Marianne and the Privateer

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'And yet,' Marianne said, 'there was one child, at least?'

  'Yes, and she was prepared for that because she accepted that there must be an heir. But when she found herself with child, her temper grew so ungovernable that her husband went away again, leaving her sole mistress of the estates. And for seven months no one set eyes on her.'

  'No one? But – why?'

  'Because she could not bear to let anyone see her in less than her usual beauty. All those months she spent shut up in her own apartments, never going out, never letting anyone in except my mother, Anna Franchi, and Maria, Lavinia's mother, who were her waiting women. And she scarcely spoke even to them. I can still remember hearing my mother tell my father, in a whisper, that when darkness came Donna Lucinda ordered all the candles to be lit and made sure all the doors and windows were fast shut, and no one knew what was the reason for this nocturnal illumination, which lasted until the candles guttered out.

  'One night, my curiosity got the better of me. I was ten years old and as quick and agile as a cat. I got out of my bedroom window when my parents were asleep and ran in my bare feet all the way to the house. The climbing plants on the walls made it easy for me to climb up to Donna Lucinda's balcony. My heart was thumping in my chest, for I was convinced that if I were caught my father and mother would never see me again alive. But I wanted to find out – and I did.'

  'What was she doing?'

  'Nothing. I peeped through a crack in the curtains and I saw her. She had the candlesticks placed in a circle on the floor and she was standing in the centre, facing the statue you have seen and stark naked also. The two figures must have been reflected over and over again to infinity in the mirrors, the white and the flesh pink, and Lucinda stood there for hours, comparing herself with her own marble image, searching for the slightest alterations and deformities brought about by her condition, with her hair all tumbled and the tears streaming down her cheeks… Believe me, there was something so hauntingly dreadful in the sight that I never went there again. Besides, when it came to the final weeks there was no more light of any kind. By her orders the mirrors were all veiled and the princess's rooms remained in darkness, day and night.'

  Marianne, wide-eyed, had listened breathlessly to her hostess's strange tale.

  'She must have been mad, surely?' she said at last.

  'Mad, yes, about herself, without a doubt. But apart from that, apart from her insensate worship of her own beauty, she behaved more or less normally. The birth of her son, Ugolino, was the occasion for endless celebration. The servants and the local peasants were almost swimming in gold and wine. Donna Lucinda was quite obviously radiant – as much on account of recovering her old beauty as of having gained an heir! For a little while, we all thought that a new era of happiness had begun for the house. But then – three months later, Prince Sebastiano set out again for some distant land and met his death there. The building of the little temple was begun almost immediately after he went away. It was a little more than a year after Matteo Damiani had been brought to the villa.'

  'Donna Lucinda did not mind his presence?'

  'No, she simply tolerated it. But then, when her own child was born, she began to neglect it almost entirely and showed a curious preference for the little love-child. She would play with him like a puppy, she took an interest in the way he was treated, how he was dressed, but most of all, she seemed to take a kind of perverted pleasure in bringing out all the most savage instincts in the child. She would alternately tease him and caress him, always encouraging him to be cruel and bloodthirsty. Not that that was very difficult. The foundations were already there. By the time he was five years old, when I left the villa, Matteo was already a little devil, I can tell you, a mixture of brutality and cunning. And from what I have been able to discover since, his character has only grown in those respects. Now, if you please, child, be so good as to ring for tea. I am as dry as a bone and if you want me to talk any more…'

  'Oh please. You told me just now that Donna Luanda was the cause of your going away—'

  'It is not a story I care to recall, but you stand now in her place. You have a right to know. But – tea first, if you please.'

  In a few moments a tray of china tea had been brought in by a soft-footed servant and the two women drank it in pleasurable silence. To Marianne, the fragrant brew, drunk in that comfortable, elegantly appointed sitting-room, brought with it a faint scent of time past. She saw herself as a little girl, and then as a young woman, seated on a stool by her Aunt Ellis's chair sharing in the daily ritual which Lady Selton would not have neglected for anything in the world. Now the old woman in her old-fashioned cap, the furnishings from a previous age, even the scent of roses floating in through the open window, all reminded Marianne of the happy days of her childhood and for the first time for very many days she was conscious of a sense of relaxation and well-being such as she used to feel when, at the height of some childish outburst of grief or rage, her Aunt Ellis had come and stroked her hair and said in her gruff voice: 'Come now, Marianne! You should know that there is nothing in this world that cannot be got over with courage and perseverance… oneself most of all.'

  It had always worked wonders and it was both strange and comforting to find the same feeling now in a cup of tea in a strange house. Marianne replaced her flowered teacup on the silver tray and found that Mrs Crawfurd was watching her.

  'Why do you smile, my dear? I fear the things I have been telling you were sad enough.'

  'It was not that, Madame. It was just that, drinking tea like this, with you, I felt as if I were back again as a child in England. But go on, if you please.'

  For a moment, the old woman's eyes lingered on her face and Marianne thought that she read in them a softness and sympathy which she had not seen before. But Eleonora Crawfurd said nothing and, turning her head to look out of the window, offered Marianne only the view of a profile half-hidden by the frill of her muslin cap. She resumed her story after a moment but in a voice so low that Marianne was scarcely able to catch the opening words:

  'It is strange how the memory of one's first love can remain alive – and painful, in spite of all the years that have passed. It is something you will learn when you are old. When I think of Pietro, I feel as if it were yesterday I was running to meet him by the chapel of San Cristoforo, running through the purple twilight full of the smell of new-mown hay… I was fifteen and I loved him. He was seventeen. He was strong and handsome, and he lived in the village of Capanori, alone since the death of his father, who was a tinsmith… He wanted to marry me and we used to meet every night… until one night he did not come. One night… two nights… and no one in the village could tell me where he had gone, but all of a sudden I was afraid, although I did not know why – perhaps because he had never had any secrets from me. On the third night I could not sleep. I went out and wandered about the park, just for something to do. It was as hot as an oven, that night. Even the water in the fountains was warm and in the stables the horses were not even stirring… It was then, as I passed by the grotto, that I heard singing – if it could be called singing. It was more like a monotonous wailing, in time to a soft, rhythmic beating on a drum, with now and then a kind of cry. I had never heard anything like it before, but to have dared to walk so close to the house, and especially to the grotto, which was out of bounds to servants, I must have been in an unusual state of mind. Even now, I do not know what instinct made me follow the forbidden path to the clearing with the little temple. But go I did, feeling my way, stealthily, holding on to the rock and flattening myself against it as if I meant to make myself part of it. When the light from the temple fell on my face I drew back, instinctively, then, very carefully, I put my head out again – and then I saw!'

  Silence fell once again. Marianne sat rigid, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of breaking the spell through which Eleonora's voice had seemed to come. She recalled too well her own terror when she had discovered the ruins, and Matteo Damiani there, embrac
ing the statue. But she guessed that the ordeal which this woman had endured had been far worse than her own and her voice was very gentle as she breathed: 'You saw…'

  'Hassan first of all. He was the singer. He was crouched on the marble steps with a sort of small drum, like a gourd, between his knees and he was drumming on it with his big black hands to accompany his chanting. He was gazing up at the stars as though lost in some mindless dream, but the torches burning inside the temple made his black skin gleam like bronze and glistened on the gilded loincloth and barbaric jewels he was wearing. His back was to the temple and I could see through the pillars to a great, gilded bed, all hung with black velvet. And on that bed two people were making love… The woman was Lucinda… and the man was Pietro – my Pietro. I still wonder why I did not drop dead where I stood, how I found the strength to escape. But I do know that was the last time I saw Pietro alive. The next day, they found his body hanging from a tree on the hillside. And three days later, I left with the players.'

  This time, it was a long moment before Marianne uttered a word. She knew the place so well, the place whose name she bore, that she almost felt, listening to this terrible story, that she had experienced it herself, or at least been there to see. It did not surprise her when she saw the other woman brush away a tear, furtively, with the tip of one finger. Only when she thought that her companion was a little recovered, did she busy herself again with the tea-tray, and as she handed Eleonora her cup, asked: 'You never went back?'

  'Yes, once, in 1784, when my mother was dying. She had never left the estate, but she had long ago forgiven me for my flight. I think, at heart, she was glad that I had got away from that dreadful house, where she had seen so much that was tragic. It was she who brought up Prince Ugolino, and she was there at the time of the fire which burned down the temple and in which Lucinda met her own, terrible, though self-inflicted, end. Yet she had hoped, then, that the future would be better once the familiar demon of the house had gone. And for a time, it seemed as if she were right. A year after Lucinda's death, her son Ugolino married a charming girl, Adriana Malaspina. He was nineteen and she sixteen and it was a long time since anyone in those parts had seen a more perfectly matched pair, or one more in love. For the sake of Adriana, whom he adored, Ugolino mastered his naturally violent and difficult nature. As ill luck would have it, he took very much after his mother but, wolf though he was, he made himself a lamb for his young bride. It seemed to my mother that the evil days were indeed gone for ever…

  'When, after a little more than a year of marriage, Adriana found herself with child, Ugolino surrounded her with all imaginable attentions, guarding her day and night, even going so far as to have the horses' hooves muffled in case they should disturb her rest. Then the child was born – and the evil returned. When my mother was dying, she wanted to unburden her heart a little and, before sending for the priest, before she received the last sacrament, she told me of the twofold tragedy of that spring of 1782.'

  'A twofold tragedy?'

  'Yes. Only two women were with Donna Adriana when Prince Corrado was born: my mother and Lavinia. But,' she added, seeing the sudden light in Marianne's eyes, 'do not imagine that my mother revealed to me the secret of his birth. That secret was not hers to tell and she had sworn on the cross never to reveal it, not even under the seal of confession. What she did tell me was that, on the night after the birth, Ugolino strangled his wife. He could not touch the child, however, for Lavinia, fearing for its life, had carried it away and hidden it. Two days after this, Don Ugolino was found lying in one of the stalls in the stables with his skull smashed in. His death was naturally accounted an accident but, in fact, it was murder.'

  'Who killed him?'

  'Matteo. Ever since her marriage to Ugolino, Matteo had been passionately in love with Adriana. He lived for her and he killed his master to avenge the woman he loved. From that day onwards, he cared for the child with jealous fondness, he and Lavinia.'

  The thought crossed Marianne's mind that perhaps, in spite of what Eleonora had said about her love for her husband, Donna Adriana might have returned Matteo's passion? What if the child were his and it was this resemblance which had unleashed her husband's fury? But then, if that were so, why had he not killed Matteo first?

  She had no time to ask her final question. The door of the room opened to admit Quintin Crawfurd. Talleyrand was with him and at once the tragic shades of Sant'Anna fell back before the cares of the present. It was true that the Scotsman's appearance, supported on two sticks with his gouty foot swathed in a mountain of bandages, was funny rather than anything else, but the Prince of Benevento's grim expression was enough to dispel any tendency to laughter. It seemed that once again the news was bad.

  With a bow to the two women, Talleyrand silently held out an open letter on which, ominously, the scrawled signature of Napoleon was clearly to be seen. Marianne took it.

  ***

  'Sir,' the Emperor had written, 'I have received your letter which I read with some displeasure. While you were my Foreign Minister I was prepared to overlook many things. It grieves me, therefore, that you should raise matters which it has been my wish to forget.'

  The letter was dated from St Cloud, 29 August 1810. Marianne returned it to Talleyrand without a word.

  'You see,' he said bitterly, refolding the sheet. 'I am in such bad odour at court that I am now suspected of attempting to defend one of my foreign friends! I am deeply distressed, Marianne, most deeply and sincerely distressed.'

  'He wants to forget!' Marianne said through clenched teeth. 'I dare say he would like to forget me also! But he shall not get away with it so easily. I will not let him destroy Jason. I will see him, whether he likes it or not, I'll force my way in, even if they do put me in prison afterwards! But I swear by my mother's honour that the Emperor will hear me! And before very long—'

  She was already half out of the room when Talleyrand stopped her. 'No, Marianne. Not now, at this moment. If I am any judge of the Emperor's mind, you would be as good as condemning Beaufort on the spot!'

  'Would you rather I waited – sat here calmly drinking tea, until they kill him?'

  'I would rather you waited at least until he has been tried. It will be time enough to act after the verdict. Believe me. You know that I desire our friend's release as much as you. Be calm, then, and wait, I beg you.'

  'And what of him? Have you thought what he may be thinking in his prison? Is there anyone who has ever told him to wait, to take heart? He is all alone, or so he believes, at the mercy of this devilish plot. I want him to know at least that while I live I will not abandon him! Very well, I agree not to try and see Napoleon – for the present. But I want to see Jason. I want to get inside La Force.'

  'Marianne!' Talleyrand exclaimed, alarmed by her excited state. 'How can you do that?'

  'Nothing could be simpler.' It was Crawfurd, coolly intervening. 'For a long time now, I have had turnkeys in every prison in Paris in my pay.'

  'You have?' Talleyrand appeared genuinely astonished.

  Shrugging his heavy shoulders, Crawfurd eased himself with a sigh of relief into the armchair which Marianne had quitted, and drawing a low stool towards him tenderly placed his gouty foot upon it.

  'It is a useful precaution,' he said, with a small chuckle, 'when one has had, and will doubtless continue to have, friends under lock and key. It is a practice I have been familiar with for a long time. My first – er – clients were two of the gaolers in the Temple, and after that at the Conciergerie. Since then, I have maintained the habit. It is not difficult, if one has money. So you want to see your friend, little Princess? Well, I, Crawfurd, promise you that you shall.'

  Marianne, trembling with happiness, could scarcely bring herself to believe in the miracle that was being offered her. To have the gates of Jason's prison open to her, to see him, talk to him, touch him, tell him – oh, she had so many things to tell him.

  'You would do that for me?' she asked huskily, as though
trying to convince herself.

  Crawfurd raised a pair of china-blue eyes to her and smiled:

  'You have listened to all my stories with such patience, child, that you deserve some reward. Besides, I have not forgotten what my Queen owed to your family. It is one way of paying the debt. Leave it to me. Before a week is out, you shall be inside La Force.'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  An Odd Kind of Prisoner

  The cab turned out of the me St-Antoine and entered, at right-angles to it, a short stub of a street no more than thirty yards long and ten broad, blocked at its farther end by a low, grim-looking building on one floor surmounted by a mansard roof nearly as high again, behind which rose another, taller building. In the darkness, the few peeling houses which gave on to this close, which was called the rue des Ballets, had a sinister appearance and a bleary lantern fixed above a fat stone bollard bound with iron at the farthest corner of the street, almost opposite the entrance to the prison, shone on the greasy cobbles, slippery with the mud and filth left by the rain which had fallen in the early part of the evening. A deep gutter running down the middle of the street was intended to drain off both the water and the refuse but in practice constituted only an additional hazard in the uneven surface. The cab lurched and the driver brought his horse to a stop under the lantern, alongside the squat, round bollard, and, with a weary, automatic gesture, leaned down and opened the door on Marianne's side.