Marianne and the Privateer

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'What is it?' Marianne asked.

  'Of course, you don't know! It's the state funeral of Marshal Lannes. Today is the sixth of July and the Emperor is having the body of his old comrade-in-arms transferred from the Invalides to the Pantheon. The cortege must have just now left the Invalides.'

  The guns were now firing almost continuously. The melancholy sound of the trumpets and the muffled roll of drums were coming nearer, filling the garden and penetrating into the quiet room, reinforced by the tolling of every bell in Paris.

  'Would you like me to shut the window?' Fortunée asked, impressed by the rumble of these solemn obsequies by which the city paid its tribute, for one day, to one of the greatest soldiers of the age. Marianne made a gesture of refusal. She too was listening, more conscious than she had been perhaps during the contrived gaieties of the marriage celebrations, of the greatness of the man who had taken charge of her fate and who, high as he was, could still find time to watch over her. Her heart stirred as she remembered the hand which had held hers through those first moments of her long agony. He had promised not to leave her and he had kept his word. He always kept his word.

  She had learned from Fortunée, and also from Arcadius de Jolival, how he had stayed at the Austrian embassy, working tirelessly, until the fire was altogether extinguished, rescuing even a simple housemaid who was trapped by the fire in an attic room. She had learned, too, how angry he had been the next day, and of the retribution he had meted out: the Prefect of Police, Dubois, dismissed, Savary severely reprimanded, the architect who had thoughtlessly designed the ballroom arrested, the chief of the fire service relieved of his post and measures put in hand without delay for a complete reorganization of the entire force, such as it was. Certainly, it was reassuring to find oneself the object of his solicitude but Marianne knew now that her passion for him had snuffed itself out like a candle, leaving something else in its place, a deeper feeling, perhaps, but how much less ennobling!

  When she spoke, it was in answer to this secret thought. 'I shall never give myself to him again, never…'

  'What?' Fortunée said, startled. 'To whom? To the Emperor? You won't…'

  'No,' Marianne said. 'I can't. Not now.'

  'But – why ever not?'

  Before Marianne could reply, there was a tap at the door and Agathe, her maid, appeared, deliciously neat and fresh in striped cotton dress and starched apron:

  'Monsieur Beaufort is below, Your Highness. He desires to know if Your Highness is well enough to receive him.'

  Marianne's cheeks were suffused with a wave of crimson:

  'He is here? Downstairs? No, no, I cannot—'

  'I dare say you may not know, my lady, but the gentleman has called every day since the accident and when I told him this morning that you were better—'

  Fortunée, who had been a bright-eyed observer of Marianne's abrupt change of colour, judged it time to take a hand in the matter:

  'Ask the gentleman to wait a moment, will you, Agathe. And then you may come back and help me to make your mistress presentable. Be off with you now!'

  Appalled at the very idea of coming face-to-face with the one man who had figured so persistently in her thoughts ever since the ball, Marianne tried to protest. She looked a fright, she knew she did! She was so pale and thin… No normal man could help, but be horrified at the spectacle she presented! Madame Hamelin, ignoring all this, refrained from pointing out to her friend that, for a woman so wholly determined on renouncing her existence, she was showing highly interesting symptoms of agitation at the prospect of a visit from a gentleman. She confined herself to ascertaining that the Monsieur Beaufort in question was in fact the American who had vanished from her friend's life so abruptly at about the same time as she herself had entered it. This being confirmed, she set to work.

  Quick as a wink, Marianne found herself nestled amid the voluminous folds of an exquisite confection, all pink ribbons and snowy lace, her hair combed out, her face rendered a little less pallid by discreet reference to the rouge-pot and her person so liberally besprinkled with Signor Gian-Maria Farina's excellent Cologne that it made her sneeze. The room began to exhale delicious odours of bergamot, rosemary, lemon and lavender.

  'Nothing is more abominable than the smell of a sick-room,' Fortunée declared, arranging a rebellious curl with a flick of one clever finger. 'There. That will do now.'

  'But, Fortunée, what are you up to?'

  'Oh… nothing. Just an idea of mine. Now I shall leave you.'

  'No!' Marianne almost shrieked. 'No, you must not!'

  Fortunée did not argue but went and seated herself in a chair by the window with an alacrity which suggested that her proposal had been made with no very serious intention. She was, in fact, burning with curiosity and by the time Jason, admitted by Agathe, crossed the threshold of Marianne's room that indefatigable man-hunter was lying in wait for him, securely ensconced behind a book which she had picked up at random, in the posture of the perfect sick-room attendant. But, above the leaves, her black eyes made an instant appraisal of the visitor.

  He, after a slight bow to the stranger, directed his steps towards the bed in which Marianne lay watching his advance with an unfamiliar feeling of breathlessness. With his clear eyes, tanned face and energetic movements, Jason seemed to bring the whole wide ocean with him into the sea-green bedchamber.

  To Marianne, he seemed to have swept away the four walls of the room and let the sea air blow in in great, sweeping gusts, yet in reality he had done nothing. He had only strolled across the room and bowed and uttered some polite expressions of satisfaction at finding her sufficiently recovered to receive him. Overcoming her feelings with an effort, she managed to force herself to answer audibly:

  'I have been wishing to thank you for saving me,' she whispered, in what she hoped was an ordinary, conversational tone. 'But for you, I do not know what might have happened—'

  'Well, I do,' Jason retorted coolly. 'You would have been like Madame de Schwartzenburg and the Princess de la Leyen and a good many more. Just what, may I ask, did you think you were after to that inferno? Not the Emperor, at all events. He was in the garden, helping the rescue work.'

  'Is there no one but the Emperor I might have been seeking in the fire? In fact, it was something else, I think.'

  'Someone dear to you, I imagine. A member of your new husband's family, perhaps? Which reminds me' – a tiny smile twisted one corner of his mouth although his blue eyes remained unwarmed – 'which reminds me, you must tell me all about this marriage. So unexpected, was it not? Where did you dig up the impressive name and title? Another present from the Emperor? He has certainly been generous this time, though scarcely more than you deserve. It suits you better to be a princess than a singer.'

  The Emperor had nothing to do with it! My marriage was arranged by my family. You may remember my godfather, the Abbé de Chazay, from Selton, he—'

  'What? So this time it was he who found you your new name? You know, you are quite the most astonishing woman of my acquaintance. I never know who you will be the next time I meet you…'

  He paused and glanced significantly at Fortunée. She, her curiosity satisfied, and probably thinking that the conversation seemed to be taking a strange turn, judged it advisable to withdraw. She rose and moved with dignity towards the door. Marianne made a move to restrain her, then changed her mind. If Jason meant to be disagreeable, she preferred to face him alone. Fortunée must have realized, in any case, that in trying to present Marianne to advantage, she had been wasting her time. Jason observed her departure with one eyebrow raised, then turned back to Marianne with a saturnine grin:

  'Charming woman. Now, what was I saying… Ah, yes, that one never knows what name you will be using next. I met you as Mademoiselle d'Asselnat, then, almost immediately, you became Lady Cranmere. The next time we met, in the Prince of Benevento's house, you were Mademoiselle Mallerousse. Not for long, though. The moment my back was turned, a wave of the imperial wand
and you were transformed into that ravishing Italian singer called, what was her name? Maria Stella? Now, you are still Italian, am I right? Only you have become a princess, a – what was it you called yourself? Serene Highness, wasn't it? It's not easy for an American citizen like me to understand these things…'

  Marianne listened with incredulity to this flow of calculated insult, delivered in a cordial, conversational tone, and asked herself what devious ends her visitor was pursuing. Was he mocking her, or was he trying to show her that the warmth of friendship which had developed in the underground caves of Chaillot had changed into a quiet, amiable contempt? If that was it, she thought she could not bear it, but she had to know. Turning her head wearily on the lace pillow, Marianne closed her eyes and sighed:

  'I was told that you had called to inquire of me every morning since the ball and, in my innocence, I thought this a sign of friendship. I see that I was mistaken. You merely wished to assure yourself that I should soon be in a fit state to endure the shafts of your sarcasm. I am afraid you will have to excuse me. Unfortunately, I am not yet sufficiently restored to fight you on equal terms…'

  There was a short silence. To Marianne, behind her closed eyelids, it seemed to go on for ever. For a moment, she thought that he had gone, and she was on the point of opening her eyes anxiously to see when she heard him laughing. She swung her head round instantly, eyes blazing with indignation:

  'You can laugh?'

