The Prisoner in the Mask

by Dennis Wheatley

  Angela had believed that marriage consisted of a loyal partnership in which husband and wife placed one another’s interests before anyone else’s in either sickness or health, and that as affection grew between the partners, kisses were exchanged with the same spontaneous enthusiasm as was customary between well-loved members of one’s own family. When she arrived on the night of her wedding at a small château that had been lent to them for the honeymoon she had not the faintest conception of what was about to happen to her.

  How she had managed to survive that first fortnight she could not now imagine. Night after night Syveton had forced her to submit to what she could think of only as the most abominable and humiliating degradation. She had at first believed him mad, then disgust had led her to making a fierce resistance; but that had seemed to excite him all the more. His awkward attempts to soothe and persuade her had been succeeded by an animal glare in his pale blue eyes and time and again, with his great strength, he easily overcame her.

  On her return to Paris, shyly and in hesitant phrases she had questioned her mother; only to be told quite casually, ‘Men are like that, my dear; but it is nothing to make a fuss about, and it is your duty as a wife to submit. Some women, I am told, even come in time to derive pleasure from it.’ Her mother had then gone on to enlighten her about babies not really being brought by doctors in little black bags, but arriving in the same way as kittens.

  This information had in no way decreased the loathing with which Angela had come to regard her husband and, as she was a perfectly healthy young woman, it was her mental attitude which continued to make her frigid during his embraces. Resentful but unable to alter matters he had, after a couple of months, installed a pretty little thing who worked in a flower shop as the successor of numerous other girls under twenty, in an apartment which he had long rented for that purpose. But from time to time, goaded by the belief that he might yet bring his beautiful young wife to warm and pulsing life, he sat up drinking till a late hour, then made brutal attempts to do so.

  Never knowing when one of these assaults might occur, Angela often lay awake for hours sick with apprehension, but now, for once, as she gazed up into the deep shadows of the four-poster’s canopy she was not thinking of Gabriel Syveton.

  Instead Armand de Quesnoy filled her thoughts and, as the house-party was breaking up next day, tears welled into her brown eyes at the realisation that she might never see him again after she left Jvanets the following morning. From the day of her arrival he had constituted himself her cavalier, and they had spent many happy hours together: the only happy hours she had known since her wedding.

  Convention permitted far more liberty to young wives than to unmarried girls; in fact it was fully accepted as a part of social life that the former should openly carry on flirtations and, although Angela had not yet realised it, in loveless unions like her own it was not at all unusual for girls of her class to begin taking lovers within a few months of their marriage. Most husbands had their mistresses, and by tacit understanding turned a blind eye to their wives’ affaires; but even those who were possessive would have been thought churlish had they shown resentment at their wives receiving the most gallant attentions from other men who were socially their equals.

  In consequence no member of the house-party had thought it in the least reprehensible that Armand should seek Angela out at every opportunity and frequently take her off on his own. Had the Count been an older man, Syveton, still being a prey to his unrequited physical passion, might have privately forbidden her to receive Armand’s attentions except in public, but regarding it only as a boy and girl affair, he had done no more than embarrass her a few times by chaffing her about her conquest.

  As far as Angela was concerned, he was quite right. She had been too young to do more than dream of knights-errant before leaving her home in Gloucestershire, too carefully chaperoned while living in Paris with her parents to get further than having a preference for some dancing partners over others, and, since her marriage, much too miserable to take notice of the attentions paid her by various men who came to lunch or dine at her house; so this was the first time that she had fallen in love, and her emotions were similar to those of a schoolgirl who has become hopelessly enamoured of a married man.

  The way Armand carried his handsome head, the sight of him on a mettlesome horse, the sound of his voice when he lowered it a little to pay her some compliment, all made her pulses quicken alarmingly; and each time, morning and night, that he formally kissed her hand she felt a tremor run through the very depths of her being. Yet, with every ounce of will-power that she could muster she strove to conceal her feelings because, to her, the fact that she hated her husband did not make them any the less guilty ones, and she knew only too well that no happiness could come to either herself or Armand should she encourage him.

