Marianne and The Masked Prince

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  Marianne was well enough acquainted with Adelaide to guess how she had taken her abduction and imprisonment. Bold and cynical Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis might be, but it was, after all, possible that the unconquerable old maid had succeeded in making her escape. But if so, where was she? Why had she not made her way back to the rue de Lille?

  Francis was growing impatient. For some time he had been glancing with increasing frequency towards the entrance where an enormous grenadier of the guard had now appeared, his head in its tall, red-plumed shako adorned with such a luxuriant growth of beard, such long, drooping moustaches, that it seemed to belong to some strange, hairy animal.

  'An end to this,' Francis growled. 'I have wasted enough time already. I do not know where the foolish creature may have got to, but you will surely find her. The money!'

  'No,' Marianne said firmly. 'You shall have that when I have my cousin.'

  'Is that so? I think that you will give it to me now. Come, hand me that wallet, little man, at once, or it will be the worse for you.'

  Marianne and Jolival had a sudden glimpse of the black muzzle of a pistol aimed from the shelter of Francis's coat directly at the girl's stomach.

  'I knew you would make trouble over the old woman,' Lord Cranmere muttered grimly. 'Now, the money, or I fire. And do not move, you.' He nodded at Jolival.

  Marianne's heart missed a beat. She read death in Francis's suddenly haggard face. Such was his lust for gold that he would not hesitate to kill, yet she refused to let him see her fear. She took a deep breath and drew herself up to her full height.

  'Here?' she said scornfully. 'You would not dare.'

  'Why not? There is no one here but that soldier, and he is too far off. I should have time to get away.'

  The tall grenadier was ambling peacefully among the wax figures, his hands clasped behind his back. At that moment, he was making for the imperial table and his head was turned away from them. Francis would have time to fire more than once.

  'Suppose we strike a bargain,' Arcadius said suddenly. 'Half now and half when we have Mademoiselle Adelaide again.'

  'No. It is too late and I have no more time. I must have the money to return to England. I have business there. So hand it over quickly, before I take it by force, and before I distribute my little yellow pamphlets. We'll see what their effect is. It is true, of course, that it will not interest you very much, being dead.'

  The pistol waved menacingly in Francis's hand. Marianne looked round desperately. If she could only shout to the soldier – but he seemed to have disappeared. Francis had won. They would have to give in.

  'Give him the money, Arcadius,' she said helplessly. 'And then let him go to hell.'

  Arcadius held out the wallet in silence. Francis seized it eagerly and thrust it inside his driving coat. To Marianne's relief, the pistol also vanished. For an instant she had read madness in Francis's eyes and feared that he would shoot in spite of all. She did not want to die, least of all so needlessly. For some reason, life had grown very dear to her. She had still too much to give, beginning with the child, to resign herself to dying like this, by the hand of a maniac.

  'Don't count on it,' Francis said with a sneer, answering her last words. 'I am the sort that clings to life, as you should know. We shall meet again, Marianne my sweet. Remember, this grants you a year of peace, no more. Make the most of it.'

  Insolently, he raised the brim of his hat a fraction, then turned and began to move away between the waxen figures, frozen in their ceremonial attitudes, when all at once he staggered and fell under the weight of the grenadier, who had stepped suddenly from behind the massive figure of Marshal Augereau.

  Marianne and Arcadius gazed in astonishment as the two men rolled on the ground, locked in a desperate struggle. The grenadier had the advantage of height and weight but Francis, like most Englishmen of his class, was a skilled sportsman and possessed above average strength and agility. He fought, moreover, with all the fury and desperation of a man cornered with a fortune in his grasp, just as he was about to return home to enjoy the fruits of his labour. He uttered short, inarticulate cries of rage but the other man fought in silence, using his superior weight to hold down an adversary who was as slippery as an eel. Both men were on their feet now, heads together, arms locked inextricably, panting and groaning like two fighting bulls.

