Opening the jaws of the manacle round her wrist and taking it off was the work of a moment and Marianne was free. She nursed her painfully swollen wrist for a moment and then flung herself at full length in the hay and rolled about in an ecstasy of joy at the relief of stretching her cramped muscles which had suffered from her restricted movement. She was hot when eventually she sat up, but the blood coursed swiftly through her veins and she was ready for action. Her next task was to open the trap-door and find a way of getting out of the barn while there was still a little light to see by, for autumn was drawing on and the daylight was fading earlier now.
She cleared the trap-door again quickly. It was soon visible, looking very large and stout. It was sure to be heavy but there was a long loop of rope, passed through a pair of rings, to raise it by. Marianne grasped hold of this, gathered all her strength and pulled. The trap resisted but, endowed with a nervous strength made ten times greater by the spur of freedom, she tensed her muscles, set her jaw and went on pulling, regardless of the coarse rope that bit into the soft skin of her palms. Slowly, slowly, the trap came up, rose to a vertical position and fell back with a soft thud on the hay, leaving a gaping hole in the floor. Marianne knelt on the edge and looked down.
Below her stretched a huge barn, so lofty that for a moment she felt faintly dizzy as she looked. She had hoped to find a ladder fixed below the trap-door, which would have made the descent easy; but there was nothing. To jump was out of the question, unless she wanted to risk broken bones.
Marianne's heart beat wildly as she sat back on her heels and cast about feverishly for a rope, or anything that might help her to get down. Unfortunately, the chain which had held her for so long was far too short and the osier bindings of the bales far too weak to bear her weight. But such was her determination to be free of her prison that at last the idea she needed came to her. She could throw down the hay heaped in the loft until it made a mattress thick enough for her to jump on to.
Hurriedly, for already it was growing dark, she began heaving the hay through the open trap, breaking open the osier bindings on the great bales with the tine as she did so. In seconds, the barn was filled with a whirling storm of hay and dust. Some of the bales set others rolling as they were moved and a dozen times Marianne was nearly swept down through the hole, but gradually the floor of the barn began to disappear beneath a mounting heap of hay.
When she thought the pile was high enough, Marianne, feeling as if her throat were on fire, drained the little water remaining in the pitcher and ate her last apple. Then she sat down on the edge of the trap-door and let herself go.
She landed, bouncing like a ball but quite unhurt, and tumbled quickly to the bottom of the heap. She was on the ground at last. The next thing to find out was whether the barn door would open or whether she would have to resort once again to her pitchfork tine which, to be on the safe side, she had thrown down before she jumped. But either because they trusted in the prison they had made ready for her or because they did not wish to alarm any of the peasants of the estate who might be suspicious if they found an all but empty barn carefully locked, Marianne's captors had left the door on the latch.
Cautiously pushing open one side of the big door, which creaked only a very little, Marianne poked her head out and took a careful glance around. As far as she could see in what was now almost total darkness, there was not a soul about, although the great house, buried in the distant trees beyond the lake which stretched almost at her feet, was ablaze with light, to judge from the number of bright sparks twinkling through the intervening vegetation. At the same time, Marianne became aware that it was raining, something she had not perceived before amid the other preoccupations of the day.
It was also very much colder than it had been inside the barn. October had come and the lovely sunshine which had persisted all through September had given way to more wintry weather. Marianne shivered in her cotton dress, but she knew she had to get away from where she was as soon as possible and so, plucking up her courage, she darted out and began a tour of inspection. As she had guessed, the barn was on an island, and a fairly large one at that, and she began to make her way along the shore in search of a boat. It did not take long to discover that apart from the barn itself and a few trees and bushes, there was absolutely nothing at all on the island, least of all a boat.
'I shall have to swim,' she told herself with a shiver. 'The thing to do is to find the narrowest place and hope it is also the side farthest from the house.'
Her first thought had been to go boldly up to the house, tell them who she was and throw herself on Queen Julie's mercy, letting the police claim her later if they would. Pilar had gone to Paris. It might prove the wisest thing to do in the long run.
Then she remembered that most of her kidnappers probably belonged to the royal household and that it would be the easiest thing in the world for them to get her into their power again on pretence of caring for her safety, and next time there would be no hope of escape. Besides, in her present filthy state, with her torn and grubby dress, she would certainly be taken for a lunatic and sent packing by the servants without being allowed so much as a glimpse of the queen. The best course was clearly to go to Paris in her own way, attracting no attention, and keeping out of the way of such persons as law officers and others whose suspicions might be aroused by her vagabond appearance, however difficult that might prove.
Accepting the fact that if she wanted to get off her island she would have to swim for it, Marianne selected her spot with care, where the crossing looked easiest, then, removing her clothes without further hesitation, she made them into a bundle, tied it with her sash and fastened the bundle on top of her head.
Her dress was wet already from the rain but, even so, it would be drier like this than after a session in the water. She knew, too, how awkward it could be trying to swim in one's clothes. In any case, the place was so deserted and the darkness by now so thick that she felt there was very little risk of anyone's surprising her in her unconventional attire, and in a very few seconds after removing her clothes she was deep among the reeds which encircled the island, pushing her way through the fleshy tangle of water-lily stems. Her feet sank deeply into a sticky mud which made her shudder but the bottom shelved steeply almost at once and she was soon out of her depth. Launching herself out into the lake she began to swim quietly, making as little noise as possible. The water was cold but not as cold as it had seemed when she first entered it and the feel of it slipping past her naked body was unexpectedly pleasant after so many days in the dusty loft.
It was a long time since Marianne had done any swimming, but her legs and arms performed as if by instinct the easy, flowing movements which old Dobs had taught her. The only really unpleasant thing about this unforeseen exercise was the stagnant smell of the lake itself and the fleeting, underwater contacts with water snakes, which sent a creeping horror over her bare skin. The crossing was not a long one, however, and very soon she felt her feet touch on a hard, sandy bottom. The banks here were fairly high and lined with tall trees, but by grabbing at the thick, flat, water-lily leaves and then at the low branches of a willow,
Marianne managed to haul herself dripping on to the bank. At the top, she scrambled quickly into her damp clothes, pulled on her shoes and set off hopefully through the wood.
It was too dark for her to be able to get much idea of her direction but in any case her principal object was to put as much distance between herself and the house as possible. The domain was so large and the woods so wild and overgrown with bushes and brambles which tore at her in her blind progress that she had some hopes at least that she would not be obliged to climb a wall.
By dint of walking straight ahead, now on a spongy carpet of leaves, now through the occasional muddy clearing, she came at last to a path. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness and she was able to make better progress, avoiding the more painful obstacles. It was still raining but it was drier under the trees than out in the o
pen ground. Marianne walked for a long time without being any too clear where she was going but keeping a look out for some charcoal burner's hut where she might shelter and rest for a little while. She was frozen to the marrow and desperately tired. In the end she found a large, overhanging rock with a deep, dry hollow at its base which could scarcely have been dignified by the name of a cave. It was a mean enough shelter but Marianne crept into it and, curled up, catlike, in the dead leaves, dropped instantly asleep.
She woke with a start to feel something cold and wet licking her face and found herself staring into the slobbering jaws of a large pointer, who was sniffing at her interestedly. Behind the dog was a pair of legs in canvas leggings and stout, hobnailed boots. Following them upwards, Marianne saw that they belonged to a youth with an ancient fowling piece over his shoulder who was standing looking at her in some perplexity. It was broad daylight and the rain had stopped.
Seeing that the sleeper was awake, the youth called off his dog:
'Here, Briquet! Drop it!'
Obediently, the dog withdrew and sat down by his master, who bent forward and held out his hand to Marianne.
'Good morning,' he said pleasantly. 'I'm glad you're awake. When Briquet found you I thought at first—' He broke off in some embarrassment and it was Marianne who completed the sentence for him.
'That I was dead? Did I look so dreadful?'
'You were so pale.'
'I'm cold.'
This was true. In the sharp morning air, Marianne was shaking like a leaf and the bruises that showed on her pinched arms did nothing to enhance her sorry appearance. The boy hastily removed the short woollen cloak he wore over his own shoulders and put it round Marianne's.
'Come to my house, my grandmother will take care of you. It's quite close – the first roof you can see through the trees, at the edge of the village.'
Marianne saw that she had in fact almost reached the end of the wood and that the smoking chimneys of a village lay only a little way ahead. She felt so ill that she was glad to accept her new friend's offer, merely asking, before she followed him: 'What village is that?'
'Loisy. You don't come from these parts?'
'Is it – is it very far from Mortefontaine?'
'Oh no! Two or three miles east… that's all.'
Was that all? Marianne found it hard to conceal her disappointment. She seemed to have walked so far that she had hoped to have come much farther. Most probably, in her ignorance of the district, she had been walking in circles. She turned her head and looked at her companion. He reminded her a little of Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche. He had the same straw-coloured hair and the same steady blue eyes, but his face was rather thinner and his limbs a good deal longer. On the whole, she was pleased with what she saw and made up her mind to trust him:
'I must tell you I have just escaped from the chateau of Mortefontaine where some people belonging to the Queen of Spain's court have been keeping me prisoner in a barn. But I give you my word I am no criminal, I have not stolen anything—'
The lad grinned at her cheerfully.
'You don't look like it. And if you had done anything like that, they would have put you in prison, not locked you up in a barn! Come on, you can tell it all to my grannie. She's ever so fond of stories.'
As they went along, Marianne learned that her new friend was called Jacques Cochu, that he owned a patch of land in the nearby village and lived all alone with his grandmother at present, but that he was to be married in a few days' time.
'I'd have waited until spring, myself,' he confided, 'but my grannie wants me to be married before then so I shan't be conscripted. I've been lucky so far because the Emperor hasn't raised any troops this year on account of his marriage. So I'm getting married to Etiennette.'
'Don't you want to go and fight?' Marianne asked, a trifle cast down. Her lively imagination had already decked her saviour out in her own, personal colours. Jacques grinned disarmingly:
'Well, I shouldn't mind it. When I hear the old 'uns talk about Valmy and Italy it fair makes my legs itch. Only, if I go, who will look after the farm? And what would become of my grannie – and Etiennette, too, because her parents are both dead since last year. So I've got to stay.'
'Of course,' Marianne said gently. 'You are quite right. Hurry up and get married and be very, very happy!'
Still talking, they came to a small, spotlessly clean farmhouse in the doorway of which a small, very upright old woman stood waiting for them, her arms folded over her woollen shawl, and looking by no means best pleased at the sight of her grandson coming home in the company of a strange, ragged girl. But when Jacques had given her a rapid account of their meeting and of how he had brought Marianne home with him to be warmed and fed, the ready hospitality of the Valois region was instantly forthcoming. The old woman settled her by the fire with a big bowl of hot soup, cut her a large slice of bread and a thick wedge of bacon, and then began to hunt out some dry clothes while Marianne told her story – or rather the edited version of it which she deemed suitable for the occasion. It went very much against the grain with her to lie to these kind people who had welcomed her with such warmth and generosity but she could not see herself reeling off a list of her pompous Italian titles and so for the present it seemed best to become once again Marianne Mallerousse.
'My uncle was killed very recently in the Emperor's service,' she told her new friends, 'and I was kidnapped by his murderers so that I should not betray them. But I must get back to Paris as fast as I can. I want to avenge my – my uncle, and I have important information to give.'
She wondered for a moment if even this watered-down version of her story might not be coming it rather too strong, but neither Madame Cochu nor Jacques appeared in the least surprised. The old woman, indeed, was already nodding agreement:
'I've never thought much of all those sallow-faced foreign folk we've had roaming about here ever since the Emperor made his brother King of Spain. It was a deal more peaceful before. Not that Joseph's a bad man. Always a kind word and very open-handed! He was well enough liked in these parts and folks were sorry to see him go off to all those savages. As for you, child, we'll do what we can to help you get back home again without a stir.'