  Nevertheless her will had not proved strong enough to resist the temptation of enjoying his company. With nonchalance he always swept aside such flimsy excuses as ‘letters to write’ and insisted on taking her for a sleigh drive into Jvanets, visits to the hot-houses or down to the frozen river. A wide space there was kept swept clear of snow so that the house party could skate, and the ladies be pushed round in small sleighs upon it. One sleigh was fashioned like a swan, and nearly every afternoon Angela, wrapped in warm furs, had nestled in it, her heart beating furiously as Armand thrust it before him across the ice as swiftly as a galloping horse, slowing down only to bend forward and whisper sweet nonsense in her ear.

  That he returned her unspoken love she had no doubt at all, and each night she had become more bitterly conscious of her own tragedy. De Quesnoy was a great ‘parti’—far greater than a man like Syveton could ever be; so had she only met the Count seven months ago her parents would have been overjoyed when he had asked for her hand, as she was confident he would have done. Since he was still so young they might have been made to wait a few years, but what greater bliss could there be than that of being engaged to him?

  Then marriage. He would want an heir, of course, to succeed to his ancient titles, and she, too, would like children—if they were his; so she would have put as cheerful a face as possible on those humiliating preliminaries. Perhaps with a man whom one loved it would not prove humiliating at all. In any case it was unthinkable that Armand would ever regard her as did Syveton—to be taken in the dark like an animal for his brutal selfish pleasure. Armand was so gentle and so unspoiled. Although he looked a man he was, in years, still hardly more than a boy. He was, of course, more worldly-wise than herself, but, she supposed, as physically innocent as she had been six months ago. For the first few months of marriage he would have asked no more than she could give willingly—to sit for hours embraced cheek pressed to cheek, with now and then a sweet lingering kiss.

  But such bliss was not for her. He had come into her life half a year too late. She had not even the hope that this brief idyll might be repeated. Perhaps, though, that was just as well. She recalled her concession that he might call her by her Christian name when they were alone together, the tremulous half-avowals that she had made him, and the promise he had wrung from her that on her return to Paris she would send him a photograph of herself; and how he had vowed that he would have it framed in a jewelled shrine with doors of beaten gold that locked, so that only he could gaze upon it.

  Should they be thrown together for any length of time, there would be the awful risk that she might be carried away, admit that she loved him, and let him kiss her. That she did not love her husband would be no excuse for being disloyal to him. Even though she had not fully understood what she was doing when she took her marriage vows she must keep them. They had been made before God, so were between Him and her, and to dishonour them would be to rob herself of the last thing she could call her own. It was better by far that this sweet and lovely interlude should be over now and, unmarred by any sense of guilt, could long be held as her most treasured memory.

  Suddenly her thoughts of Armand were cut
off as sharply as if a shutter had been pulled down between her and a lighted window. She had caught the sound of a door opening at the far end of the room. The yard-wide draught curtains at the head of the bed hid the door from her view; but she knew that it could only be her husband coming to bed, and she had not expected him for a long time yet.

  It was some while now since he had made any demands of her, so each night it became more likely that he would again do so. Her throat went dry with apprehension and the nausea she always felt at his approach rose in her. Swiftly she closed her eyes, feigned sleep, and prayed silently that he would refrain from rousing her, as had proved the case for the past week.

  His footsteps sounded softer than usual, and as he passed round the end of the bed she missed the light from his candle, seen on other nights as a red glow through her closed eyelids. She guessed that the flame had been blown out by the sudden draught as he opened the door, for the room was kept almost too warm by a big porcelain stove, whereas the passage was always chilly. He would relight it from the night-light, then go into his dressing-room, which would at least mean another ten minutes’ respite.

  He did not do as she expected. She had not had time to turn over and pull the bed-clothes up over her chin before the rustle of the sheets would have told him that she was awake; so she was still lying on her back, and she knew instinctively that he was now standing beside the bed staring down into her face.

