'There is just one thing you may not be aware of, Jason both likes and admires Napoleon. Have you forgotten that he is here in an official capacity, on behalf of his government?'
'Precisely. A most useful position. And have you forgotten that Beaufort is perennially short of money? I should have thought that we had both of us good cause to know that!'
'He is not the only one—'
'Have you forgotten,' Francis went on, ignoring the interruption, 'the circumstances of your first meeting with him, at Selton in England – as one of the intimates of the Prince of Wales? What better proof do you need? The English privateer which he so opportunely let slip just recently on the excuse that America was not at war with England, that privateer was on her way from Spain carrying important despatches from the Duke of Wellington, which His Lordship had judged it wiser to entrust to a fast vessel. And yet the Sea Witch is unusually well armed for a merchantman, far outweighing the Revenge, and she is swifter, too. Are you convinced?'
Marianne could not bring herself to answer. She looked away. Naturally, she could not blame Jason for placing his own country's interests before those of France, but the thought that he could come back to France under cover of friendship, be received by the Emperor, treated as an honoured guest, and at the same time conspire with the French ruler's worst enemies, was unbearable to her. But there was no denying there was something in what Francis said. Before meeting with Napoleon, Jason had undoubtedly been on friendly terms with the Prince of Wales, even to the point of making one of his intimate circle.
After revolving the matter in her mind for a moment, she said: There is one thing I do not understand. You have come here to sell me information which can save Monsieur Beaufort – but this information does not concern him only. What about Crawfurd – and the others?'
'If Crawfurd has enemies, he will find his own way of dealing with them,' Francis said with a short laugh. 'If Savary has got wind of the matter, the source of his information is not far to seek.'
'You mean…'
'That Crawfurd is very agreeably situated in Paris. He is no longer a young man and no doubt values his peace far more than the convictions for which he may well feel, and with good reason, that he has made sufficient sacrifice of his purse and person in the past. You need not worry, Crawfurd can have nothing to fear. As for the others, I will take care of them.'
'It may occur to one of them to warn Beaufort?'
'They will have little enough time to get themselves to safety. Have I earned my reward?'
Marianne nodded. She lowered her hand and laid the pistol back in its case as Francis moved slowly to the table. In silence, he stowed the money away in his capacious pockets then bowed deeply and stepped to the window. Marianne was in haste now to have him gone. The transaction which had taken place between them, if it had not added to her hatred of this man, had at least done away with the fear which he had inspired in her ever since that night at the Théâtre Feydeau, and considerably increased her contempt for him. She knew now that a little money would always make it possible to muzzle Francis Cranmere and render him harmless, and money was the one thing she would not be short of in future. More difficult to digest were his revelations concerning Jason. Despite the facts, Marianne could not bring herself to accept that her friend was a common spy. And yet…
The Englishman had one leg over the balustrade, preparatory to letting himself down from the balcony into the garden, when he paused suddenly:
'I nearly forgot. How do you mean to warn Beaufort? Will you write to him?'
'I do not see how that may concern you. I shall do as I think best.'
'You know where he is living?'
'He told me he was at Passy, in a house belonging to a friend of his, Baguenault the banker.'
That's right. A big house with a terraced garden going down to the river. A beautiful place which used to belong to the Princesse de Lamballe and is still known locally by that name. Well, let me give you a piece of advice.'
'You? Give?'
'Why not? You have been generous. I will be so too, and spare you a piece of foolishness. Do not write. You never know what may happen in matters like this and in the event of Beaufort's house being searched a letter could prove dangerous for you. Where there is no evidence, there is no proof, Marianne, and there are circumstances in which your relations with the Emperor could be damaging to you. It will be best for you to see Beaufort yourself – say, at about nine o'clock tomorrow evening, when he will be at home. The meeting at Crawfurd's is not until eleven.'
'How do you know this? He may not be at home all day—'
'Yes, but I have certain information that he is expecting an important visitor at about eight o'clock tomorrow evening. Consequently, he will be at home.'
