[Marianne 3] - Marianne and the Privateer

by Juliette Benzoni

  Marianne's sensitive ear did not miss the little note of regret in the hussar's voice. Sarlat might hold for him all the sweetness of home but it also meant inaction, idling away his time away from the battlefields which were his life and, but for this stupid affair, he would soon have been on his way back to in Spain. To be sure, she also remembered what Jean Ledru had told her of the horrors of war in that God-forsaken country but she knew that no such considerations weighed with the finest swordsman in the Empire and, indeed, would probably only whet his appetite for the fray.

  She held out both hands impulsively. 'I will go to the Emperor,' she promised. 'I will tell him all that has passed and what I owe to you. He will understand. I will tell Fortunée, too. Though I doubt if she will be as ready to understand.'

  'Not if it were anyone but you!' Fournier said, laughing. 'But for you she will not only understand, she will even approve. Thank you for your promise. I may well stand in need of it.'

  'It is I who should thank you, General.'

  Not many minutes later, Fournier-Sarlovèze was swaggering, hands in pockets, out of the front door of the Hôtel d'Asselnat under the bewildered and faintly shocked gaze of Jeremy, the butler, who, still only half-awake, regarded the officers of the law with a kind of scandalized disapproval. One of the men recovered the horse which Fournier, like the rest, had left outside the wall in the rue de l'Université and the general sprang into the saddle as lightly as if about to go on parade, then, turning, blew a kiss to Marianne who was standing on the steps:

  'Au revoir, Princess Marianne. And do not let this worry you. You can't think how exhilarating it is to go to prison for the sake of a woman as lovely as you!'

  The little cavalcade moved away into the dawn which was already beginning to touch the white stone face of the house with tones of rosy pink, while from the gardens all around came a faint freshness of rising mist and the first notes of birdsong. Marianne was deathly tired and her hip was hurting her atrociously. Behind her, her nightcapped servants, blinking sleepily, preserved a respectful silence. Only Gracchus, the last on the scene, barefooted and barechested, dared to ask his mistress: 'What is it? What has been happening, Miss M – Your Highness?'

  'Nothing, Gracchus. Go and get dressed and put the horses to. I must go out. And you, Jeremy, you need not stand there gaping at me as if I were about to sentence you to death. Go and wake Agathe. If the house fell down about her ears that girl would sleep through it!'

  'Wh-what shall I tell her?'

  'Tell her you're a blockhead, Jeremy!' Marianne exclaimed exasperatedly. 'And that I shall dismiss you from my service if she is not in my room inside five minutes!'

  Back in her own room once more, she anointed her burn with Balm of Peru and swallowed a large glass of cold water, without sparing a glance for the desolation of her once-charming bedchamber with its torn hangings and shattered porcelain. When the flustered Agathe came running in, she told her to go at once and make her some strong coffee but, instead of obeying, the girl stood in the doorway staring at the spectacle which met her eyes.

  'Well?' Marianne said impatiently. 'Did you hear me?'

  'Oh M-Madame!' Agathe managed to say at last. 'Who was it did this? It Hooks as if the d-devil himself had been here!'

  Marianne gave a small, mirthless laugh and went to the wardrobe. 'You may well say so,' she remarked as she took down a dress at random. 'The devil in person – or rather in three persons! Now, my coffee, and hurry.'

  Agathe departed precipitately.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The House of the Gentle Shade

  Sunset was lighting blood-red fires behind the hill of Chaillot as once again Marianne's chaise crossed the Pont de la Concorde en route for Passy. The coming darkness, brought on faster by the heavy clouds which had invaded the sky over Paris as the day wore on, seemed to be smothering the last red glow of the dying sun beneath a heavy grey blanket. The air was unbearably hot, clammy and oppressive, and little enough of it made its way through the open windows of the chaise to where Marianne sat stifling among the warm velvet cushions, scarcely able to breathe for the heat and the strain on her over-stretched nerves.