'But,' Jacques broke in, 'what's wrong with going straight to the police?'
That was a nasty one and Marianne had to think very quickly indeed in order to make her answer appear sufficiently natural.
'I mean to,' she said earnestly. 'But I must see the minister himself. The people who took me prisoner are members of Queen Julie's court and they have great influence. They have set it about that I was responsible for my uncle's death. There is a search for me, but I must be able to produce proof, and the proof I have is in Paris.'
Having produced this explanation, she permitted herself a faint sigh of relief, hoping that she had been adequately convincing. Jacques and his grandmother had withdrawn to the other end of the kitchen and were holding a whispered colloquy which, though animated while it lasted, was over in a few seconds. Jacques came back to Marianne.
'The best thing,' he said, 'is for you to stay here for a bit and rest. You will be quite safe here. Then, this afternoon I'll take you into Dammartin-en-Goele, to my Uncle Cochu. He's the mayor, and he sends a cart of cabbages and turnips to Paris regularly, every three days. There's one going in the morning. Dressed like a peasant girl, you can go back to Paris without being afraid of the police or of the people who kidnapped you. You'll be there by tomorrow night.'
'Tomorrow night? Marianne made a mental calculation. Jason's trial had begun the day before, it was probably going on at that very moment, while she stayed talking with these good people. Time was precious.
'I suppose,' she objected timidly, 'it isn't possible to be there any sooner? I am in such a dreadful hurry.'
'Sooner? How? Of course, there is the diligence from Soissons – you might catch that in Dammartin tomorrow… but you'd not gain more than a few hours. And you'd not be nearly so safe.'
That was true enough. Naturally, she wished that she could get a horse, but how and where from? She was completely penniless, having left the contents of her purse in Ducatel's hands at the prison. Common sense told her the sensible thing was to accept. The most important thing was to get back and this way she might do so without risk of recapture. It was better to come late than not at all and a trial of such importance was bound to last for several days. In the end, she gave her hosts a grateful smile.
'I agree,' she said, 'and I thank you with all my heart. I hope I may be able to prove my gratitude one day!'
'Don't talk such nonsense,' the grandmother told her gruffly. 'If poor folks don't give one another a hand there's not much good them calling themselves Christians! As for being grateful – well, that's something to keep in your heart. Now you just come and lie down for a bit. There's not much comfort you'll have had sleeping in that nasty wet wood. And while you're having a nap I'll go and see Etiennette, Jacques's promised wife, and borrow a bodice and petticoat from her. The pair of you are much of a size.'
Late that afternoon, dressed in a coarse red woollen skirt and black bodice and bundled up in a black woollen shawl given her by generous Madame Cochu, her feet thrust into a pair of sabots several sizes too large for her and her head enveloped in a huge linen coif, Marianne got up behind Jacques on the crupper of the big cart-horse, used both for riding and on the farm. In front were two big panniers of late apples, fastened to the horse's collar.
It was quite dark when they reached Dammartin, a walled town on a hill, and Jacques handed Marianne into the care of his great-uncle, Pierre Cochu, a fine-looking old man, like an ancient, knotted vine, who took her in with the noble generosity common to tillers of the soil and asked no awkward questions. She was introduced as a cousin of Etiennette's who wanted to go to Paris to work as a laundress in the establishment of a distant relative. Consequently, when the time came for her to say good-bye to Jacques no one thought it anything but perfectly natural that she should throw her arms round his neck and kiss him on both cheeks. But no one there could guess the gratitude which went into that gesture, or why Jacques should have grown so red at being the recipient of this mark of affection. He gave a nervous laugh to hide his embarrassment and said stoutly:
[Marianne 3] - Marianne and the Privateer Page 27
