'They had to make sure of you. You might have given them the slip.'
'I'm sorry to have to tell you, sister, but you're talking nonsense. I had just taken a room at the inn after a long and tiring journey. Can you tell me why I should have run away again, or where?'
The few square inches of face framed in the black and white headdress seemed to become still more withdrawn.
'I am not here to argue with you about the method of your arrest, my girl. You are in prison. And I am under orders to guard you. Be quiet and try to sleep!'
'Sleep? Could anyone sleep with such a sense of injustice!' Marianne cried in ringing, melodramatic tones. 'I shall not sleep until my cries are heard! Go and fetch the Minister. He must listen to me!'
'He can listen to you just as well tomorrow. Be quiet, now. If you persist in this disturbance I shall have you transferred to a punishment cell where you will be no better off—'
The words carried conviction and since she was by no means anxious to find herself thrown into an even gloomier dungeon, Marianne thought it wisest to lower her voice. But she did not admit defeat.
'Very well! I will be quiet. But mind this, sister. I have something important to communicate to the Minister, something very important indeed – and he may not be best pleased if you prevent me reaching him in time. However, if the Minister's displeasure means nothing to you—'
That it did mean a good deal, Marianne could see from the sudden alarm reflected on the nun's face which, she could have sworn changed colour. The Citizen Fouché, so recently elevated to a dukedom, could not be an easy man.
'Very well,' the sister said quietly. 'I will inform our Mother Superior and she will take the necessary steps tomorrow morning. But, for God's sake, make no more noise!'
She looked round anxiously. In fact, the inmates of the neighbouring cells were awake and the murmur of grumbling voices could be heard on all sides. The silence was peopled and the desert lived, to all appearances much to the wardress's annoyance.
'There!' she said crossly. 'You have woken the whole floor. It will take me a good quarter of an hour to get them quiet again. You deserve punishment.'
'Don't upset yourself,' Marianne said kindly. 'I'll be quiet. But you be sure to keep your promise!'
'I have promised nothing. But I do promise. Now, be quiet.'
The face vanished and the hatch snapped shut. The prisoner heard the nun's voice, loud and firm now, moving along the corridor telling each one to be quiet.
Satisfied with her progress, Marianne returned to her mattress, her ears alert for the various noises around her. Who were they, these women whose sleep she had disturbed, whose dreams she had unwittingly entered? Were they real malefactors, thieves and prostitutes or, like herself, innocent victims of the terrible police machine? She felt an instinctive sympathy for these faceless, complaining voices, simply because they were women. How many of them had suffered, like herself, at the hands of one or more men. In all the books she had read, excepting possibly the frightful story of Lady Macbeth, every wretched woman who came to a bad end was always driven to it by a man.
And so, pondering on these other women, invisible yet ever-present, with whom fate had thrown her, Marianne fell asleep at last without realizing it. When she woke, it was broad daylight, as broad, that is, as daylight could be in a cell in St Lazare, and the sister wardress was standing beside her with a bundle under her arm. Dumped on the bed, this bundle proved to contain a plain grey woollen dress, a cap and fichu of unbleached linen, a coarse shift, thick, black woollen stockings and a pair of clogs.
'Take off your clothes,' the sister commanded sternly, 'and put these on.'
It was a different nun from the night before and suddenly Marianne lost her temper.
'Put on these hideous things? Certainly not! To begin with, I am not staying here. I am to see the Minister of Police this morning and—'
The newcomer's face was expressionless as her voice. It was so large and pale as to be almost indistinguishable from her veil, so that the total effect was something like a full moon, utterly devoid of character. Apparently, however, its owner knew how to obey orders. In exactly the same tone, she repeated: 'Get undressed and put these on.'
'Never!'
The nun showed no sign of anger. Going out into the passage, she took a clapper from her pocket and banged three times. Not more than a few seconds later, two strapping creatures whose uniforms told Marianne they must be two of her fellow prisoners, burst into the cell. In fact, they were so large and strong that but for their petticoats and a certain spareseness of moustache, they might easily have been mistaken for a pair of grenadiers. Moreover, the identical vivid scarlet and high polish of their cheeks showed that the prison diet was by no means as debilitating as might have been imagined and that, for these two at any rate, it certainly included a fair ration of wine.
In no time at all, Marianne, speechless with horror, was stripped of her own clothes and dressed in the prison uniform, receiving a resounding slap on the buttocks from one of her impromptu tire-women in the process – a pleasantry which called down a severe rebuke on the head of its author.
'It was so tempting,' was the woman's excuse. 'Pity to lock up such a jolly little piece!'
Marianne's indignation was such that it almost robbed her of her voice but disdaining the two slatterns as unworthy of her notice, she turned her attention to the wardress.
'I wish to see the Mother Superior,' she announced. 'It is very urgent.'
'Our Mother Superior has let it be understood that she will see you today. Until then, you will wait quietly. For the present, go with the others to the chapel—'
Marianne had no choice but to leave the cell, stumbling in the clogs that were too big for her, and join the shuffling file of the other prisoners. About a score of women were moving in single file down the high, narrow corridor amid a great deal of coughing, sniffing and muttering and a strong smell of unwashed bodies. The general impression was of a herd rather than a file. The faces of all wore the same expression of dumb apathy. All their feet dragged on the uneven flagstones, all their shoulders were bowed. Only by their height and the hair, blonde, black, brown or grey escaping from the coarse linen caps, could the female prisoners of St Lazare be told apart.
Swallowing her impatience and resentment, Marianne took her place in the line but it was not long before she realized that the woman behind her was amusing herself by systematically treading on her heels. The first time it happened, she only turned round, thinking it was an accident. Coming after her was a dumpy little blonde person, her eyes hidden by pale, drooping lids that made her look half asleep. Her clothes were clean but the vacant grin on her slack lips made Marianne suddenly long to slap her face. The next time the rough wooden shoe scraped her ankle, she muttered under her breath: 'Watch what you're doing, you're hurting me—'
No answer. The other girl kept her eyes lowered, the same stupid smile on her pasty face. Then, for the third time, the sabot ground into Marianne's heel, so hard that she could not help giving out a sharp cry of pain.
Patience was not one of Marianne's chief virtues and the last few hours had used up what little she had left. She swung round instantly and dealt the offender a ringing blow on her plump cheek. This time, she found herself gazing into a pair of almost colourless eyes that reminded her oddly of an adder which her favourite horse, Sea Bird, had crushed beneath his hoof one day out hunting. The other girl said nothing, she simply bared her yellow teeth and hurled herself straight at her enemy's stomach. Immediately, all those round the two women stopped to watch, instinctively forming a circle to leave room for the two who were fighting. There were shouts of encouragement, all addressed to Marianne's opponent.
'Go it, la Tricoteuse! Hit her!'
'Thump her hard! Stuck-up little madam! An aristo!'
'Smash her! Hear the bloody racket she kicked up last night? Asking for the Minister of Police!'
'She's an informer! Do her good to cool her o
ff!'
Marianne avoided the blow aimed at her stomach but she was appalled at this unexpected overflow of hatred. La Tricoteuse, apparently meaning to do her best to satisfy her supporters, drew off for a fresh attack. Her jaw worked spasmodically, betraying only a mindless lust to kill. The colourless eyes gleamed dangerously and all at once, Marianne saw a short, sharp knife glinting in the woman's hand. The head of the column of women had already reached the staircase and Marianne knew that she was lost. The way to the end of the corridor was blocked by several prisoners, among them, she saw with horror, the two dragoons who had dressed her. All of them seemed united against the newcomer in their midst and determined to give her short shrift. If she escaped la Tricoteuse's knife, she would not escape the clogs of the others. Already, she could see two or three of those closest to her had taken off their wooden shoes and were brandishing them threateningly, ready to batter her to death if she refused to succumb meekly to the knife. One shoe, she noticed, had been filed to a murderously sharp point.
Marianne cast an anguished glance at the staircase but the nun leading the column must by now have been at the bottom. It was all happening with such dreadful speed. In another instant, she would be dead, pointlessly murdered by a gang of semi-lunatics. All these women were strangers to her and yet they seemed to be looking forward to her death as though to a special treat. As la Tricoteuse bore down on her, the knife held high, Marianne gave one terrified scream.
'Help!'
Her cry pierced through the blanket of muffled, whispering voices which surrounded her like a sickening wall of hatred. The knife passed within a hair's-breadth of her head. But her efforts to avoid it brought her close to one of the other prisoners and the raised sabot all but caught her full on the forehead. As it was, she received only a glancing blow on the head and owed it to her cap and the thickness of her hair that she was not stunned. Still there seemed no escape. La Tricoteuse was coming for her again with an idiot giggle that terrified Marianne, while all around her were grinning faces twisted into grotesque masks of bestial cruelty. How could human beings sink so low?
But her cry for help had been heard. Before la Tricoteuse could attack for the third time, the sister-wardress returned, flanked by another bearing a massive cudgel. The circle of viragos was broken up and, thrusting her way through, the nun seized la Tricoteuse by the arm and twisted the knife out of her grasp. Meanwhile, her companion, dealing out some well-timed blows ill-suited to the sanctity of her calling but very much to the credit of her muscles, was getting the other women back into line. Marianne, who had flung herself to the ground for safety, found herself yanked to her feet more quickly than she could have wished. Then, almost immediately, the accusations broke out.
'La Tricoteuse was only defending herself, sister! This little sneak half throttled her!'
'It's not true,' Marianne protested. 'I only slapped her because she kept treading on my heels.'
'Ho, indeed! Dirty liar! You tried to finish us.'
'Then what about the knife?' Marianne cried furiously. 'I suppose that was mine, too!'
'Sure it was!' screeched a tall, thin girl whose unnaturally red cheeks proclaimed consumption. 'It was all she could do to get it away from you!'
These bare-faced falsehoods inflamed Marianne to such a pitch that she forgot even the most elementary rules of caution. These women were like dangerous animals and instinctively she reacted to them as such. She was about to turn and rend the worst of them, while la Tricoteuse snivelled realistically and whined that the aristo had tried to kill her, but before she could move she felt herself firmly grasped round the waist and forced to stay where she was.
'That's enough!' the sister's voice said sternly. 'To chapel, everyone! And try and ask God to forgive you. As for you, the new one, Mother Superior will deal with you after mass! We have punishment cells for troublemakers.'
Satisfied with the thought that 'the new one' could pay for all, the prisoners went quietly to their places while Marianne, to her intense fury and indignation, found herself marched after them, held firmly in the sister-wardress's strong grip. She was not released until they reached the big, cold grey chapel where she was safely shut up in one of the small box-like stalls filling the nave, each of which contained room for only one person and commanded a view of nothing but the altar. Each prisoner was locked into one of these contraptions with no communication with any other, thus avoiding the possibility of any disturbance and allowing the nuns to gather peaceably in their appointed places in the choir.
Marianne heard nothing of the mass. She was burning with rebellious indignation, having concluded from the wardress's attitude that she, and she alone, was to be held responsible for what had happened. She forgot even the hideous fear she had endured and was far too angry to have any thought of humbling herself, even to the Almighty, and too certain of the justice of her own cause to ask for help. Ever since that dreadful wedding night, Marianne's ideas of justice, human and divine, had been very well defined. In a world where wrong invariably triumphed, it was necessary to fight tooth and claw in order to survive. Christian resignation had never been her strong point but from now on, she meant to have nothing more to do with it.
