Meanwhile, Vidocq had gone to the lugger's stern and signalled three times by opening and closing the shutter of a lantern, and away beyond the promontory of rocks the frigate was already going about for Brest. Already, the sky above the coast was almost imperceptibly lighter, though the wind was strengthening, filling the sails as they were set once more, and the lugger's crew, armed with long gaffs, fended her off from the brig's side. Jean Ledru was back at the tiller and, slowly, inexorably, the gap of water between the two vessels widened. The lugger slipped astern of the great sailing ship and lay for a moment in the pool of light cast by her two gilded stern lanterns. And there, high above her as she stood unable any longer to restrain her tears, Marianne saw Jason, his tall figure supported by his own men. He raised one arm in a gesture of farewell, but already he seemed very far away… so far, indeed, that for a moment Marianne forgot the promise she had made only a moment before, forgot to be brave, forgot that this parting was not good-bye but only au revoir. She was only a desperate broken woman, seeing the best part of herself borne away from her on the wind. With a last, terrible effort, she tore herself from Jolival's comforting arms and flung herself at the rail.
'Jason!' she screamed, oblivious of the tossing bow wave which drenched her in spray. 'Jason!… Come back!… Come back!… I love you…'
She clung with dripping fingers to the slippery wood, tossing back the sodden tangles of her hair in an automatic gesture. The lugger plunged deeply into a trough of the waves, nearly sending her sprawling on the deck, but all the strength that she possessed was in her clinging hands, her whole life in the eyes which still gazed at the fast-dwindling shape of Jason's ship. At last, two strong arms came to encircle her, drawing her back from her desperate watch, and from the peril in which she stood.
'Are you out of your mind?' Vidocq's voice scolded. 'Do you want to fall overboard?'
'I want to see him again… I want to be with him!'
'And he with you! But it's not a corpse he'd hope to find, it's you, yourself, alive! Good God! Do you want to die before his eyes to prove your love? For the love of heaven, live! Live at least until the time he appointed for your meeting.'
Marianne's eyes widened in amazement. