Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  In her unconscious need to soothe her brother in terror, Marianne tried to conceal her own fears because she sensed that Jean would need all his strength and quickness for what was to come and also because it was important to her that he should still be a solid rock to lean on. Staring at the vague outline of the coast, she asked: 'What coast is this, do you know?'

  It was Black Fish who answered in a voice as calm as though the danger no longer concerned him.

  'It is one of the most dangerous places on the coast of Brittany. They call it Paganie, "pagan land", and it is true that its inhabitants are fiercer than any pagan. It is a cruel, desolate spot, relying on the sea for everything. The people make sure it gives them what they need.' There was a sudden gentleness in his voice as he added: 'I think, lass, this time it is death.'

  It was true, the little boat was caught up in a whirl of hissing spray. Around the three unfortunates as they clung to one another, the sea roared in the rocky cove but another, more terrible noise rose above the sound of the tempest. In the same instant, fires sprang up on the shore, throwing a tragic light over the sea. Screams and shouts rent the night, mingling with the crackle of burning wood. The huge bulk of the merchant ship seemed to rear up and fall back with a sound like thunder. A wave, higher than the rest, had cast her, belly-down on a jagged reef and what Marianne and her companions had heard was the sound of her hull splitting. Marianne could see small black figures clinging to the vessel's bridge and spars. She saw other figures armed with torches running back and forth on what must be a small beach. Then she saw no more because the sloop in her turn was rushing to her doom and terror overcame her. Marianne had been preserved until that movement by the tragic grandeur of the sight but now she fully realized her own mortal danger. She stared with eyes of horror at the black waters foaming so close, waters which in a few minutes more would close over her.

  Still clinging to Jean, she crossed herself earnestly, muttered a prayer and had a brief thought for her Aunt Ellis whom she now went to join and even for Francis and Ivy. Were human quarrels carried over into the next world? It hardly seemed to matter. What mattered was that she should be forgiven for the twofold crime she had unwittingly committed. Next, she made up her mind to close her eyes to shut out the terrible scene of the shipwreck, and that she would never open them again. But first, she glanced up at the young man whose arms were round her. He was standing like a statue, head held high and his face might have been carved out of marble as he stared at the doomed vessel. Marianne felt his body trembling against hers. But then he became aware of her movement and looked at her like one awakening from a dream. It was only an instant. Then he was gripping her shoulders.

  'And of course, you haven't the faintest idea how to swim? You've never learned! They don't teach girls that kind of thing where you come from—' There was a kind of desperate violence in his voice.

  'But – yes, I learned to swim. In a river, certainly, not in this—' She jerked her head towards the raging sea and shuddered.

  'If that is true, you may yet escape,' said Black Fish's loud voice beside her. But Marianne was beginning to understand all that was meant by that word, swim, and felt as much terror as though she had never learned. She clung to Jean with all her strength.

  'I can swim – but I'm frightened! I'm so frightened! Don't leave me, I beg of you, don't let me go – without you, I am bound to die.'

  A softness came into the boy's tense face. Faced with the terror of this child, he forgot his own fear and thought only of protecting her. There was such beauty in the supplicating eyes, such loveliness in the face raised to his that all at once, he felt in himself the strength of twenty knights. Impulsively, he clasped her to him.

  'No, I will not let you go! I will hold you tight. I'll hold you so close that the sea shall not get you—'

  'No rash promises!' Black Fish growled. 'Once in the water, its every man for himself but the devil's in it if between us we can't get her out of this – always supposing we can get ourselves out of it.'

  But Jean was not listening. Impelled by the unconscious desire which had sprung up in him at the moment when he first looked on Marianne, he had set his lips on hers and for a brief moment, Marianne forgot her fears in the sweet tenderness of that kiss. In the same instant, the sloop lifted as though about to take wing, keeled over to one side and fell back with a dreadful tearing sound. Marianne and Jean were flung into the sea with such violence that their arms were torn apart and to her horror, Marianne found herself alone amid the white topped waves.

