[Marianne 3] - Marianne and the Privateer

by Juliette Benzoni

  This was true. Marianne was wholly exhausted. While the Prince of Benevento sought his coach for the remainder of his journey to the Hôtel Matignon, she suffered herself to be led meekly away by Eleonora Crawfurd to a pretty bedchamber hung with rose-coloured chintz on the second floor of the house. The room had two windows which looked out on to a quiet garden not unlike Marianne's own.

  Mrs Crawfurd turned down the bed with deft hands and then turned to light the lamp under a tisanière which stood on the table by the bed.

  'A little camomile will do you good,' she said. 'It is a sovereign remedy for the nerves. Shall I help you to undress?'

  Marianne shook her head with a tired smile of thanks. She was impatient, now, to be left alone but her hostess seemed in no hurry to depart. She was walking about the room, altering the position of a flower in a vase, checking that the curtains ran smoothly in their rings, shifting a chair slightly, as if she were trying to prolong their tête à'tête indefinitely. Marianne, her nerves on edge, was on the point of committing the ultimate rudeness of asking point-blank to be left alone when Mrs Crawfurd turned suddenly and regarded her guest with an expression half perplexed and half compassionate.

  'You poor, poor child,' she said in a tone whose sympathy did not, to Marianne's ears, ring altogether true. 'I had so hoped that you, at least, might have found happiness!'

  'Why me at least?'

  'Because you are so sweet and fresh and lovely, so – oh, I swear to God that when I heard of your marriage I prayed, I prayed with all my heart that the curse which seems to haunt the princesses of Sant'Anna might spare you!'

  Th-the curse?' Marianne gasped with difficulty, for even in her present state of anxiety the idea of a curse seemed to be going rather too far. 'What curse? If you mean Donna Lucinda—'

  'Oh, your unfortunate husband's grandmother was no more than – than an instance of the dreadful state of affairs which goes back to the fourteenth century. Ever since a Sant'Anna brutally murdered his wife in revenge for adultery all the women of the family – or nearly all, have died violent deaths. It takes courage, or a great love, to marry any of that illustrious name – but you did not know this?'

  'No. I did not know,' Marianne said, wide awake now and wondering very much what her hostess could be at. It seemed to her extremely odd that the Cardinal de Chazay should have kept such a tragic legend as this from her, unless, with his fanatical hatred of all superstition, he had simply dismissed it as a horrible, childish tale.

  Deciding that this last theory was probably correct, Marianne added: 'But it would have made no difference had I known. I believe in ghosts – but not in curses which attach themselves to innocent people. Besides,' she went on, ruthlessly editing the truth, 'I did not even meet a ghost at the Villa dei Cavalli!' This whole conversation, coming out of the blue at a time when all she wanted was to go to sleep, struck her as fantastic, and that seemed as good a way as any of putting an end to it. But Mrs Crawfurd was not a woman to be easily put off, although it was not easy to see what her object might be in introducing the subject of the Sant'Annas.

  'No ghosts?' she said now, with a sceptical smile. 'I am surprised! Even if it were only—'

  'Only who?'

  'Oh, no one,' Eleonora said suddenly. She came to Marianne and kissed her lightly on the forehead. 'We will talk about all this another time. For the moment, you are asleep on your feet.'

  'No, no!' Marianne protested, quite sincerely now, for she was dying to hear more. 'I can sleep later. Tell me—'

  'Nothing at all, child. It is a long story and – well, I too am sleepy. It would be a mistake to begin. But don't tell me that you did not know that when your husband, Prince Corrado, was born his father, Don Ugolino, killed his mother…'

  With that, Eleonora left the room, as softly as one of the ghosts in which she, too, appeared to believe and closed the door behind her, leaving Marianne wide awake and thoroughly confused. She understood this woman less and less. Why had she introduced the subject if she did not wish to explain fully? If it had been to distract Marianne's thoughts from their constant, agonized preoccupation with Jason's fate, she had only partly succeeded because there was no story, however exciting, which could have distracted her from her fears for the man she loved. But if she had meant to give her a sense of uneasiness and insecurity, then she had achieved her object to perfection. How could she help thinking that this curse which had attached itself to the women of her name might extend to those she loved? And what connection was there between the murder of Corrado's mother, Donna Adriana, and the prince's own tragic destiny?