  ‘Angela.’ The word was only breathed and next second a pair of lips were pressed firmly on her own.

  For a moment she lay absolutely still, doubting the evidence of her senses. That whisper had been in Armand’s voice and the kiss was unlike any her husband had ever given her. Yet Armand would never have come to her in her bedroom at night, he would not dare. But … but he might! Those grey eyes of his that sent tremors through her had told her a dozen times that, young as he was, he was the type of man who would dare anything.

  Another heart-beat and her last doubts were dissipated. Thrusting one hand under her back and sliding the other beneath her head he lifted her a little into his embrace. His voice came again. ‘Angela, my sweet! Oh Angela, how I have longed for this moment.’ Then once more his lips closed on hers.

  Wrenching her mouth away she gasped: ‘Armand! Oh, Armand; you must have gone mad to behave like this.’

  ‘I am no madder, darling, than Romeo was for Juliet.’

  Angela’s mind was reeling. At those whispered words she could have swooned with joy; yet, somehow, she found the resolution to cry: ‘Let me go! Let me go!’ and to attempt to thrust him from her.

  ‘Softly, beloved, softly,’ he cautioned her in a firmer voice. ‘It might prove awkward if someone heard us talking.’ But he relaxed his hold and sat back from her, perched on the side of the bed.

  ‘Awkward!’ she repeated breathlessly. ‘It would be terrible. If my husband found you here he would kill you.’

  De Quesnoy shook his head. ‘Don’t worry your sweet self on that score. He could do no more than challenge me, and I am a better shot than he is. I proved that on Thursday in the shooting gallery. My only regret would be that duelling weapons have now degenerated into little more than toys; so I could hardly hope to kill him for you.’

  ‘Armand!’ she gasped. ‘How can you say such a wicked thing?’

  ‘I see nothing wicked about it. You hate and fear him, don’t you? I know that to be so from the way I’ve caught you looking at him.’

  ‘No, no! That is not true. And he is my husband.’

  ‘You mean, poor little one, that you are his slave, bought by him in the marriage market. In my eyes he is no better than a Barbary pirate who has captured a beautiful Princess, and dragged her into his sleeping quarters against her will. I only wish that we lived in an earlier century; so that I might come to your rescue and rid you of him.’

  ‘You must not speak to me like that. And you must go—go at once. Only think how utterly shamed I should be if anyone learned that you had come to my bedroom.’

  ‘They will not, Madonna. The servants have all gone to bed. Igor is now making love to his young wife, and the older men are still talking French politics downstairs. They will be arguing such trivialities for at least another hour, just as they have done on previous nights.’

  ‘All the same, you must go.’ Angela’s breath was still coming fast. ‘You … you have no right here.’

  ‘To the devil with rights!’ He gave a low laugh. ‘All that matters is that I love you. I hinted to you more than once in the past few days that before you left Jvanets I’d find a chance to show my real feelings for you; and how else could I do so but by coming to you like this?’

  ‘But it is wrong, Armand, and wicked. I am another man’s wife. Whether I love him or not makes no difference. I belong to him; and you have come here like a thief in the night. You have acted like a thief already, before I had a chance to prevent you.’

  ‘What, by kissing you? Oh come; then in that case every man who’s not a fool is a thief; for it is said with good reason that stolen kisses are the sweetest.’

  ‘Armand, you must go. I cannot let you stay here.’

  ‘Nonsense, my sweet. We have ample time, and soon we will use it to some purpose.’

  ‘I do not understand you.’

  She was sitting bolt upright. When she had jerked her head aside after he had kissed her one of her dark gold curls had fallen across her cheek. As she lifted her hand to sweep it back the thought flashed into her mind what a mercy it was that, as she was leaving Jvanets in the morning, she had told her maid that for tonight she would not bother to have her hair done up in curlers. It would have been hateful to leave Armand with a memory of her looking like a scarecrow. All the same she must get rid of him, and quickly.