  A treacherous thrust with his knee gave the Englishman his chance. The grenadier folded up with a grunt of agony and collapsed on his knees, holding his stomach. Before he could recover his breath, Francis had made a grab for the wallet which was lying near the door and struggled, gasping, out into the open. Instantly, Marianne and Arcadius ran to the assistance of his unfortunate opponent, but the man was already putting a whistle to his lips and blowing a shrill blast before he had even risen to his feet.

  'I must be getting rusty, or drinking too much,' he remarked cheerfully. 'At all events, he won't get far. Still, I should have preferred to pick him up myself. That was a foul blow, not to mention the dance he's led me up to now. Well, never mind. It's good to see you again, my pretty.'

  Marianne stared at him unbelievingly as he rose, recognizing with incredulous joy the familiar voice emerging from the whiskery apparition before her.

  'It can't be?' she said uncertainly. 'Am I dreaming?'

  'No, no. It's me all right. So you've not forgotten your Uncle Nicolas? I don't mind telling you, it came as a surprise to me to see you here just now. I wasn't expecting that.'

  'Nicolas! Nicolas Mallerousse!' Marianne sighed happily as the 'grenadier' began to divest himself of his superfluous hair. 'But where have you been? I have thought of you so often.'

  'And I of you, little one. As for where I have been, why, in England, as always. I have spent a long time trailing the little rat who has just slipped so neatly through my fingers. But I dare say my colleagues will be holding him fast by now. He's clever, though, and cunning. To tell you the truth, I'd lost him in England and I had some trouble picking up his trail here.'

  'Why were you after him?'

  'I have a score to settle with him, a heavy score and one I mean to make him pay in full. There! What did I tell you. Here they come, now.'

  Francis Cranmere had re-entered the hall of wax figures, but this time firmly in the grip of four stout police officers. Even with his wrists bound, he was still fighting like a demon and the men were having to half-carry him. He was white-faced and foaming with rage, his eyes glaring murderously at the crowd which had gathered round the entrance as the policemen pushed their way inside.

  'Got him, chief,' said one.

  'Nice work. Take him to Vincennes, and keep a close watch on him, eh?'

  'I'd advise you to release me,' Francis said furiously. 'You'll regret this.'

  Nicolas Mallerousse, alias Black Fish, strolled over to him and bent to thrust his face close into his.

  'You think so, eh? It occurs to me, my friend, that by the time I've finished with you, you are going to regret that you were born. Take him away.'

  One of the men spoke. 'We found this on him. It is full of money.' He held out the wallet.

  To judge by the hunger on his face as he looked at it, it seemed to Marianne that the money mattered even more to Francis than his freedom and that if he were deprived of it he would, in the event of his escaping, become deadly dangerous. Remembering the relationship which Arcadius had uncovered between Lord Cranmere and Fouché and the desperate lengths to which Francis had gone to obtain the money, perhaps the wisest course would be to let him keep his ill-gotten gains. But then again, surely the luck which had brought Black Fish to them at the very moment when she was handing over the ransom was a sign of fate? The formidable Breton was not likely to permit Francis to escape what was clearly going to be an unenviable fate. Locked up inside the medieval towers of Vincennes, he would cease to be a danger to her. Besides, the temptation to indulge her revenge now that it was offered was too strong. With a smile, she held out her hand towards the wallet.
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br />   'That money is mine,' she said quietly. This man took it from us at gunpoint. No doubt you will find the weapon on him. May I have it?'

  'I saw the prisoner take the wallet from this gentleman,' Black Fish corroborated, indicating Arcadius. 'Since it is merely money, there is no reason why it should not be returned to you. I thought at first that it was something a deal more dangerous and, to be honest with you, little one, it was lucky for you that we had met before. It might have gone hard with you. Search him, you men.'

  While the policemen searched the angrily protesting Francis and quickly found the gun that he was carrying, Marianne asked: 'Why might it have gone hard with me?'

  'Because before I recognized you, I took you for a foreign spy.'

  'She?' Francis burst out furiously. 'You know well enough what she is! A trull! A spy of Bonaparte's and his mistress besides!'