  This was her second journey to Passy. When she had reached the house that morning, determined to see Jason, even if only for a moment, at the cost of whatever scene might be necessary, in order to warn him, she had found the house shuttered and closed. A Swiss porter in carpet slippers, grumpy and half-asleep, had appeared eventually in response to Gracchus's repeated summons on the bell and told them in his heavily accented French that there was no one at home. Mr and Mrs Beaufort were at Mortefontaine, having gone there straight from the theatre.1 The sight of a gold coin did however induce the man to admit that the American was to return that evening. Marianne turned back, disappointed, sorry for once that she had not taken Francis's advice. But then, she had to admit, it was unlike him to be telling the truth.

  Tired though she was as a result of her sleepless night and the pain of her injured side, which was making her slightly feverish, she was unable to rest. She had wandered about like a lost soul between her own room and the garden, and running into the salon a hundred times to look at the exquisitely decorated bronze enamelled clock there. The only event which occurred in the whole of that endless day was a visit from the police inspector who came to ask some embarrassed but persistent and distinctly leading questions concerning that morning's duel. Marianne had stuck to Fournier's story, that it had not been a duel, but the man had gone away visibly dissatisfied.

  The chaise had now passed out of the Cours la Reine and was travelling at a smart pace along the tree-shaded length of the Grand Chemin de Versailles, following the river Seine in the direction of the Barrière de la Conférence. There was a slight hold-up as they came to the massive building works around the Pont d'Iena, now nearing completion, on account of a load of stone which had been overturned at some time during the day and which was still partly blocking the road. But Gracchus, swearing like a trooper, had succeeded in circumventing the obstacle, coming perilously near overturning the chaise in the process, and, touching up the horses with a quick flourish of his whip, set them speeding towards the barrier.

  It was quite dark by the time they reached the first houses of the village of Passy, a darkness rendered thicker and more menacing by the storm clouds still rolling up like billows of black smoke. No lights showed through the dense mass of bushes which overhung every gateway except for a dim, yellow glimmer from a small house tucked in beside a pair of double gates, which indicated that the porter of the sugar-beet refinery owned by the banker Benjamin Delessert was at his post. A little bit farther on, the old spring gardens of Passy, once filled with noise and animation, presented a blank, dark front, a heavy stillness in which even the trees seemed petrified.

  Gracchus took a right-hand turning and edged his horses into a road ascending in a gentle slope between the Jardin des Eaux and the wall of some large property. At the far end, elegant gilt lanterns hung from black iron stanchions illumined the tall gates and twin lodges guarding the entrance to the Hôtel de Lamballe. Marianne, however, stopped her chaise half-way up the slope and told Gracchus to wait with it where he would be as far out of sight as possible. In answer to his surprised question, she said: 'I want to try and get into the house without being seen.'

  'But, this morning…'

  'This morning it was broad daylight and it would have been folly to attempt secrecy. It is dark now, and late, and I wish my presence in the house to remain unknown, if that is at all possible. To have it known would only result in awkwardness for everyone, and especially for Mr Beaufort.' She thought as she spoke of the jealous Pilar's reaction should she ever hear that Jason had been visited by a woman at night, in her absence, and that woman Marianne.

  She saw Gracchus shift uncomfortably, not meeting her eyes, and realized that he was thinking of something quite different and believed that this was a lovers' assignation. She lost no time in explaining matters:
<
br />   'Jason is in great danger tonight, Gracchus, a danger from which I alone can save him. That is why I have to go in there. Will you help me?'

  'Help you save Monsieur Jason? I should just think I will!' The eagerness in his voice gave Marianne the measure of his relief. 'But it'll not be easy. The walls are high and the gates pretty stout. There is an entrance giving on to the Versailles road but…'

  'I noticed this morning that there is a little door somewhere about here. Do you think you could open it?'

  'What with? I've only my bare hands, an' if I try to force it—'

  'With this.' As she spoke, Marianne produced a picklock from the soft, dark green silken folds of her cloak and put it into her coachman's hand. Gracchus, feeling the shape of the tool in his palm, gave vent to a muffled exclamation:

  'Ah! That's the ticket. But where—'

  'Hush. Never you mind,' said Marianne, who had found the implement in Jolival's little collection. Like the late king, Louis XVI, the Vicomte Arcadius had always been something of an amateur locksmith and kept a pretty little bag of tools in his room which might have laid a less respectable man open to some suspicion. 'Do you think you could open the door with that?'

  'It'll be child's play – so long as it's not barred on the inside,' Gracchus assured her. 'Just you wait and see.'

  'Wait! Go up to the gate quietly first and see if there are any lights in the house. And see if you can see a carriage or horses in the drive. I know Mr Beaufort was expecting a visitor at about eight, he may still be there.'

  Gracchus nodded by way of an answer and taking off his hat and livery coat laid both articles inside the chaise, which he then moved to a position alongside the spa gardens where it was overhung by the branches of a huge tree. Having once made sure that the chaise was more or less invisible to anyone not actually looking for it, he turned and made his way up the road to the gates, making no more noise than a cat.

  Marianne's eyes had grown sufficiently accustomed to the darkness by this time to enable her to make out the little side door. She went towards it and, having made sure that it was indeed locked, settled down in the angle of the wall to wait for Gracchus.

  It was still stiflingly hot but the storm was on its way. There was a dull rumble of thunder away to the south and once a flash of still distant lightning illumined for an instant the watery ribbon of the Seine. Somewhere not far off, probably in the little church of Notre-Dame des Graces, a clock struck nine and Marianne's heart thudded in her breast in agonized counterpoint. She was beset by vague and terrible fears. What if Jason had not returned to Mortefontaine before going to Crawfurd's house? Suppose the meeting Francis had spoken of had been cancelled – or Jason had already set out, against all expectation, contrary to all Cranmere's supposed information? Suppose that tomorrow in the ditch at Vincennes…

  The picture which Marianne's imagination conjured up was so real and so hideous that it was all she could do to bite back a groan. She leaned against the wall, shivering and trying to cool her burning forehead by pressing it to the cool stone. She was not yet fully recovered from her recent illness and the brutal treatment to which Chernychev had subjected her the night before had not improved matters, but at the thought of the man whom she now hated with all her heart she felt her courage revive and, fumbling for her handkerchief, began automatically wiping away the sweat which poured down her face. The cool freshness of the eau-de-Cologne which she had sprinkled liberally over it before she came out did her good, and then Gracchus was coming back.

  'Well?'

  'There are lights in the house,' whispered the lad. 'And there is a coach at the door, as if it's about ready to go. I caught a glimpse of someone come quickly out of the house and jump in. Listen—'

  There was indeed a sound of wheels approaching. Then the creak of the gate, the hollow clop of horses' hooves and finally the dark outline of a big berline coming down the hill. Marianne and Gracchus stepped back hastily into the shelter of the doorway, although it was so dark that the driver of the berline never suspected the existence of the small door in the wall and of the two people hidden there. The coach came to the end of the road away in the direction of Versailles.

  'I think all's clear now,' Gracchus murmured. 'Let's see what that tool of yours will do.'

  He felt about for the lock and inserted the wire hook. There was a scrape of metal on metal, it stuck for a moment and then yielded. The bolt slid back quite easily but the door, which seemed to have been long out of use, remained firmly closed. Gracchus had to set his shoulder to it before it finally gave way, revealing a corner of the grounds. Beyond the ivy-covered tree trunks which occupied the immediate foreground, a pale blur and tall, lighted windows giving on to a row of three stone balconies showed the position of a large white house. From the centre windows, which were also the largest and most ornately decorated, a shallow stone stairway, railed with a tracery of delicate ironwork, descended in graceful twin curves to where marble nymphs reclined at ease.

  Marianne's heart leapt in her breast, even before her feet had taken the first steps towards the lighted windows which told her, more clearly than any words, that Jason was at home. Thunder, closer than before, rolled overhead and Gracchus cast a quick look up at the thick roof of leaves:

  'Storm's coming. It's going to rain any moment and—'

  'Wait here,' Marianne commanded. 'I shall not need you. Or, better still, wait for me in the chaise. But take care to leave this door slightly ajar.'

