by J. D. Jensen
Glancing upwards at the bridge to her right she could see by the wheelhouse lamps that the officers were also gazing out at the billowing smoke and flickering light nearby. She could even see Marc Bouvier’s tall silhouette. So completely absorbed in the fire-boat were the men that she knew instinctively it was the right moment. Taking a deep breath she heaved the full weight of her body and shoulders against the hatch and flung it open.
“Come on, girls. Now! Follow me! Strip off your smocks and dive in naked,” she ordered breathlessly before launching herself through the hatchway and moving away at a stealthy trot towards the portside.
For a moment she paused there at the railing just long enough to peer out across the bay, searching for the boat that she knew must be there. Fleur and now Solange were right behind her, but there were other scuttling footsteps coming up the stairway behind. Some of the other women were clearly going to escape as well! Briefly she found herself worrying for them. Where would they swim for? It must be a long way to the shore. But there was no time for such considerations. She turned and very quickly embraced her two friends, feeling their cold trembling nakedness against hers.
“Good luck! Remember, don’t panic, Fleur. We’ll be waiting for you in the water. Just jump in after us. I can see the boat. It’s not far.”
Then with a dazzling flash of a smile Marie-Chantal de Louvois turned away. Hesitating for scarcely a second, her magnificent figure poised on the very edge of the deck, as gracefully as any diver she launched herself and disappeared silently over the side. There was not even the sound of a splash, the surface almost undisturbed as she slipped beneath the water.
From the bridge, looking furtively out of the corner of his eye down onto the deck, the second-officer smiled secretly. He had seen the silent shadows running to the side. For a brief moment he had seen her standing there in all her statuesque nakedness, her body glistening in the moonlight. He thought that he even saw her flash a smile at him, but in a second she was gone. He did not even see the other two girls jump, but he thought he heard a distant splash. Then he turned his head back to the sinking fire-boat. Labastide was shaking his head.
“Too late, poor devils. Burnt alive.”
It was then that a cry of alarm came from below. Women prisoners were running all over the deck, frantic, some screaming with fear, others jumping over the side. It was pandemonium.
It would be a long night, Bouvier thought. But his soul was quieted, even that those taut illicit images of the Contesse would always remain, her beauty and grace forever haunting his dreams.
“That stupid Latour bitch has let the fuck’n prisoners escape!” Duval screeched at the top of his voice, his eyes like a madman’s.
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