Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  Except in some of the wilder parts of Brittany, what she found all along the diligence's endless journey was cultivated fields, prosperous villages, neat, attractive towns, well-run estates and even a number of handsome private chateaux. She had seen decently clad people, peasant women wearing gold crosses and lace caps, plump cattle and even children playing. Only the roads were in a shocking state but hardly worse than those in England and, just as on the other side of the Channel, there were a fair number of highwaymen to be met with in lonely spots, although the Brest Mail had not met any.

  As for Paris, the little she had seen of it through the darkness and the driving rain had made her long to know more. They had entered the city after passing through some bare, leafless woods, by what the notary had told her was the barrière de l'Etoile, a massive gateway flanked by some very fine buildings with pediments and classical columns. The foundations of some other vast construction were beginning to rise from the ground close by.

  'That is to be a monument to the glory of the Grande Armée,' the lawyer had obligingly informed her, 'a gigantic triumphal arch!'

  Beyond, a wide, tree-lined avenue with smart carriages moving up and down it ran down towards splendid buildings and gardens and a sea of shining roofs and spires. But instead of proceeding down this thoroughfare, the diligence turned off to the left alongside a high wall.

  'The wall of the Fermiers Généraux,' the notary hastened to point out. 'The Paris wall that made Paris wail, as they used to say when it was built, you know. Not so very long ago, but to some of us it feels like a century. This is your first visit to Paris, is it not?'

  'Yes. I have lived always in the country,' Marianne had answered. The notary had been practically the only one of all the passengers on the diligence whom she could understand since his familiarity with legal documents had given him a somewhat slow and solemn turn of speech. The others spoke much too quickly for her and employed a number of strange expressions which, used as she was to the polished and aristocratic French spoken by those she knew in England, found hard to follow. She had therefore taken Black Fish's parting advice and done her best to look as shy and timid as possible.

  In the course of her journey, Marianne had looked back with a good deal of affection to the strange companion of her recent adventures. She had found that, beneath his forbidding exterior, Black Fish was kind and brave and the few days she had spent in his little house in the district of Brest known as the Recoubrance, by the banks of the Penfield, had been a time of rest and peace.

  It was a very small house built of brine-washed granite with a high, pointed gate and a neat, fenced-in garden. But the stout Bretonne housekeeper kept it as clean as a new pin. From the hearth stoned floor to the copper pans in the kitchen and the lovely old furniture worn soft and smooth with age, everything gleamed and shone. Even Black Fish himself, become once more for a time Nicolas Mallerousse, a retired naval man, took on a completely different air from that he had worn in the tavern at Plymouth. Gone was the piratical appearance and if a certain tang of adventure hung about him still, at least at Recoubrance he acquired a suggestion of honest respectability.

  'My house is not large,' he had said, opening the polished oak door for his guest, 'but you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish. I have told you, I have lost my daughter. You can take her place, if you will.'

  For a moment, Marianne was speechless. His generosity, springing as it did from genuine affection, went straight to her heart and she had not known what to say but Black Fish had continued:

  'I know that when you took ship with me, all you wanted was to put as much space between yourself and England as possible. You've done that. No one will come to look for you at Recoubrance if you should care to stay.'

  Marianne knew that she must pluck up her courage and tell him the whole truth. She need not fear his condemnation. That night, over a splendid lobster and a mountain of pancakes and cream provided by the excellent Madame le Guilvinec, she told him of the events at Selton Hall which had led to her flight. She told him, too, how by the merest chance she had learned at Plymouth that she still had some relations living in France.

  'It was to my cousin d'Asselnat that I had hoped to go,' she finished up at last 'As my father's first cousin, she is a fairly close relation, while the Empress—'

  'I daresay her majesty will welcome you with open arms,' Black Fish said with a hint of new respect. 'She is all that is good and gracious and has strong family feelings. It is to be feared though, that she will not be Empress much longer.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'That the Emperor has no children, his wife can never give him any and he needs to guarantee his succession. There has been much talk of divorce. Then, Napoleon will marry some foreign princess.'

  Marianne had been profoundly shocked at this news although as yet she only half believed it. That the Corsican should wish to part from his wife because she gave him no children did not surprise her. Such behaviour was no more than what was to be expected from a man of his stamp. He was surely without either heart or principles. But as for his marrying a real princess, that would undoubtedly be a very different matter. The usurper must be swollen with pride indeed to think it possible. No princess worthy of the name would deign to sit on such a throne! More over, Black Fish-Nicolas seemed to view these events with some displeasure. Marianne thought she caught a hint of disapproval in his voice and, faithful to her old principle of plain speaking, taxed him with it.

  'It seems you do not approve of this divorce, Monsieur Mallerousse?'

  'You can call me Nicolas! No, I do not approve. Josephine has meant good fortune to the Emperor, his lucky star, if you like. I am afraid if he sends her packing, his luck may change.'

  Marianne forbore to observe that to her way of thinking, the Emperor's luck could not change soon enough, but Nicolas had already reverted to her own future.

  'If this is so, child, you've nothing to gain by staying at Recoubrance; even after a divorce, Josephine would still be powerful and her protection is not to be ignored. Napoleon has greatly wronged her but I believe truly loved her. The best thing you can do is go to Paris. You won't have any trouble finding your cousin. I'll give you a letter of introduction to the Minister of Police, Citizen Fouché – the Duke of Otranto, I should say. I'm not used to his new title yet, but I'll get round to it.'

  'But you, what will you do?'

  Nicolas Mallerousse roared with laughter and, still puffing at his long clay pipe, went over to a chest from which he took some garments similar to those he had worn in the tavern on the Barbican.

  'I? I shall go back to Plymouth and become Black Fish again, the rogue who'd sell his soul for a sovereign—'

  Then, it had been the sailor's turn to make his confession. He admitted that he was an agent of that Fouché of whom he had spoken. His base was at Plymouth where he organized the escape of prisoners from the hulks.

  'I was at Portsmouth first of all, and with my help more than one brave lad escaped from that evil hulk the Crown. But then an informer was getting on my track so I moved to Plymouth. I can work as well there.'

  He did not mention that he also gathered what information he could about English plans and troop movements but Marianne could easily guess.

  'Are you a spy, Nicolas?' she asked in a rather shocked voice.

  Nicolas pulled a face that made him look uglier than ever but then he laughed.

  'It's an ugly word for what are often very brave men. Let us say – a soldier in the shadows, shall we?'

  Marianne had spent several quiet days in the little house at Recoubrance. She had viewed the town in the company of Madame Le Guilvinec and the surrounding countryside with Nicolas, discovered that a French port was very much the same as an English one, that the banks of the Penfeld could be very gentle and the wild sea intimately lovely. She had even seen some convicts with their shaven heads and red woollen garments but, her curiosity once satisfied, had preferred to devote her attention to the shops
in the rue de Siam where her companion, acting on Black Fish's orders, had seen to it that she was generously provided with new clothes.

  On the evening before he was due to return to England, Nicolas had told his temporary charge that a place was reserved for her on the next morning's diligence. He had given her a purse containing some gold pieces and a handful of small change. When Marianne, very red in the face, tried to refuse, he told her:

  'It's a loan, no more. You can return it when you are lady-in-waiting to your cousin the Empress.'

  'Will you come and see me?'

  'Of course I will. I come to Paris now and then to meet Citizen Fouché – the Duke of Otranto I mean.'

  'Very well! I accept – but don't forget your promise.'

  This bargain sealed, Nicolas had handed Marianne a neatly folded letter addressed to His Grace the Duke of Otranto, Minister of Police, at his house in the quai Malaquis telling her to take great care of it since, after reading the letter, the Minister would certainly give her all the help in his power.

  'And his power is very great. The Ci – the Duke that is, is certainly the ablest and most well informed person in the whole world!'

  In addition, and just in case she should lose her letter, he had made her learn, by heart some words which she was to be sure to repeat to the minister.

  Thus equipped, Marianne bade an affectionate farewell to her friend at the stage coach office in Brest. She was dressed in the height of provincial fashion in a driving coat of mulberry coloured cloth with three capes worn over a dress of the same colour with long, puffed sleeves and a high neck trimmed with a narrow frill of white lace, and kid half-boots laced with velvet ribbon. The whole was set off by a bonnet in the same mulberry shade of velvet lined inside the brim with ruched white silk and trimmed with a saucy curled white feather. It was a cold, bright day and she felt her heart beat high, although it was a real grief to part from the kind man who had been so good to her. Acting on a sudden impulse, before she climbed into the heavy vehicle, she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him.

  'Don't worry,' Nicolas muttered in a gruff voice that did not hide his feelings, 'I'll try and find out how your affairs stand, over there. Perhaps they'll call off the search before very long and one day, maybe, you'll be able to go home.'

  But as the Brest Mail rattled on into the heart of the French countryside, Marianne felt her desire to go back to England gradually slipping away from her. Everything she saw was new and interesting. She stared at even the smallest things with wide wondering eyes, serenely unconscious of the surprise and admiration which her own beauty was rousing in her fellow travellers. She was much too busy looking out at this strange land of France which struck a deep and almost unconscious chord in her own heart. It was as though the severed roots were beginning to put out new growth.

  All the same, when she had climbed out of the mail coach on that rainy evening, Marianne felt suddenly very much alone and friendless. In the twelve days she had spent travelling in the great coach, she had grown accustomed to it. Now, this huge, unknown city, the bustle all around her, people greeting the relatives and friends who had come to meet them, the unfamiliar faces everywhere all made her the more conscious of her own isolation. The fatigue of the journey added to this feeling of depression and, to make matters worse, she had stepped straight out of the coach into a puddle of water. Unpleasantly cold, wet feet did nothing to make her feel that life was more worth living.

  There were a number of porters moving about the vast inn yard and some passengers had already obtained one to carry their bags. The helpful notary, seeing Marianne drifting rather aimlessly, clutching her carpet bag, made a sign to one of them and took him over to her.

  'Give your bag to this lad, mademoiselle, and he will carry it to wherever you are going. Where are you bound?'

  'I know no one in Paris but I have been recommended to the inn called the Compas d'Or in the rue Ontorgueil. The landlord is a friend of my – uncle.' She hesitated a little over the last word, uncertain of the best title to confer on Black Fish. He had recommended the inn as one where his friend Bobois would take good care of her until she could obtain an interview with the Minister of Police.

  In the course of their journey, the notary had done his best to discover why so beautiful and reserved a young lady might be travelling alone to Paris but Marianne, with a skill beyond her years, had managed to avoid giving more than vague, generalized answers. She had lost her parents, she said, and was travelling to the city to find the only family she had left. Nicolas had booked her seat in the name of Mademoiselle Mallerousse and had obtained papers for her in that name, leaving it to Fouché to restore her to her real identity as he might see fit. The laws regarding émigrées were severe and it was necessary to find out whether Ellis Selton's niece fell under their prescriptions.

  The worthy lawyer agreed that the Compas d'Or was a sound, respectable place. He himself was bound for the Cheval Vert in the rue Geoffory Lasnier, famous as the inn where Danton had put up on his arrival from Arcis-sur-Aube. He was expected there, otherwise he would have given himself the honour of escorting Mademoiselle Mallerousse to the Compas d'Or but she might have perfect confidence in the porter who was one he had employed himself many times. He was even conscientious enough to suggest to her how much she ought to pay the man, then, raising his beaver hat, he bowed, expressed the hope that they would meet again before long and disappeared into the crowd. Marianne prepared to follow her guide. 'Is it far to the inn?'

  'Ten minutes on foot, mam'zelle! Just down the rue Riquetonne and we'll be there in no time. Just wait while I put up the heavy brolly for you. In this rain, you'll be sopping wet before we're there.'

  Fitting the action to the words, the porter, who was a stocky, red haired lad with a cheerful countenance and a snub nose, opened an enormous umbrella above his client's head and led her out into the street.

  There were few people about, the darkness and the bad weather combining to keep the people of Paris within doors. The big oil lamps slung on wires across the street threw little light and although she was bursting with curiosity, Marianne was obliged to give most of her attention to watching where she put her feet. There were no pavements and the big round cobblestones did not make for easy walking. Without her companion to point out the bad places and show her the planks set like small bridges across the swollen gutters, she would have ricked her ankle time and time again. All the same, some of the shop windows looked enticing and among the passers by were a number of well dressed women, prosperous looking men and lively children.

  The porter gave a warning shout and, just in time, he dragged her back against the wall of a building, to avoid a glittering officer on horseback who galloped blindly past and almost rode them down. Marianne had a brief glimpse of a fine black horse, a green coat with white trimmings, white buckskin breeches in long, gleaming boots, a dazzling brass helmet adorned with leopard skin and a long black plume, above a moustached face, red and gold epaulettes and white gloves, a vision at once dashing and colourful.

  'Who's that?' she asked, shaken but admiring.

  'One of the Empress's dragoons. They're always in a hurry.' Suddenly noticing her dazzled expression he added: 'Handsome fellows, eh? But they're not the best! Anyone can see you're just up from the country, but wait 'till you see a chasseur of the Guard, or a mameluke, or a Polish lancer or a hussar! Not to mention the marshals with all their gold braid and medals! Oh, the little Corporal knows how to dress his men all right!'

  'The little Corporal? Who's that?'

  The boy's astonishment as he looked at Marianne was quite genuine. His eyebrows rose until they reached his hair.

  'But – the Emperor, of course! Where've you come from, not to know that?'

  'A convent!' Marianne retorted crisply, not to lose her dignity. 'You don't meet many dragoons there – or corporals, big or little!'

  'Oh, so that's it!'

  Very soon they turned into the rue Montorgueil and Mariann
e forgot all about the dragoon. The chief interest of the street centred on a large, brilliantly lit restaurant with another, more modest establishment close by. Elegant carriages with gleaming paintwork, drawn by high bred horses with glittering harness, drew up before the doors to disgorge no less exquisite diners, many of them in splendid uniform.

  'That's the Rocher de Cancale,' the porter told her with pride. 'They have the best whale pate in Paris, and the best fish and the best oysters! They come fresh each day by special delivery. For those who can afford it!'

  This time, Marianne made no attempt to hide her admiration. Her ideas about the French were having to undergo a certain amount of revision. Through the lighted windows of the famous restaurant she caught sight of men of stately bearing, shimmering satin, diamonds gleaming on white throats and thought how gorgeous were the uniforms, how rare and precious the fur wraps of the ladies.

  'Of course,' the boy went on with a slight sniff, 'it's not the Chord! Company's a bit mixed, for all it's so showy! You don't find many duchesses there but their menfolk like it – it's a great place for birds of paradise!'

  The smells wafting out of the great restaurant were none the less titillating to Marianne's nostrils. She realized suddenly that she was very hungry.

  'Is it far to the Compas d'Or?'

  'No. This is it!'

  He indicated a handsome renaissance building, now a substantial inn. There was bottled glass in the low, small-paned windows and fine carving on the front. The general air was one of comfort and respectability. A diligence clattered through the wide arch with a great ringing of bells.