  'And what of you?' Marianne said caustically. 'What should I call you, besides a spy? Blackmailer? And —'

  'You'll suffer for this one day, you little whore! I should have known that you would spring a trap on me. It was your doing, was it not?'

  'How could I? Who arranged this meeting, you or I?'

  'I, to be sure. But you set these bloodhounds on, in spite of my warnings.'

  'It is not true!' Marianne cried hotly. 'I did not know, how could I have known that they were following you?'

  'Enough of these lies,' Francis said, raising his bound hands as if he would have struck the girl before him. 'You have won this time, Marianne, but don't rejoice too soon. I shall not stay in prison for ever – and then look to yourself!'

  'Enough!' Black Fish let out a sudden roar, his eyes bulging at this revelation of Marianne's relations with the Emperor. Take him away, I said. Gag him if he won't be quiet. Don't you upset yourself, my pretty. I know enough about him to put a rope around his neck, and what the dungeons of Vincennes once hold they do not lightly give up.'

  'In six months I'll be even with you!' Francis shrieked before one of the men stuffed a dirty chequered handkerchief in his mouth and stifled his threats.

  Yet even gagged and bound, Marianne watched him as they dragged him away with a kind of horror. She knew the power of evil that inhabited the man and the deadly, consuming hatred that he felt for her, a hatred which would surely grow now that he believed her guilty of betraying him. But she had known, ever since their wedding night, that there was a fight to the death between them which would not end while both of them remained alive.

  Divining his friend's thoughts, Jolival slipped his arm through hers and gripped it firmly, as though to reassure her that she was not alone. But when he spoke it was to Black Fish, who was standing with hands on hips watching his men remove the prisoner.

  'Setting aside the fact that he is English, what has he done? And why have you trailed him from England?'

  'He is a dangerous man, one of the Red Herring's spies.'

  'The Red Herring?' Marianne echoed in astonishment.

  'Lord Yarmouth, if you prefer, the present chief of the Home Office in Perceval's cabinet. His wife, the beautiful Maria Fagiani, still lives in Paris, amusing herself very pleasantly with a little court of whom our fine game-bird is one. But I've another reason apart from his spying for swearing to bring this Cranmere to book.'

  'What's that?'

  'His interest in the French prisoners in the hulks at Portsmouth. It seems the gentleman's fond of hunting and he's got himself a pack of hounds to specialize in tracking down escaped prisoners. I've seen some of those poor devils after Cranmere's beasts have been at them – or what was left of them.'

  Black Fish's voice was hoarse with rage, his teeth clenched and his hands opened and closed convulsively. Marianne closed her eyes to shut out the nightmare vision he had conjured up. What kind of creature was this man to whom she was bound? What depths of evil and sadistic cruelty lay behind that handsome face and princely bearing? She had a brief recollection of the bargain she had struck with the Cardinal San Lorenzo and for the first time her thoughts went out to her godfather with gratitude. Anything rather than remain tied to this monster!

  'Why didn't you kill him, with your bare hands?' she asked softly.

  'Because I am first and foremost the Emperor's servant. Because I want him to stand trial and would not cheat the guillotine of his head. But if his judges do not send him to his death, then I swear that I will kill him, if I die in the attempt. Enough. They are letting in the public again and we must give way to the waxworks.'

  Two or three people were already poking their heads curiously into the hall now that the policemen seemed to have gone. They were obviously far more interested in any traces of the drama which had taken place there than in the waxworks.

  'All good things must come to an end,' Jolival said with a sigh. 'If you have no objection, I should be glad to leave this place – so many wax dummies, you know…'

  'No, no, there is no need for you to remain. Only tell me where I may find you. I have to stay because I did not find the papers I was expecting on the Englishman. Someone else may yet come, and I must wait for that someone.'

  'Someone who is to come here?'

  'So I imagine. You be off now, my pretty. What happens now is no concern of yours. And don't you worry about his threats. He will be in no case to carry them out.'