'Oh Lord,' was her only prayer, 'don't help those who want to hurt me when I have done no harm to them! If you are really the God of justice, now is the time to show it. Or if not, in a few minutes they will drag me down into some horrid, black dungeon and you alone know when I shall get out.'
Strong in this injunction to the Almighty and determined to defend herself to her last ounce of strength, Marianne admitted to being hustled out of her box, the last of all the prisoners, and, with a sister-wardress on either side of her, led off to see the Mother Superior. Outside a lofty door with peeling chocolate coloured paint, they came to a halt and one of the wardresses knocked.
'Come in,' said a sharp voice which to Marianne boded no good. The door was opened. One of the sisters gave Marianne a gentle push and closed it again behind her. She was then able to discover that although, as the number of holy pictures and objects scattered about the room indicated, she was certainly in the Superior's office, it was no nun she had to deal with. The owner of the sharp voice was a man of medium height and slim build who stood by the window with his hands clasped behind his back.
'Come in,' he said' again as Marianne paused at the edge of the big, worn carpet that covered the floor, 'and sit down.'
'I was told I was to see the Mother Superior,' she said with as much confidence as she could muster.
'I am not she, as you have no doubt realized. I trust however, you will have no complaint to make about the change since you appear to have been demanding me all night.'
A wave of gladness brought a sudden flush to the girl's cheeks.
'Oh! You are—'
'The Minister of Police, precisely. And now, since I am here to listen to you, suppose you tell me what you have to say.'
To Marianne, her spirits already lowered by previous events, this, spoken in a harsh, dry voice, seemed an unpromising beginning. There was something about this man in the green coat with a red ribbon which made a complexion the colour of old ivory look paler still, something unbending and self-contained which impressed her. His hatchet face with the thin lips and heavy, drooping eyelids, was a curious mixture of alertness and imperturbability. The chin that rested on the abundant folds of a silk neckcloth was resolute but the expression in the eyes beneath the fringe of grey, almost white hair clustered in short curls about his brow, was quite unreadable. The length of his body and narrowness of his shoulders, which not even admirable tailoring could disguise, gave to his appearance a curious fluidity which was not without its own indefinable charm. And Marianne, whose idea of a policeman was of some kind of half-educated lout, an idea based largely on the novels of Tobias Smollett, decided inwardly that here was a person worthy of the name, one who might well be dangerous but who as an erstwhile revolutionary carried his ducal title with a certain air.
'Well?' he enquired sardonically. 'What have you to say for yourself? You would have had the good sisters chasing through the streets in the middle of the night to find me and now that I am here you can't open your mouth. Must I help you?'
Marianne looked a little fearfully up into his face.
'I should be very glad, if you would not dislike it too much,' she said sincerely. 'I don't know where to begin—'
This innocent avowal extracted a smile from the Minister. He drew up a chair facing the prisoner and sat down.
'Very well. I am willing to admit that to one of your age police interrogations may be something of a novelty. What is your name?'
'Marianne, Anne, Elizabeth d'Asselnat de Villefranche—'
'So, you are an émigrée. That is serious.'
'I was only a few months old when I was taken to England, after my parents went to the guillotine, to my aunt, who was the only close relative left to me. Does that really make me an émigrée?'
'The least one can say is that you did not become one of your own free will. Go on. Tell me your whole story.'
This time, Marianne did not hesitate at all. Nicolas had advised her to be completely frank with the Duke of Otranto. He himself had given the gist of the situation in his letter but since this letter had been left at the Compas d'Or and might well be lost altogether, it was better to make a complete confession. This she did.
When she finished, she was surprised to see her interrogator put his hand into his pocket and take out a piece of paper which she recognized at once. It was Black Fish's letter. Smiling faintly, Fouché dangled it in his long, slender fingers.
'But—' Marianne almost choked. 'That is my letter! Why did you make me tell it all when you knew already?'
'To see if you would tell the truth. Having read this, young lady, I am entirely satisfied with the examination.'
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