Marianne and the Privateer

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  The first step towards regaining her freedom was to rid herself of the chain, but in spite of all her efforts to drag the iron ring over her slender hand, including a lavish application of the dark soap to make it slide more easily, she only succeeded in chafing the flesh so much that by nightfall her hand was swollen to twice its normal size. The only hope of release lay in somehow opening the padlock which held the ring fast. But how, and what with?

  This lowering realization produced a burst of tears which at least had the advantage of easing her pent-up nervous state and making her begin to look a little on the bright side again. It was now twenty-four hours since she and Crawfurd had been captured. Eleonora would certainly have alerted Talleyrand, if not the police. The two of them would surely make some efforts to trace them, and Talleyrand knew where Pilar had sought refuge. But would it occur to him that her disappearance was in any way connected with that silent, unsmiling young woman whose sole concern seemed to be to keep out of trouble and procure herself powerful protection? He would be more likely to think that Crawfurd had over-estimated the influence of his friends in the prison service and that the two incautious visitors had been recognized, arrested and incarcerated in their turn. Since Marianne had returned to Paris illegally it would be somewhat awkward to go to Savary and ask for her, while any approach to Napoleon was at once ruled out of court by his recent unfriendly note to the Prince of Benevento. There remained Jolival. But he was not due back for days yet and, even supposing he were to set out in search of her the very instant he returned, how long might it be before he came on any trace of her? Finally, even if he did follow her tracks to Mortefontaine, how could he possibly hope to obtain permission to search the Queen of Spain's grounds? Pilar's plans had indeed been well laid and efficiently carried out.

  The logic of this train of thought soon overcame Marianne's temporary optimism and she fell asleep at last in a mood of deep depression.

  Several days passed in this way, all desperately dull and very much alike. Sanchez appeared regularly to perform his duties as attendant, but he remained only a few minutes and Marianne had no wish for him to stay longer. He seemed to have nothing to say for himself and when she tried to talk to him she elicited nothing beyond a few unintelligible mumbles. Neither Pilar nor her accomplices bothered to come near her, a fact which made the prisoner feel in a curious way both relieved and abandoned.

  As time passed, hope declined also. There was no way for her to escape unaided and she could not count on any assistance from her gaoler. At the same time, the workings of her fevered brain brought her little by little to a curious mental state of fatalistic resignation. She felt as if she were already removed from the world of the living, and was very sure that before long Jason would be so also. Then, on the day when Pilar, triumphant under the widow's weeds which would swathe her from head to foot, came to tell her that Jason was dead, there would be nothing left for her but to goad the vindictive Spanish woman to such a pitch of fury that she would not delay Marianne's own death longer. Her only hope now, in her prison cell, was in a better life hereafter.

  Yet in spite of everything, although she herself was not fully aware of it, Marianne's busy brain was hard at work. There was something about that loft which was not quite right, although it had taken her some time to realize what it was. In fact, that something was the size of the huge bales of hay, some of which still retained their osier bindings.

  Contemplating first the bales and then the exiguous dimensions of the door through which Sanchez was in the habit of coming, it was borne in on Marianne that the hay could not possibly have entered the loft that way and that there must therefore be another way in, probably through a trap-door in the floor.

  It was true that even if she were to succeed in finding the trap-door she would not be much nearer to gaining her freedom. She still had the chain to deal with and the distance was clearly far too great to jump. But the search for it did provide, if not a hope precisely, at least a way of occupying her time, and so she set about clearing the hay from the floor within the limits of her chain, moving it to a heap on one side and then shifting the heap when the first section explored showed no sign of an opening.

  The task was a long and painful one which raised a great deal of dust and made her very tired, but on the third day Marianne found two very large hinges set in the woodwork: irrefutable proof that the trap-door existed.

  It was almost time for Sanchez to pay his daily visit and so, hurriedly covering up her find, Marianne went and flung herself down in her usual place in the straw and pretended to be asleep. The Spaniard performed his tasks as usual and then withdrew. Marianne devoured a hunk of bread and a piece of meat, drank a mug of water and returned to her excavations. Gradually, the whole trap-door was revealed. It was certainly a very large one, which explained the size of the hay bales, but the prisoner was unable to suppress a groan of dismay when she saw that her chain was too short to allow her to clear it completely.

  Bitterly disappointed by this discovery, she dropped down on her knees in the hay and cried with despair at all her wasted labour. It made no difference to know that her chain still held her fast to the beam. She had cherished absurd hopes of that trap-door. Well, she knew now that it was there, and at the same time that it was useless to her… Her back ached and her hands were grimed with dirt and rubbed raw with splinters but all the same she began at last, mechanically, to cover up the floor again. It was then she felt it, something hard that moved under her fingers.

  After some frantic fumbling in the hay she drew out a long, thin piece of metal, sharpened to a point at one end, and stared at it as if she could not believe her eyes. It was the tine of a pitchfork, which must have broken off when the hay was being stacked and been thought not worth recovering. A tool beyond her wildest dreams.

  Marianne shut her eyes and offered up a silent prayer of thankfulness. With this, it must surely be possible to get the better of the padlock, when she recalled that Pilar had been afraid of what she might do with a mere hairpin.

  She was on the point of going to work with her metal picklock there and then but at that moment she heard footsteps on the other side of the partition wall. Sanchez was coming back, but this time he was not alone. Marianne heard, as usual, the sound of the bales of straw being dragged aside and, hurriedly recovering the trapdoor, turned to hide her new tool by burying it deeply in the hay. Then, to make doubly sure, she sat down on the place where she had hidden it and began nonchalantly chewing a straw, conscious of a beating heart and hoping that the joy she felt did not show too clearly on her face. It was Pilar who entered.

  Jason's wife was dressed all in black, although there was nothing out of the ordinary in this since she invariably dressed so or, when she did permit herself a colour, always accompanied it with a sombre veil or other dark accessories. On this occasion, however, she was wearing a bonnet with a deep poke from which fell a veil of very fine Chantilly lace. She walked up to Marianne, who had not turned at her entrance:

  'Well, my dear? How do you feel after so many days of reflection?'

  Determined not to utter a word, Marianne did not stir. Pilar continued, as if the interview were the most natural thing in the world:

  'I hope you have everything you require. You look well enough, to be sure, and Sanchez tells me that your behaviour is perfectly quiet. However, I felt it right to come and bid you farewell…'

  This time, it took all Marianne's self-control to keep herself from betraying the least start of surprise. Pilar was going away? It might be good news. Was it possible, after all, that today was her lucky day? She continued to chew on her straw as coolly as if Pilar had not existed. All she wanted now was for the woman to go away and let her get on with her preparations for an escape which had suddenly come within the bounds of possibility. Pilar, however, seemed in no hurry. She was taking a jasmine-scented handkerchief from her reticule and holding it to her nose, as if the smell in the loft offended her.

  'You know, I su
ppose, that today is the first of October and that my – that Monsieur Beaufort's trial is to begin this afternoon. Consequently, I am on my way to Paris, where I am to appear tomorrow as a witness.'

  Marianne's hand clenched on a fistful of hay. In spite of all her resolution, it was all she could do not to fling herself on this woman who stood there talking of her husband's trial as if it were the most agreeable social occasion. How she longed to plunge the metal tine with which she hoped to gain her freedom deep into that proud and vicious heart. But Sanchez was standing by the door, his arms folded on his chest and his eye alert for trouble. Marianne knew that she would stand little chance in those great hands.

  Pilar, meanwhile, was silent, scanning her rival's face, no doubt for some sign of the effect of her words. But Marianne, still keeping her face averted, yawned ostentatiously and perfectly naturally, then turned her back altogether. She had tried the effects of this dumb insolence once before, on the night of her abduction, and she hoped that the results would be the same. It was. Pilar, with a half-checked exclamation of anger, swung round and made quickly for the door.