  Deafened and blinded, she sank at first like a stone but then her will to live and animal instinct of self-preservation came to her rescue. Without quite knowing how, she struggled to the surface at last, half drowned, her nose and ears filled with water, but alive. To her surprise, she saw that she was much closer to the shore. A big wave rolled her over, mercifully cutting short her view of the terrifying spectacle before her. Men were running in all directions, shouting wildly. Some, completely naked in spite of the cold, plunged into the water armed with long gaffs which they used to draw the debris from the wrecked ship within reach. It was like a vision of hell and somewhere at the back of a mind half dead with terror and fatigue, Marianne found herself thinking that what she saw might well be devils.

  Once again, she found herself able to breathe, and looked round wildly for her companions. Once again, a mountain of foam bore down on her and swallowed her. The sea tossed her to and fro like a cockle shell, now bearing her in towards the shore, then carrying her out to sea again only to bring her back once more. It was as though the waves were trying to batter her to pieces, the better to absorb her into their watery depths. Perhaps after all, that was what death was?

  Then, suddenly, came searing pain, tearing at Marianne's right thigh. She gave one agonized shriek and then lost consciousness.

  When she opened her eyes, it was to find herself in the power of demons. She was being roughly pulled about by two men, one feeling her all over while the other tore off her clothes. She felt the cold sand under her bare back and the burning pain in her side where the gaff must have wounded her in drawing her ashore but scarcely had she opened her eyes than she closed them again in horror at what she had seen. Two men were bending over her. They had long hair and the eyes that glittered in their filthy, hairy faces were the eyes of wild beasts. The one engaged in stripping off her clothes was stark naked, his huge muscular body covered in black matted hair. They were growling like animals, ripping off everything they could find about her and a kind of blind instinct told her that her only chance was to counterfeit death. She was so cold that it was almost true. But the two robbers were not interested in her condition, only in her garments. She heard the gurgle of triumph as they found the canvas pocket where she kept her modest wealth. They began talking together in a rough speech which she did not understand but she guessed that they were arguing over the pearls, the gold and the locket. What these men were taking was all the little she had left in the world and yet Marianne found it did not even make her want to cry. She was too cold and bruised and frightened to be aware of anything but her immediate physical sensations and could only pray with all her might that the men would be satisfied with robbing her and go away and leave her on the beach.

  One other thought she clung to, that of her companions in misfortune, Jean and Black Fish. Where could they be? They were seamen, familiar with the worst of storms and must have come to land at the same time as herself or sooner. But she sensed that she was alone. If they still lived, they would not have abandoned her at the mercy of these dreadful men! Jean had promised to look after her. He had kissed her, as though he truly loved her – yes he must be dead. And it seemed to Marianne that she had nothing left in all the world.

  Timidly, she half opened her eyes. The two men were standing a few yards away from her, still arguing, but the scene beyond was like something out of a nightmare. The wreckers were busy dragging chests and bales of all descriptions up on to the sand
. All about were bodies thrown up by the sea, those of the seamen from the merchant vessel, some already dead, others perhaps still living but only to be finished off without mercy by the wreckers with knives or bludgeons. Further out on the rocks, lay the dying ship, a great hole in her side.

  Marianne caught herself thinking idiotically of accounts of shipwrecks she had read in days gone by. They had been nothing like this. She thought of the heroine of Paulet Virginie, preferring death to the idea of taking off her dress. How stupid! Wasn't she herself half naked at the mercy of these men?

  As her wits returned, she saw that the sea had thrown her up at one end of the beach. There were rocks close by, rocks among which it might be possible to hide. Absorbed in their booty, the two robbers seemed to have lost interest in her and it was so cold, here in this icy wind.

