Marianne and The Masked Prince

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  Marianne's jaw dropped. 'What's this?'

  Gracchus blushed. He shrugged and shifted his gaze away from Marianne as though conscious under her steady gaze of his improvised toga.

  'I'd better tell you, I suppose,' he said at last, uncomfortably. 'I've been keeping in touch with M'sieur Beaufort – it may seem strange to you, I dare say, but you see, well, the day he left – after that business in the quarries of Chaillot – he had me go to his hôtel and he gave me a bit of money, see, and he said to me: "Gracchus," he said, "I've got to go away, see, and I'm feared it may be a blow to Mademoiselle Marianne like. She'll forget me soon enough," he says, "but I'll not be at ease until I see her happy. So I'll find the means to let you know when I'm in France and you can send me word to where I'll tell you so as I'll be sure all's well and she's not in any trouble"—'

  'Oh!' The exclamation burst indignantly from Marianne. 'So you've been spying for him, and he paid you to do it!'

  Gracchus looked hurt and drew himself up, gathering up as much dignity as his unconventional garb allowed. 'No! It weren't like that at all! The money was a gift, for what I'd done at Chaillot. And the rest – well, if you must know, it was I who bought the flowers, that night at the Feydeau, and left them for you with the card like he told me.'

  The bouquet of camellias! So that was how they had got into her dressing-room! Marianne remembered the shock of joy she had felt, seeing them there on her dressing-table, and her disappointment when she realized that Jason was not in the audience. And instead of the friend she sought, she had seen Francis…

  The remembrance of her feelings at that moment made Marianne forget her momentary wrath. The little conspiracy between the two men was really rather touching. It was also the best of omens for the demand she hoped to make of the American!

  Her face relaxed a little. 'Well?' she said. 'So you heard from him. But where did the letters come?'

  To my grandma's,' Gracchus admitted, blushing harder than ever, 'the washerwoman in the route de la Revoke.'

  'But if you knew he was to put in at Bayonne,' Marianne persisted, 'why did you not go there directly? Surely you must have guessed when I sent you to Monsieur Patterson?'

  'Mademoiselle Marianne,' the young man answered gravely, 'when you give me an order, I don't question it. That's a matter of principle with me. I did think a bit, I'll own, but if you saw fit not to tell me straight out, then you had your reasons for it.'

  Marianne could only bow before this proof of discretion and obedience.

  'I am sorry, Gracchus. I was wrong and you were right. You are a good friend. Now, tell me quickly what Monsieur Beaufort said when you gave him my letter.'

  Settling herself unceremoniously at the foot of the bed, she waited like an expectant child, but Gracchus shook his head.

  'I never found him, Mademoiselle Marianne. When I got there, the Sea Witch had been at sea for twelve hours and left no word of her next port of call. All they could tell me was that she had been heading north.'

  All Marianne's happiness melted away and misery came flooding back.

  'What did you do then?' she asked through dry lips.

  'What could I do? I hurried back to Nantes, thinking M'sieur Jason might put in there, and I gave the letter to M'sieur Patterson and I waited. But nothing came.'

  Marianne bowed her head, overcome by a sudden bitter disappointment she had no power to hide.

  'It is over then,' she said softly. 'He will not get my letter.'

  'Why shouldn't he?' Gracchus protested, nearly dropping his quilt in his distress at the sight of the tears gleaming on Marianne's cheek. 'He will still have it quicker than if he was in America! M'sieur Patterson told me he generally puts in at Nantes when he is in those waters. He said the Sea Witch must have urgent business elsewhere but she would surely come there before long. I would have waited longer but I began to fear you would be fretting yourself. Besides' – he raised his voice in an effort to impress Marianne with his own confidence – 'the consul promised to pass the word to every captain sailing out of Nantes to tell the Sea Witch, if they met her, there was an urgent letter waiting, so you see!'

  Marianne sighed and stood up. 'You are a good lad, Gracchus,' she said, feeling a little comforted. 'I will reward you as you deserve.'

  'Not to worry about that. Are you happy now? Truly?'

