Marianne and the Privateer

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  There were five of these conveyances. There was no protection, not even the most rudimentary piece of sacking, to stand between the prisoners and the rain which was already soaking through their clothes. Their prison uniform of black and grey striped canvas overalls had been taken off them for the journey and their own clothes restored to them, but so mutilated that should any man escape no one who saw him could doubt that he was a convict. Coats were lacking their collars, cuffs were shredded to ribbons, and hats, for those that had them, had been shorn of their brims.

  Marianne watched them pass, appalled at the pallid, unshaven faces, hate-filled eyes and open mouths that spewed out blasphemies and obscene songs. They were shivering in the icy rain and some, the youngest, had to bite back tears when in a grieving face that loomed up through the grey drizzle they recognized the features of someone they knew.

  In the leading wagon, she caught sight of François Vidocq. He sat wrapped in a scornful silence which in the midst of the cursing and groaning all about him had its own kind of greatness. The eyes that rested on the excited mob held such contempt that they seemed not to see at all, yet they saw Marianne and were instantly transformed. She saw the stubbly jaw relax in a brief smile as Vidocq nodded to the wagon next in line. At the same time, Jolival tightened his hold on Marianne's arm.

  'There!' he hissed. 'Fourth from the front.'

  But Marianne had already seen Jason. He was sitting very upright among the rest, his eyes half-closed, his mouth set in a thin line. He was quite silent, his arms folded on his chest, and seemed wholly insensible to all that was going on around him. His attitude was that of a man refusing either to see or to hear, his being turned inwards the better to conserve his strength and energy. The rags of his torn cambric shirt and the ripped, collarless coat gave little protection to his broad shoulders and the tanned skin showed through in many places, but he did not appear conscious of the cold or the rain. In the midst of this howling mob, with fists raised in impotent menace, mouths distorted by foul invective, he was as remote as a figure carved in stone. Marianne, her lips already parted to call out his name, fell silent when he passed her unseeingly, realizing quite suddenly that it might only have caused him pain to see her there in the crowd.

  One cry of horror she could not repress, when the guards, tiring of the racket kept up by their prisoners, took out their long whips and laid about them impartially, flailing at cringing backs and shoulders, and at the heads they tried to shield with their folded arms. The shouting ceased and the cart rolled on.

  'Bastards! Stinking bastards, knockin' about a right'un like him!' muttered an angry voice behind her. Marianne knew the voice and, turning, saw Gracchus, whom she and Arcadius had left with the chaise in the square of Gentilly village, standing bareheaded in the rain with clenched fists and great tears rolling down his cheeks, mingling with the rainwater. He must have left the carriage to take care of itself and come himself to see the chain pass by. His eyes followed Jason's cart until it was out of sight. Then, when it had been swallowed up in the mist, and the other carts had come and gone and the kitchen wagon was clattering by with a great clanging of metal pots and pans, Gracchus looked at his mistress, who was sobbing on Jolival's shoulder.

  'We're never goin' to leave him like that?' he asked belligerently.

  'You know quite well we're not,' Jolival told him. 'We are going after him and we are going to do our best to free him.'

  'Then what are we waiting for? Beggin' your pardon, Mademoiselle Marianne, but you'll not get him out of it by crying. We've got work to do! Where's the first stop?'

  'Saint-Cyr.' It was Arcadius who answered. 'That's where the last search is made.'

  'We'll be there first. Come on!'

  The discreet travelling carriage, with no outward signs of wealth beyond a pair of lively-looking post horses, was waiting with lighted lamps under the trees not far from the Pont de la Bièvre. As the morning advanced, the tanneries which bordered this stretch of the river began to come to life, spreading a powerful stench through what was otherwise a pretty scene, dominated by the square church tower. Marianne and Jolival got into the chaise in silence while Gracchus hoisted himself nimbly on to the box. A click of the tongue as the whip curved gracefully through the air to flick the leader's ear, a faint creak from the axles and they were off. The long journey to Brest had begun.