  'Sure I hadn't better come with you?'

  'No. Find yourself some shelter, especially if it should come on to rain. I am in no danger here… or if I am,' she added, smiling involuntarily into the darkness, 'there will be nothing you can do to help me. Good-bye for the present.'

  Without further ado, she picked up her skirts to keep them from getting caught up in the undergrowth and made her way with a light step towards the house. As she came nearer, she was able to appreciate more fully the perfect proportions and restrained elegance of the building. It was certainly a fit dwelling for a delicate and lovely lady, one of the many who had perished in the carnage of the Terror. The shallow steps, as Marianne climbed them with no more sound than a sigh, seemed made for the subtle whisper of full taffeta skirts and satin panniers…

  Reaching the top of the stairs, Marianne was obliged to stop, pressing her hand to her breast to still the fluttering of her heart, which was pounding as though after a stiff climb. The middle one of the row of tall french windows was open slightly and enabled her to see into a large room, lit by branches of candles in gilt sconces set against walls hung with grey brocade. The fact that all the pictures and hangings within her field of vision seemed to be quite new suggested to Marianne that the house must have suffered during the upheavals of the Revolution. So far as she was able to see, the furniture consisted of a number of chairs, a tall bookcase filled with faded bindings and a harpsichord with old cracked varnish…

  She put out her hand and gave the window a light, nervous push, afraid in her heart that she would find the room empty and the lights burning only in anticipation of someone's return. Then, suddenly, she saw Jason and a wave of happiness swept over her, driving out fatigue, anxiety, fever and pain.

  He was seated a little sideways at a writing desk, writing intently. A silver candlestick stood on the desk and the long goose quill moved steadily over the paper. In the candlelight his strange, hawklike profile took on a curiously softer look, the high bridge of his nose and firmly jutting chin were thrown into relief while deeper shadows lurked around the thin mouth and the deep-set eyes, now hidden by the lowered lids. The light fell, too, on his strong, slender, strikingly beautiful hands, one of which held the pen as firmly as if it had been a weapon, the other spread upon the desk to anchor the paper on which he was writing.

  He had discarded his coat, waistcoat and neckcloth on account of the heat and above his breeches and topboots was wearing only a fine white linen shirt, open at the neck to reveal a firm, strong
ly muscled throat. The arms that showed below his rolled-up shirtsleeves might have been carved from old mahogany. In this elegant drawing-room, with its dainty knick-knacks of silver and precious porcelain and the feminine touch of the harpsichord, Jason looked as out of place as a boarding cutlass on a lady's work table. Yet Marianne stood breathlessly in the window staring at him, forgetful of the reasons which had brought her there, sure now that he could never leave her for his perilous assignation, and conscious of a funny little feeling of tenderness at the sight of the lock of black hair which would keep on falling forward over his forehead.

  She might have stood there for hours without moving if some animal instinct of Jason's had not made him sense someone's presence. He looked up and round and sprang to his feet so suddenly that he knocked over his chair and it fell noisily. Frowning,

  Jason peered at the dark figure standing in the darkness by the window and knew her at once:

  'Marianne! What are you doing here?'

  There was nothing in the least lover-like in his tone and Marianne, brought down abruptly from the dreaming heights of a moment before, could not suppress a sigh.

  'If I had any hope that you might be pleased to see me, that would have taught me,' she said bitterly.

  'That is beside the point. You appear there in the doorway, without any warning, without anyone being in the least aware of your presence, and then you are surprised when I ask you what you are doing here? Don't you know that if one of the servants had chanced to come in just then they would most probably have fled screaming?'

  'I fail to see why.'

  'Because they would certainly have taken you for the ghost of the Princesse de Lamballe who is supposed to haunt this house – or so they say, for I myself have never seen her. But the people here are very sensitive about her. They sent so many to the guillotine that now they see ghosts everywhere!'