Marianne studied Cranmere curiously:
'How is it you are so well informed? One would think Jason made no move without first informing you.'
'In my trade, my dear, it is often a matter of life or death to know as much as possible, about friends or foes. You are at perfect liberty to disbelieve me, after all, and act as you think best – but do not blame me if your actions lead to disaster.'
Marianne made a gesture of impatience. She wanted only one thing now: to get rid of him and then run to Jason without loss of time, go to him that instant and make sure he would not go to that senseless meeting. But her thoughts were written so clearly on her face that Cranmere had no difficulty in reading them. Putting up one hand carelessly to straighten a fold of his neckcloth, he said idly, as if it were a matter of no importance: 'It will not do you much good to go running out to Passy at this hour of night. You would have the devil of a job to get them to admit you. Señora whatshername – Pilar, isn't it? – guards her marital bliss as closely as the original Jason cherished his Golden Fleece. She is the only person you would be likely to see, whereas, tomorrow, I can promise you the lady will be at Mortefontaine, visiting that poor little bourgeoise from Marseille whom they have turned into the Queen of Spain. It appears that Queen Julie, as they call her, considers it her duty to surround herself with anything even remotely connected with Spain, although on the face of it it seems highly unlikely that she will ever set foot there. Her noble husband much prefers to leave her where she is. Where was I?'
'You were about to take your leave,' Marianne said tartly.
'Have patience. I am in the process of behaving with remarkable gallantry. That is worth the expenditure of a few moments' time. I was saying… ah, yes. I was saying that tomorrow the Señora will be away from home and the field, my dear Princess, wide open for you. Assuming that Beaufort is not altogether a fool, I imagine it will be up to you whether you return home before morning.'
Marianne's cheeks flamed but at the same time her heart missed a beat. The meaning behind Cranmere's last words was only too clear, but while she could not repress a thrill of pure joy at the image they conjured up, she was by no means pleased to hear the innuendo in his sardonic tone. That Francis Cranmere should presume to bestow his blessing on it seemed to her to besmirch her love.
'You think of everything,' she said cuttingly. 'One would think your whole object in life was to throw me into Mr Beaufort's arms.'
Cranmere rustled the notes in his pocket.
'Twenty-five thousand pounds is a goodly sum,' he remarked casually. Then, without warning, his attitude changed. He sprang at Marianne and, seizing her wrist in a painful grasp, began to speak in a low, angry voice:
'Hypocrite! Filthy little hypocrite! You haven't even the courage to confess your love! But it was enough to see your face, the way you were looking at him in the theatre tonight, to see that you were dying to fall into his arms! But that would be too mortifying, wouldn't it? Fancy admitting after that farcical episode at Selton, after all your fine airs of outraged virtue, that you had finally fallen in love with him! Tell me, how often have you regretted your silliness that night? How many nights have you lain alone in your bed thinking of it? Tell me? How many time
s?'
Wrenching her arm free of his grip, Marianne fled to the bed and seized hold of the gilded bell rope that hung beside it:
'Get out of here! You have your money, now go! At once, or I call the servants!'
The anger cleared like a mist from Francis's taut face. He took a deep breath and turned back to the window with a shrug:
'Never mind, I'm going. At any moment you will tell me it is none of my business and you are right, after all. But I cannot help thinking that – things might have been very different if you had been less foolish.'
'And you less vile! Listen to me, Francis. I regret nothing that is past and I have never done so.'
'Why not? Because Napoleon taught you how to make love and made you a princess?'
Ignoring this, Marianne shook her head. 'You did me a great service at Selton. You gave me a taste for liberty. Your only excuse, if any, is ignorance. You knew nothing about me. You thought that I was made of the same stuff as you and your friends and you were mistaken. As for Jason, I love him, and I am willing to cry it from the rooftops, and I have you to thank for that, too. If I had yielded to your horrible bargain, I should not love him now as I do. If there is any one thing I am sorry for, it is that I did not see at once what kind of man he was and go with him that first night as he asked me. But I am young enough, thank God, and love him well enough to wait for my happiness as long as need be. For I know, I know in my heart that one day he will be mine…'
'Well – I wish you no worse fate!'
Without another word, he stepped out on to the balcony, climbed over the balustrade and began to let himself down. Marianne reached the window in time to see his white hands cling for a moment to the wrought-iron balcony rails. Then there came the muffled thud of a falling body, followed almost at once by quick, light footsteps making for the wall of the neighbouring house. Half-unconsciously, Marianne followed him out on to the balcony and walked quickly up and down, striving to calm her agitated nerves and at the same time put some order into her confused thoughts.
Her first impulse was to ring for Gracchus to put the horses to and drive her to Passy that instant, but Francis's words had not been without their effect and in spite of all her knowledge of him she could not but grant their plausibility. Who could say how that Spanish woman would react to the sight of Marianne on her doorstep in the middle of the night? Would she even agree to warn her husband? Or would her dislike of Marianne provide her with all the reasons she needed to disbelieve every word of what she had to say? And even supposing that she, Marianne, were to attempt to attract Jason's attention by a scene, the result would only be to create a scandal that would do no one any good. Nor did the idea of sending Gracchus alone with a note make more appeal to her, knowing as she did that she would not rest until she knew for certain that Jason was safe. It might take all her tears and entreaties to make him renounce a meeting on which he might have pinned great hopes. Probably the best thing to do would be to wait until morning and then go to Beaufort.
Despairingly, Marianne brushed her forehead with a trembling hand and took two or three deep breaths in an attempt to still the frenzied beating of her heart. The night was still and warm. The distant heavens were bright with stars and from the garden came the sad, silvery note of the little fountain and a scent of roses and honeysuckle. It was a night made for those in love to be together and Marianne sighed at the strange, persistent twists of fate by which she, whom so many men desired, seemed doomed to everlasting loneliness. A wife without a husband, mistress without a lover, mother robbed prematurely of the child whose fragile form she had so often cradled in imagination. Surely this was a kind of injustice, a mockery on the part of fate? What were they doing now, the men whose influence had helped to shape her life? The one who had just left so swiftly, with that strange expression of weariness in his eyes, what was he doing now, in the house of that quiet, romantic Mrs Atkins whose whole life was spent in a long wait for the return of the child of the Temple, the little Louis XVII whom she was convinced that she had helped to escape from his prison? And the masked horseman of the Villa Sant'Anna whose own dreadful solitude seemed to seek an echo in that of his wife in name only, what was he doing now? As for what Napoleon might be doing, amid the splendours of Compiègne, in the company of his Austrian woman – apart, of course, from nursing his sweet-toothed bride through another of her frequent attacks of indigestion – Marianne could imagine it quite well, but the thought gave her no pain. The warmth and brilliance of the imperial sun had dazzled her for a time, but now the sun had set into an horizon of ordinary domestic bliss and had lost something of his fascination in the process.
Infinitely more heartbreaking was the thought of Jason, threatened with deadly danger yet closeted, even then, alone with Pilar in the beautiful house beside the Seine which Marianne had more than once admired. The big, terraced gardens must be especially lovely at this hour of a summer's night… but how could that stiff Pilar who hated France feel the potent spell of its old-world charm? She would most likely be happier shut up in some dim oratory, all alone, praying to her own proud and implacably just God!