  Unable to sleep, she lay turning the problem over and over in her overexcited brain, looking at it from every direction yet without reaching any satisfactory conclusion. The murder seemed to give substance to the theory that Corrado was a monster, yet when she recalled the lithe, powerful figure of the nocturnal horseman the idea became unthinkable. Then was it the face, perhaps, which was repulsive? But a man did not kill his wife on account of a face, however hideous. He might kill in anger – or brutality – or for jealousy. Suppose the child Corrado had borne some striking likeness to another man? But Marianne did not on the whole place much faith in striking resemblances applied to new-born babies. With the exercise of a little imagination, a baby could be made to look like almost anybody. And besides, in that case, why the sequestered existence, why the mask? To preserve for ever from the least breath of scandal the memory of a mother whom the prince had never known and whose memory he could therefore hardly be expected to cherish? No, it was quite impossible…

  When it began to get light, at about four o'clock, Marianne, seated in a chair by the open window, had still not closed her eyes, nor had she found any answer to her questions. Her head ached and she was deadly tired. Dragging herself up, she leaned out. All was very quiet. Only the first birds were beginning to sing and tiny forms flitted from branch to branch, without stirring a leaf. The sky was pink and orange with streaks of coral and gold which told that the sun would soon be up. Out in the street, the metal-shod wheels of a cart clanked over the cobblestones and a charcoal-vendor's cry echoed nostalgically. Then, from across the Seine, came the sound of a cannon being fired and at that precise moment up came the sun into a sky filled with belfries chiming the first notes of the Angelus.

  This glorious din, which was to last all morning, announced to the good people of Paris that on that day their Emperor was forty-one years old and that today was a holiday and everyone should behave accordingly.

  But there was no holiday for Marianne and so as to be sure of hearing nothing of the general celebrations which would gradually take possession of the capital, she carefully closed and shuttered the windows, drew the curtains and, utterly exhausted, flung herself at last fully dressed on her bed and fell instantly asleep.

  Marianne's meeting with Arcadius on the evening of the fifteenth of August, while all over Paris people were drinking in the streets and squares and dancing under the street lamps to Napoleon's good health, was almost tragic. His face drawn from the fatigue of several sleepless nights spent haunting every locality where he hoped to find some trace of Lord Cranmere, Jolival reproached Marianne with a good deal of bitterness for what he called her lack of confidence in him:

  'Why did you have to come back? What do you hope to do? Bury yourself in this house along with an old fool surrounded by memories of his dead queen and that scheming old woman, still mourning for her murdered lover and her own vanished youth? What are you afraid of? That I won't do all that is humanly possible? Well, don't worry. I am doing it. I'm searching – desperately. I'm searching for news of Mrs Atkins. I spend my nights roaming about Chaillot and the Boulevard du Temple, haunting the Homme Armé and the Epi-Scié. I spend hours in disguise, in the hope of catching a glimpse of one of Fanchon's men, or of Fanchon herself. But I am wasting my time… Do you think I need anything more to worry about – such as knowing that you are here, in hiding, at the mercy of anyone who might denounce you?
'

  Marianne waited until the storm had blown over. She understood her friend's weariness and discouragement too well to blame him for his outburst, which was prompted purely by his affection for her. To placate him, she was meek, almost humble.

  'Please don't be cross with me, Arcadius. I could not stay there, living quietly in the country, while you were working yourself to death here, and while Jason was – was—'

  'In prison,' Jolival finished for her tartly. 'A political prisoner. It's not the hulks, you know! And I know he is being treated well.'

  'I know. I know all that… or I suppose so, but I was going mad! And when the prince told me he had to come back to Paris, I couldn't stand it. I begged him to take me with him.'

