Lying there in the thick darkness to which her eyes had not yet grown fully accustomed, Marianne was conscious, amid these useless regrets, of a growing, insidious fear which she did her best to thrust away. She knew she must not think about the increased danger to Jason arising from her abduction. She had to keep a clear head and a cool brain if she was to fight at all, and the first thing was to get some sleep. Her aching body and her eyeballs parched with weariness told her that.
She snuggled further down into the hay and closed her eyes again, forcing herself, as she used to do when she was a little girl and frightened of something, to recall the prayers learned in baby-hood to drive away the fearful shadows of the night. But still her mind would keep returning to Jason and to the moments they had spent together, to the fierce pleasure, half-way between ecstasy and pain, which she had felt in his arms and he in hers, the sweetness of their kisses when their first desire was slaked, slaked only to return again with renewed fervour, and to the wrench of their final parting… They had had so little time. Free, they could have drowned whole days and nights in love, surfacing only to gaze at each other, dazzled by the glory of their happiness, then sinking back again beneath the waves.
So it was that despite her fetters, despite the peril hanging over her, Marianne was smiling when she fell asleep at last, like a tired but happy child, and her lips still shaped the words: 'Jason, I love you… I love you, love you, love you…'
CHAPTER NINE
Concerning the Proper Use of Hay and
What May be Found Therein
Daylight enabled Marianne to take a more exhaustive look at her restricted domain. The hayloft occupied the upper part of a steep-pitched roof-space and the length of the main beam and the impressive structure of timbers which formed the frame suggested that the whole must be of considerable size. At present it was rather more than three-quarters filled with huge bales of hay, too dry and brittle to have come from this year's harvest. The smallest spark would be enough to set the whole lot blazing and Marianne understood why she had not been left a light the night before.
It was possible to see fairly well during the daytime by reason of a long, narrow opening, like a loophole in the end wall, which could be seen to be very thick. There was also something like a small skylight in the roof itself but it was too small to offer the least chance of escape. Marianne thought she would be lucky to get her head through – and even that with a strong risk of getting stuck. Her chain was long enough to enable her to reach both the slit-window and the skylight. The glass was extremely dirty and dusty but she was nevertheless able to make out the tall slate roofs, noble chimneys and gilded weathervanes of a great house rising above some large trees. One of the towers was flying the standard of Spain and Marianne knew that her guess had been right. She was at Mortefontaine. Farther away and a little to the right, the smoke from a number of chimneys indicated the presence of a considerable village.
The slit, on the other hand, offered, besides a pleasant draught of cool morning air, a view of a broad, curving expanse of water dotted with small wooded islets already beginning to take on the golden tones of autumn. A light mist was rising from the water, which was opal-coloured in the early light, and the smooth trunks of the whispering poplar trees and the silvery boles of the birches with their crowns of pale gold were like the sentinels guarding some enchanted domain. All around lay wooded hills and gentle valleys, and Marianne, standing with her cheek pressed against the stone, thought to herself that she had rarely seen a lovelier, more idyllic landscape. If this was where Queen Julie lived, she understood why she seemed in no haste to leave it for the sombre magnificence of Madrid and the arid sierras. In this favoured spot, life must pass sweetly. Surely the nature which could bring violence and force into such a setting must be singularly warped and twisted.
The loft itself seemed to be at the top of a fairly high building, a barn perhaps, which also stood on an island, since they had taken a boat to reach it.
Apart from the mountain of hay, the furnishings of Marianne's prison were minimal. In the darkest corner were a metal basin, a chipped earthenware pitcher which probably contained water, a cake of dark soap, a couple of cleanish, though ragged dishcloths, apparently intended to do duty as towels, and a large bucket for slops. Still, the prisoner might think herself lucky that her captors had thought to provide her with any means of washing herself at all.
Round about midday, big Sanchez appeared, bringing her food which consisted of some cold meat, stale bread, a lump of cheese, so hard that it seemed unlikely to yield to attack by anything less than a butcher's cleaver, and some rather elderly fruit. But Marianne was hungry enough to set to with a fair appetite for even this unprepossessing repast. While she ate, Sanchez attended to the chores, emptying the bucket and refilling the water jug. Finally, he glared ferociously at the prisoner and pointing one knobbly finger at the food announced: 'No more today. Me back tomorrow.'
This was one way of warning her to make her provisions last, but all things considered it was rather good news than otherwise. At least Marianne was sure of seeing her gaoler only once a day, which left her more liberty to ponder on a means of escape. It still remained to be seen, though, whether Pilar or any of her associates meant to visit her at all.
The first step towards regaining her freedom was to rid herself of the chain, but in spite of all her efforts to drag the iron ring over her slender hand, including a lavish application of the dark soap to make it slide more easily, she only succeeded in chafing the flesh so much that by nightfall her hand was swollen to twice its normal size. The only hope of release lay in somehow opening the padlock which held the ring fast. But how, and what with?
