Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  Marianne gave a little shrug.

  'What could I do in France? I have no family there any more. But then, nor have I anywhere.'

  A sardonic gleam came into the gentleman's red-rimmed eyes. He gave a dry cackle of laughter.

  'No family? Oh but you have. I know of two persons at least connected to you by blood.'

  'Two? How can this be? No one has ever spoken of them to me.'

  'They are little enough to boast of. I should think Lady Selton preferred to forget that part of the family but the fact remains that you have two cousins, one closer than the other, to be sure, but the second a person of some standing!'

  'Who are they? Tell me quickly,' Marianne said eagerly, her dislike of the old duke momentarily forgotten.

  'Ah, you would like to know. It does not surprise me and, from what I have just learned of you, you should deal very well with both these ladies. One is a poor demented creature, your poor father's cousin. Her name is Adelaide d'Asselnat. She never married and long ago severed all connections with her family on account of her disgraceful opinions. La Fayette, Bailly and Mirabeau were among her friends and there was always a welcome at her house in the Marais for all those wretches responsible for overthrowing the throne of France. She must, I believe, have gone into hiding during the Terror to have escaped the guillotine which devoured the first masters of the revolution as well as its nobler victims. But I presume she must have reappeared and should not be surprised to learn that she had become transformed into one of Bonaparte's most loyal subjects. As for the other – she stands even closer to the Corsican ogre.'

  'Who is she?'

  'Why, his own wife. Citizeness Bonaparte, whom they call the Empress Josephine nowadays, has for her maternal grandmother a Mary Katherine Brown of the Irish family. She was the daughter of a Selton and married Joseph-François des Vergers de Sanois. Her daughter, Rose-Claire, married Tascher de la Pagerie, whence Josephine.' The duke gave a twisted smile. 'Family history holds no secrets from us,' he added sardonically. 'We have time enough in our exile.'

  Marianne was a prey to a host of contradictory feelings. The knowledge of her close connection with the wife of Napoleon gave her no pleasure, quite the contrary, for throughout her childhood she had been used to hearing her Aunt Ellis alternately abusing and deriding the man she never referred to as anything but 'Boney'. Lady Selton had taught her to hate and fear the Corsican oppressor who had dared set himself up on the throne of the martyred king, to blockade England and crush all Europe under his heel. To Marianne, Napoleon was a monster, a tyrant spawned by the hideous revolution which, like a vampire, had sucked the finest blood of France including that of her own parents. She left d'Avaray in no doubt as to her sentiments.

  'I have no call to seek help from Madame Bonaparte – but I should be glad to see my cousin d'Asselnat.'

  'I am not sure I approve your choice. The Creole is well connected. She has even a few drops of Capet blood in her veins, a little secret unknown to her husband and which may yet cost him dear. While the demoiselle d'Asselnat is only a foolish old woman whose sympathies are scarcely more creditable. Now, permit me to take leave of you. I have matters to attend to.'

  Marianne too had risen. Standing, she was a head taller than the duke. She looked down at the sick man whose shoulders were once more in a terrible spasm of coughing.

  'For the last time, my lord Duke, will you not take me?'

  'No. I have told you my reasons. Permit me to die with nothing with which to reproach myself. Your servant, madame.'

  He bowed, so slightly as to make the courtesy an insult. Marianne coloured angrily.

  'Wait one moment, if you please!'

  Taking from her bosom the locket presented to her the day before, she flung it furiously onto the table.

  'Take this back, my lord! Since I am no longer one of you, I have no claim to it! Remember, I am English now and a criminal to boot.'

  For a moment, the duke looked at the jewel gleaming on the soiled cloth. He put out his hand to take it, then changed his mind. He looked up and regarded Marianne with mingled pride and anger.

  'It pleased her Highness to make this gift in recognition of your mother's sacrifice. To return it would be to offend her. You had better keep it. After all,' he went on with a chilly smile, 'you are at liberty to throw it in the sea if you do not want it. It might even be better so. As for you, may God help you for you will escape neither His anger nor your punishment, not if you flee to the ends of the earth!'

