Marianne and the Privateer

by Жюльетта Бенцони

'No. Listen! It is like someone crying. A woman… she is crying to warn us…'

  'Any moment you will tell me you are another who has seen the poor princess's ghost! Enough of this, Marianne. You are doing yourself no good and I am afraid that I have made matters worse. We must not stay here.'

  Without further argument, he picked her up in his arms and carried her through into the other room and shut the door carefully behind them before depositing his burden on a small sofa. Having first wrapped Marianne in her silken cloak and placed a cushion underneath her head, he announced his intention of rousing the cook to bring her some hot milk. Walking over to the corner by the bookcase, he pulled the bell rope which had been concealed there. Muffled to her chin in the green silk, Marianne followed him with her eyes.

  'It's no good,' she said unhappily. 'The best thing is for me to go home. But – I didn't see the ghost, you know. I heard it. I know I did.'

  'Don't be so silly. There is no ghost outside your own imagination.'

  'There is… it was trying to warn us—'

  Quite suddenly, the house seemed to be wide awake. Doors opened and shut noisily and there was a sound of hurried footsteps. Even before Jason could reach the door to inquire what was afoot, it was flung open to admit a bewildered-looking footman bearing all the signs of one who had dressed in great haste:

  'The police! It is the police, Monsieur!'

  'Here? At this hour? What do they want?'

  'I – I do not know. They made the lodge keeper open the gate and they are already in the grounds.'

  Seized with a horrible foreboding, Marianne sat up and began feverishly putting on her cloak, tying the silken strings with trembling hands. She stared up at Jason with frightened eyes. The thought in her mind was that Francis might have cheated her and, without the least shadow of proof, have informed on Jason as a conspirator.

  'What are you going to do?' she asked in an anguished undertone. 'You see, I was right to be afraid…'

  'There is nothing to be afraid of,' Jason said stoutly. 'I have done nothing I need be ashamed of and I have no reason to suppose that I have enemies.' He turned to the footman, who was still trembling in the doorway. 'You may tell whoever is in charge that I am ready to see them. No doubt it is all a mistake. But ask them to wait a moment…'

  He was buttoning his shirt as he spoke, winding his neckcloth deftly about his throat and reaching for the coat which he had taken off earlier for the sake of coolness and laid over the back of a chair. This done, he came back to Marianne and helped her to her feet.

  'How did you get in?'

  'By the little door in the wall in the rue de Seine. Gracchus is waiting for me there, with the chaise hidden close by.'

  'Then you must go to him at once… I hope you may still be able to get out without being seen. Fortunately it has stopped raining. Come! They will still be at the front of the house.'

  But Marianne clung to him desperately:

  'I don't want to leave you! If there is any danger to you, I want to share it.'

  'Now you are being childish. I am in no danger. But you, or your reputation at least, will be horribly compromised if these policemen find you here. No one must know—'

  'I don't care!' Marianne cried wildly. 'You want to keep it from Pilar, that is all—'

  'For heaven's sake, Marianne! Stop this foolishness! I give you my word that in asking you to leave now I am thinking only of you—' He broke off suddenly and his arms, which had been holding her, fell to his sides. It was too late. The door had opened and a man was already in the room. He was a big man, very solidly-built, dressed all in black, buttoned high to the chin below a long, drooping moustache. In his hand he held a high-crowned velours hat, black likewise, and his eyes, Marianne saw in the light of the candles, were the hardest and coldest she had ever seen.

  The newcomer sketched a brief salute, 'Inspector Pâques. I'm sorry to disturb you, Monsieur, but we have received information to the effect that there has been a crime committed in this house and that we should find a body here.'

  'A crime?' echoed Jason and Marianne together. But while Jason advanced to meet the policeman, Marianne stayed where she was, leaning heavily on a chair. She felt as if she were about to faint. The absurd, yet horrifying menace which had hung over her life since that fateful evening at the theatre seemed to have come home to roost. What was all this about crimes and dead bodies? It was like some dreadful farce in rather bad taste, the police bursting in in the middle of her love scene… Then she heard Jason's voice, calm and even a little amused:

  'Are you sure your information was correct, Monsieur? I knew this house was supposed to be haunted, but this talk of corpses lying about… I would not cast doubts on your informant but I confess I find it all very surprising.'

  His level, courteous tone must have impressed the police officer because he gave a small, rigid bow before replying:

  'I am very willing to admit, Monsieur, the information in question reached us anonymously, but it was so definite – and so serious – that I did not hesitate to act.'

  'So serious? Does that mean you know whose body you expect to find here?'

  'No. We know only that the man is a loyal servant of the Emperor and – and that he is a special agent. I could no more ignore the matter than if a political assassination had been involved.'

  It was Jason's turn to bow. 'Very true. Although I am amazed as I am intrigued! My dear Sir, the house is yours. Pray search. I shall be most interested to accompany you. But first, if you will excuse me, I will escort this lady to her carriage. This business is not suitable for her.'

  Inspector Pâques was already half-way to the door but he turned at this and came back to the young couple:

  'I regret that will not be possible, Monsieur. I must ask you not to leave this room until the search has been made. This lady is the Princess Sant'Anna, I believe?'

  This time it was Marianne who answered. She had listened with mounting alarm to the polite exchange between Jason and his unexpected visitor but now at the mention of her own name her fears, although still nameless, took on a new edge of horror. All the same, it was with dignity and a fair assumption of coolness that she said: 'That is so. May I ask how you know me?'

  'I have not that honour, Madame,' Pâques replied chillingly. 'But our information stated that you would be found with Monsieur Beaufort—whose mistress you are.'

  Before Marianne could say a word, Jason had stepped between her and the policeman. The muscles of his jaw were taut with a rage barely under control and his eyes were very bright.

  'That will do!' he said sharply. 'Do what you came to do, since the word of an anonymous informant is enough to make you invade a respectable household, but do not insult people!'

  'I was not insulting anyone. I speak as I read—'

  'If you believe everything you read, I am sorry for you. Moreover, no accusations have so far been made against either myself or the lady, I think. For myself, it makes no difference, but let me advise you to behave more courteously towards one who is a personal friend of the Emperor, unless you wish me to register a complaint against you. I am, after all, an American citizen, as you may know.'

  'Very good,' the inspector cut him short. 'If I have made a mistake in coming here, Monsieur, I'll engage to apologize, but for the present I must ask you not to leave this room.'

  He went out and Marianne and Jason were left alone. They looked at each other, he with a faint shrug and a quick, reassuring smile that yet did not reach his eyes and she with an anxiety she no longer made any attempt to hide.

  'This is ridiculous,' Jason said. But Marianne shook her head:

  'No – I am afraid it may be somehow the work of Lord Cranmere. And there is nothing ridiculous there, unfortunately.'

  Jason gave a start and frowned. 'You think this police fellow's letter may have come from him? It's possible – but from what he said, I seem to be the principal target and I cannot see why Cranmere should wish me harm…'

  '
Because he knows quite well that the best way to hurt me is to strike at you!' Marianne's voice held all the passionate urgency of her need to convince her friend of what was growing every moment clearer to herself. Everything pointed to it, even the strange noises in the house which only she, with her extremely delicate sensitivity and an ear which, perhaps owing to the English side of her nature, seemed unusually attuned to anything connected with the supernatural, had heard.

  'Think, Jason! You yourself were struck by the coincidence of all that has happened since last night, when I found that man in my house. This curious mixture of truth and falsehood which keeps recurring…'

  'Truth?' the American said with sudden ferocity. 'What truth do you see in that damned anonymous note, apart from the reference to your presence here tonight?'

  'Lord Cranmere was the only person who knew that I was coming—'

  'That's as may be. But that is as far as it goes. You are not my mistress, are you? While as for this fictitious crime, this wholly imaginary corpse—'

  He stopped short, becoming aware of the sudden reappearance of Inspector Pâques, this time through the french window by which Marianne had entered earlier, and looking, if possible, even chillier than at his first entry:

  'Will you be good enough to come with me, Monsieur? And you also, Madame.'

  'Where to?' Jason said.

  'To the billiard-room in the small pavilion in the grounds.'

  Marianne's presentiment of some imminent catastrophe had become a certainty. She read disaster in the set face of the policeman and she was sure that his eyes held a threat. Jason, too, had scanned Pâques's uncommunicative features with surprise, but he gave no sign beyond a slight shrug as he held out his hand to Marianne, saying on a note of exasperated resignation: 'Oh, very well! Since you insist.'

  They went out into the garden. The heat which had made the earlier part of the evening so unpleasant had given way to a cool freshness and from the drenched earth and dripping trees there came a reviving smell of new-washed leaves and wet grass. But the dark figures of the police were stationed grimly among the roses on the three terraces and Marianne shivered, thinking that there were enough of them to surround a whole village and wondering at the extravagance which could employ so many men to check on a single house. It was possible, of course, that Inspector Pâques had been expecting a gang of criminals and had been determined at all costs to prevent an escape, which must always be reckoned a possibility in a garden of such size. The men stood quite still. One or two held shaded lanterns in their hands to throw a light on the path, but altogether they gave the impression of some ominous guard. Marianne must have trembled perceptibly because she felt Jason's fingers tighten on hers and drew some comfort from the warmth of the contact.

  The little pavilion which had once been used as a billiard-room at some time in the past stood slightly to the right of the house. The light inside gave it the air of a big, yellow lantern standing there in the dark. Two men were standing guard at the door, leaning heavily on the knotted cudgels which were formidable weapons in their hands. They stood, silent and ominous, like two black attendants at the mouth of a tomb, and Marianne's hand clutched Jason's nervously. Pâques opened the door and stood aside to allow the couple to enter:

  'Go in and see.'

  Jason entered first and after a quick start moved instinctively to block his companion's view, and at the same time to keep her from stepping in the blood which covered the room. But it was already too late. She had seen what lay within.

  She gave a single horrified shriek, then turned, her knees giving way beneath her, to escape the nightmare vision, only to come full against the inspector's large chest, blocking the doorway.

  In the middle of the room, the legs half-hidden under the billiard-table with its torn cloth, lay a gigantic corpse, with gaping throat and eyes wide open on eternity. Yet for all the bloodless pallor of the face, for all the terrifying fixity of the expression, rigid in a look of horrible surprise, there was no mistaking the identity of the man who lay there, in that place which had once been built for amusement and was now so dreadfully transformed into a scene of carnage. It was Nicholas Mallerousse, Marianne's adoptive uncle, alias the seaman Black Fish, the friend of prisoners escaping from the English hulks and the man who had sworn to destroy Francis Cranmere or die in the attempt.

  'Who is this man?' Jason asked tonelessly. 'I have never seen him before.'

  'Ah! Is that so, indeed?' the inspector said, making vain attempts to disengage himself from Marianne who was clinging to him, sobbing convulsively, in the first stages of hysteria. 'And yet your initials were found on the razor which killed Nicolas Mallerousse.

  'Now then, lady, now then, if you please! I've better things to do than stand here supporting you.'

  'Leave her alone!' Jason cried fiercely, snatching Marianne away from the inspector who had started to shake her in his efforts to get free. 'No one looks to a policeman for compassion! If this poor fellow is indeed Nicolas Mallerousse, as you claim, then this young woman has just received a terrible shock. Get her out of this slaughterhouse, I implore you, or the Emperor shall hear of it, I swear to you! Come, Marianne, come with me…'

  Still talking, he lifted her shuddering form and carried her outside. Piques let them go and merely indicated a stone bench which stood beside the path, backed by a bed of tall white lilies whose heady scent filled all that part of the garden. Jason laid down his burden and asked for someone to be sent to find Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche and tell him to bring the carriage for his mistress. Inspector Pâques, however, had his own views:

  'Not so fast. I haven't finished with this lady yet. You told me it came as a shock to her that the body was that of Nicolas Mallerousse? Why should that be, now?'

  'Because he was a good friend to her. She was very fond of him.'

  'Do you expect me to believe that? The shock was caused by the sight of the blood and maybe because she had not thought to be confronted with your handiwork.'

  'My handiwork! Are you accusing me of this disgusting piece of butchery? Simply because you found a razor with my initials on it? Razors can be stolen—'

  'But motives can't. And you had two, two very good ones.'

  'Two motives? How should I have two motives for murdering a man I'd never even met?'

  'At least two,' Pâques amended, 'each better than the last. Mallerousse had been on your tail ever since you came to France, trying to get proof of important smuggling ventures you were involved in. You killed him because he was about to arrest you just as you were leaving France with your holds full of—'

  'Champagne and burgundy!' Jason cried exasperatedly. 'You don't kill a man for the sake of a few bottles of wine!'

  'If what that letter has to say is true we shall find something else besides that will give us all the proof we need. As for the second motive. The lady herself supplies that. You killed him to save her!'

  'To save her? Save her from what? I tell you she—'

  'From this! We found it on the body. I don't doubt she knew Mallerousse well enough, or that he, poor devil, knew a good deal more about her than she liked. But I can't imagine her being so very fond of the man who was carrying this paper. Here, Germain, fetch a lantern over here!'

  One of the policemen came over to them. The light from his lantern fell on a scrap of yellow paper, the sight of which was enough to rouse Marianne from the depths of horror and grief that had overwhelmed her. Still shaken by sobs, she had heard what was said without being able to gain sufficient control of herself to respond to the inspector's accusations and Jason's angry replies. But this piece of paper, the yellow paper she had seen once before on that day in the Place de la Concorde, in the hands of her worst enemy, acted on her as a counter-irritant because it gave her clear proof; it was the signature added to the nightmare in which she and Jason were caught.

  She held out her hand and, taking the paper from the inspector, unfolded it and read it quickly. Yes, it was the same as the one
she had already seen, except that it had been brought up to date and the name 'Princess Marianne Sant'Anna' substituted for that of 'Maria-Stella'. But the contents, the accusation that the Emperor's mistress was a spy and a murderess still being sought by the law in England, were the same as ever, still characteristically vile.

  Holding it distastefully between finger and thumb, Marianne returned the yellow broadsheet to the inspector:

  'You were quite right to keep me here, Monsieur. No one is better able to give you the full story of that abominable piece of libel. I have seen it before. I will tell you, too, how it was I came to know Nicolas Mallerousse, of the kindness I received from him and why I had good cause to love him, whatever ideas you may have formed on the strength of one anonymous letter and another, equally anonymous pamphlet.'

  'Madame—' the police officer began impatiently.

  Marianne held up her hand. She looked proudly at the inspector with an expression at once so haughty and so candid that his eyes fell before hers:

  'Allow me, Monsieur! When I have done, you will see the impossibility of further accusations against Monsieur Beaufort because what I have to tell you will reveal the names of the real perpetrators of this – this hideous crime.'

  Her voice failed her as once again her memory set before her every detail of the scene she had just beheld. Her friend Nicolas, so kind and brave, basely slaughtered by the very ones he should have brought to justice. How it came to pass that this should have happened in this house, the house in which Jason was living, a house which belonged to a man of the utmost respectability, Marianne did not know, but she knew with all the infallible insight of her grief and anger, and her hatred also, who had done this. If she had to cry it aloud to the whole of Paris, if it cost her the last shred of her reputation, she would bring the real culprits to justice!

  Inspector Pâques, meanwhile, began to lose some of his assurance in the face of a woman who spoke with such firmness and certainty:

  'All this is all very well, Princess, but the fact remains that someone committed the crime and the body has been found here…'