Marianne and the Privateer

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'Politics do not interest me, Francis, and now, more than ever, I intend to keep clear of them. The best thing you can do is to leave this house at once – before I forget that I once bore your name and remember only that you are an enemy of my country and my sovereign.'

  Francis flung up his hands. 'Amazing! A proper little Bonapartist! And you, an aristocrat! Although they always say there's nothing like sharing a pillow to smooth away hostile feelings, don't they? Don't worry, I did not come to talk to you about politics of that kind. You are not interested, very well. But are you interested in what touches Beaufort?'

  'What makes you think I should be interested in Monsieur Beaufort?' Marianne asked with a shrug.

  'Oh no, Marianne, don't play that line with me. I know women, and I know you better than you think. You are not only interested in Beaufort, you are in love with him. And he loves you, for all he thought himself in honour bound to marry that sour-faced shrew. The way the two of you were glaring at each other just now was enough for anyone watching you with their eyes open. So now stop beating about the bush. Tomorrow, Beaufort will be in great danger. All I want to know is, do you want to save him or not?'

  'If you are referring to the duel—'

  'No, I am not. Good God, should I have put myself out for the sake of a duel? I should think Beaufort is the best swordsman in the whole of America. When I tell you he is in danger, I mean really in danger.'

  'Then why not go and tell him so?'

  'Because he would not listen to me. And also because he would not pay to find out what danger threatens him. Whereas you will certainly pay… won't you, Marianne?'

  Marianne said nothing, rendered speechless with anger and stupefaction. At the same time, she was aware of a curious feeling of relief. This new aspect of Francis had worried her. There was something there which did not go with his real nature. Now she found herself back on familiar ground. He had not changed. It was like him to think of coming to her to bargain for a friend's safety. She could not resist letting him see her thoughts.

  'I thought he was your friend?' she said with contempt. 'Not that friendship can mean much to you, of course.'

  'My friend? That is a large claim… The fact of having lost a fortune to a man does not constitute the greatest bond of affection in the world. And these are no times for sentiment. Now, how much will you give me in return for what I know?'

  There was excitement, ill-concealed, behind the words and Marianne eyed him with distaste. He was young, undeniably handsome and, at first sight, extremely prepossessing in his fashionably cut coat of dark green velvet. His fair hair was brushed into the style most becoming to his almost too perfect features and his slender hands were very nearly as white and well shaped as those of Cardinal San Lorenzo himself. The grey eyes might be cold and unemotional but his smile was full of charm. And yet the soul which animated this pretty gentleman was a chilling quagmire, a desperate quicksand of selfishness, cruelty, deceit and wickedness. It was a soul its owner would have sold without hesitation for a handful of gold. 'And to think that I loved him!' Marianne thought, sickened. 'To think that for months he seemed to me the incarnation of every hero of romance, all the knights of the Round Table rolled into one! To think that Aunt Ellis believed him to be the paragon of all virtues! It's laughable…'

  But at all costs she must keep calm, even, and indeed especially, if she was beginning to feel the creeping onset of real fear. She knew Cranmere too well now not to know that he never uttered idle threats. There was undoubtedly a dreadful truth at the base of this bargain he was trying to drive, and it was Jason who would pay for it if she failed to pay up. And now that Francis had discovered her love for Beaufort, he would not easily let go. Marianne clenched her hands hard behind her back to keep her nerves from betraying her, but her face showed no trace of emotion as she said: 'And what if I decline to pay?'

  'Then I shall keep my information to myself. But I do not think that we shall come to that, shall we? Suppose we say… twenty-five thousand pounds? A reasonable figure, I think?'

  'Reasonable? You have the most astonishing effrontery! Do you take me for the Bank of France?'

  'Don't be tiresome, Marianne. I know that you have made a very wealthy marriage and twenty-five thousand pounds is nothing to you. Indeed, if the need for money were less pressing I should have been a little more demanding, but I am obliged to leave Paris at dawn. So, enough of this prevarication. Will you or will you not hear what I have to tell you of the threat to Beaufort? I swear to you that if you do not, tomorrow at this time he will be dead.'

  A thrill of horror shot up Marianne's spine. She had a sudden picture of a world without Jason and knew that if that were to be, then nothing should prevent her from joining him in death. What was money beside such a disaster: money which for Francis Cranmere was supreme felicity and for Marianne was less than nothing. It was true that ever since her marriage the Prince Sant'Anna's agents had been holding vast sums at her disposal. She bent on Francis a glance heavy with dislike:

  'Wait for me a moment. I will go and fetch the money.'

  As she made her way to the door, Cranmere frowned and put out a hand as though to stop her. She gave him an icy smile:

  'What are you afraid of? That I shall scream for help and have you arrested? In that event, nothing, I should imagine, could save Jason Beaufort.'

  'Nothing, certainly. Go, then. I will wait for you.'

  Marianne never kept money in her own apartments. It was Arcadius de Jolival, formerly her impresario, now promoted to her man of business with her elevation to the status of princess, who took care of all such matters. There was a safe built into the wall of his room which always contained a considerable sum in cash, along with Marianne's jewels. Only he and Marianne herself possessed keys to it. Now, having first assured herself that Francis was not, after all, following her, she made her way to Arcadius's room.

  Arcadius was away. He had announced his intention of leaving Paris to take the waters at Aix-la-Chapelle, the one-time capital of the Emperor Charlemagne being famed throughout Europe for its warm baths and mineral springs. When Marianne had expressed some surprise at this sudden desire to take a cure and inquired anxiously after his health, Arcadius had promptly declared himself to be racked with rheumatic pains and within an ace of losing his voice most irrecoverably. Whereupon Marianne had immediately expressed complete understanding and had confined herself to wishing him a good journey, adding at the last moment: 'Oh, and give Adelaide a kiss from me. And tell her how much I miss her. If she could come home…'

  She saw from her old friend's suddenly glowing look that she had guessed right and was touched to discover Arcadius in something remarkably like a secret fondness.

  Stepping quickly into Arcadius's room, Marianne shut the door carefully and locked it. Then she sat down to recover her breath. Her heart was beating wildly, as if this were some stranger's room which she had come to burgle. She was afraid, without altogether knowing why. Perhaps it was simply because, wherever he was, Francis Cranmere brought with him an atmosphere of menace. Her one thought, now, was to get rid of him. Then she would be able to run to Jason and warn him of this mysterious peril she had paid so dearly to discover.

  When her nerves had steadied a little, Marianne extracted the key to the safe from the tiny hiding place hollowed out of the solid mahogany bedpost and concealed by part of the ormolu decoration which moved on a pivot. Next, making for a particular spot on the wall, she selected one of the palmettes in the plaster moulding and pressed it, whereupon a section of the green silken panelling slid aside to reveal a metal safe. Inside, were stacked a number of jewel cases, several bundles of Bank of France notes and two bags of gold coins. Without hesitation, Marianne took out three bundles of notes, put two aside and counted the third, Then, after returning some of its contents to the safe, she locked the door with care, closed the panel and, putting the key back in its hiding place, left the room, clutching what she could not help thinking of as Jason'
s ransom money. The house was still utterly quiet. The servants, in their own quarters, and Agathe, in her little room next to that of her mistress, were all fast asleep, quite unconscious of the drama which was being played out under their mistress's roof. But not for anything in the world would Marianne have had the servants know anything about it.

  When Francis Cranmere saw the notes in Marianne's hands, he frowned:

  'I should have preferred gold.'

  'I dare say you might, but I do not keep such a sum in gold about me. And do not tell me you do not know a banker who will change them for you. Your friend Baring in London, for instance.'

  'You know about him, then?'

  'I know a great many things. Such as how it comes about that you were able to run free in Paris when Fouché was Minister of Police. But Fouché is no longer in power—'

  'And I, therefore, cannot afford to linger. Give me the notes. I will manage somehow.'

  Marianne whipped both hands swiftly behind her back, laying the notes down on a small table behind her:

  'One moment! You shall have them when you go. But first, tell me what you know.'

  Her heart missed a beat. Francis's eyes, fixed on the money, had narrowed to thin, grey slits. His face was flushed and she knew that the greed of riches was on him once again. There was nothing to prevent him attacking her, wresting the money from her and escaping with it. Perhaps, after all, he had no information for her…

  Scarcely knowing what she did, she sprang towards a valuable marquetry cabinet, wrenched open the box which stood upon it and drew out one of the two loaded duelling pistols that lay within upon a bed of crimson plush. Levelling the weapon at Francis, she said grimly: 'If you lay a finger on that money before you have told me what you know, you will never reach that door alive. You know I never miss my aim.'

  'What ails you now? I do not mean to rob you. What I have to say can be said in a very few words.'

  This was true. The sum of it was that on the following night, Jason was engaged to visit Quintin Crawfurd in the rue d'Anjou, ostensibly to inspect his celebrated collection of paintings, in reality to meet a messenger from Fouché who, although at present in exile, was in no way reconciled to his loss of power and determined to retrieve his position by any means, even including high treason. Two fanatical royalists, the Chevalier de Bruslart – who was already well known to Marianne – and the Baron de Vitrolles, would also be there.

  'Savary has been informed,' Cranmere went on, 'and all four men will be quietly apprehended before they even set foot over Crawfurd's threshold, taken to Vincennes and shot before daybreak.'

  Marianne started. 'You are out of your mind! Execute four men without trial, without the express command of the Emperor!'

  Francis's handsome face twisted into a mocking smile:

  'Have you forgotten Savary was the man who assassinated the Duc d'Enghien? Bonaparte is at Compiègne and this time those concerned are enemy agents.'

  'Jason an enemy agent? Who do you think will believe that?'

  'Why – you, my dear. Like a good many other sensible men, he is of the opinion that peace with England is necessary for a host of reasons, chief of which is the good of trade. This peace will be made with or without Boney. King Louis XVIII is wholly committed to it.'

  Sheer, cold rage overcame Marianne. She resented it as a personal insult that anyone should associate Jason, the man she loved, with those devious and unscrupulous politicians who, entirely for their own ends, were ready to overthrow empires and set up no matter what wretched puppet on a still reeking throne:

  'There is just one thing you may not be aware of, Jason both likes and admires Napoleon. Have you forgotten that he is here in an official capacity, on behalf of his government?'

  'Precisely. A most useful position. And have you forgotten that Beaufort is perennially short of money? I should have thought that we had both of us good cause to know that!'

  'He is not the only one—'

  'Have you forgotten,' Francis went on, ignoring the interruption, 'the circumstances of your first meeting with him, at Selton in England – as one of the intimates of the Prince of Wales? What better proof do you need? The English privateer which he so opportunely let slip just recently on the excuse that America was not at war with England, that privateer was on her way from Spain carrying important despatches from the Duke of Wellington, which His Lordship had judged it wiser to entrust to a fast vessel. And yet the Sea Witch is unusually well armed for a merchantman, far outweighing the Revenge, and she is swifter, too. Are you convinced?'

  Marianne could not bring herself to answer. She looked away. Naturally, she could not blame Jason for placing his own country's interests before those of France, but the thought that he could come back to France under cover of friendship, be received by the Emperor, treated as an honoured guest, and at the same time conspire with the French ruler's worst enemies, was unbearable to her. But there was no denying there was something in what Francis said. Before meeting with Napoleon, Jason had undoubtedly been on friendly terms with the Prince of Wales, even to the point of making one of his intimate circle.

  After revolving the matter in her mind for a moment, she said: There is one thing I do not understand. You have come here to sell me information which can save Monsieur Beaufort – but this information does not concern him only. What about Crawfurd – and the others?'

  'If Crawfurd has enemies, he will find his own way of dealing with them,' Francis said with a short laugh. 'If Savary has got wind of the matter, the source of his information is not far to seek.'

  'You mean…'

  'That Crawfurd is very agreeably situated in Paris. He is no longer a young man and no doubt values his peace far more than the convictions for which he may well feel, and with good reason, that he has made sufficient sacrifice of his purse and person in the past. You need not worry, Crawfurd can have nothing to fear. As for the others, I will take care of them.'

  'It may occur to one of them to warn Beaufort?'

  'They will have little enough time to get themselves to safety. Have I earned my reward?'

  Marianne nodded. She lowered her hand and laid the pistol back in its case as Francis moved slowly to the table. In silence, he stowed the money away in his capacious pockets then bowed deeply and stepped to the window. Marianne was in haste now to have him gone. The transaction which had taken place between them, if it had not added to her hatred of this man, had at least done away with the fear which he had inspired in her ever since that night at the Théâtre Feydeau, and considerably increased her contempt for him. She knew now that a little money would always make it possible to muzzle Francis Cranmere and render him harmless, and money was the one thing she would not be short of in future. More difficult to digest were his revelations concerning Jason. Despite the facts, Marianne could not bring herself to accept that her friend was a common spy. And yet…

  The Englishman had one leg over the balustrade, preparatory to letting himself down from the balcony into the garden, when he paused suddenly:

  'I nearly forgot. How do you mean to warn Beaufort? Will you write to him?'

  'I do not see how that may concern you. I shall do as I think best.'

  'You know where he is living?'

  'He told me he was at Passy, in a house belonging to a friend of his, Baguenault the banker.'

  That's right. A big house with a terraced garden going down to the river. A beautiful place which used to belong to the Princesse de Lamballe and is still known locally by that name. Well, let me give you a piece of advice.'

  'You? Give?'

  'Why not? You have been generous. I will be so too, and spare you a piece of foolishness. Do not write. You never know what may happen in matters like this and in the event of Beaufort's house being searched a letter could prove dangerous for you. Where there is no evidence, there is no proof, Marianne, and there are circumstances in which your relations with the Emperor could be damaging to you. It will be best for you to see Beaufort yo
urself – say, at about nine o'clock tomorrow evening, when he will be at home. The meeting at Crawfurd's is not until eleven.'

  'How do you know this? He may not be at home all day—'

  'Yes, but I have certain information that he is expecting an important visitor at about eight o'clock tomorrow evening. Consequently, he will be at home.'

  Marianne studied Cranmere curiously:

  'How is it you are so well informed? One would think Jason made no move without first informing you.'

  'In my trade, my dear, it is often a matter of life or death to know as much as possible, about friends or foes. You are at perfect liberty to disbelieve me, after all, and act as you think best – but do not blame me if your actions lead to disaster.'

  Marianne made a gesture of impatience. She wanted only one thing now: to get rid of him and then run to Jason without loss of time, go to him that instant and make sure he would not go to that senseless meeting. But her thoughts were written so clearly on her face that Cranmere had no difficulty in reading them. Putting up one hand carelessly to straighten a fold of his neckcloth, he said idly, as if it were a matter of no importance: 'It will not do you much good to go running out to Passy at this hour of night. You would have the devil of a job to get them to admit you. Señora whatshername – Pilar, isn't it? – guards her marital bliss as closely as the original Jason cherished his Golden Fleece. She is the only person you would be likely to see, whereas, tomorrow, I can promise you the lady will be at Mortefontaine, visiting that poor little bourgeoise from Marseille whom they have turned into the Queen of Spain. It appears that Queen Julie, as they call her, considers it her duty to surround herself with anything even remotely connected with Spain, although on the face of it it seems highly unlikely that she will ever set foot there. Her noble husband much prefers to leave her where she is. Where was I?'

  'You were about to take your leave,' Marianne said tartly.