  'Truly. You did all you could have done. It is out of our hands now. Take this evening off, I shall not need you again tonight.'

  Gracchus looked anxious. 'How have you managed without me all this time? You haven't got another man?'

  Marianne smiled faintly. 'Simpler than that. I have merely stayed at home. You know I could not replace you.' And leaving the faithful Gracchus much comforted by this assurance, she went downstairs, only to find Jeremy waiting for her with an expression that seemed to presage the direst of catastrophes. Marianne was too well acquainted with his air of settled melancholy to be seriously deceived but tonight her nerves were on edge and Jeremy's long face was more than she could stand.

  'Well?' she demanded. 'What is it now? Has one of the horses cast a shoe or has Victoire made an apple tart for supper?'

  Instantly, the butler's mournful look changed to one of deep offence. With great solemnity, he turned and lifted a silver salver from a side table and proffered a letter to his mistress.

  'If mademoiselle had not departed so hastily,' he murmured, 'I should have given mademoiselle this letter. A messenger, very dusty, brought it a short while before mademoiselle's coachman returned. I believe it to be urgent.'

  'A letter?'

  The single, folded sheet, sealed with red wax, had clearly travelled far, for the paper was stained and crumpled, but Marianne's fingers trembled as she took it. The seal was a simple cross but she recognized her godfather's hand. This letter was her sentence, a life sentence, crueller perhaps than a sentence of death.

  Marianne walked slowly up the stairs, the letter still unopened in her hand. She had known that it must come one day but she had hoped against all hope that she would have her own answer. Now she was putting off the moment of opening it as long as possible, knowing that when she read it it would seem like an implacable decree of fate.

  Reaching her own room, she found her maid, Agathe, putting away some linen in a drawer. One glance at her mistress's white face made Agathe exclaim: 'Mademoiselle is so pale! Let me take your outdoor things off first. And after that, I will fetch you a hot drink.'

  Marianne hesitated for a moment then she laid the letter on her writing-table with a sigh.

  It meant a few minutes' respite, but all the time Agathe was removing her street dress and half-boots and replacing them with a soft house dress of almond-green wool trimmed with bronze ribbons and matching slippers, her eyes kept turning to the letter. She picked it up at last and retired with it to her favourite chair beside the fire, feeling slightly ashamed of her childish weakness. As Agathe slipped noiselessly from the room with the clothes she had discarded, Marianne slid a determined finger under the seal and smoothed out the letter. It was brief and to the point. In a few words, the cardinal informed his god-daughter that she was to be at Lucca in Tuscany on the fifteenth of the following month and should take rooms at the Albergo del Duomo.

  'You will have no difficulty in procuring a passport to travel,' the cardinal continued, 'if you declare your object as being to take the waters at Lucca for the sake of your health. Ever since Napoleon made his sister Elisa Grand-duchess of Tuscany he has looked favourably on those who wish to visit Lucca. Do not be late.'

  That was all. Marianne turned the letter over in disbelief. What? Nothing more?' she murmured incredulously. 'Not one word of affection! No explanation! Merely instructions to present myself and advice about procuring a passport. Not one word about the man I am to marry!'

  The cardinal must be very sure of himself to write in such terms. This meeting meant that her marriage to Francis Cranmere was already dissolved but it meant, in addition, that somewhere under
the sun a stranger was preparing to marry her. How could the cardinal have failed to realize the terrors this stranger must hold for Marianne? Was it really so impossible to say a few words about him? Who was he? How old? What did he look like? What kind of man was he? It was as if Gauthier de Chazay had led his god-daughter by the hand to the entrance of a dark tunnel and left her there. It was true he loved her and desired her happiness but Marianne felt suddenly like a helpless pawn in the hands of an experienced player, an object to be manipulated by powerful forces in the name of the honour of her family. Marianne was beginning to find out that the freedom for which she had been fighting was nothing but an illusion, it had all been for nothing. She was once again the daughter of a great house, passively accepting a marriage which others had arranged for her. Centuries of pitiless tradition were dosing on her like a tombstone.

  Wearily, Marianne tossed the letter into the fire and watched it burn before she turned to take the cup of hot milk Agathe brought for her, curling her cold fingers round the warm porcelain. A slave! She was no better than a slave! Fouché, Talleyrand, Napoleon, Francis Cranmere, Cardinal San Lorenzo: they could all do as they pleased with her. Life could use her as it would. It was pitiful!

  Rebellion welled up in her. To the devil with that absurd promise of secrecy which had been extorted from her! She desperately needed a friend to advise her and for once she could do as she wanted! She felt choked with anger, misery and disappointment. She needed the relief of speech. She marched quickly to the bell-pull and tugged it twice, with decision. In a moment Agathe came running.

  'Has Monsieur de Jolival returned yet?'

  'Yes, mademoiselle, a moment ago.'

  'Then ask him to come here. I wish to speak to him.'

  ***

  'I knew there was something the matter,' was all Arcadius said coolly when Marianne had put him in possession of the facts. 'And I knew that you would have told me if it lay in your power to do so.'

  'And you are not shocked? You are not cross with me?'

  Arcadius laughed, although there was little gaiety in his laughter.

  'I know you, Marianne. Your own distress when you are obliged to conceal something from a true friend makes it cruel as well as absurd to be angry with you. There was little else you could have done in the present case. Your godfather's precautions were fully justified. What are you going to do now?'

  'I have told you: wait until the last possible moment for Jason and if he does not come – go to meet my godfather as he says. Do you see any alternative?'

  To Marianne's surprise, Arcadius coloured violently, then rose and walked about the room in an agitated manner, his hands clasped behind his back. At last he came back to her, looking embarrassed.

  There might have been an easier one for you. I know that my life has been unsettled but my family is a respectable one and you could have become Madame de Jolival without blushing for it. The difference in our ages would have protected you from any – any importunities on my part. I should have been more a father to you than a husband. Alas, it is no longer possible.'

  'Why not?' Marianne asked gently. Arcadius's reaction had not taken her wholly by surprise.

  Arcadius flushed scarlet and turned his back on her before he answered in a muffled voice. 'I am already married. Oh, it is old history now,' he added quickly. He turned back to her. 'I have always done my best to forget it but the fact remains that there is, somewhere, a Madame de Jolival who, whatever her title to that name, at least prevents me from offering it to any other.'

  'But Arcadius, why did you never tell me? When I first met you in the quarries of Chaillot you were at odds with Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis because, if I remember rightly, she was trying to force you to marry her niece Philomena. She was actually keeping you a prisoner on that account. Why did you not tell her that you were married?'

  'She would not believe me,' Jolival said pathetically. 'She even said that if it were so it need present no obstacle. They would merely be obliged to remove my wife. Now, I dislike Marie-Simplicie intensely – but not as much as that! As for you, I did not tell you the truth at first because I did not know you very well and I feared that your principles might forbid you to keep me with you; and you are so exactly the daughter I would have wished to have.'

  Much moved, Marianne rose at once and going to her old friend slipped her arm affectionately through his.

  'We are both equally guilty of deception, my friend! But you need not fear. I would not have lost you for the world; no one, since my aunt died, has taken such care of me as you have. Will you let me ask you one question? Where is your wife?'

  'In England,' Jolival said gruffly. 'Before that, she was at Mittau and before that in Vienna. She was one of the first to flee when the Bastille was attacked. She was a close friend of Madame de Polignac while I – well, our political ideas could not have differed more.'

  'And – you had no children?' Marianne asked, almost timidly, but unexpectedly Jolival laughed.

  'It is clear that you have never set eyes on Marie-Simplicie. I married her to please my poor mother and to settle an interminable family squabble, but I assure you that it went no further than my name! Besides, quite apart from her ugliness, her pride and her religion would probably have made her shy from such gross, animal contact as we call love. She is at present one of the ladies-in-waiting to the Duchess of Angoulême and, I am sure, perfectly happy, from what I hear of that princess. They can join together in praying to God to confound the Usurper and restore France to the delights of an absolute monarchy, so that they can return to Paris to the cheerful clatter of chains as the leaders of the Empire are led off to the galleys! She is a very gentle, devout woman is Marie-Simplicie.'