Abruptly, Marianne turned her back on the night with its strong evocations of the past, and went crossly back into the room. One of the candles on the chimney-piece was smoking, on the point of going out, and she snuffed the whole lot, leaving the room with no other light than the soft, pink glow shed by the small lamps placed at the bedside. But the room, with its dim, mysterious light and the soft, inviting bed, had no longer any power to attract Marianne. She had just made up her mind to go to Passy at once, whatever might be the consequences. She knew that she would never rest until she had seen Jason, even if she had to rouse the whole district and trample over the body of the odious Pilar to do so. But first, she must get out of that dress…
She began to undress, first tugging off the head-dress of flame-coloured feathers which was beginning to make her head ache dreadfully and shaking out her hair with both hands so that it tumbled, like a thick, black snake, down to the small of her back. The muslin dress was more difficult to manage and for a moment, driven to distraction by the innumerable hooks, Marianne was on the point of summoning Agathe, but then she remembered that Jason had disliked the dress and with a sudden spurt of anger she tore the fragile stuff away from the fastenings altogether. She was just sitting down in her brief shift tied at the shoulders with narrow white satin ribbon, preparing to take off her shoes, when she had a strange feeling that someone was watching her and looked up quickly. She had been right. A man was standing quite still at the window with his eyes upon her.
With a gasp of indignation, Marianne sprang towards a green silk bed-gown which lay over the back of a chair and hurriedly wrapped it round her. At first, she could see nothing but a gleam of fair hair in the darkness and she thought that Francis must have come back. A closer look, however, told her that the resemblance ended there and, even before he spoke, she knew him. It was Chernychev. Motionless as some dim statue in his severe, dark green uniform, the Tsar's courier stood and devoured her with his eyes. But there was something in those eyes, such a fixed and unnatural brightness that Marianne felt her throat tighten. Clearly, the Russian was not himself. Perhaps he had been drinking? She knew already that he had the capacity to absorb prodigious amounts of alcohol without losing an iota of his dignity.
'Go away,' she said quietly, her voice a little thickened by nervousness. 'How dare you come here!'
Without answering, he took one step forward, then another, turned and snapped the window shut behind him. Seeing him about to close the other, Marianne sprang forward and gripped the casement.
'I told you to go!' she said furiously. 'Are you deaf? If you do not go away this minute I shall scream.'
Still there was no answer, but Chernychev's hand fell heavily on her shoulder, wrenched her away from the window and sent her sprawling on the carpet to fetch up against the leg of a sofa, uttering an instinctive cry of pain. Meanwhile, the Russian calmly
shut the window and then turned back to Marianne. His movements were those of an automaton and left a horrified Marianne in no doubt that he was totally drunk. As he came closer, a powerful smell of spirits assailed her nostrils.
She tried to wriggle underneath the sofa to escape him, but already he was upon her. With the same irresistible strength, he picked her up and carried her over to the bed in spite of her frantic struggles. She made an attempt to cry out but instantly a hand was clamped roughly over her mouth while the Russian's slanting green eyes shone like a cat's in the dim light with such an ominous gleam that Marianne felt a chill of real fear creep through her veins.
He released her but only for a second to pull away the gilded cords that held back the bed curtains of heavy, sea-green silk. The curtains swung forward, enveloping the bed in a greenish shade, through which the lamp at the bedside showed like a spot of gold. Before Marianne could make a move to protest, she found her wrists tied, swiftly and efficiently, to the bed-head. She tried to scream but the sound was choked in her throat as a summary hand thrust a rolled-up handkerchief into her mouth.
In spite of her bonds, Marianne continued to twist and turn like a snake in a desperate effort to escape from her tormentor but she only succeeded in making the metallic cords bite deeper into her wrists. She was wasting her time. Immobilizing her legs by the simple method of sitting on them, Chernychev proceeded easily to tie both her ankles to the bedposts. Then, as Marianne lay, spread-eagled and quite unable to move, the Russian stood up and regarded his victim with satisfaction.
'You made a fool of me, Aniushka…' he said, so thickly that the words were barely intelligible. 'But that's all over now. You went too far. It was very foolish of you to prevent me killing the man you love, because I have never yet turned my back on a challenge. You touched my honour when you made my duty a means to save your lover, and for that I have to punish you…'
He spoke slowly and deliberately, each word following the last as monotonously as a child repeating a well-learned lesson.
[Marianne 3] - Marianne and the Privateer Page 11