Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  She saw her reflection in the tall mirror and could not repress a start of surprise. She saw herself from head to foot, but did not recognize what she saw. That woman with the dark-ringed eyes, the mouth still swollen from kisses, the provocative limbs, was that herself? She ran her hand slowly, experimentally over the thighs which Charles had caressed, realizing in some obscure fashion that the still innocent girl she had been when she came there was gone forever. She was a woman now, she thought with a sense of triumph, a woman in full possession of her powers and the thought made her glad because the change had come about through him and for him.

  A light scratching at the door cut short her meditations and sent her scuttling for the reassuring shelter of the bedclothes.

  'Come in,' she said.

  Duroc's head appeared round a crack in the door.

  'Forgive me for disturbing you but I wish for your instructions. Until what hour would you care to sleep?'

  'I am not sleepy any more,' Marianne assured him. 'In fact, I should be happy to return to Paris at once.'

  'But – it is still the middle of the night. And very cold!'

  'I do not mind that. And it is best I should return. I do not know what his highness will think at my coming home so late. He will never believe I have been singing all this time—'

  'Indeed no, but—' Duroc added with a quiet smile, 'I think that Monsieur de Talleyrand was prepared for you to return late, even very late. I will order something warming for you and have the horses put to.'

  As she sat in the brougham that was ferrying her back to Paris, Marianne was still wondering why Talleyrand should have been so certain she would come home very late. Had he thought that Charles would ask her to sing for much longer than he had done? Or – or had the cunning mind of the Limping Devil foreseen what would happen? Had he foreseen how deeply his friend would be drawn to her and how completely Marianne on her side would be won by him? Had he known that they would fall in love? Had he, in introducing her to Charles Denis, meant to give him simply the pleasure of her voice, or Marianne herself? With such a man, anything was possible, but as the horses carried her onwards at a steady pace she sent a warm, grateful thought out to the wily diplomat. She owed him the most beautiful night of her life, her first real love, because now, with the passing of time and the events which had taken place between, Marianne was able to see her brief infatuation for Francis Cranmere in its true light, a romantic schoolgirl illusion, the normal attraction of a very young girl for any good-looking man. She would never forget that it was Talleyrand who, deliberately or not, had thrown her into Charles's arms.

  But now, she was in a hurry to be back. She would question the prince, even if it meant being disrespectful. He must tell her everything he knew about Charles Denis. In her new-found love, Marianne identified herself completely with the man she loved. She wanted to live his life, even or especially if that life was dangerous. All this, Talleyrand must tell her or else she would apply to Dorothée who was surely bound to have heard at least something about the strange Monsieur Denis.

  It was freezing hard now and the carriage windows were thickly frosted over but wrapped in her coat and plenty of rugs tucked carefully round her by kind Monsieur Duroc, and a footwarmer under her toes, Marianne felt wonderfully happy and comfortable. Duroc had begged her pardon for being unable to escort her himself and deluged the coachman with instructions, not to go too fast, take care the horses did not slip, make quite certain the young lady reached home safely, and a host of other things. Consequently, the man was driving with great caution, due probably to the steepness of the slope they were descending.

  Somewhere over the fields, a church clock struck five. It was answered from close by by the sound of bells ringing for masses. There must be a convent somewhere near. After a few minutes driving on level ground, the carriage slowed down and stopped. Marianne leaned forward in surprise, and rubbing a clear patch on the glass, she saw a broad band of water a little way off. They had come to the river Seine. Suddenly, the door opened and the coachman looked in.

  'You will have to get out here, Madame,' he said. 'We have to take the ferry.'

  'The ferry? What ferry? We took no ferry when I came?'

  'Because you came by the bridge of St Cloud. But they've been rebuilding it for two years now and when it freezes as hard as this it is not safe. Better to take the ferry. This is Suresnes.'

  Looking beyond the coachman's swaddled figure, Marianne could see a big barge with a lighted lantern on it waiting a little way off. But it looked quite empty and the air which came in through the open door was so bitterly cold that she shivered and huddled deeper in her rugs.

  'It is much too early,' she said irritably. 'No one will take us across at this hour. Let us go back and take the bridge.'

  'Not worth it, Madame. The ferry man will take us, I promise you. It's early yet but he's already got people waiting on the other side. Folk come every morning to hear mass with the trappists of Mont-Valérien. So if you'll be so good as to get out. It's best the carriage should be as light as possible to go on board.'

  'Very well, if I must,' Marianne sighed, putting aside her rugs regretfully. She gathered up her skirts and taking the hand the coachman offered with an injunction 'to take care and not slip' she jumped lightly to the ground.

  At the same instant, a black cloth was flung over her head.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Riders of the Shadows

  Marianne screamed but a hand was clapped roughly over her mouth outside the cloth and she quickly realized that all resistance would be useless. Terrified and half-suffocated, she felt arms round her knees and shoulders as she was lifted off the ground. A slight rolling movement told her that her kidnappers had boarded the ferry. A masterful voice spoke.

  'Make it a little quicker, if you please. It's damnably cold. The horses will be freezing on the other bank.'

  There was another sound, as of a bag of money being thrown, followed by muffled, obsequious thanks and she guessed that the coachman had been paid. Certainly the coach did not come aboard. There was a noise of metal shod wheels on the pebbled shore, a noise which soon faded and disappeared. Then there was nothing but the slap of water against the side of the boat.

  Marianne was flung down on the bare planks of the deck but a strong arm still held her firmly pressed against an unknown chest. Marianne fought desperately against imminent suffocation and driving panic. Who were these men, and what did they want with her Were they merely carrying her over to the other side or – she felt sick at the thought of the black water she had glimpsed briefly. She wriggled, trying to loosen the choking folds of cloth but the arm only clutched her more tightly.

  'Lie still, little fool,' ordered the same commanding voice. 'Or I'll throw you in the water—'

  The fact that he should threaten her with it meant that he did not mean to do away with her at once. Ever so slightly reassured, Marianne tried to fight down the feeling of suffocation but she failed. The material, a cloak it might be, was too thick to let even a breath of air reach her lips. She was being slowly suffocated.

  'I can't breathe,' she managed to gasp. 'For pity's sake—'

  'Take off the cloak,' a fresh voice advised. 'In any case, we are here—'

  The thud of the barge striking the banks came just as the cloak was loosened round her head. It was only just in time. Half-fainting, Marianne gulped instinctively at the icy air while a heavily gloved hand slapped her sharply to revive her.

  'She's fainted,' said the man with the harsh voice critically.

  'A faint may be worse than it looks,' the other answered.

  Both voices sounded cultivated. They certainly did not belong to ordinary highway robbers Marianne thought, her mind still working automatically. She opened her eyes and saw two men in black masks bending over her. They wore round hats and voluminous riding cloaks. They were now on the other side of the river and just underneath the trees of the Boulogne, which at this point came close down to
the bank, she could see two other horsemen waiting beside a carriage she recognized all too readily.

  'The black cab,' she said faintly.

  One of the masked men laughed. 'So she had noticed it! You were right, she is much more dangerous than she seemed. Come now, we must be off.'

  'One moment. Just because she is dangerous, we must make sure of her. Letting her breathe is one thing—'

  'But what have I done?' Marianne protested as the second man was binding her hands swiftly with a silk scarf. 'Where are you taking me? And why?'

  This was ridiculous! Anger was now beginning to overcome her fear, reviving her instinct of self-preservation.

  'That, mademoiselle, you will be told when we reach our destination,' the man answered. 'For the present, you will best keep silent. We should not like to have to kill a woman—'

  She was suddenly aware of the long-barrelled duelling pistol gleaming in the man's gloved hand, the muzzle pressed close to her left breast. The threat was serious.

  'I'll be quiet,' she breathed.

  'Good. Now, if you will excuse me—'

  Another scarf was bound across her eyes, so tightly that no ray of light showed through. After this, her kidnappers took an arm each and guided her to the carriage. She felt other hands reach out to her from inside, and pull her up the steps. The door slammed. Marianne found herself sitting on a seat that was not uncomfortable. She could hear someone breathing beside her and guessed that this was the person who had helped her into the carriage. Outside, she heard someone say:

  'The muff! There, by the water. We cannot leave it there. The chief said: "Leave no traces."'

  'Why not? They might think she was drowned.' 'Leaving her muff carefully on the opposite side! Fool!' A few seconds later, the door opened again and she felt someone push her bound hands into the muff. The man sitting beside her spoke for the first time and she repressed a shudder. His voice was like steel, hard and merciless. 'Such care for a renegade!'

  'Our job is to take her, not to judge her,' the first man said firmly. 'If she is guilty, she will die, but she need not suffer unnecessarily. We have to get her to the chief in one piece!'

  The door banged to and the carriage moved off, speeding to a gallop as it plunged into the thickets of the wood. Marianne could hear the four hoursemen galloping behind. She wondered who was this chief to whom they were taking her.

  ***

  The journey in the carriage was comparatively brief but it was followed by a much longer one on foot. Two of Marianne's captors seized her arms and half carried her along. The way seemed endless. And it felt to Marianne as though she were being dragged down a fearful, slippery and evil-smelling slope. The air was cold and dank as though at the bottom of a tunnel and a smell of rottenness assailed her nostrils. No light was visible below the bandage over her eyes, although the rubbing against the cushions of the coach had loosened it a little. Neither of her companions had spoken since leaving the river bank and Marianne found herself moving in a wholly dark and silent world. Only the strength of the hands holding her upright and the sound of men breathing told her she had not been spirited away by ghosts. From time to time, in the course of this nightmare journey, she heard the sound of a cat yowling or the trickle of running water somewhere. Her feet in the pink satin slippers were like ice and bruised unmercifully as she stumbled blindly along the stony path. She would have fallen had not the phantom riders held her up. Her blood congealed with terror and there was a tight ache in her throat. This hideous adventure, coming so soon after leaving the enchanted pavilion where she had known such happiness, was like a nightmare from which she knew that there was no awakening. She was like a trapped bird flinging herself against the bars of her cage but only succeeding in hurting herself.

  A door banged suddenly. They had entered what must be a lighted passage because Marianne could see a yellow gleam of light. Then came some kind of muddy court or garden, followed by some crumbling steps. Someone whistled three times, then knocked twice on a door. It became suddenly warm. Marianne felt a floor beneath her feet. A smell of cabbage soup and sour wine filled her nostrils. At last, the bandage was taken from her eyes.

  She looked about her fearfully. Five men stood around her wearing black masks and dressed in black, but with a certain elegance. There were two more, evil-looking fellows in dirty smocks and oilcloth caps. The figures stood out grimly against the background of a wretched wine shop, lit by two smoking lamps. The walls shone with grease and sweat, there were rickety tables, chairs losing their stuffing and, in one corner, an ancient trunk covered with moth-eaten fabric. Only the glasses and the row of bottles that stood on a shelf looked clean and new. But most of all, the prisoner was struck by the appearance of an extraordinary old woman who rose up suddenly out of the shadows, leaning on a cane. She was so bent and broken that she looked at least a hundred and on her powdered hair she wore a massive lace cap, torn and filthy, in the fashion of twenty years before, as was the greyish muslin fichu crossed on her breast. Her stained gown must once have been a handsome violet silk and a great golden cross gleamed on her bosom. The old woman's face was so criss-crossed and veined with wrinkes that it resembled the bark of some ancient tree, but although her sharp nose all but met her chin, the eyes very nearly as green as Marianne's own, were bright and young like new leaves on an old withered trunk.

  This ancient creature dragged her rheumaticky limbs painfully up to Marianne and looked her up and down with a wicked grin.

  'Fine game, baron! Very fine game—' she cackled. 'Satin and ermine, mark you! To say nothing of what's underneath! Do you really want to send all this to the bottom of the Seine with a stone around its neck? Do you know what a waste it is?'

  A trickle of cold sweat ran down Marianne's back at the fearful sound of the old woman's cackling laugh. But the man she had addressed as baron, who seemed to be the leader of the band, merely shrugged.

  'The court will decide. I carry out my orders, Fanchon-Fleur-de-lis. I've had trouble enough laying hands on her. She never went out but by day and with a good escort. Until tonight's little affair.'

  'We need not regret that,' another broke in swiftly and Marianne recognized the voice of the man who had been with her in the carriage. 'We were able to confirm what we suspected that she was meant for him. We took her on the road from Butard. And God knows we waited long enough! He must have found her to his liking.'

  Once again, Marianne's hackles rose at the cackling laughter of the old woman with the curious name.

  'I've had enough of this!' She burst out suddenly. 'More than enough! Tell me, once and for all what you want with me! Kill me if you insist, but do it quickly! Or else let me go!'

  Her protests ended in a cry of pain as the old woman struck her sharply across the knuckles with the knob of her cane.

  'That will do!' she snapped shrilly. 'Speak when you are spoken to! Otherwise, keep silent – or I might forget myself and kill you myself! And I'd be sorry afterwards because if the court will listen to me, my beauty, they'll give you into my keeping and I'll take good care of you. I have a little house at Ranelagh where I entertain some gentlemen of substance. Your favours would fetch a high price! An imperial whore! I hope he's a good lover, at least?'

  'Who? What do you mean?' Marianne said in a choked voice.

  'Why him, of course, the Corsican ogre! You must not be so modest. In the profession I have in mind for you, it will be something to be proud of—'

  Marianne decided the old woman must be mad. What was she talking about? What was this about an ogre? In her bewilderment, she was even able to ignore the creature's sordid threats. Nothing made any sense.

  'You are mad,' she said with a pitying shrug.

  'Mad, am I? You wait—'

  She raised her cane again but the Baron intervened.

  'That's enough! I have already told you, Fanchon, it is not for us to judge. Leave her alone. We will go down now.'

  'Maybe,' the old woman muttered obstinately, 'but I'll s
peak to the chevalier. She'll see then if I'm mad! I'll tan the hussy's hide for her before I put her to work—'

  'Must you really let this woman insult me?' Marianne cried angrily.

  There was a moment's silence, broken only by the sniggering of the two men in overalls. The baron took his prisoner by the arms.

  'No,' he said sternly, 'you are right. Come – you Requin, open the trap – and meanwhile, let Pisse-Vinaigre outside make sure we have not been followed.'

  One of the rough looking men went to the back of the room and, grasping a large iron ring, lifted up a trap-door leading apparently to the cellar. The other went outside. The baron untied Marianne's wrists.

  'The trap-door is only wide enough for one,' he said briefly. 'You would fall otherwise.'

  She gave him a pale smile of thanks and rubbed her sore wrists gently to restore the circulation to her frozen hands.

  'You are very kind,' she said bitterly.

  The man's eyes studied her closely through the slits in his mask.

  'And you,' he retorted, after a moment, 'are braver than I thought. I prefer that.'

  As he thrust her not unkindly towards the trap-door, Marianne thought that he was quite wrong. She was not as brave as he believed, in fact she was half dead with fright but not for anything in the world would she have shown her fear. Her pride kept her upright, her chin held high before these unknown men beneath whose masks she divined aristocrats like herself, men of her own class, even if by some absurd series of misunderstandings she had become their prisoner, though accused of what or why she did not know. In a way, she even felt a kind of impatience to find herself confronted with this mysterious court to which they kept referring, in order to find out at last why they had captured her and why they threatened her like this.