Marianne and the Privateer

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  Crawfurd, with a swift movement of his stick, hooked it shut again.

  'No,' he said roughly. 'Get out my side. Let me go first.'

  'Why? The bollard will help—'

  'That bollard,' the old man cut her short grimly, 'is where the mob dismembered the body of the Princesse de Lamballe. You will soil your gloves.'

  Marianne turned with a shudder from the worn stone and took the hand which her companion was holding out to assist her from the cab, taking care as she did so not to put too much weight on it. Crawfurd's gout was better than it had been, but he still walked with difficulty.

  Seeing them descend from the cab, the guard who had been dozing in the noisome sentry box beside the gate, his gun between his knees, got up and straightened his shako:

  'Who goes there?'

  'Now then, soldier,' Crawfurd said in a low voice, instantly, much to Marianne's surprise, slipping into a strong Normandy accent. 'No need to shout. Keeper Ducatel is a countryman of mine and we have come, my daughter Madeleine and myself that is, to have a little supper with him.'

  A large silver coin gleamed for a moment in the fitful light of the lamp and roused an answering gleam in the eye of the guard, who uttered a shout of laughter and pocketed the coin:

  'You should've said so right away, man. He's a right one, old Ducatel, and been here long enough to make a few friends, eh. I'm one on 'em. In you go, then.'

  He banged vigorously on the low door which stood at the top of a pair of worn steps and was surmounted by a heavily barred fanlight.

  'Hi there! Ducatel! Someone to see you!'

  While the driver of the cab was still engaged in turning his horse in the narrow rue du Roi de Sicile, preparatory to waiting for them by St Paul's, the door opened, revealing an individual in a brown woollen cap holding a candle in one hand. This candle he raised until it was practically under the noses of his visitors and then, having apparently recognized who they were by this time, he exclaimed: 'Ha! Cousin Grouville! You're late! We were just going to eat without you. And here's my little Madeleine. Come you in then. You've grown a fine big girl now!'

  Endeavouring to sound as provincial as possible, Marianne managed to utter a word of greeting. Ducatel, still continuing his flow of welcoming chat, assured the guard that 'a nice mug of Calvados' should be sent out to him as a reward for his trouble, and then shut the door behind them. Marianne saw that she was in a narrow entrance passage ending in a turnstile. To the right was the guardroom through the half-open door of which four soldiers could be seen smoking and playing cards by the lights of a couple of lamps. Still talking loudly, Ducatel led his guests up to and through the turnstile, then opened a door into another darkened room at the far end of which was a second turnstile. Here, Ducatel paused.

  'My lodging looks on to the rue du Roi de Sicile,' he said in a whisper. 'I'll take you there, M'sieur, and we'll make a little bit of noise so that the guards know we're at supper. I'd've had you in by my private door, but it's always best to look open and above board.'

  'I can find my way alone, my good Ducatel,' Crawfurd replied in the same tone, nodding approval as he spoke. 'You take the lady to the prisoner you know of.'

  Ducatel nodded his understanding and opened the gate:

  'This way, then… He's an important prisoner so he's not in the new building. He's been put with the "specials" in the Condé room… very nearly by himself.'

  As he spoke, Ducatel unlocked a further door and led Marianne across a courtyard. Crawfurd, meanwhile, turned to the left in the direction of the region known as the Kitchen Court, an appellation more than justified by the powerful smell of greasy soup emanating from it, beyond which lay the keeper's quarters.

  As she followed the turnkey, Marianne looked about her with distaste at the buildings surrounding the courtyard and the treeless expanse of cracked paving which was the entrance to the prison itself: high, menacing walls, crumbling and worm-eaten, dotted with barred windows from behind which came an assortment of nightmare groans and shrieks, hideous laughter and the sound of men snoring, and all the other multifarious noises made by the dirty and dangerous portion of humanity penned within by crime and fear. Four floors of rogues, thieves, debtors, convicts escaped and recaptured, murderers, criminals of every kind which the slums of Paris and elsewhere had thrown up into the net of the police. Here was none of the medieval yet not altogether squalid simplicity of Vincennes, for this was not a place for prisoners of state, held for political offences. This was the common gaol, where all the vilest felons were huddled in appallingly overcrowded conditions.