  'He should not have done so. But women can always get round him. Well, what are you going to do now? Spend your days listening to Crawfurd extolling the virtues of Marie-Antoinette, telling you in detail all about the Affair of the Necklace or the horrors of the Temple and the Conciergerie? Unless you prefer to hear his wife's life story?'

  'I shall certainly listen to anything that she may be able to tell me, because she was born at Lucca and seems to know the history of the Sant'Annas better than anyone; but my real reason for coming back, Arcadius dear, is so that I shall be able to hear any news there is as soon as it is known, and be able to decide what to do… Monsieur de Talleyrand says that things are going very badly and he will tell you—'

  'I know. I have just seen him. He told me he was going to seek an audience with the Emperor to try and throw some light on this dreadful business. But I am afraid he won't find it easy to get a hearing. His position is not very encouraging just at present.'

  'Why not? He is no longer a minister but he is still Vice-Grand Elector?'

  'A grandiose title which is quite meaningless in practical terms. No, what I meant was that Napoleon has heard rumours of his financial troubles and, what is worse, of the reason for them. Our prince was involved to some extent in the Anglo-French negotiations got up by Fouché, Ouvrard, Labouchère and Wellesley. Then there was the failure of Simons Bank – Simons's wife, who used to be a Demoiselle Lange, is an old friend of his – he lost a million and a half there. Above all, there is the four million he was paid by the city of Hamburg to save it from annexation. If Napoleon carries out his intention and annexes it just the same, then Talleyrand will have to pay back the money. At that rate, I don't see him being in high favour at court…'

  'Then it's all the more noble of him to try. Besides, if he needs money, I can give it to him.'

  'Do you think you have that much? I did not mean to speak of it because I did not want to add to your worries, but this letter came from Lucca five days ago. It came without the quarter's allowance which should normally have been due. You'll forgive me for having read it.'

  Foreseeing fresh trouble, Marianne took the letter somewhat reluctantly. She was blaming herself for not having written to the prince herself to tell him of the accident which had resulted in her losing the child. She was afraid of her invisible husband's reaction yet without being very certain what that reaction might be. Something told her now that that was precisely what this letter contained.

  In fact, in a brief missive of chilling politeness, Prince Corrado informed Marianne that he had heard of the loss of their mutual hopes, made perfunctory inquiries as to her own health and added that he was in expectation of a visit to Italy on her part in the near future 'so that we may consider the new situation created by this unfortunate occurrence and what steps should be taken…'

  'A lawyer's letter!' Marianne exploded, screwing the paper into a ball and hurling it into a corner. 'Consider the situation? Take steps? What does he want to do? Divorce me? I am perfectly willing!'

  'Italians do not believe in divorce, Marianne,' Arcadius said sternly, 'and least of all a Sant'Anna! Besides, I should have thought you had had enough of changing husbands every five minutes. Now stop this stupid behaviour!'

  'What do you want me to do? Go off there while—No! A hundred times no! Not at any price!'

  The explosion of anger which shook her was in reality a cover for her tumultuous thoughts, but for the moment she hated him with all her might, this distant stranger whom she had married in the belief that, in spite of all, she would still keep complete freedom of action, yet who now dared, even from a distance, to dictate to her as lord and master and make her feel the curb. Go back to Lucca! To that house full of hidden dangers where a madman worshipped a statue and offered up human sacrifices to it, where another rode out only at night, wearing a mask? Not now, at all events. If she were to do what she had to do here, Marianne had to be free – free! On the other hand, this act of cutting off her supplies was ominous and more than a little awkward. This was not the moment for anything like that, either, when she might need to bribe people, buy men and weapons… an army, even, to snatch Jason from the unjust condemnation ahead of him. Moreover this letter, the first she had received from Prince Sant'Anna, represented another source of danger. What if it had been opened, by any chance, by the Emperor's Cabinet Noir? A knowledge of its contents might easily give him the idea of removing Marianne definitively from the Beaufort affair by sending her back to her own distant estates. What could she do about it… Then something else about the letter struck her as alarming. What were these 'steps' the prince considered taking? Did he think he could compel her to return to Napoleon so that, at all costs, he might have the child he wanted? Logically, that was the only solution, since the prince could not divorce her. If he had any idea of attending to the matter himself, he would surely have done so long ago? Then what? Why this letter, this thinly disguised command to return to Lucca? What for?

  A fearful thought occurred to Marianne. Perhaps Prince Corrado meant to subject her to the fate which, according to Eleonora Crawfurd, was common to all Princesses of Sant'Anna? A violent death that would revenge him for what he might, not unreasonably, consider a fool's bargain. Was he summoning her to execution – in the tradition of his family?

  Putting her thoughts into words, she said tonelessly: 'I don't want to go back there… because I am afraid of them all.'

  'No one is asking you to. Not at present, at least. I have already written to say that your health is still delicate after your recent accident and that you have retired, at the Emperor's command, to Bourbon, where the waters are beneficial not merely for rheumatic complaints, but also for female disorders. We can only hope, now that you have seen fit to come back, that no one will be sent to make sure that is where you are. But that is beside the point. I merely wished to make it plain to you that you have no money to throw about rashly and that while you are very far from beggary, you must begin to be a little careful and not spend what you have thoughtlessly. That being done, my dear, I will say good-bye to you.'

  'Good-bye?' Marianne cried in alarm. 'You are not – not leaving me?'

  It could not be true? Her dear old Arcadius could not be so angry with her as to leave her? Surely he could not blame her so much? Her face went so white that Jolival, seeing the tears that gathered in her big green eyes, could not help smiling. Bending, he took her hand gently in his and dropped an affectionate kiss upon it:

  'Where is your common sense, Marianne? I am leaving you – but for a few days only, and on your own business. It has occurred to me that, if he will put himself to so much trouble, Citizen Fouché might do a good deal towards clearing the minds of his former colleagues at the Quai Malaquais, always supposing that the Emperor is willing to let him. I dare not trust a letter to the post, so I am going myself.'

  'Going where?'

  'To Aix-en-Provence where our friend the Duke of Otranto is wearing out his exile. And I am not without hopes, because quite apart from any kindness he has for you he will be delighted to put a rub in Savary's way. So be a good girl and wait for me nicely – and above all, don't do anything foolish!'

  'Foolish? Here? I don't see anything I could do.'

  'That depends,' Arca
dius said and grinned. 'You might try forcing your way in to see the Emperor, for example.'

  Marianne shook her head, saying seriously, as she slipped her arm through his to go with him to the door: 'No, that is one piece of folly I can promise you I will not commit – or not just at present. And in return for that, you must promise me to be quick—very quick! I will be very brave, and very patient, because I know you will bring back the evidence we need. I will be good and wait.'

  But waiting was harder than even Marianne had foreseen. Almost before Jolival had left Paris, while the sky was still alight with the many-coloured showers of sparks from innumerable firework displays, the old, stealthy fears returned, insidiously, to take possession of her mind, as if only her friend's presence had the power to exorcize the demons and dispel the evil miasma. It grew worse as time went on.

  Shut up in the Crawfurds' house with no other distractions than the detailed inspection of her host's collection of paintings, which was certainly very fine, and walks in the garden where she paced up and down wretchedly for hours on end like a prisoner, Marianne found her hopes melting away, little by little, dissolving like smoke in the chill wind of bad news.

  First, she learned that the Emperor had refused to see the Vice-Grand Elector, as indeed it had been feared, and that there was nothing to be done but await the outcome of the very diplomatic letter which had followed the rejection of this request. Next, it became known that Jason Beaufort's trial would open on the first of October before the Assize Court in Paris, and the fact that a date should already have been fixed looked ominous indeed.

  'Apparently,' the Prince of Benevento observed, 'the judges are anxious to get the matter out of the way before the new Penal Code which was passed on the twelfth of February this year comes into force next January.'