Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'That is not a name. And I would remind you that you have not yet been civil enough to show your face. To me, therefore,' Marianne concluded, 'you are simply a stranger.'

  A gust of wind flung open one of the windows, sending it banging back against the wall and whirled through the room lifting the papers which lay on the tables. Morvan rose with a sigh of irritation and went to close it. On his way back, he paused to snuff a candle which was smoking, then came and stood squarely in front of Marianne.

  'I will show you my face if I think fit. As for my name, it is long now since I had any but Morvan. I am known by that name, over there,' he added with a nod in the direction from which came the murmuring sound of the sea.

  'I have nothing to say to you,' Marianne answered him coldly, 'except to ask you to return what is mine, in other words my possessions and my servant, and let me go on my way – when you have given me something to eat, that is, for to tell you the truth I'm starving.'

  'And we shall sup very shortly. I did but wait for you. Let us settle our business first, however. I cannot eat with something nagging at me.'

  'I can at any time. So let us get this over if you please, and ask whatever questions you wish.'

  'Where are you going?'

  'To Paris,' Marianne said with all the satisfaction of one telling the simple truth.

  'Who are you going to see? The Red Herring? Or the chevalier de Bruslart? Although I doubt the latter's being in Paris.'

  'I don't know. They would find me. I don't know who I have to deal with.'

  Now it was Morvan's turn to look thoughtful. But Marianne could guess what he was thinking. He must be reasoning that a girl so young and inexperienced could not be the bearer of any perilous message and, in any case, would be unlikely to know its real worth.

  Having reached this conclusion, he smiled at her, that wolfish smile which Marianne hated instinctively.

  'Very well. I am willing to accept that and shall not force you to betray your secret – which might have unpleasant consequences for us both. But your coming is a blessing of which I should be foolish not to take advantage.'

  'Take advantage? But how?'

  'It is like this: I have already sent two messengers, one to the King at Hartwell House, the other to London, to the comte d'Antraigus. Neither has returned and for months now I have had no orders or instructions. I was getting desperate when the sea deposited you here like a miracle. You are a god-send! You could scarcely expect me to let you run away again without first giving me a little help?'

  The tone was soft, almost carressing but Marianne forced back a shudder. There was something cat-like in this man and she liked him better when a spitting fury than with velvet paws. However, she managed to conceal her thoughts.

  'How may I help you?'

  'Easily. By remaining here, as my – guest,' an infinitesimal pause before the word, 'and queen of this sad house. Meanwhile, I shall see to it that your servant, the man by whom you set such store and who seems to me to have the air of something more than a mere servant, is sent back to England. He will go, with a proper escort, to the King – or to Madame Royale. Her Highness must have a great regard for you to have given you this precious locket. She will not be indifferent to the fact that you are detained here, unable to assume your mission, until I obtain satisfaction from the princes, or at least an answer to the question I have asked.'

  Morvan was watching her reactions closely and Marianne needed all her self-command not to show her dismay. Yet the wrecker's plan contained nothing to delight her. Jean Le Dru would never consent to carry through the part she had forced on him if it meant a return to England and the hulk that awaited him in Plymouth or Portsmouth. He would tell the truth and would then be in imminent danger of having his throat cut by Morvan's men. And if Morvan were ever to suspect what she really was, a murderess fleeing from the rope, her own life would not be worth much more. Morvan was just the man to hand her over, bound hand and foot, to the English law if he thought it would serve his turn. She had to part company with this dangerous individual and the sooner the better. But meanwhile, it was vital to gain time and, when Morvan asked: 'Well? What do you think of my offer?' she was able to reply quite calmly and even summon up a smile.

  'I think it is an interesting idea and one we might examine further at more leisure – when we have eaten for instance—'

  Surprised, perhaps at her ready acceptance, Morvan gave a crack of laughter and offered his arm with a bow.

  'You must indeed be very hungry. And you are quite right. My arm, my dear, and let us recoup our strength somewhat.'