  'I'll say I can! You are a truly remarkable actress, Marianne. You nearly took me in for a moment. But one look at the gleam in your eyes is enough to give you away.'

  'But it's true. Baron Corvisart—'

  'Has just left. I know. I met him. He told me you were very weak, certainly, but I know now that your weakness is only physical. Praise God, your spirit is unharmed and that was all I wanted to know. Forgive me. I was only trying to get a reaction out of you. Since that night, I have been living with the fear that it might no longer be possible.'

  'But why?'

  'Because,' he said seriously, 'the woman I saw at the ball and during the fire was not the woman I had known. She was cold, distant, there was nothing in her eyes. It was the look of a woman who goes seeking death. You had everything a human being could ask for: wealth, beauty, honours, the love of a great man – and you were going to have a child. And yet you wanted to die a dreadful death. Why, Marianne?'

  A rush of warmth pervaded her whole being, reawakening the nerve centres which had been numbed by despair and physical suffering. So his cruelty and indifference had been a pose? Seeing him there, beside her, with that drawn look on his face which betrayed how deeply he felt, she felt a sudden, keener awareness of her love for him. The feeling was so strong that for an instant she had a wild impulse to tell him the truth, tell him that it was grief at the thought that she had lost him which had made her want to die. She was on the point of confessing at that moment how much she loved him and how wonderful her love seemed to her, but she recollected herself just in time. The man before her was a married man. He no longer possessed the right, or even the will perhaps, to listen to a declaration of her love. What had brought him here was simply friendship. And Marianne was fundamentally too honest not to respect the marriages of others, even if her own experience had proved doubly disastrous.

  Even so, she summoned up the courage to smile, unaware that her smile was more heartbreaking than tears, and as he repeated 'Why?', she answered at last: 'Perhaps because of all those very things, or because most of it is only a snare and a delusion. The Emperor is married, Jason, and happy in his marriage… I am nothing to him now beyond a loving and devoted friend. I believe he loves his wife. For my part—'

  'You still love him, do you?'

  'I – am fond of him, more than that, I admire him with all my heart.'

  'But the child? Was the child too a snare and a delusion?'

  'No. It was the one tie which bound us together irrevocably. Perhaps, after all, it is better so, for him at any rate. For me, it complicates matters considerably… Prince Sant'Anna—' Marianne broke off suddenly and said impatiently: 'But if you have been coming here every day, you must have seen Arcadius?'

  'Of course.'

  'Then do not tell me he has told you nothing? Surely he has told you all about my marriage.'

  'Yes, he has,' Jason agreed placidly, 'but I wished to hear it from your own lips. The first thing he told me was that there was a letter waiting for me with Patterson in Nantes – where I did not put in because I was being chased by an English privateer and was obliged to run to avoid a fight.'

  'You! Avoid a fight?'

  'The United States are not at war with England. But I'm sorry now I didn't go about and sink that Englishman and then put in to Nantes. It would have made a world of difference. I'm regretting my law-abiding impulse more than you can think.'

  He turned and, like Fortunée a little while before, walked slowly over to the window. His broad shoulders and clear-cut profile were etched against the green, leafy garden outside. Marianne held her breath, overwhelmed by a delicious anguish at the real anger she now heard in his voice.

  'You are sorry you did not receive the letter? Does – does that mean you would have done what I asked of you?'

  In three steps he was at her side, on his knees by her bed, her two hands locked fast in his.

  'And you?' he asked eagerly. 'Would you have honoured your pledge to me? Would you have gone with me? Left everything? You would really have become my wife, meaning it, with no regrets?'