  He moved away leaving Marianne angry and mortified as well as bitterly disappointed. Everything she trusted, everything she believed in seemed fated to crumble to dust in her hands. Never she swore, would she forget this humiliation. But, for the present, some other means must be found.

  ***

  By evening Marianne was once again on the old Barbican. She had sold her horse for a good price and further exchanged her riding clothes for a good plain dress of brown wool and a thick cloak with a deep hood worn over a white linen mob cap, and a pair of stout shoes and coarse woollen stockings. She had never worn such garments before but she felt comfortable in them and very much safer. Her money and the pearls were stowed away in a strong canvas pocket sewn into her petticoat. Dressed like this, she was no longer an object of curiosity and would be able to roam the Plymouth waterfront very much as she liked. Her next task was to find a vessel that would carry her to France. In this, time was against her and every hour that passed increased the danger of discovery and arrest.

  Unfortunately, knowing no one in the town made it hard to know whom to approach especially in so delicate a matter as a clandestine passage. For a long time, Marianne walked up and down the quay, watching the comings and goings of sailors and fishermen all around her, often tempted but never quite daring to approach them. She wandered on in no particular direction, oblivious of the cheerful bustle of the harbour. As evening drew on, the wind sharpened. Soon she would have to find an inn to spend the night, somewhere more modest than the Crown and Anchor, but she could not yet bring herself to do so. Tired as she was, she could not help feeling somewhat nervous at the prospect of being shut up for the night between four walls and was besides quite sure she would not be able to sleep.

  As she passed Charles II's fort, one of the sentries called after her. With a nervous shiver, she hurried on, hugging her cloak more closely about her. The man laughed and uttered some coarse pleasantry but made no attempt to come after her. She saw the old Smeaton fire tower a little way ahead, its bright light a nightly warning of the dangerous approaches to the great port. Bleak and lonely on its rock, rising above the sand, the beacon with the great iron cage that held the light and its supporting masts looked like nothing so much as a great ball of wool stuck on to knitting needles. The flag hung like a wet sheet from the upper platform, so sodden with rain that the wind barely stirred it. There seemed to be no one about and this loneliness, with the moaning of the wind, gave the place a somewhat sinister aspect. Marianne almost turned back but then she saw an old man sitting on a rock right beneath the grey tower and smoking his pipe. Timidly, she went up to him.

  'If you please—' she began.

  The old man cocked a bushy eyebrow under the faded red stocking cap, revealing a wickedly bright eye.

  'What are you doing out here, at this time of night, my pretty, eh? The sailors from the fort have an eye for a pretty girl and the wind's getting up. Likely it'll blow your bonnet over the windmill!'

  There is often a secret, unspoken sympathy between the very old and the very young. The old man's friendly tone gave Marianne confidence.

  'I know no one in this town, and I must find someone to ask. I thought that, perhaps you might—'

  She did not finish. The old man's eyes had quickened and he was studying her with the keen glance of a seaman, accustomed to noting the minutest variation of sea or sky.

  'You are no country maid, though you may dress like one. Your voice gives you away. No matter, my girl. What do yo
u want to know?'

  In a low voice, as though ashamed of what she had to say, Marianne told him:

  'I must find a vessel to take me across the sea – and I cannot tell who to approach.'

  'Why, the Harbour Master, of course! It all depends on where you want to go—'

  'To France.'

  The old man gave a low whistle which vanished on the wind.

  'That's another matter entirely, but even there, the port office may be able to do something for you. You must not think our brave English lads are frightened of Boney and his war dogs. There are still some who run the blockade.'

  'But I cannot go to the port office,' Marianne broke in impatiently. 'I have no papers. I – I have run away from my parent's house and I have to get to France.'

  The old man thought he understood. He chuckled loudly, winking and nudging her with his elbow.

  'Oho, you cunning little rascal! Off to join your sweetheart, eh my pretty? That's why we don't want to be noticed, is it? Frightened the Runners'll be after you to take you home again, eh?'

  'Yes, you have guessed. But who will take me?'

  'No one without money!'