  The room in which meals were taken in Morvan's house bore no resemblance to a banqueting hall. It was simply a large kitchen with a floor of beaten earth. A granite fireplace of monumental proportions took up the whole of one side and inside it, in a niche in the soot-blackened wall, was a stone bench on which an old man, with grey hair straggling from under a battered hat, sat meditating with his chin on a knotted stick. At the far end, beneath the narrow window, a long box table, flanked by two settles, was set at right angles to the wall. On it were bowls and dishes made of a red earthenware and, next to them, a big wicker dish cover was attached by a long cord to a pulley fastened to the ceiling. The only light in the long, low room came from the flames in the hearth and from a pine torch stuck medieval-fashion into an iron ring in the wall. There was a strong smell of wood smoke. Apart from the old peasant dozing in the chimney corner there were only four people in the kitchen when Morvan entered with Marianne on his arm: the old woman she had seen when she woke up and was now busy with a large pan on the fire, Gwen and the two men whose acquaintance Marianne had made under such unpleasant circumstances on the beach. No one spoke. Gwen merely stuck her nose in the air and took her place at table with the rest.

  Sitting beside her and facing the three men, Marianne could not help asking why Jean Le Dru was not present and where he was.

  'Because in my house, as in other noble households, the servants do not eat with the masters. These – er, gentlemen,' he added in a mocking voice, indicating Vinoc and his companion, 'are my lieutenants. Your servant is lucky enough to be served in his own quarters – he is locked in the barn.'

  With this explanation, Marianne was obliged to be content as Morvan began immediately to say grace. No respectable household would have bowed their heads more piously over their plates than the three wreckers and the girl Gwen. Deciding that in future nothing should surprise her, Marianne did the same, after which they addressed themselves to the meal in a silence befitting so noble a subject as food.

  This too was of a kind quite unfamiliar to Marianne. A thick soup made of parched oats and a few pieces of bacon so fat that Marianne could not think of eating it, was followed by potatoes baked in the ashes. Seeing the others break them open on the edge of their bowls and then dip each spoonful in the cold milk of which there was a plentiful supply, she copied them and found it delicious. The buckwheat pancakes sprinkled with plenty of sugar which came next were good as well and she drank several bowls of milk. Only Morvan drank wine.

  From where she sat, Marianne could see into a small room, like a store room, opening out of the wall next to the fireplace. Inside, under the now darkened window, stood an outsize table covered with a white cloth. Sitting cross-legged on this table was a small, wizened man. His skin was almost yellow, his hair dark and lank, his hands white and agile. A huge heap of materials of all colours had been pushed to one side, while this curious creature was busily engaged in putting away vast quantities of pancakes smothered in thick cream with which the old woman was plying him with unexpected goodwill. Marianne could see that they were talking a good deal but could not hear what was being said. However, since she was too young to contain her curiosity, she asked:

  'Who is that man in there, eating among all the materials?'

  'The tailor, saving your presence,' Morvan answered without looking round. 'It is the custom here to have such people to the house to c
ut and sew garments. They are clever with their hands and perform wonders. If you wish him to make you a gown, I shall be happy to present him to you.'

  'Why does he eat alone in that little room?'

  'Because he is the tailor, saving your presence!'

  This time, Marianne looked at him wide eyed. Could he, by any chance, be laughing at her?

  'Why do you keep saying "saving your presence"?' she said with a touch of insolence. 'How peculiar!'

  'Because a tailor, saving your presence, is not a man and therefore one should ask pardon when mentioning him. That does not, however, detract from his skill. This one, his name is Perinnaic, an artist in his way—'

  No, Morvan was decidedly not laughing at her. He made the explanation calmly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Moreover, Marianne did not miss the venomous glance cast at him by the occupant of the small room. Perinnaic must have heard what was said about him. Morvan had not troubled to lower his voice. Gwen raised hers sharply.

  'He is a real artist,' she announced. 'He is sought all over Brittany and you should be proud that he consents to work in your muddy great barn when all the grand houses are after him.'

  Morvan gave a short laugh.

  'I was forgetting! Men may cordially despise the tailor, saving your presence, but the women adore him. I suppose you will be the same.'

  Marianne said nothing but her eyes dwelled thoughtfully on the little man who had finished his meal and was once again working away earnestly with fine gold thread at some embroidery he was doing on a black velvet garment. What interested her was not so much the man's skill as the hatred she had glimpsed briefly in his eyes. Feelings of that kind directed towards Morvan were bound to strike a sympathetic cord in her. She made up her mind to ask for a dress, simply as a way of approaching Perinnaic. And with her mother's pearls in his pocket, Morvan could well afford to buy her one!

  The meal ended with a further blessing. Marianne rose and, without waiting for permission, made her way over to the tailor's little retreat. He did not look up at her approach but Marianne found herself instantly spellbound. Perinnaic's thin fingers worked with extroardinary dexterity, creating on the black velvet a delicate tracery of strange, spiralling patterns that seemed to spring direct from his own whimsical imagination. Marianne was too much a woman not to admire the work wholeheartedly and still too much a child not to put her admiration into words.

  'You are a very great artist!' she said softly and with real feeling, quite forgetting that the man would probably not understand her words. He looked up, however, possibly in response to something in her voice. Something approaching a smile warmed his shrivelled face but only for an instant. Perinnaic's lashless eyelids dropped again at once and Marianne heard Morvan's insolent voice behind her.

  'Decidedly, no woman can resist anything to do with clothes. Tomorrow, you shall choose a length of stuff and be measured. Oh, don't worry, it will be enough for him to take a length of your arm.'

  Without troubling to thank him, Marianne went on immediately to tell him of her wish to see Jean Le Dru. She wanted to assure herself, that he was being properly treated. Unfortunately, Morvan was unimpressed by such concern. He merely told her in a bored voice that she need feel no anxiety for her servant, he was being well treated as she could see for herself from the size of the meal old Soizic was at that moment loading on to a large tray. But he had no intention of allowing his guest to converse freely with her "highly suspicious" servant.

  'We shall see him together, tomorrow morning,' he concluded, 'when we inform him of what we would have him do. What can you have to tell him now that will not wait? It is dark, the day is done now and it is time to rest.'

  'I am not sleepy,' Marianne snapped. She had slept all day and was now suffering at least as much from impatience as from real anxiety. She had to see Jean alone and explain to him what she wanted him to do to ensure the safety of them both. Pulling the precious Irish shawl more tightly round her shoulders, she went on, a little defiantly: 'What am I supposed to do? Crawl back into that cupboard thing I sleep in I suppose?'

  Morvan laughed.

  'You have no fancy for our box-beds, I see, but they can be very cosy when the air bites cold. However, since you are not sleepy, what would you like to do? You might take a walk but the night is dark and cold—'

  'Thank you! But I have no desire for a second view of those poor murdered wretches on the beach.'

  'You take me for a child, my dear. It's little enough we see of the coastguard and customs men in these parts, I agree they stand somewhat in awe of our rude manners, I believe, but one never knows. The drowned have been thrown back into the sea, the others properly buried. We did not kill so very many, you know.'

  The last words were spoken in an ironic tone which made Marianne want to slap him.

  Rather than arouse his suspicions, she agreed when he proposed a game of chess. At his command, an exquisite marquetry table was brought into the homely kitchen. Arranged upon it was a set of sparkling chess men made of silver and crystal and certainly very old. These were followed by two fragile armchairs upholstered in pale silk which were placed before the fire.

  'This is the warmest place in the house,' Morvan explained taking one of the chairs and offering the other to Marianne. 'There is my own room, but the chimney smokes and one freezes there. Besides—' He gave a slow smile and his teeth gleamed wolfishly below the mask, 'we are as yet insufficiently acquainted for another, more enthralling game I might propose. Until proved otherwise, you are the guest sent by God – and, of course, by their Highnesses.'

  'I seem to think,' Marianne retorted blandly, 'that it takes two to play that game – and you would find me less willing to engage in it than in this. I should, on the other hand, be very willing to see you at last remove your mask. I dislike that velvet face.'

  'You would dislike what it conceals still more,' he answered harshly. 'If you must know, my pretty babe, I am disfigured. An unlucky sabre-cut at Quiberon yet, even then, I came out of that carnage alive and think myself lucky I escaped so lightly. So, let us leave my mask where it is and have our game.'

  Chess had been the abbé de Chazay's passion and Marianne had played the game as long as she could remember. Patiently, in the course of endless games she had developed her sense of strategy. She played well, with a speed and boldness that could disconcert even a skilful player. But tonight, her mind was not on the game. Her eyes scarcely saw the glittering pieces touched to gold by the dancing light of the fire, her ears were so busy straining to catch all the sounds of this unfamiliar house. Gwen had disappeared as though by magic. The old woman, Soizic, had gone off with her tray. Almost at once, the sound of her wooden shoes was heard outside the kitchen window. There must be an outer door somewhere not far away leading to the barn where Jean was imprisoned. The two "lieutenants" had shuffled out with an awkward "goodnight all", and shortly afterwards the little tailor had also made his way across the kitchen, carrying his candle, on his way to whatever hole had been allotted him to sleep in.

  Now that he. was no longer sitting down, Marianne saw with pity that he was a gnome-like creature with stunted legs much too short for a body whose development, apart from a tendency to be hunchbacked, was normal. He gave the players as wide a berth as possible and muttered his goodnight humbly enough but once again Marianne caught that glance of pure hatred directed towards Morvan.

  Last of all, the old man in the chimney corner hobbled away, half asleep, and then the only sounds were the crackle of logs in the hearth and Morvan's rather heavy breathing. Little by little, the silence became oppressive. The mask and the angle at which his chair was placed left the wrecker's face in shadow, and Marianne had the unpleasant feeling that she was playing against a phantom; only the hands moving the pieces on the squares and violet-wood, seemed alive. It was a good hand, of almost feminine whiteness, the fingers long, perfectly formed and sensitive. Their colour apart, Marianne had seen another pair of hands like t
hose, quite recently. They reminded her of Jason Beaufort's hands and the memory was not a pleasant one. On Morvan's however, Marianne's keen eyes were able to make out the faint mark of a star-shaped scar at the base of the third finger. She had always been fascinated by hands and by the strange, evocative power they had to conjure up a host of images. She had been fond of studying people's hands. These hands suggested something quite different from nights spent lurking in ambush on storm-lashed rocks, waiting for luckless vessels to fall into the trap – they suggested—

  The hand was abruptly withdrawn and Morvan's coldly courteous tone dispelled his adversary's musings.

  'Your mind is not on the game, my dear. That is my bishop you were about to move. Perhaps you are more tired than you thought? Would you rather we stopped for tonight?'

  Marianne grasped at the chance he offered. She had better things to do tonight than to play chess. And so with a rueful smile she agreed that she did feel a little sleepy. Morvan rose, bowed and offered his arm.

  'After such a night as you have passed, it is not surprising. I will take you to your room.

  ***

  The fire had burned down to a red glow and the cold had crept into the long, bare room but there were new candles in the silver sconces and the bed in the carved wooden alcove had been freshly made. A long cambric shift was laid out on the coverlet. But Marianne had no thought of going to bed. She began by throwing some logs on the fire and the flames burned up, bright and clear, driving away the gloomy shadows. That done, she went straight to the window and dragged aside the ragged curtain that covered it. She found to her fury that it was firmly barred and fastened with the aid of a padlock. It seemed that Morvan left nothing to chance. A wave of depression swept over her. She would never manage to get to Jean and tomorrow would bring disaster to them both. But how was she to get out? Morvan was almost certain to have locked the door and in fact that infalliable recording device of memory was already telling her that she had heard the dry click of the key in the lock.