  Marianne leaned her cheek against the rough fabric of the squabs and abandoned herself to her tears. She wept quite silently, with no sobbing, and it did her good. It was as if the hideous sights she had just beheld were being washed from her eyes, and at the same time her own natural courage and will to succeed slowly returned to take possession of her mind. Arcadius, sitting beside her, knew her too well to make any attempt to stem the beneficent flow or offer the least word of comfort. What could he have said? It was necessary for Jason to endure this dreadful journey because it led not to his prison alone, but to the sea, from which he had always drawn his strength.

  Marianne left Paris without regret, with no expectation of ever going back there, or with no more regret than the slight pang she felt at parting from her few remaining friends there: Talleyrand, the Crawfurds and, most of all, her dearest Fortunée Hamelin. But Fortunée had refused to give way to sentiment. Even as she embraced her friend for the last time, her eyes full of tears, she had insisted, with all the infectious enthusiasm of her sun-loving nature:

  'This is not good-bye, Marianne! When you are an American, I shall come and visit you there, and see if the men are as handsome as they say. Judging by your corsair, it must be true!'

  Talleyrand had confined himself to a calm assurance that they were bound to meet again some day, somewhere in this wide world.

  Eleonora Crawfurd had applauded Marianne's plan to put the width of the ocean between herself and her alarming husband. Adelaide, left to act as mistress of the family mansion, had treated their parting in a philosophical fashion. As far as she herself was concerned, there was little to fear however matters turned out. If Marianne failed in her plans for Jason's escape, then she would of course return to her own place in the household. If she succeeded and she and Jason won their way to the State of Carolina, then there would remain nothing for Adelaide to do but pack up her traps, slip the key under the door and catch the first boat to a new and adventurous life, with the idea of which she was already half in love. All was therefore for the best in the best of all possible worlds!

  Before she left Paris, moreover, Marianne had received a communication from her lawyer which, in the circumstances, was extraordinarily welcome. It stated that the unfortunate Nicolas Mallerousse had, during the time when she had stayed with him in Brest, after her escape from Morvan's manor house, constituted her his sole heir. The little house at Recouvrance and the few bits and pieces it contained were henceforth her own property, 'in memory', Nicolas had written in his will, 'of the days when she had made me feel as if I had a daughter once again'.

  This legacy had touched Marianne deeply. It was as though her old friend were speaking to her from beyond the grave, assuring her of his affection still. She also saw in it the hand of Providence and something very like tacit approval on the part of fate for what she meant to do. There was, in fact, nothing which could possibly have been more useful just then than the little house on the hill, looking out one way to the sea and the other to the buildings of the arsenal and, in the midst of them, the prison.

  All these things were in her mind as the horses trotted easily towards the next stage. The day was as grey as ever, but the rain had stopped. As ill luck would have it, its stopping had been the signal for a sharp wind to get up which must have been unpleasant for men out in the open in wet clothes. A hundred times, as they went on, Marianne looked back to see if the chain were yet in sight, but it never was. Even at their present gentle pace, the carriage could outstrip the lumbering wagons with ease.

  Just as Jolival had predicted, they reached Saint-Cyr far in advance of the convict chain, giving
him time to engage rooms for Marianne and himself in a modest but respectable inn. Even this necessitated a certain amount of argument, since her first concern was to discover where the prisoners were to spend the night. She was directed to a huge barn just outside the town, whereupon she immediately rejected the inn, declaring she could perfectly well sleep in the chaise, or even in an open field. For once, Arcadius lost his temper with her:

  'What are you trying to do? Catch your death of cold? That will be a fine help, if we are obliged to put up in some inn for a week to nurse you!'

  'Of course I should not stay anywhere – not if I were shivering with ague! If I were at my dying gasp I should still go with him, on foot if I had to!'

  'Much good that would do you, if I may say so!' Jolival growled. 'For God's sake, Marianne, stop playing off these tragedy airs! It will not help Jason Beaufort if you catch your death on this damned road. On the contrary. And if your only aim is to mortify your flesh so as to share his sufferings, then you had better shut yourself up in a convent, my dear, the strictest we can find, where you may fast and sleep on the floor and have yourself beaten three times daily if you please! At least you will not be a hindrance when the chance of an escape does arise!'

  'Arcadius!' Marianne cried, shaken. 'To talk to me so!'

  'I talk to you as you deserve. And, since you will have it, I think this insistence of yours on following the chain is foolish beyond permission!'

  'I have told you a hundred times: I cannot be apart from him. If anything were to happen to him—'

  'I should be here to see it. You would be a hundred times more useful to us posting on to Brest and settling down in the house you have inherited, establishing yourself in the neighbourhood and getting to know the people. Have you forgotten that we are going to need assistance, a sea-going vessel and a crew? No, you prefer to stay here, weeping at the foot of the Cross! Trailing in the wake of the chain, like some self-dramatizing Magdalen! Or are you going to whip out a veil and mop his fevered brow, like St Veronica? Confound it all, if there had been the slightest chance of saving Jesus, I promise you those women wouldn't have wasted their time trotting about the back streets of Jerusalem! Are you determined the Emperor should hear that you have been defying his commands again? That the Princess Sant'Anna is following the convict chain to Brest?'

  'He will not know. We are travelling very quietly. I pass for your niece.'

  This was true. For greater safety, Jolival had procured, through Talleyrand, a passport in his own name, including a mention that his niece Marie was travelling with him. But the Vicomte only shrugged irritably:

  'And do you think no one will know your face? You little fool, the guards with the column will have found you out within three days! So no dramas, if you please. Do nothing to make yourself conspicuous. Like it or not, you will go to bed like other people – at an inn!'

  Overborne, but resentful, Marianne gave in at last, with the stipulation that she need not retire to her inn until the convict chain had halted for the night. She could not bear to give up a single chance of seeing Jason.

  'No one will even notice me,' she pleaded. 'There are so many people waiting there already.'

  Once again, she spoke the truth. The dates on which the chain came through were always the same and they were known throughout the district. It had a curious fascination for the country people and they would come, often from miles around, to gather at the places where the wagons halted and sometimes to follow them for part of the way. Some came with charitable intentions, giving the prisoners little gifts of food, or a worn garment, or a few small coins. But for the most part, they came simply for amusement, honest folk finding a powerful relief from their own humdrum troubles in contemplation of the criminals' punishment, and of a wretchedness beyond anything even the poorest there would ever know.

  The little town was full of people, although the sharpest, and the better informed, had already taken up their positions near the barn. The fact was that before they were allowed to rest for the night the convicts had to submit to a thorough, detailed search, intended to simplify the task of the guards during the remainder of the journey. At the other halts, there would be nothing more than a check on the shackles and a brief run-over. Marianne wormed her way through the crowd, Jolival, still disapproving, on her heels.

  They heard the chain coming long before they saw it. Borne on the wind came a fearsome clangour of voices howling and loud, raucous singing, made louder as it approached Saint-Cyr by the roaring of the worthy townsfolk. Then, just passing the last houses of the town, two mounted officers appeared, their shoulder belts showing up as a white cross on each chest. They stared straight ahead, grim-faced, whereas the prison guards who came after them were grinning at the crowd, like the heroes of a successful play. Behind them, the first wagon lumbered into view.

  When all five vehicles had been lined up together in a field, the prisoners were made to get down and the search began. At the same moment, as if in response to some secret signal, the rain came on again.

  'Are you really determined to remain here?' Jolival murmured into Marianne's ear. 'I warn you, it is no fit sight for you. You should—'

  'Once and for all, Arcadius, I ask you to let me alone. I want to see what they do to him.'

  'As you will. You shall see. But don't say I didn't warn you.'