  'We had a bit of a job,' Ducatel confided to Marianne, 'to find him a corner that was a bit quiet-like.' He was leading her up a staircase whose wrought-iron handrail betrayed that in the days of the dukes of La Force it had been noble and handsome, though now the treads were cracked and slippery and made the ascent perilous. 'The prison is stuffed as full as it can hold, you know. Never gets much emptier, either. Here we are now…' He indicated an iron-studded door which had come into view in the thickness of the wall. The keeper opened a spy-hole in the door and a little yellowish light filtered out into the passage.

  'Someone to see you, M'sieur Beaufort!' he said into the opening before drawing the bolts. Then he added in a lower tone to Marianne: 'It's not my fault, M'dame, but I can't let you have more than an hour or so, I'm afraid. I'll be back to fetch you before they do the rounds.'

  'Thank you. You are very kind.'

  The door opened almost noiselessly and Marianne slipped through the opening and stood looking a little startled at the sight which met her eyes. On either side of a rickety table, two men were seated, playing cards by the light of a candle. Something which might have been another man was lying curled up in a ball in the corner, on one of the three truckle beds, wrapped in an uneasy slumber. One of the two card players was Jason. The other was an individual about thirty-five years old, tall, dark and active-looking with a good-looking face, regular features, a mocking curve to his lips and bright, inquisitive black eyes. Seeing that a woman had entered the room, the second man rose at once while Jason, too surprised to do more than stare, sat still, the cards still in his hand:

  'Marianne! You! But I thought—'

  'I thought,' his companion broke in with heavy irony, 'that you, my friend, were a gentleman. Did no one ever teach you to stand up for a lady?'

  Jason rose mechanically and as he did so received Marianne full in his arms, laughing and crying at once.

  'Oh, my love, my love! I couldn't bear it! I had to come—''

  'This is madness! You should be in exile, they may be looking for you…'

  But even as he protested, his hands were drawing her face close to his. His blue eyes shone out of a face too deeply weatherbeaten for a few weeks' incarceration to whiten it with a joy which his words tried to deny. His expression, oddly touching in a man of his strength, was like that of a lonely, unhappy child who, expecting nothing, suddenly finds that Father Christmas has come and brought him the most wonderful present. He gazed at Marianne, unable to speak another word, then suddenly crushed her to him and kissed her hungrily, like a starving man. Marianne closed her eyes and abandoned herself to his kiss, feeling as if she could die of happiness. It was nothing to her that the man who held her in his arms was unshaven and filthy dirty, and that the cell smelled anything but sweet. It was obvious that, to her, paradise had nothing more to offer.

  From their respective positions by the table and the door, the other prisoner and Ducatel looked on, smiling, and with a degree of awed fascination, at this unexpected love scene. However, when it showed no signs of breaking up, the prisoner gave a shrug and, throwing his cards down on the table, announced: 'Right! I'm not wanted here. Ducatel, will you ask me to supper?'

  'With the best will in the world, my lad. You're already expected.'

  The effect of this exchange on the two lovers was to bring their embrace to a swift conclusion and they stood looking so shamefaced at the speed
with which they had forgotten the existence of everything but themselves that the prisoner burst out laughing:

  'It's all right, you needn't look like that, you know! We all know what it is to be in love.'

  Marianne gave him a withering glare and turned indignantly to the keeper:

  'Is it necessary that Monsieur Beaufort should be forced to endure the company of—'

  'Of people like me? Alas, Madame, the prison is overfull and it cannot be helped. But we don't rub along too badly, do we, friend?'

  'No,' Jason responded, grinning, in spite of himself, at Marianne's outraged expression, 'it might be a great deal worse! In fact, I'll even introduce you.'

  'Spare yourself the trouble,' the other prisoner interrupted him. 'I mean to do that myself. Fair lady, you see before you your genuine gallows bird, not often met with in polite society: François Vidocq of Arras, three times convicted felon and in a fair way to be so again. Deep bow and exits left, as they say in the theatre. Come, Ducatel. I'm hungry.'

  'And that?' Marianne said furiously, indicating the black bundle which had continued to jerk and mutter indistinguishably. 'Aren't you taking that with you?'

  'Who? The abbé? He'll not trouble you. He's half-cracked and talks nothing but Spanish. Besides, it would be a shame to wake him. He's having such lovely nightmares.'

  And escorted almost respectfully by the keeper, the strange prisoner, apparently very much at home, departed from the cell to go and sup with his gaoler as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  'Well!' said Marianne, recovering from her astounded contemplation of this exit. 'Who is that man?'

  'He told you,' Jason said, folding her in his arms again. 'He is an habitual felon, always escaping and as often returning, what they call here an old lag.'

  'Is he – a murderer?'

  'No, a thief merely. I am the murderer here,' Jason said wryly. 'He's a curious fellow, but I owe him my life.'

  'You do?'

  'Yes, indeed! You don't know this prison. It is a hell inhabited by demons, a sink of all that is base and cruel and ugly, where the law of the strongest prevails. I was a stranger – well dressed, which was enough to make them take me in dislike. I should have been a dead man beyond a doubt if François had not taken me under his protection. He is a great man hereabouts, and he has the trick of taming these ravening beasts. That poor devil sleeping over there has him to thank that he is still alive. It's a grand thing to be a master of escape. Even the turnkeys respect him – as you've seen!'

  Marianne understood the danger which had threatened Jason on his first arrival at La Force better than he could have known. She herself retained vivid memories of the one night she had spent in the prison of St Lazare and from time to time in her dreams she still saw the leering face of the woman known as La Tricoteuse who had tried to kill her only because she was young and beautiful. She saw the yellow eyes and evil grin, and the horrible skill with which the creature had wielded her clumsy knife.

  Just then, the black bundle which was an abbe stirred suddenly on his pallet bed and sat up with a smothered shriek. Marianne could see a gaunt, raggedly bearded face and eyes that looked at her with staring terror.

  'Tranquilo,' Jason murmured quickly. 'Es un'amiga.'

  The abbé's head nodded and with a sigh he turned his back on the young people and lay down again obediently.

  'There,' Jason said comfortably. 'He'll not move again. He has very nice manners. Now let's forget him. Come and sit by me, let me look at you. You are so lovely! No, don't speak!'

  He led her to a kind of plank bed covered with a moth-eaten rug and made her sit down, all without taking his eyes from her. If the truth were told, there was little in Marianne's modest print gown, made high to the throat, which was the most countrified thing she had been able to find in her wardrobe, to justify his enthusiasm, yet even in her most fairytale dresses, her most fabulous jewels, Jason had never looked at her like this. It was miraculous and yet at the same time oddly disturbing, so disturbing that Marianne found herself withdrawing a little. She kissed his unshaven cheek lightly:

  'Yes but I have come to talk, and we have so little time—'

  'No. Hush now. I don't want to waste these moments in talk. They may never come again – and I have prayed so hard just to see you again – if only once!'

  He buried his head in her neck but, thoroughly alarmed now, she pushed him away.

  'What do you mean? Why may we never meet again? Your trial—'

  'I have no illusions about my trial,' Jason said, with a degree of patience he was far from feeling. 'I shall be found guilty and condemned—'

  'But – oh, no – not to—' She could not bring herself to say the words which, in this prison setting, had acquired a horrible reality. But Jason nodded:

  'Very possibly – even probably. No, be quiet.' His hand came quickly over her lips, checking her fierce protest. 'It is always best to look things in the face. All the evidence is against me. Unless the real culprit is found, which is highly unlikely, the judges will find me guilty. I know that.'