  Marianne gazed wonderingly into his eyes, searching for confirmation of the truth of what she already knew yet scarcely dared to believe.

  'With no regrets, Jason. With a happiness I have only been fully aware of myself for a little while. You will never know how I waited for you… to the last moment, Jason, to the very last moment. And when it was too late—'

  'Stop!'

  His face was buried in the white sheets and Marianne felt his lips warm on her hand. Gently, half-tremblingly, she laid her free hand on the mariner's thick, black hair, lightly caressing the unruly curls and happy in this sudden display of weakness in him, the iron man, happier still in the knowledge that his confusion was as great as her own.

  'You see now,' she said softly, 'why it was I wished to die the other night. When I saw you with—Oh, Jason! Jason! Why did you marry?'

  As abruptly as he had come to her, he rose and tore himself away, not looking at her.

  'I believed that I had lost you for ever,' he said grimly. 'There is no opposing Napoleon, least of all when he loves. And I knew that he did love you. As for Pilar… she needed my help. Her life was in danger. Her father, Don Agostino, made no secret of his American sympathies. When he died, some weeks ago, the Spanish governor of Fernandina immediately turned on Pilar who was his sole heiress. He sequestrated her lands and she was on the point of being thrown into prison with little hope of release. The one way to save her and to keep her safe was to make her an American citizen. I married her.'

  'Was it necessary for you to go to such lengths? Surely you could have taken her to your own country and established her respectably there, under your eye?'

  Jason shrugged. 'She is a Spaniard. Things would have been rather more awkward than that. And I owed a great deal to her father. When my own parents died, Don Agostino was the one person who came to my assistance. I have known Pilar all her life.'

  'And, naturally, she has loved you all her life?'

  'I think so… yes.'

  Marianne was silent. Dazzled by the revelation of her own love, she was only just beginning to discover that she knew hardly anything of Jason Beaufort's life before that autumn afternoon when he had walked into the drawing-room at Selton Hall. He had lived so many years without her, unaware of her very existence! Until that moment, she had thought of Jason only in relation to herself, to the part he played in her own life but before that, away in that distant, vast and, to Marianne, mysterious and vaguely frightening countr
y of his, he had formed other ties of his own and beaten out a path for himself. His memory was full of scenes in which she, Marianne, had never figured, of faces she had never seen yet which aroused in Jason feelings that might vary from hatred to love. That world, or some of it, was Pilar's also. To her, it was familiar, she was at home there and their common experience must have woven between her and Jason one of those bonds which, derived from the same tastes and the same memories, often proved stronger and more enduring than the flamboyant chains of passion. All these thoughts were in Marianne's mind as she said in a small, unhappy voice: 'I love you, yet I do not know you at all.'

  'I feel as if I had known you always,' he answered quickly, devouring her with haggard eyes. 'But what is the use? We let go the moment when fate decreed our paths should cross. Now it is too late.'

  'Why should it be too late?' Rebellion jerked Marianne out of her natural reserve. 'You do not love this Pilar. You said so.'

  'No more than you love the man whose name you have taken, but the fact remains: you bear his name, just as Pilar bears mine. I am no moralist, God knows, and I must be the last person on earth to preach morality to you, but, Marianne, we have no choice. We cannot abandon those who have trusted us. We have no right to make them suffer.'

  'I see,' Marianne said. 'She is jealous…'

  'She is a Spaniard. She knows I am not in love with her but she does expect respect, some affection, that I will preserve at least the outward appearance of a contented, if not a loving marriage.'

  There was silence again, a silence occupied by Marianne in examining what Jason had just said. Her joy of a moment before evaporated before harsh reality. An adventurer Jason might be, equal to any risks, bold enough for anything, but one thing he would not do, and Marianne knew it: he would never deal dishonestly with himself, and he would expect the woman he loved to show the same strength. There was no arguing with such determination. Marianne sighed:

  'I see. Then you have come to say good-bye. I suppose you are leaving. Your wife did not appear to care for it here.'