This lowering realization produced a burst of tears which at least had the advantage of easing her pent-up nervous state and making her begin to look a little on the bright side again. It was now twenty-four hours since she and Crawfurd had been captured. Eleonora would certainly have alerted Talleyrand, if not the police. The two of them would surely make some efforts to trace them, and Talleyrand knew where Pilar had sought refuge. But would it occur to him that her disappearance was in any way connected with that silent, unsmiling young woman whose sole concern seemed to be to keep out of trouble and procure herself powerful protection? He would be more likely to think that Crawfurd had over-estimated the influence of his friends in the prison service and that the two incautious visitors had been recognized, arrested and incarcerated in their turn. Since Marianne had returned to Paris illegally it would be somewhat awkward to go to Savary and ask for her, while any approach to Napoleon was at once ruled out of court by his recent unfriendly note to the Prince of Benevento. There remained Jolival. But he was not due back for days yet and, even supposing he were to set out in search of her the very instant he returned, how long might it be before he came on any trace of her? Finally, even if he did follow her tracks to Mortefontaine, how could he possibly hope to obtain permission to search the Queen of Spain's grounds? Pilar's plans had indeed been well laid and efficiently carried out.
The logic of this train of thought soon overcame Marianne's temporary optimism and she fell asleep at last in a mood of deep depression.
Several days passed in this way, all desperately dull and very much alike. Sanchez appeared regularly to perform his duties as attendant, but he remained only a few minutes and Marianne had no wish for him to stay longer. He seemed to have nothing to say for himself and when she tried to talk to him she elicited nothing beyond a few unintelligible mumbles. Neither Pilar nor her accomplices bothered to come near her, a fact which made the prisoner feel in a curious way both relieved and abandoned.
As time passed, hope declined also. There was no way for her to escape unaided and she could not count on any assistance from her gaoler. At the same time, the workings of her fevered brain brought her little by little to a curious mental state of fatalistic resignation. She felt as if she were already removed from the world of the living, and was very sure that be
fore long Jason would be so also. Then, on the day when Pilar, triumphant under the widow's weeds which would swathe her from head to foot, came to tell her that Jason was dead, there would be nothing left for her but to goad the vindictive Spanish woman to such a pitch of fury that she would not delay Marianne's own death longer. Her only hope now, in her prison cell, was in a better life hereafter.
Yet in spite of everything, although she herself was not fully aware of it, Marianne's busy brain was hard at work. There was something about that loft which was not quite right, although it had taken her some time to realize what it was. In fact, that something was the size of the huge bales of hay, some of which still retained their osier bindings.
Contemplating first the bales and then the exiguous dimensions of the door through which Sanchez was in the habit of coming, it was borne in on Marianne that the hay could not possibly have entered the loft that way and that there must therefore be another way in, probably through a trap-door in the floor.
It was true that even if she were to succeed in finding the trap-door she would not be much nearer to gaining her freedom. She still had the chain to deal with and the distance was clearly far too great to jump. But the search for it did provide, if not a hope precisely, at least a way of occupying her time, and so she set about clearing the hay from the floor within the limits of her chain, moving it to a heap on one side and then shifting the heap when the first section explored showed no sign of an opening.
The task was a long and painful one which raised a great deal of dust and made her very tired, but on the third day Marianne found two very large hinges set in the woodwork: irrefutable proof that the trap-door existed.
It was almost time for Sanchez to pay his daily visit and so, hurriedly covering up her find, Marianne went and flung herself down in her usual place in the straw and pretended to be asleep. The Spaniard performed his tasks as usual and then withdrew. Marianne devoured a hunk of bread and a piece of meat, drank a mug of water and returned to her excavations. Gradually, the whole trap-door was revealed. It was certainly a very large one, which explained the size of the hay bales, but the prisoner was unable to suppress a groan of dismay when she saw that her chain was too short to allow her to clear it completely.
Bitterly disappointed by this discovery, she dropped down on her knees in the hay and cried with despair at all her wasted labour. It made no difference to know that her chain still held her fast to the beam. She had cherished absurd hopes of that trap-door. Well, she knew now that it was there, and at the same time that it was useless to her… Her back ached and her hands were grimed with dirt and rubbed raw with splinters but all the same she began at last, mechanically, to cover up the floor again. It was then she felt it, something hard that moved under her fingers.
After some frantic fumbling in the hay she drew out a long, thin piece of metal, sharpened to a point at one end, and stared at it as if she could not believe her eyes. It was the tine of a pitchfork, which must have broken off when the hay was being stacked and been thought not worth recovering. A tool beyond her wildest dreams.
Marianne shut her eyes and offered up a silent prayer of thankfulness. With this, it must surely be possible to get the better of the padlock, when she recalled that Pilar had been afraid of what she might do with a mere hairpin.
She was on the point of going to work with her metal picklock there and then but at that moment she heard footsteps on the other side of the partition wall. Sanchez was coming back, but this time he was not alone. Marianne heard, as usual, the sound of the bales of straw being dragged aside and, hurriedly recovering the trapdoor, turned to hide her new tool by burying it deeply in the hay. Then, to make doubly sure, she sat down on the place where she had hidden it and began nonchalantly chewing a straw, conscious of a beating heart and hoping that the joy she felt did not show too clearly on her face. It was Pilar who entered.
Jason's wife was dressed all in black, although there was nothing out of the ordinary in this since she invariably dressed so or, when she did permit herself a colour, always accompanied it with a sombre veil or other dark accessories. On this occasion, however, she was wearing a bonnet with a deep poke from which fell a veil of very fine Chantilly lace. She walked up to Marianne, who had not turned at her entrance:
'Well, my dear? How do you feel after so many days of reflection?'
Determined not to utter a word, Marianne did not stir. Pilar continued, as if the interview were the most natural thing in the world:
'I hope you have everything you require. You look well enough, to be sure, and Sanchez tells me that your behaviour is perfectly quiet. However, I felt it right to come and bid you farewell…'
This time, it took all Marianne's self-control to keep herself from betraying the least start of surprise. Pilar was going away? It might be good news. Was it possible, after all, that today was her lucky day? She continued to chew on her straw as coolly as if Pilar had not existed. All she wanted now was for the woman to go away and let her get on with her preparations for an escape which had suddenly come within the bounds of possibility. Pilar, however, seemed in no hurry. She was taking a jasmine-scented handkerchief from her reticule and holding it to her nose, as if the smell in the loft offended her.
'You know, I suppose, that today is the first of October and that my – that Monsieur Beaufort's trial is to begin this afternoon. Consequently, I am on my way to Paris, where I am to appear tomorrow as a witness.'
Marianne's hand clenched on a fistful of hay. In spite of all her resolution, it was all she could do not to fling herself on this woman who stood there talking of her husband's trial as if it were the most agreeable social occasion. How she longed to plunge the metal tine with which she hoped to gain her freedom deep into that proud and vicious heart. But Sanchez was standing by the door, his arms folded on his chest and his eye alert for trouble. Marianne knew that she would stand little chance in those great hands.
Pilar, meanwhile, was silent, scanning her rival's face, no doubt for some sign of the effect of her words. But Marianne, still keeping her face averted, yawned ostentatiously and perfectly naturally, then turned her back altogether. She had tried the effects of this dumb insolence once before, on the night of her abduction, and she hoped that the results would be the same. It was. Pilar, with a half-checked exclamation of anger, swung round and made quickly for the door.
'Very well, have it as you please!' she said, her voice shaking with rage. 'We shall see how you maintain this fine show of indifference when I come to tell you that your lover's head has fallen to the guillotine and show you a handkerchief dyed with his blood!'
Marianne gritted her teeth and shut her eyes, praying with all her might that anger should not get the better of her will. 'Have pity, Lord, have pity! Make her be quiet… make her go away! Be merciful! Give me the strength not to curse her! Help me to hold my tongue! I hate her… oh, God, how I hate her! Help me…'
Her mind raced desperately to and fro in an effort to find the one, safe refuge. Never had she endured or imagined anything like the strain of listening while this sadistic creature ruthlessly paraded Jason's deadly peril before her. As if she needed to be reminded! As if the dreadful threat had not been haunting her for weeks! She was dying to tell this woman what she thought of her melodramatic speeches, but she was determined to remain true to her vow of silence.
Pilar, however, in her desire to see the effect of her cruel words upon her enemy, had stepped closer. Marianne raised a face of stone and then, quite deliberately, spat in Pilar's face. Pilar stopped short and for a moment it seemed to Marianne that she was going to attack her, so dreadfully contorted was her face, and she waited for the attack with a savage joy, preparing to rend that hateful face in pieces. Then Sanchez spoke heavily from the doorway:
'The Señora will spoil her dress. And the carriage is waiting.'
'I am coming. But tomorrow, Sanchez, and the day after, you will forget to bring her any food or drink. Give her nothing until I return!'
'I understand.'
This time, their departure was final, attended by a scornful shrug from their prisoner. Tomorrow, with God's help, Marianne would be far away.
All the same, she had sense enough not to move until she had heard the rattle of the chain which told her that the boat had left. Pilar was going away. She was going to Paris to be revenged and Sanchez would not be back for – for two or three days, at least, thanks to Pilar's decree that Marianne should go hungry.
When she was quite sure that she was really alone, Marianne got out her metal spike and set to work on the padlock, hoping that she would be able to pick the lock. If she failed, she would have to attack the beam to which the chain was made fast by a ring, which would have to be gouged out. Forcing herself to be calm so as to keep her hands from trembling, Marianne probed slowly and patiently with her pointed tine in the keyhole of the padlock. It was not easy and for some time she thought that she must fail, for although the chain was new, the padlock was not. For what seemed like an eternity she went on fiddling. Then, at long last, she heard the blessed click and gave a glad little cry. The padlock was open.
[Marianne 3] - Marianne and the Privateer Page 26