  Modestly turning her back on him, the girl quickly raised the hem of her skirt, fumbled in her canvas pocket and withdrew a shilling which she placed in the old man's hand.

  'Here, I have a little money. But for pity's sake, if you know of any sailor or fisherman, even a smuggler who might take me, tell me his name—'

  The old man held up the coin to study it then tossed it in his hand with evident satisfaction before thrusting it into his pocket. This done, he returned his attention to the girl and looked at her doubtfully.

  'There is one I know,' he said with some seriousness, 'but I'm not sure if I ought to send you to 'un. 'E'd sell 'is own mother for a shilling and for a guinea'd kill her with 'is own hands.'

  'I will take the risk. Tell me where I may find him.' A sudden, instinctive caution made her add: 'At all events, I could not give him more than a guinea. That is all I have—'

  The old man sighed. He rose and stretched himself with a groan.

  'Dang me, old I may be but I'll not let you go alone to find Black Fish. If so be as you've another shilling to quench an old man's thirst, I'll take you and put in a good word for ye.'

  'Black Fish?'

  'That's what they call 'un. Never heard's right name. But you can trust Nathaniel Naas, I've never met a better sailor – or an uglier!'

  Once again, Marianne felt in her pocket and drew out a shilling which she gave to old Nat and a golden guinea which she kept in her hand, being determined not to reveal the whereabouts of the remainder of her treasures to one whom she strongly suspected of being a pirate. The old man pocketed the second shilling and limped away. It was now quite dark and the wind had dropped though a biting cold air still came in from the sea.

  'It'll not be warm out there tonight,' the old man said, digging his hands deep in his pockets. 'I'd liefer face a bowl of punch than the breakers in the Sound.'

  In single file, they made their way back to the Barbican. Nathaniel Nass stopped beneath a battered sign at the end of the old quay and pushed open the low door of a small tavern. A dim, orange light filtered through the grimy windows. Marianne was met by a nauseating reek of alcohol, fried fish and human sweat, together with a confused babble of drunken voices. Above it all, floated the crude air of a sea shanty. The girl drew back in terror. She had never imagined herself entering such a place. The old man glanced at her dubiously.

  'You're quite sure? Shall I go in?'

  Marianne clenched her teeth to still their chattering. She was cold and frightened and she wanted to go to sleep. She had reached very nearly the end of her strength. She had to get it over with.

  'I am sure,' she whispered.

  'Then you just wait there.'

  He went inside, leaving her alone in the darkness. The quay was empty now. Lamps had been lit in the houses, conjuring up a picture of families within gathered warmly round the tea table. The girl's heart contracted. She felt suddenly very weak and very much alone. The muscles in her throat tightened and all at once she felt as if she wanted to cry while, at the same time, a tempting voice within her was urging her to give up, to go back and abandon herself to her fate. She felt chilled to her very soul. There were some people, she believed, whose lives collapsed without warning and ceased to have any meaning. Perhaps her life was like that, and no longer worth living. Perhaps it would be better to give herself up. Certainly, she had lost any inclination for the part of a heroine in a romance.

  The forest of gently dipping masts in the harbour swam before her eyes. Some had their riding lights alight, like intermittent red stars in the darkness. For a second, Marianne was on the point of taking to her heels and running away but the sound of footsteps prevented her. Someone was coming along the quay and her instinct for self-preservation reasserted itself. She made out the dark figures of two men and drew back, shrinking out of sight into a dark, narrow passage running alongside the tavern.

  The iron lantern swinging above the tavern door threw a bright patch of light, barred with a shadow like a cross, on to the cobblestones below and this enabled the girl to obtain a clearer view of the two men strolling towards her at a leisurely pace. One was much taller than the other. He wore long seaboots and was muffled in a black cloak. The other barely reached to his shoulder but made up in plumpness for what he lacked in height, for he was almost as broad as he was long. As far as Marianne could tell, he seemed to be dressed like a country lawyer in a frock coat and beaver hat. He must be the owner of the high, fluting voice which Marianne had heard first. Abruptly, another voice, hard and authoritative, broke in but this time Marianne was able to hear the words. What she heard caused her to listen intently.