  Marianne turned away from him pettishly. A few moments more found her staring very hard at the ground, scarlet with shame. Despite the cold and the rain, the prisoners were being made to strip off every vestige of clothing. Standing there, barefoot in the mud, in nothing but the iron collars round their necks, they were subjected by their guards to a search so thoroughly degrading that it could only have been intended as an additional punishment. While one man inspected suits, shoes and stockings, another examined every orifice of their bodies with minutest care. It was a known fact, however, that the prisoners were adept at concealing a variety of tools, from tiny files to watchsprings which could release a man from his irons in less than three hours.

  Marianne, crimson to the roots of her hair, kept her eyes firmly on her own feet and on the clump of trampled grass on which she stood. To everyone around her it seemed to be a high jest. Even the women, honest matrons for the most part, were commenting on the prisoners' persons with a freedom which would not have disgraced a grenadier. Desperate, Marianne tried to turn and beg Jolival to take her away, but a sudden movement among the now wildly excited crowd parted her from him and, without quite knowing how, she found herself carried into the front rank of the onlookers. The hood which she had drawn down over her hair to hide her face had been pushed back in the press and suddenly she saw Jason right in front of her.

  The distance between them was not so great that he could help but see her. She saw his face change horribly. His skin turned suddenly grey and the look of anger and shame glaring in his eyes was frightening. He thrust at her violently to drive her away, oblivious of the whip which at that instant thudded into his back.

  'Go away! Go away at once!'

  Marianne tried to answer, to tell him that she had only wanted to share his sufferings, but already there was an iron hand gripping her arm, dragging her back, irresistibly, regardless of the pain it caused her. There was a moment's agonizing pressure, a quick scuffle and Marianne found herself at the back of the shouting wedge of people staring into the face of Jolival, who was literally green with anger:

  'Well? Are you satisfied? You saw him? And you made damned sure that he saw you – at the moment of all moments when he would a hundred times rather have died than be seen by you! Is this what you call sharing his ordeal? Don't you think he has enough to bear?'

  Marianne's overstretched nerves snapped all at once and she burst into convulsive sobs:

  'I didn't know, Arcadius! I couldn't ever have known, ever imagined anything so vile! I was pushed forward by the crowd – when I only wanted not to look…'

  'I warned you,' Jolival said ruthlessly. 'But you are wor
se than a mule! You will not listen to anyone! One would think you took pleasure in torturing yourself.'

  Marianne's only answer was to cast herself into his arms in such desperate floods of tears that he was softened. His hand came up to stroke her rain-sodden hair.

  'There, there… Hush, now, my baby! I am sorry I was angry – but you make me so when you insist on adding to your own troubles.'

  'I know… dear friend… I know! Oh, I am so ashamed!… You can't know how ashamed I am! I have hurt him… I wounded him, when I would give my life…'

  'Now, now – don't begin again!' Jolival besought her, gently removing her clinging form from about his neck. 'I know all about it, always have done, and if you do not calm yourself at once and stop turning the knife in the wound, I swear to you on my honour I will box your ears as if you were my own daughter! Come, now, let us go back to the inn.'

  Taking her wrist once more, he led her rapidly back towards the town, ignoring her feeble protests and the sporadic efforts she still made to run back to the barn. Only when they reached the first houses did he release his hold on her at last.

  'Now promise me that you will go straight back to the inn at once, and no turning back!'

  'Go back-all by myself? But Arcadius—'

  'No. No "but Arcadius". Back, I said. I am going back to the field.'

  'But – what for?'

  'To see if a little payment to the guard won't procure me a few words with him. And to give him this.'

  Opening his big cloak, Jolival showed the loaf which he had been carrying all this time, tucked under his left arm. Marianne looked again from the bread to her friend's suspiciously bright eyes. It made her want to cry again but this time her reasons were different and she managed a smile instead. It was a pathetic enough little smile, in all conscience, but it tried hard to be brave: