Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  They went down a wooden staircase into the cellar in almost total darkness, illumined only by the candle held by one of the masked riders. The cellar was like any other, filled with barrels, bottles and a strong smell of wine. But in one corner underneath a rack which was moved with surprising ease, there appeared another trap-door, opening this time on to stone steps.

  For all her show of courage, Marianne felt herself trembling as she made her way down into the bowels of the earth. She shuddered at the memory of the threats she had heard. A horrible idea came to her that perhaps these silent men were really leading her to her grave. From the anguish of her heart she sent out one desperate thought to Charles. He had promised her that they would meet again soon, he might be thinking of her at that very moment, unaware that she was perhaps being torn from him forever. She saw all the cruel irony of a fate which opened the gates of death to her at the very moment when she had discovered love and happiness. No, it was too stupid! Marianne swore silently to fight for her life to the very end if only she might yet see Charles again.

  About two dozen steep steps had echoed under their feet when they came at last into a huge, decaying crypt with semi-circular arches. A fierce draught blew through it, making the torches which the riders had brought with them from the first cellar stream out wildly. Their booted feet rang ominously in the tomb-like vault.

  The crypt was cut in two by a large black curtain. A gleam of light showed from behind it. Before Marianne had time to wonder what was there, it was thrust aside and a man appeared. He was of medium height with short, crisp, slightly greying hair but of his face nothing was visible except a long, pale nose, owing to his mask and to his thick, black beard. The man's neck and shoulders indicated the strength of a bull, but the eyes which shone through the slits in his mask sparkled so gaily that Marianne found it hard to believe her own. His hands clasped behind his back, displaying the pair of long pistols thrust through his belt, the newcomer strolled up to the prisoner, stared at her closely for a moment and then burst out laughing, which was certainly the last thing Marianne had been expecting.

  'S'blood! What a beauty!' He began but his smile changed to a frown as the baron gave an exclamation of annoyance then stepped forward and murmured something in his ear.

  'Very well, if you insist! But I don't like it, Saint-Hubert, I don't like it at all. However, let's get on with it—'

  The curtain was pushed aside completely to reveal a long table covered with a scarlet cloth, behind which four men sat facing them with an empty place in the middle for their leader. The bearded man sat down. Six candles stood on the table and these he lighted, revealing the faces of his companions who were also masked and sat as still as stone. But Marianne found her eyes drawn instantly to one of them. All too well she knew that strong, sardonic mouth, that rosy scar that ran up under his mask and in that instant, she knew why she had been kidnapped. One of her judges was Baron Hervé de Kerivoas, otherwise Morvan, the wrecker, the man whom Fouché had so incautiously allowed to escape. She had no eyes for any of the others. One only concerned her: the man she knew as her implacable enemy.

  He did not move as she came in. There was no tightening of his features, no exclamation, but the eyes that fastened on the girl's face were bright with hatred. Marianne's only response was a slight scornful movement of her shoulders. She was not really afraid of Morvan. There was something unbalanced about him which made him weak, vulnerable perhaps. It remained to be seen what metal her other judges were made of. The four riders surrounded Marianne and marched her up to the table. All five remained standing and the leader's deep voice rang out.

  'We are here,' he said solemnly, 'to hear and pass judgement on this woman who stands accused by one of our brethren of treachery, treason and intelligence with the enemy. Riders of the Shadows, are you ready to listen and pass judgement fairly and with justice?'

  'We are,' judges and guards answered in unison.

  'But I am not ready!' Marianne cried boldly. 'I am not ready to be judged by strangers for what crime I know not. By what law, by what right do you sit in judgement on me? And what wrong have I done you?'

  'You shall know that,' the leader told her, 'when you have heard the accusation.'

  'Not before I know with whom I have to deal. One who accuses should have the courage to do so openly, and a judge to pass sentence in broad daylight. I see nothing here but a dark, shadowy cellar and blind moles buried in the earth. My face is not hidden! Dare to show yours if you are really what you claim to be, if not true judges, at least real men!'

  Some instinct, deep within her, drove her to defy these men. She found some comfort in it and even a kind of enjoyment.

  'Silence!' one of the judges ordered. 'You need not know who we are. You only wish to see our faces the better to denounce us!?

  'I understood,' Marianne observed with a disdainful smile, 'that I was not to leave here alive? Are you afraid of me? Afraid of one woman, a prisoner, alone amongst so many. Is that the truth?'

  'By all the Gods, I will not have it said that a chit of a girl accused me of being afraid!' the leader cried. He tore off his mask and threw it down before him, revealing a bluff, joyous countenance which had clearly seen more than fifty summers. 'And she is right! What have we to fear from her? I am the chevalier de Bruslart. Are you ready to answer me now?'

  It was a name Marianne had heard more than once. The man's reputation was high in England for courage and loyalty. Sworn enemy of Napoleon, he had for years successfully eluded the unremitting efforts of Fouché and his men to capture him. His presence here was some assurance to Marianne that, if he were really the leader of these men, then at least she would receive something approaching a fair trial. She pointed to Morvan.

  'You may ask this gentleman also to remove his mask. I am too well acquainted with Monsieur de Kerivoas – or perhaps here too he prefers the name of Morvan?'

  Slowly Morvan removed his mask, revealing his mutilated face. He rose to his feet and seemed to Marianne enormous in this shadowy place.

  'Insolence will not save you, Marianne d'Asselnat. I accuse you of having deceived me, of pretending to be what you were not by means of stolen jewels, of causing the death of one of my men and, last of all, of loosing Fouché's bloodhounds on my trail. Thanks to you, my band is decimated, myself in flight and—'

  'I had no part in what has befallen you,' Marianne interrupted him quietly, 'and my jewels are my own. But suppose we were to mention your own activities which are my best excuse for anything I may have done. I accuse you of lighting false fires on the shore to draw unhappy vessels to destruction on the rocks on stormy nights, of robbing corpses and doing to death the injured. I accuse you of being that worst of all human fiends, a wrecker! If I deceived you, it was to save my life. That is my legitimate defence. If these men are, as I think, faithful subjects of the king, they should hold you in abhorrence!'

  Bruslart's great fist slammed down ringingly on the red table.

  'Silence! What we may think concerns only ourselves. We are not here to settle a quarrel but to pass judgement on your actions, madame. Answer me. Your name is Marianne-Elizabeth d'Asselnat de Villeneuve as you told this man?' He indicated Morvan. 'But you are living in Paris under the name of Marianne Mallerousse, a name given you by Nicholas Mallerousse, one of Fouché's most active agents. And you have been employed of late as reader to Madame Grand.'

  'To her most serene highness the Princess of Benevento,' Marianne corrected him proudly. 'You should have thought of that before you kidnapped me. Do you think that when my absence is noted in the morning there will be no search made?'

  'No danger of that! The prince will receive word this morning, by a very short discreetly worded note, that you have found such favour with – the person you know of, that your presence is desired for sometime longer in that charming woodland retreat where you spent the night.'

  Marianne acknowledged a hit, fighting down the pain she felt at this cynical reminder of the blissful hours
she had spent there. Then another thought came to her. Fouché, who always knew everything, who had agents everywhere, surely he would learn of his star's sudden disappearance! Perhaps he knew already that she had been taken to La Selle St Cloud, although there was no reason why he should be watching the house of someone of no particular importance. But there was also a possibility that Talleyrand, deceived by the letter, would arrange for Fouché to learn of what, in his eyes, would after all be no more than an amorous escapade.

  The chevalier's cold voice interrupted the somewhat melancholy trend of her thought .

  'Will you tell me, yes or no, whether you are indeed Marianne d'Asselnat?'

  'Since you know I am,' Marianne said rebelliously, 'why do you ask? Are we in a court of justice? Are you a real judge?'

  'So, you admit your name and rank – you admit them and yet—'

  Bruslart paused. His bearded face twisted with sudden fury as he roared:

  ' – and yet, you, the daughter of a noble house, the daughter of two martyrs who died for their king, you have not feared to associate with the vilest rabble of this monstrous régime, you have dared to meddle with Fouché's police, to become an informer – and worse!'

  So, he knew it all. In spite of herself, Marianne felt a red flush of shame sweep over her face. She understood that for these silent men whose eyes were fixed on her like so many daggers, that was her greatest crime, that she had seemed to come to terms with the regime of the hated Bonaparte. It troubled her like an unfair stigma. Could she make them see that they were wrong, that appearances alone were against her?

  'Monsieur,' she said in a low voice, 'that I came to this country, that I have seemed to accept its laws and conditions, was because I had no choice. I did so to save my life. I can explain in detail, if you are willing to listen. But which of you has never tried to save his life at the cost of a lie? Which of you has never taken refuge in a borrowed name and character in such times as these?'

  'We have lied,' acknowledged one of the judges who was still masked, 'and we have worn borrowed characters, but we have never betrayed our own people or compounded with the enemy.'

  'I have never betrayed my own people!' Marianne cried passionately. 'It is my own people who have betrayed me. I was alone and helpless and I asked for help and assistance from one close to King Louis, and he rejected me without mercy, abandoning me knowingly to the worst of fates! But I have never compounded with Bonaparte's régime! I was brought up in England, brought up to hate him and I recognize his power no more than you. Whatever he made me suffer, I never betrayed the man I knew as Morvan. As for the tyrant who reigns here, I swear on my mother's grave, that I have always execrated—'

  Before she could finish, one of the riders, the one who had been addressed as the Baron de Saint-Hubert, had rounded on her, his arm raised and his eyes alight with such a murderous fury that Marianne recoiled instinctively with a cry of terror.

  'Renegade! Perjurer! Blasphemer! You should be burned alive for what you have just dared to say, for daring to soil your mother's memory with a lie! You serve to die in torment! Miserable creature! You dare to say you hate Napoleon?'

  Saint-Hubert's hand fell heavily on Marianne's arm. He flung her violently to her knees and held her there.

  'You dare to say? Dare you say it again?'

  Marianne was white with shock but even now she refused to give way to her fear.

  'Yes—' she whispered. 'I do dare!'

  Without releasing his hold on her arm, Saint-Hubert dealt her a ringing blow to the head which sent her sprawling on the ground.

  'You filthy little vagabond! So frightened for your skin you'll swear to anything! But your lies shall not save you, do you hear? So you hate Napoleon, do you? Did you hate him so much, tonight, at Butard?'

  'At – Butard?' Marianne echoed dazedly.

  'Yes, at Butard! At the delightful nest he keeps for his amours and where you spent the night! Or perhaps you were not in his bed? It was not he who made love to you, eh?'

  Marianne's head reeled. Everything seemed suddenly to have gone mad, the world was falling to pieces about her ears. In her horror, she began to scream:

  'No! No! It's not true! You are lying! The man I saw is called Charles Denis! An ordinary bourgeois.'

  'Will you not cease your lies? And to think that I admired your courage, that I was ready to speak for you, perhaps to help you!'

  Mad with rage, the baron was about to strike again but Bruslart sprang forward suddenly and tore the terrified girl from his friend's grip and thrust her behind his own broad back.

  'Enough, Baron de Saint-Hubert!' he said grimly. 'I am no murderer, or persecutor of women! The girl is too frightened to know what she is saying.'

  'Say rather she's making a mockery of us all, chevalier! Leave her to me, I'll make her talk. Creatures of her kind deserve no pity.'

  'And I say enough! There is something here I do not understand—'

  He turned to where Marianne lay half unconscious, face downwards on the ground. He helped her up and made her sit on a low stool. Marianne's head was ringing like a cathedral bell. She struggled unsuccessfully to collect her thoughts but decided that she must be going mad. What did these men mean? Of course, that was it. They were mad – or else she was the victim of some terrible misunderstanding. Charles! – Charles! Of God! How could they confuse him with the adventurer who held all Europe under his heel? He was so kind and gentle! They did not know him. They could not know him. He was just an ordinary man – God, how her head hurt!

  Marianne became aware of the rim of a glass pressed to her lips.

  'Drink this,' the chevalier ordered. 'Then we will try and get to the bottom of this.'

  'Charles!' she moaned. 'Charles Denis. You cannot know—'

  'Drink, I tell you. You are green.'

  She drank. The wine was strong and heady. Its warmth ran quickly through her chilled body, reviving a little spark of life. Pushing the glass away with her hand, she stared at the chevalier with such a lost expression that he nodded with a trace of pity.

  'So young and yet so depraved?' he murmured under his breath.

  'There is no age in women's depravity!' There was no pity in Morvan's voice.

  'I have asked you to let me sort this out, Monsieur the Wrecker,' Bruslart retorted, without looking round. 'Stand back a little, gentlemen, you are upsetting her.'

  The Baron de Saint-Hubert gave a sardonic crack of laughter.

  'One of these days, chevalier, your incorrigible weakness for women will make you do something stupid. I am not sure that day has not come.'

  'If it has come, then I am old enough to see that without your help. For the present, I should like to question this one without interruptions from you.'

  'Very well, question her! But we are here. We are listening.'

  The Riders of the Shadows withdrew to the far end of the chamber, a black wall against the grey wall of the crypt. Marianne and Bruslart were left alone by the table.

  'Last night,' he began patiently, 'you were taken to the pavilion of Butard at Le Celle St Cloud?'

  'That was the name I was told, certainly.'

  'Who took you there?'

  'The Prince of Benevento. He told me the house belonged to a friend of his, a bourgeois named Monsieur Charles Denis, a man who had recently suffered a cruel bereavement. My singing was to be a comfort to him.'

  'And you were not surprised that such a man as Talleyrand should take the trouble to escort you, in person, to the house of a mere bourgeois?'

  'Yes. But the prince told me that they were friends of long standing. I thought – I thought the prince might have known him perhaps in the Revolution, or that the name might be a cloak for some foreign conspirator—'

  'We will come to that later. Who met you at Butard? A servant?'

  'No. I think he was a friend of M. Denis. He was called Duroc. And I saw a manservant as well.'

  'A manservant by the name of Constant, was it?'

  'Yes
– yes, I think so!'

  The chevalier's deep voice became suddenly very gentle. He bent over Marianne and looked hard into her eyes.

  'This M. Denis – you love him?'

  'Yes! Yes, I love him. I think I loved him from the very first. I saw him and then—'

  'And then,' Bruslart finished for her quietly, 'you found yourself in his arms. He attracted you, hypnotised you, bewitched you – they say he can talk love like no one else and write it better still.'

  Marianne stared at him wide eyed.

  'But then – you know him? He is a man who leads a secret life, is he not, a conspirator, like yourself? I knew he was in danger!'

  For the first time, Bruslart smiled briefly.

  'Yes, I know him. As for secrecy, it may well be, for it is true that he is often in danger. Shall I show you your Monsieur Denis?'

  'Yes – yes, of course. Is he here?' she cried, carried away by a sudden wonderful hope.

  'He is everywhere,' the chevalier said with a shrug. 'Here, look here.'

  Taking a gold coin from his pocket he placed it in Marianne's hand. She stared at it in bewilderment.

  'The face,' Bruslart persisted. 'Don't you recognize it?'

  Marianne looked. A wave of colour mounted her face. She stood up, mechanically, staring with eyes grown suddenly huge at the fine profile stamped on the gold, a profile she recognized only too well.

  'Charles!' she stammered helplessly.

  'No,' the chevalier corrected her grimly. 'Napoleon! It was to him that old fox Talleyrand delivered you tonight, you little fool.'

  The gold coin slipped from Marianne's fingers and rolled away over the ancient flagstones. She felt the floor heave under her feet. The walls were performing a wild dance around her. Marianne gave one cry and fell headlong, like a felled sapling.

  When she came to herself again, she was lying on some straw in a dark place lit by a flickering brazier. A strange individual holding a candle was bending over her sympathetically. With his pointed face, receding hair, large ears and bristling whiskers, he looked like a mouse wearing a goatee. His black eyes, which were round and very bright, strengthened this resemblance. When he saw Marianne open her eyes, he gave a broad smile which split his face in two.