Marianne and the Privateer

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'He is a lucky man,' the prince said with a faint, rather wistful smile, 'to have such a love. Ah, well, I seem to be fated to refuse you nothing, Marianne! And perhaps, after all, it may be best to be within reach. An opportunity may occur, and if it should, you will be there to take advantage of it. For the present, let us go in. Good heavens, child! What are you doing?' The last words were accompanied by a vain attempt to draw back his hand which Marianne had carried gratefully to her lips. 'Haven't I chosen you for my daughter, after all? I am merely trying to prove myself a tolerable father, that is all. Though I can't help wondering what your own father would say to all this!'

  Arm in arm, the lame prince and the young girl made their way slowly back to the village, leaving the lake to the company of the ducks.

  Eleven o'clock was striking from the Quinquengrogne Tower when Talleyrand's coachman set his team bowling along the road to Paris. As the coach began to move, Marianne looked up to the window of her room and saw, behind the closed shutters, the glimmer of the lamplight showing through, just as it had done every night since her arrival. No one would ever think that it shone on an empty bed, in an empty room. Gracchus and Agathe had received strict orders, although Gracchus, especially, had proved hard to convince. He had been deeply shocked to think that his beloved mistress could consider setting out on such a perilous adventure without his stalwart support. Marianne had been obliged to promise that she would send for him as soon as possible, and certainly at the first hint of danger.

  The darkened countryside sped past the windows of the coach and very soon the motion lulled her and she slept, with her head on Talleyrand's shoulder, and dreamed that she was going to fling wide the gates of Jason's prison all by herself with her bare hands.

  Part II

  THE PRISONER

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Queen's Lover

  The house, when Marianne entered it with Talleyrand, was dark and silent. An expressionless servant in staid, brown livery bearing a branch of candles preceded them up a broad, black marble staircase adorned with a handsome, gilded rail of wrought iron to the first-floor landing off which, in addition to a number of darkened salons, there opened a room like a large bookroom but so filled with furniture, pictures, books and works of art of all kinds that, if he had not come to meet them, Marianne and her companion might have had some difficulty in distinguishing the bald head and heavy, stooping figure of the Englishman, or rather Scotsman, Crawfurd.

  'When I lived in this house,' the prince had observed with a rather forced lightness of tone, 'this was my library. Crawfurd has made it a shrine of a somewhat different order…'

  By the dim light of a few, scattered candles, Marianne saw to her astonishment that all the pictures and other objects, or nearly all, were of the same person. In bronze, in marble and on canvas, everywhere the proud, lovely face of Queen Marie-Antoinette stared down at the newcomers. Even the furnishings had come from the Petit Trianon and nearly everything in the crowded room, fans, snuff-boxes, handkerchiefs, books, bore either the queen's arms or her monogram. On the walls, which were hung with grey silk, were many gilt frames in which the occasional note in her own handwriting alternated with portraits and miniatures.

  While Talleyrand shook hands with Crawfurd in the American fashion, Quintin Crawfurd himself was watching with a melancholy smile the obvious astonishment with which Marianne's eyes took in the room. At last he said, in the gruff voice which still retained some traces of a highland accent: 'From the first day on which it was my privilege to be presented to her, I vowed to devote my life to the service of the martyred queen. I did all that I could to snatch her from the hands of her enemies and restore her to happiness. Now I honour her memory.'

  Then, as Marianne was silent, awed by the strange passion which throbbed in the old man's voice, he went on: 'Your own parents died for her, and furthermore your mother was an Englishwoman. My house shall shelter you against all your foes, and any that may try to tear you from it, or to harm you in any way, shall not live to boast of it.'

  He gestured towards a pair of massive pistols which lay on a table and, on a chair near by, an ancient, heavy claymore whose glittering steel blade spoke of the assiduous care which kept it ready for instant use. Yet in spite of the somewhat theatrical drama of his welcome, Marianne could not help finding Crawfurd rather impressive, and he was undeniably sincere in what he said: he was a man who would kill rather than betray his guest. Somehow, startled as she was, she managed to utter some polite words of thanks, but he cut her short at once:

  'Not at all. The blood of your family and the prince's friendship make you doubly welcome here. Come, my wife is waiting to meet you.'

  If the truth were known, Marianne's feelings when, as they drew near to Paris, Talleyrand had told her that he planned to ask for the Crawfurds' hospitality on her behalf, had been less than enthusiastic. Her recollection of the odd couple she had glimpsed only once, in the Prince of Benevento's box at the theatre, was strange and rather disturbing. The woman, in particular, had both intrigued and frightened her a little. She knew that before her marriages, first, morganatically, to the Duke of Würtemberg, then to the Englishman Sullivan, and then to Crawfurd, she had passed the early years of her life with the Sant'Annas and must therefore be familiar with them. But more than this, she had been conscious of Eleonora Crawfurd's dark gaze resting on her for a long time across the width of the house that night. There was admiration in the look, certainly, and a good deal of curiosity, but there was also something else, a kind of detached irony which did not suggest very friendly feelings. On the strength of this look, she had felt a peculiar reluctance when Talleyrand's coach had turned into the rue d'Anjou-St-Honoré on that evening of the fourteenth of August and drawn up at the door of what had formerly been the Hôtel de Créqui. It was a pretty, eighteenth-century house which, two years earlier, had been the home of Talleyrand himself, while the wealthy Crawfurd had lived, since 1806, in the Hôtel Matignon. The exchange had been made partly as a matter of private convenience, for Matignon was far too big for Crawfurd's household, and partly in obedience to the Emperor's desire to see his Minister for Foreign Affairs installed in a suitably grand establishment, to which, be it said, the minister in question had been by no means averse.

  But Talleyrand had retained a certain affection for his old home in the rue d'Anjou and he would not have understood if Marianne had expressed any unwillingness to stay there in the care of people whom he counted among his oldest and most trusted friends. He maintained that Eleonora, who had been his mistress before becoming attached to the unfortunate Count Fersen, was the quintessence of all that was most charming in the previous century, a period which, for him, represented an achievement in the art of living which was now gone for ever. And this despite the fact that she had begun her career as an opera dancer – but then Talleyrand had always had a weakness for dancers.

  Meekly, forcing herself to think of nothing but the bed which she was offered and which she longed for with all her heart, Marianne followed her host into a nearby sitting-room where Mrs Crawford was seated, a branch of tall pink candles at her side, working at a piece of tapestry. In her dress of black watered silk, its folds catching the light, with a white muslin cap and a scarf of the same material crossed in the old fashion over a breast that was still lovely, and her silver hair dressed high with one or two long, flowing curls stressing the line of her neck, the mistress of the house bore such a startling resemblance to the portrait of the late queen in the Temple that Marianne paused in the doorway and stared at the apparition as if she had found herself suddenly looking at a ghost.

  But the resemblance stopped short at the first impression. The black eyes which looked up, sharp and inquisitive, at the visitor and the red, rather hard curve of the mouth, did not belong to Marie-Antoinette, any more than the figure, which was much shorter and slimmer, or the hands, which were seen to be thin and bony, in spite of the black lace mittens and the splendid diamonds which adorned t
hem.

  'So this is our fugitive,' Eleonora Crawfurd said, getting up and coming forward to meet them. 'I am very happy to welcome you, my dear, and I hope you will look on this house as your own. You may come and go as you please in it, for although we have few servants, those few are all people we can trust.'

  The voice was a splendid contralto, very deep and warm, retaining some musical echoes of its native Tuscany, and extremely attractive. Eleonora knew how to use it, too, like a real artist.

  'You are very kind, Madame,' Marianne said, wondering vaguely if she ought to bow and compromising with a smile and a little bob of her head. In her boy's clothes, a curtsy would have been ridiculous and she did not place much confidence in her ability to make a leg with credit. 'I am only sorry to impose upon you in this way, and perhaps put you at some risk—'

  'Tut! Who talks of risks in this house? Quintin and I have run risks all our lives and this, supposing it to be one, is very small by comparison. Besides, I trust your troubles will not be of long duration and that you will soon be able to return to your own house. You were only to spend the summer months – er – taking the waters, were you not? You will be home again in the autumn. Until then, you must feel quite at home here, and to start with, you and our dear prince must take a little supper. You must be in need of it. Afterwards, I will show you your room.'

  Supper, at that late hour, was brought to the sitting-room and consisted of some magnificent peaches and some light creams and pastries, as well as a superb Brie of which Talleyrand was known to be particularly fond, washed down with an unusually fine old burgundy.

  Conversation soon languished, however, owing to the manifest weariness of the guests. It revived only slightly when Crawfurd remarked, as though announcing a fact of no great importance: 'It appears that Champagny has sent a note to ambassador Armstrong.'

  Talleyrand raised one eyebrow, while Marianne roused abruptly from her sleepy doze at the mere mention of the American diplomat's name.

  'A note eh?' the prince said. 'And what does it say?'

  'How should I know? All I can tell you is that there was a note from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs – and that the ambassador's expression has been a trifle less harassed ever since the – the fifth of August, I think it was, when the note arrived.'

  'Less harassed? What do you think, Crawfurd? Does it mean the Emperor has decided to treat the Beaufort business leniently? It would be quite easy, of course, simply to let him go…'

  'Don't you believe it. The matter is past hushing up now. The seaman, Perez, who, quite between ourselves, seems singularly well-informed as regards political affairs for an ignorant seaman, declares that Beaufort intended to put in at Portsmouth to unload some of his cargo of champagne and is demanding a third of the value as a reward for his evidence, by virtue of the Milan decree. Which reminds me, it's a curious thing how, although the affair was to be kept a deadly secret, every interested department seems to have got wind of it. I wonder what the Emperor thinks…'

  'That,' Talleyrand said energetically, rising to his feet and striking the table with the flat of his hand, 'is what we have to find out. The whole business seems to have got thoroughly out of hand, and we are hearing a great deal too much about this seaman, Perez. Don't be alarmed, Marianne,' he added, seeing her pale face and widening eyes suddenly bright with tears, 'I will try to see the Emperor, and if I fail there I will write to him. It is time a few honest voices made themselves heard. But go and get some sleep now, my child. You can scarcely keep your eyes open. Your hostess will take good care of you and I will tell your friends where you are first thing in the morning.'

  This was true. Marianne was wholly exhausted. While the Prince of Benevento sought his coach for the remainder of his journey to the Hôtel Matignon, she suffered herself to be led meekly away by Eleonora Crawfurd to a pretty bedchamber hung with rose-coloured chintz on the second floor of the house. The room had two windows which looked out on to a quiet garden not unlike Marianne's own.

  Mrs Crawfurd turned down the bed with deft hands and then turned to light the lamp under a tisanière which stood on the table by the bed.

  'A little camomile will do you good,' she said. 'It is a sovereign remedy for the nerves. Shall I help you to undress?'

  Marianne shook her head with a tired smile of thanks. She was impatient, now, to be left alone but her hostess seemed in no hurry to depart. She was walking about the room, altering the position of a flower in a vase, checking that the curtains ran smoothly in their rings, shifting a chair slightly, as if she were trying to prolong their tête à'tête indefinitely. Marianne, her nerves on edge, was on the point of committing the ultimate rudeness of asking point-blank to be left alone when Mrs Crawfurd turned suddenly and regarded her guest with an expression half perplexed and half compassionate.

  'You poor, poor child,' she said in a tone whose sympathy did not, to Marianne's ears, ring altogether true. 'I had so hoped that you, at least, might have found happiness!'

  'Why me at least?'

  'Because you are so sweet and fresh and lovely, so – oh, I swear to God that when I heard of your marriage I prayed, I prayed with all my heart that the curse which seems to haunt the princesses of Sant'Anna might spare you!'

  Th-the curse?' Marianne gasped with difficulty, for even in her present state of anxiety the idea of a curse seemed to be going rather too far. 'What curse? If you mean Donna Lucinda—'

  'Oh, your unfortunate husband's grandmother was no more than – than an instance of the dreadful state of affairs which goes back to the fourteenth century. Ever since a Sant'Anna brutally murdered his wife in revenge for adultery all the women of the family – or nearly all, have died violent deaths. It takes courage, or a great love, to marry any of that illustrious name – but you did not know this?'

  'No. I did not know,' Marianne said, wide awake now and wondering very much what her hostess could be at. It seemed to her extremely odd that the Cardinal de Chazay should have kept such a tragic legend as this from her, unless, with his fanatical hatred of all superstition, he had simply dismissed it as a horrible, childish tale.

  Deciding that this last theory was probably correct, Marianne added: 'But it would have made no difference had I known. I believe in ghosts – but not in curses which attach themselves to innocent people. Besides,' she went on, ruthlessly editing the truth, 'I did not even meet a ghost at the Villa dei Cavalli!' This whole conversation, coming out of the blue at a time when all she wanted was to go to sleep, struck her as fantastic, and that seemed as good a way as any of putting an end to it. But Mrs Crawfurd was not a woman to be easily put off, although it was not easy to see what her object might be in introducing the subject of the Sant'Annas.

  'No ghosts?' she said now, with a sceptical smile. 'I am surprised! Even if it were only—'

  'Only who?'

  'Oh, no one,' Eleonora said suddenly. She came to Marianne and kissed her lightly on the forehead. 'We will talk about all this another time. For the moment, you are asleep on your feet.'

  'No, no!' Marianne protested, quite sincerely now, for she was dying to hear more. 'I can sleep later. Tell me—'

  'Nothing at all, child. It is a long story and – well, I too am sleepy. It would be a mistake to begin. But don't tell me that you did not know that when your husband, Prince Corrado, was born his father, Don Ugolino, killed his mother…'

  With that, Eleonora left the room, as softly as one of the ghosts in which she, too, appeared to believe and closed the door behind her, leaving Marianne wide awake and thoroughly confused. She understood this woman less and less. Why had she introduced the subject if she did not wish to explain fully? If it had been to distract Marianne's thoughts from their constant, agonized preoccupation with Jason's fate, she had only partly succeeded because there was no story, however exciting, which could have distracted her from her fears for the man she loved. But if she had meant to give her a sense of uneasiness and insecurity, then she had achieved her object to perfection.
How could she help thinking that this curse which had attached itself to the women of her name might extend to those she loved? And what connection was there between the murder of Corrado's mother, Donna Adriana, and the prince's own tragic destiny?

  Unable to sleep, she lay turning the problem over and over in her overexcited brain, looking at it from every direction yet without reaching any satisfactory conclusion. The murder seemed to give substance to the theory that Corrado was a monster, yet when she recalled the lithe, powerful figure of the nocturnal horseman the idea became unthinkable. Then was it the face, perhaps, which was repulsive? But a man did not kill his wife on account of a face, however hideous. He might kill in anger – or brutality – or for jealousy. Suppose the child Corrado had borne some striking likeness to another man? But Marianne did not on the whole place much faith in striking resemblances applied to new-born babies. With the exercise of a little imagination, a baby could be made to look like almost anybody. And besides, in that case, why the sequestered existence, why the mask? To preserve for ever from the least breath of scandal the memory of a mother whom the prince had never known and whose memory he could therefore hardly be expected to cherish? No, it was quite impossible…

  When it began to get light, at about four o'clock, Marianne, seated in a chair by the open window, had still not closed her eyes, nor had she found any answer to her questions. Her head ached and she was deadly tired. Dragging herself up, she leaned out. All was very quiet. Only the first birds were beginning to sing and tiny forms flitted from branch to branch, without stirring a leaf. The sky was pink and orange with streaks of coral and gold which told that the sun would soon be up. Out in the street, the metal-shod wheels of a cart clanked over the cobblestones and a charcoal-vendor's cry echoed nostalgically. Then, from across the Seine, came the sound of a cannon being fired and at that precise moment up came the sun into a sky filled with belfries chiming the first notes of the Angelus.