Marianne and The Masked Prince

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  It was, in fact, two letters. One was addressed to Robert Patterson, United States consul, requesting him to speed the second letter to its destination with the utmost urgency. Even so, Marianne did not attempt to conceal from herself that the second letter was a little like the message in a bottle cast by a shipwrecked mariner into the waves. Where was Jason Beaufort at that moment? Where was the vessel whose name Marianne had refused to ask? A month was such a short time and the world so wide. Yet, however hopeless the odds, Marianne had been unable to prevent herself from writing that letter summoning to her side the man she had so long believed she hated and who now seemed to her the one being strong, reliable and true enough, the one man she dared ask to give his name to Napoleon's child.

  Jason, accustomed from childhood to take life by the horns, to fight it with his bare hands, Jason, who acknowledged no master but the sea, he would be able to guard and protect her and her child. Had he not begged her to go with him once before to find peace and rest in that vast, free country of his? Had he not written: 'Remember I am here, and that I owe you a debt…'? Now, Marianne meant to ask him to repay that debt. He could not refuse because it was to some extent through him that fate had brought Marianne to her present pass. Once before, he had snatched her by night from the quarries of Chaillot and the talons of Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis. Now he must come again and snatch her from the mysterious stranger to whom her godfather meant to marry her.

  He must! It was her only chance of a marriage which would not make her shrink with horror.

  Yet Marianne knew that by summoning Jason to her side she was committing herself to the bitter sacrifice which she had rejected with despair in her interview with her godfather. She was renouncing Napoleon, committing herself to part from him, perhaps for ever. Jason might agree to give his name to Marianne's child, but he was not the man to accept the undignified role of a complaisant husband. Once he had married her, even if, as Marianne meant to persuade him, he refrained from exercising his rights as a husband, she would still be obliged to go with him and live where he wished, which would certainly be in America. The width of the ocean would divide her from the man she loved, she would no longer be beneath the same sky, breathing the same air. But then, was she not divided from him already by the woman whose rights over him made her an impassable barrier between them? Only the child was left and Marianne knew that through him she would always be united with her lover by ties more binding than those of the flesh.

  As for Jason, Marianne dared not examine herself too closely on her feelings for him. Affection, respect, tenderness or merely friendship? It was not easy to be sure. Trust, certainly, complete and absolute trust in his courage and his qualities as a man. In him, the child would have a father capable of inspiring respect, admiration, perhaps even love. And with him, Marianne herself would be able to find, if not happiness, at least security. The solid wall of his determination and his stout shoulders would stand between her and all those who threatened her. There would be no Napoleon for Marianne and her child, but no more Francis Cranmere either, nor any other unwelcome sire.

  Tired of meditating by the dead fire, Marianne got up and stretched and went towards her bed. All she wanted now was to sleep, and dream perhaps of the distant land about which Jason Beaufort had once talked to her with such compelling enthusiasm, in the little pavilion in the garden of the Hôtel Matignon.

  Marianne let fall her dressing-gown and was about to climb into bed when someone knocked at her door.

  'Are you asleep?' said a voice in a half-whisper.

  It was Arcadius, home at last and certainly unsuccessful in his search for money. There was to be no sleep yet awhile. Marianne sighed at the thought that she would have to tell him all that had occurred, except for what concerned the child and the plans for her marriage. That must remain her secret.

  'I am coming,' she said aloud. Then, scooping up her dressing-gown from the floor, she slipped it on and went to open the door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Mountebanks

  The dreadful moment had come. It was time to meet Francis to hand over the money. Yet there was nothing to distinguish Marianne and Arcadius from the rest of the Parisian crowd as, in the late afternoon of the following day, they mingled with the people strolling among the open air theatres, showmen's booths and cafés that filled the boulevard du Temple for most of its length. Wearing a walking dress of chestnut-brown merino trimmed with matching velvet ribbon and a narrow fraise of pleated white muslin, a deep poke bonnet of the same velvet and a light brown pelisse over her shoulders, Marianne looked calm enough, in spite of the agitation which possessed her. Her appearance was that of an ordinary young woman of good family walking out to observe the sights of the famous boulevard. Arcadius, in beaver hat, black cravat and grey coat and pantaloons gravely offered his arm.

  They had left the carriage at the back of the gardens by the Café Turc. The afternoon was fine and a good many people were strolling up and down beneath the elm trees of the boulevard, drinking in all the sights and sounds of the permanent fairground which had established itself there.

  The entertainment they were offered, against a constant background of music and shouting, showman's patter, trumpets, drums and cries of 'Roll up, roll up, see the show', included the Fire-Eating Spaniard, a thin, olive-skinned youth in a suit of spangles who drank boiling oil and walked on hot coals without apparent discomfort, the Intelligent Dog, able to select cards from a pack to order, and performing fleas drawing miniature coaches and fighting duels with pins. A tall old gentleman with a patriarchal beard stood on a wooden dais calling out: 'Roll up, ladies and gentlemen, roll up and see an entirely new performance, put on by special request, of that celebrated comedy in five acts, "The Triumph of Peter, or the Atheist Confounded", complete with Transformation Scene, Rain of Fire in Act Five, Grand Finale and Ballet featuring the world-famous dancer, Mademoiselle Malaga, as Don Juan with Innumerable changes of costume! See her in Act Four in a suit of bronze velvet with ruffles of Flemish lace! And, ladies and gentlemen, to prove to you that accounts of her Great Beauty are in no way Exaggerated, we proudly present to you – Mademoiselle Malaga in person!'

  Fascinated, in spite of herself, by the showman's technique and by the whole colourful scene, Marianne saw a young girl spring on to the stage like some exotic comet in a swirl of multicoloured silks. Her long, dark hair was bound with strings of sequins and she acknowledged her audience with a charming grace that won her instant applause.

  'How pretty she is!' Marianne exclaimed involuntarily. 'What a shame that she should be obliged to appear on such a pitiable stage!'

  There is a great deal more talent than you might think to be seen in these booths, Marianne. Malaga herself is reputed to be of good, even noble birth. The old fellow drumming up custom is her father, a declasse nobleman of some kind; as you can see he still has some traces of the grand manner about him. We will come back some evening and see the show, if you care to. I should like you to see Malaga dance with her partner, Mademoiselle Rose. Few dancers at the Opera are so graceful. But for the present, our business is elsewhere.'

  Marianne coloured. In that atmosphere of cheerful, carefree gaiety she had temporarily forgotten the real reason for their expedition to the boulevard du Temple.

  'You are right. Well, since we must, where is this waxworks where we have to meet —' She broke off, finding it increasingly difficult to utter Francis Cranmere's name. Arcadius shifted under his arm the wallet containing the fifty thousand livres in banknotes which Marianne had collected that morning from Lafitte, the banker, and pointed to a large building a little way ahead of them. Its neo-classical façade towered above the host of tents and smaller booths.

  'You see the Olympic Circus, there, where Monsieur Francom mounts his equestrian spectacles? Monsieur Curtius's Hall of Waxworks is the old house just beyond it, with the balcony and four Corinthian columns. It is a strange place, as you will see, but take care where you walk. The ground here is very
muddy.'

  They were obliged, in order to avoid the queues forming outside the two small theatres to turn aside under the trees where the earth, given a good soaking by the morning's heavy rain, was indeed very muddy. A gang of small boys dashed past, shouting at the tops of their voices, and Jolival, doing his best to protect Marianne from the dirt splashed up by their feet, murmured apologetically:

  'I am sorry to subject you to this but I think it is better than remaining in the open.'

  'Why so?'

  For answer, Jolival nodded towards a low building crammed in between the waxworks and a little wooden theatre with a large, canvas pediment announcing its name: the Pygmy Théâtre. The ground floor of the house was taken up by a spacious tavern, the sign over the doorway representing an ear of corn being cut by a sickle.

  'That delightful spot is the Epi-Scié, owned by our friend Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis. We shall be wiser to keep well away from there.'

  The mention of Francis's sinister associate was enough to make Marianne shiver, agitated as she was by the thought of the impending meeting. She quickened her pace and in a few moments they had reached their destination. Outside the waxwork hall was the magnificent figure of a Polish Lancer, so lifelike that Marianne had to go close up to it to be certain that it was really only a dummy. Meanwhile Arcadius, the wallet still tucked firmly under his arm, was paying their entrance money at the gate. The inevitable barker exhorted the good people of Paris to 'Step-up and see the figures of the great and famous, more real than in life.'

  Marianne went forward nervously into the large, gloomy hall. The only light came from windows which could have done with a good cleaning; for all the bright afternoon outside, grey twilight reigned within. The wax figures loomed ghostly and unreal in the murky dimness and would have been frightening but for the presence of the visiting public, laughing and exclaiming over the show.

  They stood for a moment, ostensibly admiring a warlike effigy of the late Marshal Lannes, their eyes busy searching for Francis among the crowd of people, real and waxwork. Marianne shivered.

  'It is cold in here.'

  'Yes,' Jolival agreed, 'and our friend is late.'

  Marianne made no answer. Her nervousness was increasing, possibly from the unnerving presence of so many all-too-lifelike wax dummies. The principal group, occupying the very centre of the room, represented Napoleon himself seated at table with all his family, with footmen in attendance. All the Bonapartes were there: Caroline, Pauline, Elisa and their stern Mama in her widow's weeds. But it was the wax Emperor himself that Marianne found most disconcerting. She had the feeling that his painted eyes were looking at her, seeing her conspiratorial air, and shame mingled with the fear of finding Francis suddenly before her made her want to turn and run.

  Guessing her trouble, Arcadius stepped up to the imperial table and laughed.

  'You have no idea how this dinner-table has reflected the history of France. It has seen Louis XV and his august family, Louis XVI and his august family, the Directorate and their august families and now here is Napoleon with his august family – although you will observe that the Empress is missing. Marie-Louise is still unfinished and besides, I have an idea they were going to cannibalize some parts of the Pompadour, who is now obsolete. What I do know is that this fruit has been here since Louis XV, and I should think that may well be the original dust!'

  Jolival's commentary raised no more than a faint smile from Marianne. She was wondering what had become of Francis for, little as she wished to see him, she was also anxious to get the interview over and turn her back on a place she found depressing in the extreme.

  Then, suddenly, he was there. Marianne saw him emerge from the darkest corner, behind the bath in which the dying Marat lay, struck by Charlotte Corday's knife. He, too, was dressed soberly, a brown hat pulled down low over his brow and his coat collar turned up to hide his face. He came quickly towards them and Marianne, who had never known him anything but confident and self-assured, was surprised to see him cast a swift, furtive glance around him.

  'You are in good time,' he said curtly, without troubling to bow.

  'You, on the other hand, are late,' Arcadius retorted drily.

  'I was detained. You must forgive me. You have the money?'

  'We have the money.' Again, it was Jolival who answered, and his grip on the wallet tightened a little. 'It does not appear, however, that you have Mademoiselle d'Asselnat.'

  'You shall have her later. The money first. How can I be sure it is indeed in that wallet?' His hand went out towards the leather satchel.

  'What is so delightful in dealing with persons of your sort, my lord, is the sense of trust which exists. See for yourself.' Arcadius slipped open the leather case, exposing the fifty notes, each for one thousand livres, then shut it swiftly, and tucked it back securely under his arm. 'There,' he said coolly. 'Now show us your prisoner.'

  Francis moved irritably. 'I said later. I will bring her to your house tonight. For the present, I am in haste and may not linger here. It is not safe for me.'

