[Marianne 3] - Marianne and the Privateer

by Juliette Benzoni

  She was conscious of a certain satisfaction as she observed that Francis seemed disappointed. No doubt he had expected a movement of recoil, a cry. This cold silence must be disconcerting for him. Deciding to continue the game, she patted her curls idly into place, then picked up one of the many cut-glass bottles cluttering the table and dabbed scent on her neck and shoulders. Only then, did she ask: 'How did you get in? My servants cannot have seen you, or I should have been told.'

  'Why? Servants can be bribed…'

  'Not mine. Not one would risk his place for a few coins. So?'

  'The window, of course.' Francis settled himself back into the armchair with a sigh. 'Your garden walls are not insurmountable, and, as it happens, I have been your neighbour for some three days past.'

  'My neighbour?'

  'You did not know you had an English neighbour?'

  Yes, Marianne had known that. She was, in fact, on quite good terms with Mrs Atkins who had once provided her cousin Adelaide with a refuge when she was being sought by Fouché's police. She was a former actress from Drury Lane whose stage name had been Charlotte Walpole, and had acquired a reputation and the right of residence in Paris by risking her life and fortune in an attempt to assist in the escape of the royal family from the Temple after the death of Louis XVI. What chiefly astonished Marianne was that a woman so sweet-tempered, ladylike and eminently kind should be on friendly terms with such a man as Francis, and she made no attempt to hide her thoughts. Lord Cranmere laughed:

  'I might even say that dear Charlotte has a great affection for me. Do you know, Marianne, you are one of the very few women who do not like me? The majority of your contemporaries find me altogether charming and delightful.'

  'Perhaps they have not had the pleasure of being married to you. That is the difference. Now, I should be glad if this conversation could be brief. I am very tired.'

  Francis Cranmere placed the tips of his fingers together and studied them attentively:

  'To be sure you did not stay long at the theatre. Do you not care for Britannicus?'

  'You were there?'

  'Most certainly, and, as a connoisseur, I greatly admired your entry with that magnificent creature Chernychev. Really, there could hardly be a more perfectly matched couple – unless, perhaps, it were you and Beaufort. But I gather that things are not going too smoothly in that direction. It seems the two of you are still at daggers drawn? Is it still the old business at Selton? Or don't you care for his Spanish bride?'

  The deliberately airy flow of talk was beginning to irritate Marianne. Swinging round suddenly to face Francis, she interrupted brusquely:

  'That will do! You did not come here tonight for idle gossip. Say what you want and go! What is it? Money?'

  Lord Cranmere looked at her with a broad grin, then he laughed outright:

  'I know you are not short of it. It means nothing to you now. For me, I must confess, matters are a little different, but that is not what I came to talk about…' He stopped smiling and, getting to his feet, moved a few steps nearer to Marianne. His beautiful face wore a serious expression unlike anything Marianne had seen there before, for it was unmarred by either pride or menace.

  'In fact, Marianne, I have come with an offer of peace, if you are willing to accept it.'

  'An offer of peace? You?'

  Francis walked slowly over to a small side table on which Agathe had left a small cold collation in case her mistress should happen to feel hungry on her return from the theatre. He helped himself to a glass of champagne, drank about half of it, sighed contentedly and resumed:

  'Yes. I think we both stand to gain something. On the occasion of our last meeting I went very badly to work with you. I should have been gentler, more adroit… It did me no good—'

  'No indeed! And to be honest with you, I believed you dead!'

  'Again!' Francis looked pained. 'My dear, I do wish you would rid yourself of this habit of continually numbering me among the departed. It becomes a trifle depressing after a while. However, if you mean to allude to the bloodhound whom the police put on my tail, I had better tell you that I lost him without the slightest trouble. But there, even the best hounds may be thrown off the scent when the fox knows what he's about. But where was I? Ah, yes… I was saying how much I have regretted my somewhat unsubtle conduct towards you. It would have been infinitely preferable to have reached an understanding.'

  'And what kind of understanding had you in mind?' Marianne asked, simultaneously irked and comforted by this reference to her friend Black Fish and his quest: irked because the agent had evidently allowed his quarry to slip through his fingers and comforted because, if Black Fish had merely lost Francis, then at least it meant that he was alive. When she had first recognized the Englishman, she had seemed to hear in her head the Breton's furious voice declaring: 'I swear I will kill him, or die in the attempt,' and her heart had contracted at the thought of what Francis's living presence must mean. Her fears had been groundless. Well, so much the better. Even the best-laid plans could go astray.

  Francis, meanwhile, had calmly drunk the rest of his champagne before turning his attention to the small writing desk which stood between the two windows, open on to the dark garden. From among the papers that littered the table top, he picked up a gold and jade seal which Marianne used to seal her letters, and stood for a moment, contemplating the device engraved upon it.

  'A cordial understanding, naturally,' he said at last. 'And also something in the nature of a defensive alliance. You have nothing more to fear from me, Marianne. Our marriage is over. You have a new husband and the name you bear now is among the greatest in Europe. I can only congratulate you. To me, fate has proved less generous. I am obliged to live like a hunted man, hidden in the shadows, and all in the service of a country which pays me very ill for my pains. My life is—'

  'The usual life of a spy!' Marianne cut him short. This new, mild and strangely generous Francis made her nervous and deeply suspicious. He gave a little smile that did not reach his eyes.

  'You are not easily softened, are you? Well, so be it. The life of a spy. But it is one which enables me to find out many things, hear of many secrets which may, I think, be of some interest to you.'

  'Politics do not interest me, Francis, and now, more than ever, I intend to keep clear of them. The best thing you can do is to leave this house at once – before I forget that I once bore your name and remember only that you are an enemy of my country and my sovereign.'

  Francis flung up his hands. 'Amazing! A proper little Bonapartist! And you, an aristocrat! Although they always say there's nothing like sharing a pillow to smooth away hostile feelings, don't they? Don't worry, I did not come to talk to you about politics of that kind. You are not interested, very well. But are you interested in what touches Beaufort?'

  'What makes you think I should be interested in Monsieur Beaufort?' Marianne asked with a shrug.

  'Oh no, Marianne, don't play that line with me. I know women, and I know you better than you think. You are not only interested in Beaufort, you are in love with him. And he loves you, for all he thought himself in honour bound to marry that sour-faced shrew. The way the two of you were glaring at each other just now was enough for anyone watching you with their eyes open. So now stop beating about the bush. Tomorrow, Beaufort will be in great danger. All I want to know is, do you want to save him or not?'

  'If you are referring to the duel—'

  'No, I am not. Good God, should I have put myself out for the sake of a duel? I should think Beaufort is the best swordsman in the whole of America. When I tell you he is in danger, I mean really in danger.'

  'Then why not go and tell him so?'

  'Because he would not listen to me. And also because he would not pay to find out what danger threatens him. Whereas you will certainly pay… won't you, Marianne?'

  Marianne said nothing, rendered speechless with anger and stupefaction. At the same time, she was aware of a curious feeling of relief. This ne
w aspect of Francis had worried her. There was something there which did not go with his real nature. Now she found herself back on familiar ground. He had not changed. It was like him to think of coming to her to bargain for a friend's safety. She could not resist letting him see her thoughts.

  'I thought he was your friend?' she said with contempt. 'Not that friendship can mean much to you, of course.'

  'My friend? That is a large claim… The fact of having lost a fortune to a man does not constitute the greatest bond of affection in the world. And these are no times for sentiment. Now, how much will you give me in return for what I know?'

  There was excitement, ill-concealed, behind the words and Marianne eyed him with distaste. He was young, undeniably handsome and, at first sight, extremely prepossessing in his fashionably cut coat of dark green velvet. His fair hair was brushed into the style most becoming to his almost too perfect features and his slender hands were very nearly as white and well shaped as those of Cardinal San Lorenzo himself. The grey eyes might be cold and unemotional but his smile was full of charm. And yet the soul which animated this pretty gentleman was a chilling quagmire, a desperate quicksand of selfishness, cruelty, deceit and wickedness. It was a soul its owner would have sold without hesitation for a handful of gold. 'And to think that I loved him!' Marianne thought, sickened. 'To think that for months he seemed to me the incarnation of every hero of romance, all the knights of the Round Table rolled into one! To think that Aunt Ellis believed him to be the paragon of all virtues! It's laughable…'

  But at all costs she must keep calm, even, and indeed especially, if she was beginning to feel the creeping onset of real fear. She knew Cranmere too well now not to know that he never uttered idle threats. There was undoubtedly a dreadful truth at the base of this bargain he was trying to drive, and it was Jason who would pay for it if she failed to pay up. And now that Francis had discovered her love for Beaufort, he would not easily let go. Marianne clenched her hands hard behind her back to keep her nerves from betraying her, but her face showed no trace of emotion as she said: 'And what if I decline to pay?'

  'Then I shall keep my information to myself. But I do not think that we shall come to that, shall we? Suppose we say… twenty-five thousand pounds? A reasonable figure, I think?'

  'Reasonable? You have the most astonishing effrontery! Do you take me for the Bank of France?'

  'Don't be tiresome, Marianne. I know that you have made a very wealthy marriage and twenty-five thousand pounds is nothing to you. Indeed, if the need for money were less pressing I should have been a little more demanding, but I am obliged to leave Paris at dawn. So, enough of this prevarication. Will you or will you not hear what I have to tell you of the threat to Beaufort? I swear to you that if you do not, tomorrow at this time he will be dead.'

  A thrill of horror shot up Marianne's spine. She had a sudden picture of a world without Jason and knew that if that were to be, then nothing should prevent her from joining him in death. What was money beside such a disaster: money which for Francis Cranmere was supreme felicity and for Marianne was less than nothing. It was true that ever since her marriage the Prince Sant'Anna's agents had been holding vast sums at her disposal. She bent on Francis a glance heavy with dislike:

  'Wait for me a moment. I will go and fetch the money.'

  As she made her way to the door, Cranmere frowned and put out a hand as though to stop her. She gave him an icy smile:

  'What are you afraid of? That I shall scream for help and have you arrested? In that event, nothing, I should imagine, could save Jason Beaufort.'

  'Nothing, certainly. Go, then. I will wait for you.'

  Marianne never kept money in her own apartments. It was Arcadius de Jolival, formerly her impresario, now promoted to her man of business with her elevation to the status of princess, who took care of all such matters. There was a safe built into the wall of his room which always contained a considerable sum in cash, along with Marianne's jewels. Only he and Marianne herself possessed keys to it. Now, having first assured herself that Francis was not, after all, following her, she made her way to Arcadius's room.

  Arcadius was away. He had announced his intention of leaving Paris to take the waters at Aix-la-Chapelle, the one-time capital of the Emperor Charlemagne being famed throughout Europe for its warm baths and mineral springs. When Marianne had expressed some surprise at this sudden desire to take a cure and inquired anxiously after his health, Arcadius had promptly declared himself to be racked with rheumatic pains and within an ace of losing his voice most irrecoverably. Whereupon Marianne had immediately expressed complete understanding and had confined herself to wishing him a good journey, adding at the last moment: 'Oh, and give Adelaide a kiss from me. And tell her how much I miss her. If she could come home…'

  She saw from her old friend's suddenly glowing look that she had guessed right and was touched to discover Arcadius in something remarkably like a secret fondness.

  Stepping quickly into Arcadius's room, Marianne shut the door carefully and locked it. Then she sat down to recover her breath. Her heart was beating wildly, as if this were some stranger's room which she had come to burgle. She was afraid, without altogether knowing why. Perhaps it was simply because, wherever he was, Francis Cranmere brought with him an atmosphere of menace. Her one thought, now, was to get rid of him. Then she would be able to run to Jason and warn him of this mysterious peril she had paid so dearly to discover.

  When her nerves had steadied a little, Marianne extracted the key to the safe from the tiny hiding place hollowed out of the solid mahogany bedpost and concealed by part of the ormolu decoration which moved on a pivot. Next, making for a particular spot on the wall, she selected one of the palmettes in the plaster moulding and pressed it, whereupon a section of the green silken panelling slid aside to reveal a metal safe. Inside, were stacked a number of jewel cases, several bundles of Bank of France notes and two bags of gold coins. Without hesitation, Marianne took out three bundles of notes, put two aside and counted the third, Then, after returning some of its contents to the safe, she locked the door with care, closed the panel and, putting the key back in its hiding place, left the room, clutching what she could not help thinking of as Jason's ransom money. The house was still utterly quiet. The servants, in their own quarters, and Agathe, in her little room next to that of her mistress, were all fast asleep, quite unconscious of the drama which was being played out under their mistress's roof. But not for anything in the world would Marianne have had the servants know anything about it.

  When Francis Cranmere saw the notes in Marianne's hands, he frowned:

  'I should have preferred gold.'

  'I dare say you might, but I do not keep such a sum in gold about me. And do not tell me you do not know a banker who will change them for you. Your friend Baring in London, for instance.'

  'You know about him, then?'

  'I know a great many things. Such as how it comes about that you were able to run free in Paris when Fouché was Minister of Police. But Fouché is no longer in power—'

  'And I, therefore, cannot afford to linger. Give me the notes. I will manage somehow.'

  Marianne whipped both hands swiftly behind her back, laying the notes down on a small table behind her:

  'One moment! You shall have them when you go. But first, tell me what you know.'

  Her heart missed a beat. Francis's eyes, fixed on the money, had narrowed to thin, grey slits. His face was flushed and she knew that the greed of riches was on him once again. There was nothing to prevent him attacking her, wresting the money from her and escaping with it. Perhaps, after all, he had no information for her…

  Scarcely knowing what she did, she sprang towards a valuable marquetry cabinet, wrenched open the box which stood upon it and drew out one of the two loaded duelling pistols that lay within upon a bed of crimson plush. Levelling the weapon at Francis, she said grimly: 'If you lay a finger on that money before you have told me what you know, you will never reach tha
t door alive. You know I never miss my aim.'

  'What ails you now? I do not mean to rob you. What I have to say can be said in a very few words.'

  This was true. The sum of it was that on the following night, Jason was engaged to visit Quintin Crawfurd in the rue d'Anjou, ostensibly to inspect his celebrated collection of paintings, in reality to meet a messenger from Fouché who, although at present in exile, was in no way reconciled to his loss of power and determined to retrieve his position by any means, even including high treason. Two fanatical royalists, the Chevalier de Bruslart – who was already well known to Marianne – and the Baron de Vitrolles, would also be there.

  'Savary has been informed,' Cranmere went on, 'and all four men will be quietly apprehended before they even set foot over Crawfurd's threshold, taken to Vincennes and shot before daybreak.'

  Marianne started. 'You are out of your mind! Execute four men without trial, without the express command of the Emperor!'

  Francis's handsome face twisted into a mocking smile:

  'Have you forgotten Savary was the man who assassinated the Duc d'Enghien? Bonaparte is at Compiègne and this time those concerned are enemy agents.'

  'Jason an enemy agent? Who do you think will believe that?'

  'Why – you, my dear. Like a good many other sensible men, he is of the opinion that peace with England is necessary for a host of reasons, chief of which is the good of trade. This peace will be made with or without Boney. King Louis XVIII is wholly committed to it.'

  Sheer, cold rage overcame Marianne. She resented it as a personal insult that anyone should associate Jason, the man she loved, with those devious and unscrupulous politicians who, entirely for their own ends, were ready to overthrow empires and set up no matter what wretched puppet on a still reeking throne: