'Ah, that's right! We're coming round! Are we feeling better?'
Marianne made an effort to sit up and managed to prop herself on one elbow, though not without a groan. Her head ached horribly and her body felt bruised, as though she had been beaten.
'I – yes, thank you. I do feel a little better. But what happened to me? Where are we?'
The stranger with the large ears set his candle down on the ground and sat himself beside her, arms clasped about his skinny knees, carefully lifting the skirts of his coat before he did so. His blue coat and nut-brown pantaloons were of good cloth and well cut. They must have been elegant before the prison – there was no other name for the place in which they were, a kind of cavern shut off by iron bars – had worked irreparable harm on the tasteful garments.
'As to what has happened to you,' he said calmly, 'I cannot tell you. The chevalier de Bruslart, who uses these cellars as a meeting place when he is in Paris, brought you in a short while ago with the help of some of his friends. I believe I gathered that you were to take up residence in this charming spot while the gentlemen examined your case further. They did not seem able to agree. One was for putting you in the Seine to cool off, with a good, big stone, but the chevalier, a true gentleman indeed, declared roundly that he would kill anyone who despatched you without his express permission. As for our present place of residence—' the little man made an all embracing gesture taking in the rough-hewn chalky cavern around them – 'I am able to inform you, gracious lady, that we are in the old quarries of Chaillot which have been disused now for many years. If it were not for these bars, I could show you the old lime kiln still in very good order.'
'Quarries?' Marianne said, 'I was in some kind of crypt when I fainted.'
'It opens off these quarries. It is all that is left of the old convent of the Dames de la Visitation where the gentle Louise de la Vallière once sought refuge from the adulterous passions of Louis XIV, where Bossuet pronounced his funeral oration over Henrietta of England, where—'
This singular individual was clearly a most cultivated person but just at that moment French history was very far from Marianne's thoughts. She was amazed, and even a little disappointed, to find herself still alive. How much simpler it would all have been if the Riders of the Shadows had killed her while she was unconscious! Then there would not have been this waking with its train of heartache and bitter memories. If only they had thrown her straight into the Seine when they took her from her carriage! She would have had her moment of agony and nameless horror but it would have been comparatively brief and by now it would have been all over. She would be dead, taking with her the sweet and wonderful memory of the night she had just passed. She would have died with Charles's kisses warm on her lips, in the full, dazzling glory of love's dawn. She could have kept that, at least. But now, now that she had learned who he was and knew herself to have been no more than a plaything for an emperor's whim, now her whole life was in ruins indeed.
She had believed that when he took her in his arms, Charles had been mastered by the same attraction, had suffered the same irresistible revelation as she had herself. But no, she had merely served to distract a selfish man who, for the sake of establishing a dynasty, had just cast down from the throne the woman he had placed there, the companion of his youth, the wife whom the Pope himself had crowned in Notre Dame with such splendid ceremony that day in December. Marianne had given herself gladly to Charles Denis because that Charles Denis had needed love and tenderness but it made her sick with grief and horror to think that she had been simply a toy for Napoleon.
She understood it all now: the care with which Talleyrand had taken her there and also what the minister, at present out of favour, hoped to gain from making this handsome present to his master.
She understood the flurry caused by the so-called M. Denis's arrival and also the slight Mediterranean accent, and the Italian words of love. The Corsican! It was to the Corsican that she had given herself so trustingly, on the spur of the moment, simply because she had been drawn to him as she had never been to any man before. The memory of their kisses and caresses which, only a few hours before, had been so sweet now burned her life like a red hot iron. Utterly overcome with shame, she buried her head in her drawn-up knees and began to cry as though her heart would break.
A gentle, clumsy hand pushed aside the tumbled hair that hung over her face and began mopping her tear-stained cheeks with a handkerchief that smelled strongly of orris and a brotherly arm was put round her shoulders.
'There, there, you must not cry like that! You're not dead yet! And if you'll take my word for it, you aren't going to die. The chevalier de Bruslart has never killed a woman yet and if he decides to protect you—'
'I don't care if he does kill me!' Marianne cried miserably. 'I ask nothing better! Let him kill me and let me have done with this stupid life once and for all!'
'You want to die? You? With that face, those eyes—'
'If you dare tell me I am beautiful, I shall scream!' Marianne burst out passionately. 'I wish I were ugly, hideous, deformed! Then I should not be where I am! Then I should have been no one's wretched plaything! You cannot know what they have done to me, how I have been degraded, ruined, dishonoured—'
The words were pouring out now in a broken, incoherent stream as her control gave way at last. But the little man with the big ears did not seem to care. He got up and going to a pitcher of water which stood in one corner, dipped his handkerchief in it and set himself conscientiously to cleaning up his companion's dirty, tear-stained face. The cold water had a calming effect on Marianne. In a little while, she fell silent and let him wash her like a baby.
'There,' he said with satisfaction when the sobs and crying had dwindled to no more than some slight hiccupping. 'It does you good to cry but, my dear child, when you are my age, which must be about twice yours, you will know that there is nothing in the world to compare with simply being alive and that for someone who looks like you to say they want to die is not merely a wicked sin, it also shows extreme bad taste and ingratitude. You may have much to complain of in this base world but you must agree with me that Dame Nature has shown herself more than generous towards you even if you have suffered a bit just recently. There's nothing more comforting, when things seem to be going wrong, than to confide in someone. So tell your troubles to Uncle Arcadius. He knows some wonderful ways of getting out of the most hopeless situations!'
'Uncle Arcadius?' Marianne said in astonishment.
'Oh the devil! Have I omitted to present myself? That would be an unpardonable lapse of manners!'
He was on his feet in an instant, and, whirling round, favoured his companion with a bow in the best swash-buckling tradition. The only thing lacking was a feathered hat.
'The viscomte Arcadius de Jolival, at your service, former revolutionary out of step with the times, very present and genuine admirer of his glorious majesty the Emperor Napoleon, artist and man of letters – and a Greek Prince into the bargain!'
'A Greek Prince?' Marianne said, stunned by this flow of speech from the little man. She could not help being diverted by it and he had succeeded in distracting her from her own sorrows.
'My mother was a Comnena. Through her, I am related, though distantly it's true, to the wife of the governor of Paris, the talented Duchess of Abrantes – very distantly, perhaps I should say.'
Marianne recalled suddenly the little dark woman, looking so elegant in the set of enormous rubies, whom she had seen chatting to Countess Metternich in Talleyrand's salon. It was extraordinary how all these French people seemed to know one another. In Paris, one could discover common acquaintances even in a dungeon. Trying to shake off the numbness which chilled her to the heart, she too rose and went to hold her hands out to the warmth of the brazier. Her head still ached but her back felt less painful now. She noticed that this strange little man had declared himself roundly for the Emperor but could she in all honesty blame him for that when she had herself falle
n a victim so quickly to the pretended Charles Denis?
'What are you doing here?' she asked suddenly. 'Is it because of your sympathies for – the régime?'
Arcadius de Jolival shrugged.
'If Bruslart set out to imprison everyone who sympathized with the regime, as you put it, he'd need somewhere a great deal bigger than the quarries of Chaillot. Ten provinces would not be enough. No, I am here for debt!'
'For debt? To whom?'
'To the Dame Desormeaux, known as Fanchon-Fleur-de-lys. I dare say you must have met that remarkable lady on the upper floors of this desirable paradise?'
'That horrible old woman in rags? You owe her money?' Marianne cried, feeling more and more bewildered.
'Well, yes.'
Jolival settled himself more comfortably and smoothed out a crease in his pantaloons before continuing in a conversational tone:
'You must not take Fanchon's rags too seriously. She dresses as occasion demands. Believe me, I've seen her dressed like an empress.'
'She is horrible!'
'Morally, I grant you. One could not find worse, but, physically, she was once a great beauty. Do you know how she got her name?'
'How should I know?' Marianne said with a shrug. 'I saw her only a short time ago for the first time.'
'She's had her ups and downs. In her prime, Fanchon was as beautiful as a lily and was done the honours of the Parc-aux-Cerfs. She was one of the does that great huntsman and man of taste, King Louis XV, pursued. She even had a daughter by him, Manette, as lovely as her mother and, even from the first, lavishly endowed. But Fanchon's ambitions for her daughter had no end. She had her brought up like a princess which, in part, she was, under a false name – and in this very convent of which we occupy the ruins. Meanwhile, her mother was indulging in a host of activities which were all highly lucrative but frowned on by good society to such an extent that one fine morning, she found herself kneeling before the Paris executioner and having a fleur-de-lis branded on her right shoulder. But far from being ashamed of it, she actually boasted. After all, she knew all about fleurs-de-lis from the king's bed. At all events, it was that flower which enabled her to survive the Revolution without a scratch and even to enlarge what was already the beginning of a pretty fortune. Unfortunately Manette, having being brought up as a great lady and serving in the household of another great lady, found it quite natural to act as a great lady to the end. On the day her daughter's head fell, Fanchon swore war to the death on the Revolution and all that followed from it. To this day, the king has no more faithful servant and, naturally, she hates the Emperor to the same extent.'
'It is a strange story,' Marianne said, having listened to it with the same rapt attention she had been used to give to her beloved novels. 'But where do your debts come in?'
'Among other wordly goods, Fanchon owns an illegal gaming house, attached, incidentally, to a house of ill fame. I lost everything I possessed there, as well as a good deal I did not. I'd literally nothing left but my shirt, and only that by some last remaining shred of modesty. But Fanchon had me taken out by her men and clapped in here and here I stay until I pay her what I owe her.'
This did not appear to disturb him unduly and Marianne, distracted from her own troubles in spite of herself, could not help smiling.
'But if she keeps you prisoner here, how can she ever expect you to pay?'
'Oh, that's quite simple,' Arcadius said with an apologetic grin. 'It's marriage she wants!'
'She wants – to marry you?' Marianne exclaimed with horror.
'No, not quite that. She has a niece, much uglier than herself though rather younger. It is this frightful hag I have had the misfortune to please. I do not leave here until the ring is on my finger.'
The misfortunes of the 'Greek Prince' had worked a miracle. Marianne found herself wanting to laugh and instantly her grief seemed lessened. She was discovering that a companion in trouble, especially one like this, was the best of all comforts because he was the kind of person who took even the worst disasters philosophically.
'And – have you been here long?' she asked.
'A fortnight. But I can hold out a bit longer – especially with such pleasant company. The gentle Philomène is really rather too plain!'
There was a silence, employed by the man of letters in cleaning his nails with a piece of straw. Then, looking up, he saw that Marianne, who was still standing by the brazier, had lapsed once more into her own bitter thoughts. He coughed.
'Ahem – if I might – why don't you come and sit here by me and tell me your story. I can have some quite good ideas, I promise you, and besides, it's a relief to share one's burden. I have an idea that your young shoulders are carrying one that's much too heavy for them. Come here – I – I really should like to help you.'
Quite suddenly, he had dropped his careless pose and slightly ironical tone. Marianne saw on his comical face nothing but immense kindness and real sympathy. She moved slowly to sit by him on the straw.
'Thank you,' she said in a small voice. 'You are right. I'll tell you all about it.'
***
When Marianne had finished her story, she saw that Arcadius was looking at her with eyes that shone with admiration. He had not said a word all the time that she had been speaking except for occasional sympathetic noises at the most tragical parts, but when at last she sighed and fell silent, all he said was:
'You spent more than half the night with the Emperor – and yet you wish you were dead?'
Marianne was left speechless. For him to be a warm admirer of the usurper was one thing but that he should regard what had happened to her as the most wonderful good fortune, seemed to her rather excessive.
'You think I should be glad to have been made a pastime for the master of the hour?'
'I think chiefly that you have a very wrong idea of what has happened to you. It is not so easy to attract Napoleon.'
'And you think—'
'That you attracted him as much as he appealed to you? I'd lay my life on it. To begin with, you possess the thing above all others that he adores: a fine voice. Remember, he kept la Grassini for months when she was as stupid as an owl, and even when he still loved Josephine. And, besides that – but haven't you forbidden me to speak of your beauty? I think you know nothing of the man you love! And yet, he is worth knowing, you know.'
Marianne was beginning to find this conversation quite surprisingly enjoyable but it was rudely interrupted. Candlelight wavered on the chalky walls of the passage that opened off their prison cave and they stopped talking abruptly. Dragging footsteps sounded and a moment later Fanchon-Fleur-de-lys appeared leaning on her cane. After her came the man they had called Requin who carried a large parcel under his arm. Opening the gate in the bars with a large key, he stood back to allow the old woman to enter and then followed himself.
Fanchon hobbled forward to the brazier and gazed at the two prisoners malevolently. She pointed with her cane to Marianne.
'Get up,' she ordered. 'And take your clothes off!'
Marianne did not move. 'You cannot be serious, I imagine?' she said.
'I am so serious that unless you do as you're told at once, you shall taste my stick and Requin shall wield it. Now! Take off those things! Such garments were not made to be dragged in the dirt and I can sell them for a good price. Ho, don't worry,' she sneered, 'I have brought you others. It is no part of my plan for you to freeze to death.'
'And did the chevalier order you to take her clothes?' Arcadius interrupted. 'It would surprise me. If I were you, my lady, I would go and ask him first—'
'To do that, little gentleman, I should have to gallop after him. He was obliged to set off in haste for Normandy with the Riders.
A friend of his, a lady, is in peril at Valognes. In such matters he does not need telling twice! He will be away for several days and, in the meantime, has entrusted this little ewe-lamb to my tender care. He wants her back unharmed so that he can come to a decision about her. And I shall ma
ke sure she's returned unharmed because it is my hope he'll give her to me. But come now, quickly—'
Requin had dropped the bundle of clothes on Marianne's knees. She stared unhappily at the three people round her.
'Leave her alone,' Arcadius said angrily. 'What an old miser you are! You'd shave an egg, wouldn't you, Fanchon?'
'And you'd better keep quiet yourself, my little fellow, or Requin will teach you to mind your manners. He's a head taller than you are. You'd come out of it badly,' the old woman retorted, brandishing her cane.
'Please,' Marianne broke in. 'It is no good. I will give her my clothes. All I ask is to be allowed to change in peace.'
Neither Fanchon nor Requin moved. The man actually came and stood directly before Marianne, his hands in his pockets and a gleam in his eyes.
'If that man does not go away,' Marianne said sharply, 'I shall complain to the chevalier!'
She had scored a hit. The threat worked. Apparently Bruslart had left strong instructions regarding her. She did not relish staying in this underground dungeon until he should return but at least it would give her some respite and from her point of view, to gain time was all important. Talleyrand might institute a search for her. For the present, the only thing that mattered was that the chevalier de Bruslart had ordered that no harm should come to her. She meant to use that precious knowledge for all it was worth. Moreover, Fanchon-Fleur-de-lys instantly proved her right.
'Out, Requin!' she ordered.
The man growled but obeyed and Arcadius turned his face to the wall while Marianne hurriedly took off her pink dress and cloak, although it made her sad to do so. In a moment, the fairy tale dress was clutched in the old woman's skinny grasp and Marianne, with an assumption of indifference, put on the thick skirt and bodice and the heavy woollen stockings which had been brought for her and wrapped herself in the big black shawl.
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