  That much was clear. His eyes were shifting continually, never meeting Marianne's. Now, however, she decided to take a hand. Laying her fingers on the wallet as if she feared that Arcadius might be overcome by some impulsive act of generosity, she said clearly: 'The less I see of you, the better I shall like it. My doors are closed to you, and you will gain nothing by coming to my house, alone or otherwise. We struck a bargain. You have seen that I have fulfilled my part of it. I call on you to fulfil yours. If not, we are back where we started.'

  'Your meaning?'

  'That you will get no money until you have restored my cousin to me.'

  Lord Cranmere's grey eyes narrowed and began to glitter dangerously. His smile was unpleasant.

  'Are you not forgetting something, my lady? If my memory serves me correctly, your cousin was only a part – a very small part of that bargain. She merely guaranteed that I should be undisturbed while you collected the money which will ensure that you in turn shall be left undisturbed.'

  Marianne did not flinch before the barely concealed menace. Now that the swords were out, she had recovered all her poise and confidence, as she always did when a fight was in prospect. She permitted herself a small, contemptuous smile.

  'That is not how I see it. Since the delightful conversation which you forced on me I have taken steps to ensure that I shall be left in peace. I am no longer afraid of you.'

  'You are bluffing,' Francis said roughly. 'You need not. I am stronger at that game than you. If you did not fear me, you would have come here empty-handed.'

  'I came only to recover my cousin. As for what you call bluffing, let me tell you that I have seen the Emperor. I spent several hours in his private office. If your information is as good as you pretend, you should have known that.'

  'I do know it. I know also that you were expected to leave it under arrest.'

  'Instead I left it to be politely escorted to my coach by his majesty's own valet,' Marianne countered with a coolness she was far from feeling. Determined to carry it through to the end, she went on: 'Distribute your pamphlets, my friend, they will not hurt me. And you will not get a penny from me until you return Adelaide.'

  She knew his twisted nature too well not to feel deeply anxious, for he was not to be defeated so easily. Even so, Marianne could not help rejoicing a little inwardly as he hesitated, and when she saw a look of something very close to admiration on Arcadius's face she was sure that she was gaining an important advantage. It was vital that Francis should be made to believe that nothing mattered to her now but Adelaide, not so as to save the money, which Arcadius was still holding on to so grimly, but in order to render Lord Cranmere harmless in future. It was true that her future from now on would probably belong to Jason Beaufort but, just as she had recoiled in horror from the thought of involving Napoleon in a scandal of her making, so did she jib at offering Beaufort a wife who was an object of public infamy. It was bad enough to bring him one
already pregnant by another man.

  Lord Cranmere spoke suddenly.

  'I wish I could return the old battle-axe to you. Unfortunately I have not got her.'

  'What!'

  Marianne and Arcadius spoke simultaneously. Francis shrugged sulkily.

  'She has vanished. Slipped between my fingers. Escaped, if you prefer it.'

  'When?' Marianne asked.

  'Last night. When her supper was taken to her – her room, she was not there.'

  'Do you expect me to believe this?'

  All Marianne's hidden fears and anxieties exploded suddenly in one outburst of anger. That was too easy! Did Francis take her for a fool? He would collect the money and give nothing in return, except a dubious promise.

  Equally angry, Francis flung back at her: 'You have no choice! I was obliged to believe it. I swear to you that she had vanished from the place where she was kept.'

  'You are lying! If she had escaped she would have returned home.'

  'I can only tell you what I know. I learned of her flight only a moment ago. And I swear, on my mother's grave —'

  'Where had you hidden her?' Jolival interposed.

  'In the cellars of the Epi-Scié, next door to here.'

  Jolival gave a shout of laughter. 'With Fanchon? I had not thought you such a fool! If you want to know where she is, ask your accomplice. I'll swear she knows. No doubt she thinks her share of the profits are unworthy of her appetite!'

  'No,' Lord Cranmere said curtly. 'Fanchon would not try such tricks on me. She knows that I should know how to punish her, once and for all. In any event, her anger at the old fidget's escape told its own tale. If you care for her, my dear, take care she does not fall into Fanchon's hands again. She certainly did her best to drive her to a fury.'