  Marianne dropped a light kiss on her friend's cheek. 'Poor Arcadius. You do not deserve that. I am sorry I raked up all these memories you were trying so hard to forget. Only tell me, how long will it take me to reach Lucca?'

  'It is about six hundred miles,' Arcadius replied, with a speed that showed how glad he was to talk of something else. 'The road takes you by Mont Cenis and Turin. We should be able to cross the pass at this time of the year, with luck, and with good post horses, should cover between twenty-five and thirty leagues a day.'

  'That is if we make halts every night,' Marianne said. What if we sleep in the coach and simply stop to change horses?'

  'I should not advise it, especially for a woman. And you would need at least two coachmen. Gracchus could never do it alone. You must reckon on fifteen days at the best, Marianne. You cannot travel so fast in the mountains.'

  'Fifteen days! That will mean leaving on the first of May! It does not leave much time for Jason to come. Suppose – suppose one were to travel on horseback?'

  This time Jolival laughed outright.

  'It would be much slower. You could not keep up a pace of sixty miles a day for very long. You would need to be in training, with a hide like a cavalryman's to stand such a journey. Have you heard the story of the courier of Friedland?'

  Marianne shook her head. She loved Arcadius's stories.

  'Of all the Emperor's couriers,' Jolival began, 'there was one who was especially swift, and he was the rider named Esprit Chazal, known as Moustache. On the day after the battle of Friedland, Napoleon wanted to send the news to Paris as fast as possible. To begin with, he decided to entrust it to his brother-in-law,

  Prince Borghese, one of the best horsemen in the Empire, but twenty-four hours later he sent his famous Moustache off with the same news. After fifty leagues, Borghese changed his horse for a travelling coach and travelled day and night. Moustache, for his part, made do with what he had: post horses and his own endurance. He rode day and night and in nine days, would you believe it, he had covered the four hundred and fifty leagues between Fried-land and Paris – and arrived before Borghese. A remarkable exploit! But it nearly killed him and Moustache is a giant, carved in granite. You are no Moustache, Marianne my dear, even if you have far greater courage and endurance than most
women. I will procure as stout a carriage as I can and we will travel —'

  'No,' Marianne said swiftly. 'I want you to stay here.'

  Arcadius gave a start and his brows drew together.

  'Here? Why? On account of this promise made to your godfather? Are you afraid that —?'

  'Not in the least, but I want you to stay and wait for Jason as long as possible. He may come after I have left, and if there is no one here to meet him he cannot try to come after me. He is very strong, a sailor and I have no doubt an excellent horseman. It may be' – she hesitated and now it was her turn to blush – 'for my sake, he may try and emulate Moustache's exploit.'

  'And ride from Paris to Lucca inside a week? I believe that he might do it, for you. Well, I will stay – but you cannot set out alone – the long journey —'

  'I have travelled on long journeys alone before, Arcadius. I shall take my woman, Agathe, and with Gracchus-Hannibal on the box, I shall have little to fear.'

  'Would you like me to find Adelaide?'

  Marianne hesitated. 'I have heard nothing from her,' she began.

  'I have. I have been to see her several times. It is true that she shows no disposition to return. Without wishing to offend you, I really think that she is mad. I'll swear she is in love with that fellow Bobèche!'

  'Well leave her then. I can do quite well without her. I did think of taking Fortunée but she could never resist talking. As far as the world is concerned, I am going to Lucca to take the waters – and I should be grateful if you would see to my passports, my friend.'

  Arcadius nodded. He went slowly to the window, put aside the curtain and looked out. The little garden was shrouded in soft darkness. The cupid on the stone basin smiled faintly, mysteriously. Jolival sighed.

  'If this road did not take you to your godfather, I would not let you go, Marianne. Have you thought of what the Emperor will say? Surely it would have been more natural to go to him first? After all, he is the person most concerned.'