  Marianne would have liked to ask many more questions. Ever since Black Fish had appeared on the scene the mystery seemed to have deepened, like the gloom in Monsieur Curtius's dimly-lit chamber, but she knew that it was not for her to meddle in state secrets, or in police matters. If what had taken place were to rid her of Francis that would be enough. She had complete trust in Black Fish. There was something indestructible about him, neither men nor the elements could touch him. Francis had met his match in him.

  Arcadius was hastily scribbling their address on a leaf torn from his notebook when, without warning, one of the wax footmen at the imperial table exploded in a gargantuan sneeze which left no doubt of the human identity concealed beneath the wax disguise. The unfortunate individual continued to sneeze uncontrollably, his hand fishing desperately in his pocket for a handkerchief. In an instant, Black Fish had reached him and had snatched the dirty white wig from his head in a cloud of dust and ancient powder.

  'Fauche-Borel! I might have guessed!'

  With a wail of terror the false footman sprang backwards, sending a waxwork crashing to the ground, and took to his heels, Black Fish in hot pursuit. The quarry was a small, spare man, well-designed for slipping through the growing crowd of visitors like the hunted creature that he was. Before any of the visitors could grasp what was happening, they were borne down by the charging bulk of Black Fish. Arcadius laughed outright and seizing Marianne by the hand tried to hurry her towards the door.

  'Come and see! This should be fun.'

  'But why? Who is this Fauche —?'

  'Fauche-Borel? A Swiss bookseller from Neufchâtel who thinks himself the king of spies and devotes himself to the service of his mythical majesty Louis XVIII. He has always had a weakness for waxworks. In fact he's hopelessly incompetent. Come on, I long to see what your picturesque friend will make of him.'

  But Marianne had no desire to dash off in pursuit of the disguised grenadier and a waxwork footman. The taste left by her encounter was too bitter and for all her trust in Black Fish she could not recall without a shudder that last look the Englishman had cast at her above the handkerchief stopping his mouth. She had never met a glance of such pure, implacable hatred and when she compared it with what Black Fish had told her she felt herself go cold with horror. It was as if Francis had suddenly thrown off his splendid human shape and appeared before her as the monster he really was. Until then she had thought Lord Cranmere wicked, unscrupulous and cold-hearted, but Black Fish's words had opened up an abyss of sheer, sadistic cruelty before her eyes, the murky depths of a brilliantly cunning mind joined to the unpredictable violence of a dangerous madman. No, she wanted no distractions. All she
wanted was to go home to her own quiet house and think these things out.

  'You go, Arcadius,' she said in a tired voice. 'I will go back to the carriage and wait for you.'

  'Marianne, Marianne! Wake up! That man frightened you, did he not? And the horror of what you heard was too much for you?'

  She gave him a wan smile. 'You understand me so well, my friend.'

  'Marianne, you have nothing more to fear. He will not escape, he is in the safest prison in all France.'

  'Have you forgotten what you yourself told me? He has Fouché's ear. Black Fish knows nothing of the Minister's secret plans for peace with England. He may be in for an unpleasant surprise.'

  Arcadius nodded and, taking Marianne by the arm, led her soberly towards the door, saying as they went: 'I have not forgotten. Fouché is certainly unaware of what his guest from across the channel has been up to. He cannot ignore the fact that he has been responsible for the hideous deaths of French prisoners. In my view, to release that monster now would be to sign his own death warrant. Napoleon's care for his troops is real and he would never forgive him. Some crimes cannot be passed over and Fouché is more likely to deal with Lord Cranmere so quietly that he may well vanish without trace. Money is not the only way to silence a dangerous man. So stop worrying and let us go home.'

  She thanked him with a smile and leaned more heavily on his arm. Outside, darkness had fallen but the boulevard was bright as day with a profusion of lights of every description, from candles to lanterns. Every building, from the Circus down to the humblest stall, was illuminated. Only the Epi-Scié remained dark and silent with one faint light glimmering from its grimy window-panes. However, next door, in front of the Pygmy Théâtre, the crowd seemed to be surging to and fro in unusual excitement. The two actors on the boards had stopped their performance and were standing with arms akimbo watching the extraordinary scene that was being enacted on the ground below them.