  Very slowly, she began to crawl but however slight the movement, it was noticed. The two men were on her in a second and Marianne found herself pinned helplessly to the ground. With eyes wide with horror, she saw one of the men, the one who still wore some clothing, take from his belt a long cutlass which flickered redly in the glow of a nearby fire. He was already bending down holding the cutlass to her throat when a figure leapt out from among the rocks. Caught off his balance from behind, the man rolled over on the sand. At once, his attacker was upon him and the two men began a savage struggle in which the robber's knife gave him the advantage of Jean Le Dru. The other ruffian was still holding Marianne down so that she could only watch the fight helplessly. But though helpless she was full of hope. If Jean had escaped from the sea and was here on the beach fighting for her, why should not the giant Black Fish also reappear. That would considerably increase their chances.

  Jean was bigger than his adversary and must have made up for a good deal in sheer strength but even so, his spell on the hulk Europa and, more recently, his fight for life against the sea, had weakened him to such an extent that it was soon apparent both to the girl and to her guard, who showed his delight by a series of animal grunts, that the robber would soon have the upper hand. And still Black Fish had not appeared. With a rush of pity and terror, Marianne realized that all was lost. The other man was already on top, and kneeling on his chest while Jean tore vainly at the hands around his throat which were slowly choking him. In her terror, Marianne cried out in French.

  'For pity's sake! Do not kill him!'

  An evil laugh was the only answer but, like an echo of the girl's despairing cry, an icy voice commanded:

  'Enough! Let the man go, Vinoc!'

  Obedience was instant. Jean Le Dru found himself released while the two robbers retreated, cringing fearfully. The man who had appeared out of the shadows like some ominous night bird was evidently the chief of the wreckers. He was a tall man, dressed in a peasant's sheepskin coat and baggy canvas breeches caught in tightly at the knee, and black felt hat, and his hair hung in short plaits on either side of his face but above these rustic garments, a great black cloak hung from his shoulders, stout leather gauntlets protected his hands and his features were concealed by a black velvet mask. All that could be seen of his face was a strong mouth whose corners drooped in an expression of perpetual disdain and unusually brilliant eyes of some indefinable colour. Seeing those eyes rest thoughtfully upon her, Marianne flushed scarlet with shame and huddled with her arms across her breast in an attempt to hide her almost complete nakedness in the shadow of the rocks. With the frigid smile which never reached his eyes, the unknown shrugged off his black cloak with a quick movement and, tossing it to her, spoke to the two men.

  'Take her!' he ordered. Then, pointing to Jean Le Dru who stood before him, still shaking from his fight, he added carelessly: 'Kill him.'

  Marianne hastily wrapping herself in the cloak which, she noticed, had about it a smell of verbena totally unexpected in a wrecker, was about to protest but Jean was before her.

  'If that is your verdict, why did you stay the fellow's murdering hand a moment ago?' he cried bitterly.

  'A reflex. The woman's scream perhaps. And you fought well. I wished to see who you were—'

  'Nothing – or no one, as you like! A Frenchman, a Breton like yourself. That is why I do not understand why you would kill me.'

  Marianne followed this exchange with amazed disbelief. Beyond a doubt everything that happened to her was fated to have the incoherence of a bad dream. Was it really she, Marianne, sitting here on a rock on a storm ravaged Breton beach, dressed only in a cloak lent by a robber, guarded by wreckers, while a man in a black velvet mask argued about life and death with a prisoner escaped from an English hulk? When she was a little girl, old Jenkins, who loved stories, had told her a host of fabulous tales about the adventures that had befallen poor wretched souls in olden times who were dogged by persistent ill luck. She had heard, too, of the fearful things which had taken place in this land of France ever since the people had run mad and drowned their aristocracy in a bath of blood, and an ambitious Corsican clambered on to the Imperial throne. All this she had been told, and much more she had read but she would never have believed that such things could happen to her. But one cannot be suddenly confronted with life in the raw and remain unchanged. Little by little, Marianne felt her scruples crumbling away, and all her former weakness and false modesty disappearing. Such things seemed stupid and meaningless.

  But Jean and the masked stranger had not finished speaking.

  'No witnesses and no survivors, that's the first rule in this business—'

  'Some business! Wrecking—'

  'Don't dismiss it so lightly. It's a good living and, in these times, that is something to think of. After all, I am offering you a chance. Swear to serve me faithfully as one of us and I will spare your life. Stout hearts are not so easy to come by.'

  Jean shrugged with unconcealed contempt.

  'Serve you? How? For work of this kind,' he indicated the ravages on the beach, 'all you need is thieves and murderers, not sailors. I am a sailor, one of Surcouf's men!'

  Once again Marianne heard the note of pride in his voice and it made her curious. Who, she wondered was this Surcouf for Jean to be so proud of him? However, it seemed the masked man knew who he was well enough. His fists clenched and his voice came thinly through set jaws.

  'The Sea Fox, eh? "Baron Surcouf"? Bonaparte's henchman? You have just signed your death warrant, my lad! Besides, I've wasted enough time with you. Do your work, men—'

  'No!'

  Unable to help herself, Marianne sprang forward impulsively, her aching head held only one idea, to save the life of the man who had fought for her when he might have stayed quietly in his hiding place among the rocks and watched her die, the man who had guarded and protected her in danger and who, when it seemed that death was on them, had kissed her – she clung with both hands to the masked man's arm and thought sprang to her mind that she might as well have clutched an iron bar.

  'No, do not kill him! He's lying – he does not know what he is saying. He serves not Surcouf but me! He would not say so for fear of revealing who I am but I cannot see him die because of me.'

  'You?' the stranger said with a lift of his eyebrows. 'Who then are you?'

  'An aristocrat, like yourself – for you are noble, are you not? Your voice and your speech declare it—'

  To save her life she could not have said what made her say it. But whether divinely or diabolically inspired, her words had certainly succeeded in gaining the stranger's attention and something told her she had not been mistaken. A spark of curiosity showed in the man's eyes.

  'It may be so. Know, however that men call me simply Morvan. But you have still not told me who you are.'

  'My name is Marianne d'Asselnat. My father and mother went to the guillotine for trying to save the queen.' Suddenly she remembered Madame Royal's curious gift and added urgently: 'Tell your men to give you what they took from me. You will find there, as well as a little English money and my mother's pearls, a blue enamel locket containing a lock of white hair.
It was given to me by the duchesse d'Angoulême and the hair belong to the martyred queen!'

  Marianne was amazed, as she heard herself speaking, that it all came so naturally. She had slipped effortlessly into the voice and accent of a fanatical royalist even though, in the inn at Plymouth, she had turned her back upon the émigrés who, in the person of the duc d'Avaray, had rejected her. But it seemed quite fair to use them in order to save the life of one who served Napoleon – and of course the unknown but undoubtedly celebrated Surcouf!

  It seemed that she had almost won her point. Morvan beckoned imperiously to the two men who had been standing a little way off holding Jean and waiting passively for the order to kill him. A few brief words in the strange rough speech which must be the Breton dialect and Vinoc, scowling to himself, handed over to his chief the jewels stolen from Marianne. Morvan took the pearls and put them in his pocket without a word, then he strolled over to one of the fires, holding the locket in his hand. The glow of the flame fell on his grim face with its black mask behind which the eyes burned like hot coals. Marianne threw a quick, anxious glance at Jean. She was afraid he might have heard the rather unorthodox way in which she had defended him. But he had heard nothing. He was leaning back against a rock with his eyes closed in an attitude of utter weariness, still flanked by his guards, simply waiting for his fate to be decided.

  Now Morvan was coming back. This time, as he approached Marianne he uncovered and bowed with unexpected grace, his black hat sweeping the sand.

  'I crave your forgiveness, Mademoiselle d'Asselnat, for this discourteous welcome. Believe me, I could not know that you were in this wreck. If you will take my arm, I shall be honoured to conduct you to my house where you may rest yourself – and we shall have some speech together.'

  Delighted to have won even a moment's respite, Marianne did not stop to ask herself what he meant to talk about.