  With an amused twinkle in his grey eyes, he remarked: ‘What extraordinary creatures you women are. You come down to dinner with bare arms and back and with a good part of your bosoms exposed to every man’s glance; yet you go to bed in a thing like a tent.’

  It was true enough that apart from Angela’s face and hands not an inch of her showed. A pink ribbon drew the neck of her thick nightdress into tight pleats below her chin, and its voluminous sleeves were also drawn tight by ribbons round her wrists. Giving him a surprised look, she asked:

  ‘What else would you expect me to wear?’

  He smiled. ‘If you were mine I would have you sleep in gossamer silks edged with the finest lace.’

  ‘But … but it is only cocottes who expose themselves in such a shameless fashion. And this is no time to talk of such things. You must go, Armand. Leave me I beg.’

  Ignoring her plea he replied: ‘Your ideas about night attire are out of date, my sweet—at least for young and pretty women. And where can a lovely girl display her charms for her lover’s pleasure more suitably than in her bedroom? Anyway, I have known two of excellent standing who did so.’

  ‘Armand! Do you really mean that you have already had two … two mistresses?’

  ‘Why should that surprise you? I am not a child.’

  ‘No; but in England many young men of your age have not yet left their Public Schools; and for one to enter on an affaire of that kind would be considered terrible.’

  ‘Then I am sorry for the English.’ De Quesnoy gave a low laugh. ‘Here in Russia, from the age of sixteen, it is customary for the son of the house to explore the possibilities of all his mother’s prettiest maids. But it was my good fortune that my father did not approve of my having to do with peasants. He brought from Vienna a charming young widow whom he had engaged ostensibly to teach me dancing, but in fact to educate me in the arts of love. Before she left last summer she paid me the compliment of telling me that she could not have hoped for a better pupil; so, you see, you need have no fears that I shall prove inept at playing Adonis to so lovely a Venus as yourself.’

  Angela blushed to the roots of her golden-brown hair. Could she really have understood aright? Was he suggesting …? No, surely no
t. Her brown eyes round and her mouth a little open, she stared at him as he sat smiling nonchalantly on the edge of her bed. She noticed now a thing that the dim glow from the night-light had not previously revealed to her. He was no longer wearing his evening clothes, but a robe of crimson silk tied with a broad sash at the waist. His neck was bare and as he moved slightly she caught a glimpse of his chest. Was it possible that under his robe he had nothing on? That he had deliberately undressed before coming to her room? If so, his intentions—.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she gulped. ‘And I … I don’t wish to. You are to go! To go at once. I order you to!’

  Instead of obeying he leaned towards her, took one of her hands, and said in that low voice of his which she felt could have charmed a bird off a tree: ‘Dearest Angela. Why pretend not to understand when my heart is an open book to you. Had we all night to talk in it would still not be long enough for me to tell you how much this past fortnight has meant to me. You have brought a poetry and sweetness into my life that it lacked before. I have come to adore the very ground you walk on, and you—you love me in return. I am certain of it.’

  ‘No, no!’ she broke in hurriedly. ‘You assume too much. I have never said so.’

  He bent his face nearer to hers. ‘Not in so many words, perhaps; but I have seen it in your eyes a dozen times. Angela, we love one another. That is the truth. You cannot escape it. Why be so cruel to us both as to try? To give is more blessed than to receive. Give me the joy of hearing you whisper “Armand, I love you”.’

  ‘If … if I do, will you promise to go at once?’

  ‘I will go the moment you have given me your love.’

  ‘Very well, then.’ Her words suddenly came with a rush. ‘Armand, I love you. I know it’s wicked of me but I can’t help my feelings. You are the only man I’ve ever loved or ever shall love.’

  ‘Oh, Angela, my sweet! How happy you make me!’ Throwing his free arm round her shoulders he drew her to him and kissed her on the mouth.