almost bit the pad which a kneeling chambermaid was holding under her nose. She thrust the girl away automatically and gave a cry of joy.

  'Arcadius!'

  It was he indeed. Swathed in the striped gown, his feet thrust into the slippers, and his hair standing on end in two comical tufts which made him look more like a mouse than ever, the Vicomte de Jolival was earnestly supervising the restorative treatment.

  'She's come round, my lord,' the chambermaid announced, with remarkable perspicacity, as the invalid sat up.

  'Splendid. You may leave us now.'

  Almost before the girl had got to her feet and made room for him to sit down on the edge of the sofa, Marianne had flung herself into his arms.

  The return of consciousness had brought with it the recollection of her woes and she fell on his chest and wept, too much distressed to utter a single word.

  Deeply pitying, but also deeply experienced, Jolival allowed the storm to wear itself out and confined himself to gently stroking the still-damp hair of the girl he regarded in the light of an adopted daughter. Gradually, the sobs diminished and in a lost, little-girl voice, Marianne murmured into her old friend's ear:

  'Jason!… He's gone!'

  Arcadius laughed and raising Marianne's tear-blotched face from his shoulder, he drew a handkerchief from his dressing-gown pocket and wiped her red and swollen eyes.

  'And is that why you were trying to throw yourself into the harbour? Yes, he's gone – all the way to Chioggia to take on fresh water and a cargo of smoked sturgeon. He'll be back tomorrow. In fact, it was for that very reason that Benielli was watching the harbour. I told him to be there as soon as the Sea Witch put to sea and I was to relieve him later on myself in case you should arrive while the ship was away, as indeed you did.'

  A wonderful sense of relief stole over Marianne. She was torn between the desire to laugh and a strong impulse to cry again and she looked at Jolival with a good deal of respect.

  'You knew I'd come?'

  The urbane vicomte's smile faded and the girl saw that he had aged in her absence. There was a little more silver about his temples and lines of anxiety were deeply carved between his brows and at the corners of his mouth. Very tenderly, she kissed away the signs of worry.

  'It was our one chance of finding you,' he said, sighing. 'I knew that if you were still alive, you would do your utmost to be here in time to meet Jason. And in spite of all our efforts, even the efforts of the Grand Duchess herself, who set her own police to work on the case, we could find no other clue. Agathe said something about a letter from Madame Cenami which might have had something to do with it, because you had gone out in a hurry, and plainly dressed, as though to avoid notice. But Madame Cenami had sent no letter, of course – and you failed to leave the slightest hint.' The last words were uttered in a mildly reproachful tone.

  'Zoe's letter begged for secrecy. I supposed she must be in some trouble. I never thought… but if you only knew how I've regretted it!'

  'Poor child. Love, friendship and prudence do not generally live easily together, especially where you are concerned. Naturally, both Arrighi and myself thought at once of your husband, that he had lost patience.'

  'The Prince is dead,' Marianne said soberly. 'Murdered.'

  'Hm.' It was Jolival's turn now to study his friend's face. How much she had endured was written dearly in its pallor and the haunted look in her eyes. He guessed that she had lived through some terrible experience and that it was, perhaps, still too soon to talk about it. So, postponing the inevitable questions, Jolival said merely:

  'You shall tell me about it later. Obviously, that explains a good deal. But when you vanished, we were half out of our minds. Gracchus was threatening to set fire to the villa at Lucca and Agathe cried all day long and kept on insisting that the devil of the Sant'Annas had carried you off. The coolest person, as might have been expected, was the Duke of Padua. He went in person to the Villa dei Cavalli, with a strong escort, but found none there but servants, and no more of them than served to keep the place up. No one could tell him where the Prince was to be found. It seems that he is – or rather was – in the habit of going away suddenly, often for long periods, telling no one when he meant to return.

  'We went back to Florence feeling thoroughly hopeless and wretched, because we no longer had the smallest clue. We were still very far from convinced that Prince Sant'Anna had no hand in your disappearance but we knew virtually nothing about his other estates, or where to begin the search. In what direction, even! The Grand-Ducal police were equally baffled. It was then I thought of coming here, for the reason I have told you, although I must say, ever since Beaufort arrived five days ago, my hopes have been dwindling hourly. I thought—'

  Jolival's voice broke and he turned his head away to hide his feelings.

  'You thought I was dead, didn't you? Oh, my poor friend, forgive me for the distress I've caused you. I wish I could have spared you. But did he – did Jason think that I—'

  'No! He never had a moment's doubt. He absolutely refused to even consider it. He rejected the very idea. "If she were no longer in this world," he kept saying, "then I should feel it. I should feel as though I'd lost a limb, I'd bleed, or my heart would cease t
o beat, but I should know!"

  'Indeed, that was why he went this morning: so as to be ready to weigh anchor the moment you appeared. Although I suspect the waiting was preying on his nerves, though he would have had his tongue cut out before he admitted it. He was like a man possessed, never easy unless he was on the move, doing something. But where were you, Marianne? Do you feel able to tell me yet, or is it still too painful?'

  'Dear Jolival! You have been through hell on my account and now you're dying to know… And yet you've waited all this time to ask because you were afraid to awake unpleasant recollections! I have been here, my dear.'

  'Here?'

  'Yes. In Venice. At the Palazzo Soranzo, which once belonged to the Prince's grandmother, the notorious Dona Lucinda.'

  'So we were right! It was your husband—'

  'No. Matteo Damiani, the steward. It was he who killed my husband.'

  And Marianne told Jolival all that had taken place since she had gone out, supposedly to meet Zoe Cenami, in the church of Or San Michele: her abduction, the journey and her degrading captivity. The telling of it was long and difficult because, greatly as she loved and trusted her old friend, she was obliged to recall too many things that did violence to her pride and modesty. It was hard for a woman both beautiful and much admired to have to confess that for weeks she had been treated no better than an animal, or a slave bought in the open market. But it was necessary that Arcadius should know the whole extent of her moral wreck, since he was probably the only person who could help her – perhaps even the only one who could understand.

  He heard her out with a mixture of imperturbable calm and fierce agitation. Now and then, at the most painful moments, he got up and strode about the room, his hands behind his back and his head thrust forward, struggling to take in the extraordinary tale which, coming from anyone but Marianne, he would have found almost beyond belief. When it was over and Marianne fell back exhausted on the sofa cushions and closed her eyes, he went quickly to a marquetry side-table, poured himself a drink from a flask, and drank it off at a gulp.

  'Would you like some?' he offered. 'It's the best cordial I know, and you probably need it more than I do.'

  Marianne shook her head.

  'Forgive me for inflicting all this on you, Arcadius, but I had to tell you everything. You don't know how badly I needed to!'

  'I think I do. Anyone who had been through what you have suffered would feel the need to get some of it off their chest, at least. And you know that my chief function on earth is to serve you. As for forgiveness – my dear child, what have I to forgive you for? You could not have given me a greater proof of your confidence than this tissue of horrors. What we have to decide is what to do next. This villain and his accomplices are all dead, you say?'

  'Yes. Killed. I don't know who by.'

  'Personally I am inclined to think that executed would be a better word. As for who was the executioner…'

  'Some prowler, perhaps. The palace is full of treasures.'

  Jolival shook his head doubtfully.

  'No. There are those rusty chains you found on the steward's body. That suggests vengeance as a motive, or some kind of rough justice! Damiani must have had enemies. Perhaps one of them learned of your plight and set you free… remember that you found the clothes that had been taken from you lying ready to hand! It's certainly a most peculiar story, don't you think?'

  But Marianne had already lost interest in her captor of yesterday. Now that she had made a clean breast of it all to her friend, her next preoccupation was with her love, and her thoughts turned irresistibly to the man she had come to meet and with whom she still meant to make her life.

  'But Jason?' she asked desperately. 'Should I tell him all this? You are very fond of me, and yet even you found it difficult to accept my story, didn't you? I'm afraid—'

  'Afraid that Beaufort, who loves you, will find it even more difficult? But, Marianne, what else can you do? How are you going to explain your disappearance during the past weeks except by telling the truth, however painful?'

  Marianne sprang up from her cushions with a cry and running to Jolival took both his hands in hers.

  'No, for pity's sake, Arcadius, don't ask that of me. Don't ask me to tell him those shameful things. It would make him loathe me… he might even hold me in disgust…'

  'Why should he? Was it your fault? Did you go to the villain of your own free will? You have been abused, Marianne, first in your kindness and simplicity and secondly as a helpless woman, not to mention the base means employed: drugs and violence!'

  'I know. I know all that but I know Jason, too. He can be jealous… violent. He has already had much to forgive me. Remember what it must have done to his strict moral principles to find himself in love with Napoleon's mistress. Then remember that after that I was obliged to literally sell myself to a total stranger in order to preserve my honour. And now you want me to tell him… to try and explain…? Oh, no, my dear friend! I can't. Don't ask me to do that! It's just impossible.'

  'Be sensible, Marianne. You said yourself that Jason loves you enough to overlook a good deal.'

  'Not that! Oh, he wouldn't blame me, of course. He'd… understand, or try to look as though he understood to spare me pain. But I should lose him. There would always be that frightful picture between us, and if I kept anything back from him, he would imagine it! I should die of grief. You don't want me to die, do you, Arcadius? You wouldn't like that…'

  She was trembling like a leaf in the grip of a panic fear resulting partly from the terrors of the past days and partly from despair and the tormenting dread of losing her only love.

  Arcadius put his arm round her, led her very gently to a chair and made her sit down. Clasping her suddenly ice-cold hands in his, he knelt beside her.

  'Not only do I not want you to die, my child, I very much want you to be happy. Of course, it's natural for you to be frightened at the idea of telling the man you love a thing like this, but what can you tell him?'

  'I don't know. That the Prince kidnapped me… locked me up somewhere… and I escaped. I'll think of something… and you'll think too, won't you, Arcadius? You're so clever… so intelligent…'

  'And supposing something comes of the affair? What will you say then?'

  'Nothing will come of it. I won't let it! To begin with, there's no reason to think that monster's efforts were successful, and if they were…'

  'Well?'

  'I'd get rid of it, if I have to risk my life to do it. I'd do anything to be free of that rotten fruit, and I will, if I ever find out that it's true! But Jason must never, never know! I told you: I'd rather die! You must promise me you'll not tell him, even on pledge of secrecy. You must swear to it. If you won't, I shall go mad!'

  She was in such a state that Jolival saw it was impossible to reason with her. Her eyes were burning with fever and exhaustion and there was a shrill note in her voice that revealed nerves strained almost to breaking point, ready to snap at any moment.

  'I promise, my dear, and now, for heaven's sake, calm yourself. You need rest and sleep… to help you recover. You are quite safe with me. No one can harm you and I'll do all I can to help you to forget this time as quickly as possible. Gracchus and Agathe are here with me, you know. And now I'll call your maid and she shall put you to bed and take care of you and no one, I promise you, is going to ask you any more questions…'

  Jolival's voice flowed on in a gentle, reassuring murmur, soft and soothing as velvet, and it acted like oil on troubled waters.

  Little by little, Marianne relaxed, and when, a minute later, Agathe and Gracchus burst into the room with cries of joy, they found her weeping softly in Jolival's arms.

  But these, too, were healing tears.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dreams to Reality

  Late on the following afternoon, Marianne lay on a sofa pulled up to the open window and watched two ships come sailing through the Lido Channel. The first and larger of the two was flying the Am
erican colours from her peak but it did not need the stars on her flag to tell the watcher it was Jason's ship.

  She had known from the confused and contradictory state of her own feelings, even when the tall, square-rigged brig was no more than a white dot against the sky.

  The sun which all day long had blazed down on Venice was sinking in a welter of molten gold behind the church of the Redeemer. A breath of cooler air drifted through the window, bringing with it the sound of seabirds crying, and Marianne sniffed appreciatively, enjoying the fragile peace of these last moments of solitude, and wondering a little that she should be doing so when the thing she was waiting for was the arrival of the man she loved.

  In a few minutes, he would come. She pictured his entrance, his first look, his first words and trembled with mingled joy and apprehension: apprehension that she might not be able to sustain the role she had decreed for herself, that she might not be sufficiently natural.

  Waking that morning, after practically sleeping the clock round twice, she had felt much better, her mind easier and her body relaxed by her sleep which, thanks to Jolival, had been surrounded by more luxury than might have been expected.

  Instead of putting up at one of the inns, Jolival had taken rooms in a private house on his arrival in Venice. In Florence he had been recommended to the house of a Signor Giuseppe Dal Niel, a polite, good-natured and cheerfully-disposed individual who, at the fall of the Republic, had rented the upper floors of the splendid old palace built for the doge Giovanni Dandolq, the man who had given Venice her coinage and had been responsible for striking the first golden ducats.

  Dal Niel was a widely-travelled man and consequently deplored the poverty of contemporary inns and hostelries. He had the notion of taking in paying guests and surrounding them with a degree of comfort, even luxury, hitherto quite unknown. It was his dream to get possession of the whole of the mansion and turn it into the greatest hotel of all time, but in order to do so he needed the ground floor, and this, so far, he had failed to acquire, since the present owner, the old Countess Mocenigo, was violently set against any such commercial undertaking.[1]