  'But this is fantastic! Insane! Jason, all is not yet lost! Arcadius has gone to Aix, to make Fouché give evidence. Fouché can tell how matters stood between myself and Black Fish!'

  'But he cannot state positively that I did not kill him. Look, this business is the outcome of a political plot. And I am caught in the toils.'

  'Then your ambassador must defend you!'

  'He will not. He has told me so himself, Marianne, here in this very prison, because to do so would be a sure way of bringing about the ruin of the present negotiations between President Madison and France to get the decrees concerning the Continental Blockade revoked where America is concerned. It is all very complicated—'

  'No,' Marianne broke in, desperately. 'I know. Talleyrand told me all about the Berlin and Milan decrees.'

  'God bless him, then,' Jason said, with his crooked smile. 'Well, France's conditions are these: that my country must persuade England, with whom we are not on the best of terms, to revoke what are called the "orders in council", in other words, the English retort to the decrees. And the first condition, naturally, is that the United States shall make no move to interfere with the course of justice so far as I am concerned – this affair of the forged notes is too serious. Cadore has said as much in a note to Armstrong. Armstrong is sorry – but there is nothing he can do. He is almost as much a prisoner as I am. Do you see?'

  'No,' Marianne persisted stubbornly. 'I shall never see why they have to sacrifice you – because that is what they are doing, isn't it?'

  'Yes, it is. But when you think that my country is prepared to go to war with England as a proof of good faith to Napoleon if the orders in council are not rescinded, you can imagine that my own life matters very little. Nor would I wish it to. You see, my love… we must all serve as we can – and I love my country above all things.'

  'More than me, even?' Marianne said quietly, on the verge of tears.

  Jason did not answer. Instead, his arms tightened round her and he sought her lips again. His heart was hammering so hard that Marianne seemed to feel it beating in her own breast. She felt the shuddering of his whole body and she knew that his desires had grown beyond his power to master them, a knowledge only confirmed when, lifting his head briefly from the lips which he had been crushing under his own, he began to plead with her softly: 'My darling, I entreat you… this may be our only chance… Now I am asking you to let me love you…'

  Marianne's heart leapt. Gently, she pushed him away once more, and when she heard him groan she murmured softly: 'A moment, my beloved, only a moment…'

  Then, lifted beyond herself by a love stronger than fear or modesty, Marianne stood up, oblivious of the priest lying a few yards away. He might be asleep or not, he had his back to them at least. Not taking her eyes from Jason who stayed where he was, half-kneeling, his gaze fixed intently on her, she stripped off all her garments one by one and dropped them on the greas
y floor. Then, proud and unashamed, she walked into the arms held open to receive her, and the rough and grimy pallet which was Jason's bed became for Marianne a couch softer and more sumptuous than any she had ever lain on, even in that princely palace where she had slept so many nights alone. Yet she blessed the semi-darkness of the prison, for Jason had snuffed the single candle and only a faint moonlight shone into the cell, because it hid the weal, still red and angry, of the burn which Chernychev had given her. She did not want to have to lie to him, nor yet to involve herself in explanations which would have left a scar on Jason's happiness. In that one, irrecoverable moment when Marianne learned at last in joy and wonder what it meant to become one with another person, the past must be blotted out and even the dread future cry a truce.

  When the door opened again a little while later, the candle was burning again and Jason was helping Marianne to put her dress to rights. But it was not Ducatel who appeared. The prisoner named François Vidocq stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped nonchalantly against the door jamb, and after a brief glance at the abbé who was now snoring like a grampus, surveyed the lovers with an air of great amusement.

  'A woman of substance, indeed, Madame,' he remarked chattily. 'You have brought him the one thing that could do him good.'

  'Mind your own business,' Marianne snapped, all the more furious because he had been right. She felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair and, as she always did when threatened with embarrassment, she lost her temper. 'Besides,' she went on hotly, 'you are talking of matters you know nothing about! The only thing that could "do him good", as you put it, would be if they would acknowledge his innocence and set him free.'