  'You are certain she is here?'

  'She was seen at the Crown and Anchor,' the other, lighter voice answered. 'It was certainly she—'

  Icy sweat trickled down Marianne's spine. The words brought back the consciousness of her position and she felt her heart lurch in her breast. Who were these men? Was it imagination or had she heard that deep voice before? In her sudden desire to get a sight of its owner, she almost left her hiding place but, as if he had been aware of her secret wish, the taller of the two men paused beneath the lantern, took something from his pocket and jumping on to a stone mounting block, inclined himself towards the flame, flickering in its metal cage, in order to light a cigar. The light fell full upon his face and Marianne bit back a cry as she recognized the hawk-like profile and restless expression of Jason Beaufort.

  Her heart beating wildly, she pressed herself back against the streaming wall of the building and closed her eyes in a childish effort to shut out that terrifying face. She was sure now, it was of herself that he had been speaking a moment before. So, not content with ruining and insulting her, the American had now descended to hunting her down like a common constable.

  Anger took hold of her, all the more fierce because she was powerless. She wished now that she had not let him escape! He had deserved death as much as Francis, and yet he lived. From behind the fragile lids of her closed eyelids, she heard the scrape of Beaufort's boots as he jumped down and then, once again, the voice with the faint southern accent which was all too familiar now.

  'Well, she'll not go far. She's too easily recognized and clever as she is, she'll not escape for long. The noose is already waiting for her.'

  Marianne thought she would faint at this grisly prophesy. There was a sick taste of fear in her mouth. She could almost feel the roughness of the rope around her neck and instinctively she put up her hand to her throat as she tried to squeeze herself back even further into her refuge. If only the wall could have opened and swallowed her up.

  Meanwhile, the two men were walking on, moving away from the passage and out of earshot. Had they said anything else? The drumming in her ears had prevented her from registering anything but the diminishing sound of their footsteps. Even w
hen these had died away completely, she still dared not open her eyes so great was her terror of seeing Beaufort's face once again before her. But someone, close by, was calling her.

  'Hoy! Little maid, where are you?'

  That must be old Nathaniel. Taking a deep breath to calm the frantic beating of her heart, she emerged from her hiding place.

  'Here I am.'

  The old man smiled, revealing the remnants of some teeth which had long forgotten what it was to be white. He was rubbing his hands, apparently well pleased with himself.

  'Come with me,' he whispered. 'I think it'll fadge. Black Fish sails tonight with the tide – wants a look at ye—'

  Taking her firmly by the hand, he drew her to the tavern. Marianne suffered him to lead her without resistance and immediately found herself in a lighted room where the atmosphere was like a dense fog, reeking in equal parts of rum and tobacco smoke from the long clay pipes of the drinkers huddled beneath the low ceiling. There were fishermen, sailors in stocking caps and a sprinkling of marines in blue uniforms and hard black hats, all of them, with their girls, drinking shouting and singing at the tops of their voices. In a corner by the soot-blackened hearth, a boy knelt at a big, wooden tub washing the tankards as they were brought to him by a moustachioed serving wench. Marianne's entry in the wake of old Nat provoked an outburst of shouts and coarse jokes. Voices called out from all parts of the room.

  'Cor, she's a ripe 'un! Hey, sweetheart, come and have a drink with me?'

  'By the guts of old Noll, she's the girl for me! D'ye see those eyes, Sam? Clear as the sea the day after a storm!'

  'Stow it, Harry! She's not for your picking. Look at her! I'll wager she's a virgin.'

  'No harm in finding out! Here, darling! Over here!'

  Hands reached out, striving to encircle her waist, or pinch her bottom. Scarlet with shame and terrified in case there should be someone there who knew her face, Marianne eluded them as best she could. Cursing and shoving lustily, old Nat managed to keep off the boldest but he had no easy job. Marianne clutched her cloak around her and tried to dodge the grasping hands, keeping her eyes on the ground so as not to look at the flushed faces of the men and darkling eyes of the girls. Suddenly, a loud voice thundered above the din.