  'Very well, have it as you please!' she said, her voice shaking with rage. 'We shall see how you maintain this fine show of indifference when I come to tell you that your lover's head has fallen to the guillotine and show you a handkerchief dyed with his blood!'

  Marianne gritted her teeth and shut her eyes, praying with all her might that anger should not get the better of her will. 'Have pity, Lord, have pity! Make her be quiet… make her go away! Be merciful! Give me the strength not to curse her! Help me to hold my tongue! I hate her… oh, God, how I hate her! Help me…'

  Her mind raced desperately to and fro in an effort to find the one, safe refuge. Never had she endured or imagined anything like the strain of listening while this sadistic creature ruthlessly paraded Jason's deadly peril before her. As if she needed to be reminded! As if the dreadful threat had not been haunting her for weeks! She was dying to tell this woman what she thought of her melodramatic speeches, but she was determined to remain true to her vow of silence.

  Pilar, however, in her desire to see the effect of her cruel words upon her enemy, had stepped closer. Marianne raised a face of stone and then, quite deliberately, spat in Pilar's face. Pilar stopped short and for a moment it seemed to Marianne that she was going to attack her, so dreadfully contorted was her face, and she waited for the attack with a savage joy, preparing to rend that hateful face in pieces. Then Sanchez spoke heavily from the doorway:

  'The Señora will spoil her dress. And the carriage is waiting.'

  'I am coming. But tomorrow, Sanchez, and the day after, you will forget to bring her any food or drink. Give her nothing until I return!'

  'I understand.'

  This time, their departure was final, attended by a scornful shrug from their prisoner. Tomorrow, with God's help, Marianne would be far away.

  All the same, she had sense enough not to move until she had heard the rattle of the chain which told her that the boat had left. Pilar was going away. She was going to Paris to be revenged and Sanchez would not be back for – for two or three days, at least, thanks to Pilar's decree that Marianne should go hungry.

  When she was quite sure that she was really alone, Marianne got out her metal spike and set to work on the padlock, hoping that she would be able to pick the lock. If she failed, she would have to attack the beam to which the chain was made fast by a ring, which would have to be gouged out. Forcing herself to be calm so as to keep her hands from trembling, Marianne probed slowly and patiently with her pointed tine in the keyhole of the padlock. It was not easy and for some time she thought that she must fail, for although the chain was new, the padlock was not. For what seemed like an eternity she went on fiddling. Then, at long last, she heard the blessed click and gave a glad little cry. The padlock was open.

  Opening the jaws of the manacle round her wrist and taking it off was the work of a moment and Marianne was free. She nursed her painfully swollen wrist for a moment and then flung herself at full length in the hay and rolled about in an ecstasy of joy at the relief of stretching her cramped muscles which had suffered from her restricted movement. She was hot when eventually she sat up, but the blood coursed swiftly through her veins and she was ready for action. Her next task was to open the trap-door and find a way of getting out of the barn while there was still a little light to see by, for autumn was drawing on and the daylight was fading earlier now.

  She cleared the trap-door again quickly. It was soon visible, looking very large and stout. It was sure to be heavy but there was a long loop of rope, passed through a pair of rings, to raise it by. Marianne grasped hold of this, gathered all her strength and pulled. The trap resisted but, endowed with a nervous strength made ten times greater by the spur of freedom, she tensed her muscles, set her jaw and went on pulling, regardless of the coarse rope that bit into the soft skin of her palms. Slowly, slowly, the trap came up, rose to a vertical position and fell back with a soft thud on the hay, leaving a gaping hole in the floor. Marianne knelt on the edge and looked down.

  Below her stretched a huge barn, so lofty that for a moment she felt faintly dizzy as she looked. She had hoped to find a ladder fixed below the trap-door, which would have made the descent easy; but there was nothing. To jump was out of the question, unless she wanted to risk broken bones.

  Marianne's heart beat wildly as she sat back on her heels and cast about feverishly for a rope, or anything that might help her to get down. Unfortunately, the chain which had held her for so long was far too short and the osier bindings of the bales far too weak to bear her weight. But such was her determination to be free of her prison that at last the idea she needed came to her. She could throw down the hay heaped in the loft until it made a mattress thick enough for her to jump on to.

  Hurriedly, for already it was growing dark, she began heaving the hay through the open trap, breaking open the osier bindings on the great bales with the tine as she did so. In seconds, the barn was filled with a whirling storm of hay and dust. Some of the bales set others rolling as they were moved and a dozen times Marianne was nearly swept down through the hole, but gradually the floor of the barn began to disappear beneath a mounting heap of hay.

  When she thought the pile was high enough, Marianne, feeling as if her throat were on fire, drained the little water remaining in the pitcher and ate her last apple. Then she sat down on the edge of the trap-door and let herself go.

  She landed, bouncing like a ball but quite unhurt, and tumbled quickly to the bottom of the heap. She was on the ground at last. The next thing to find out was whether the barn door would open or whether she would have to resort once again to her pitchfork tine which, to be on the safe side, she had thrown down before she jumped. But either because they trusted in the prison they had made ready for her or because they did not wish to alarm any of the peasants of the estate who might be suspicious if they found an all but empty barn carefully locked, Marianne's captors had left the door on the latch.

  Cautiously pushing open one side of the big door, which creaked only a very little, Marianne poked her head out and took a careful glance around. As far as she could see in what was now almost total darkness, there was not a soul about, although the great house, buried in the distant trees beyond the lake which stretched almost at her feet, was ablaze with light, to judge from the number of bright sparks twinkling through the intervening vegetation. At the same time, Marianne became aware that it was raining, something she had not perceived before amid the other preoccupations of the day.

  It was also very much colder than it had been inside the barn. October had come and the lovely sunshine which had persisted all through September had given way to more wintry weather. Marianne shivered in her cotton dress, but she knew she had to get away from where she was as soon as possible and so, plucking up her courage, she darted out and began a tour of inspection. As she had guessed, the barn was on an island, and a fairly large one at that, and
she began to make her way along the shore in search of a boat. It did not take long to discover that apart from the barn itself and a few trees and bushes, there was absolutely nothing at all on the island, least of all a boat.

  'I shall have to swim,' she told herself with a shiver. 'The thing to do is to find the narrowest place and hope it is also the side farthest from the house.'

  Her first thought had been to go boldly up to the house, tell them who she was and throw herself on Queen Julie's mercy, letting the police claim her later if they would. Pilar had gone to Paris. It might prove the wisest thing to do in the long run.

  Then she remembered that most of her kidnappers probably belonged to the royal household and that it would be the easiest thing in the world for them to get her into their power again on pretence of caring for her safety, and next time there would be no hope of escape. Besides, in her present filthy state, with her torn and grubby dress, she would certainly be taken for a lunatic and sent packing by the servants without being allowed so much as a glimpse of the queen. The best course was clearly to go to Paris in her own way, attracting no attention, and keeping out of the way of such persons as law officers and others whose suspicions might be aroused by her vagabond appearance, however difficult that might prove.

  Accepting the fact that if she wanted to get off her island she would have to swim for it, Marianne selected her spot with care, where the crossing looked easiest, then, removing her clothes without further hesitation, she made them into a bundle, tied it with her sash and fastened the bundle on top of her head.

  Her dress was wet already from the rain but, even so, it would be drier like this than after a session in the water. She knew, too, how awkward it could be trying to swim in one's clothes. In any case, the place was so deserted and the darkness by now so thick that she felt there was very little risk of anyone's surprising her in her unconventional attire, and in a very few seconds after removing her clothes she was deep among the reeds which encircled the island, pushing her way through the fleshy tangle of water-lily stems. Her feet sank deeply into a sticky mud which made her shudder but the bottom shelved steeply almost at once and she was soon out of her depth. Launching herself out into the lake she began to swim quietly, making as little noise as possible. The water was cold but not as cold as it had seemed when she first entered it and the feel of it slipping past her naked body was unexpectedly pleasant after so many days in the dusty loft.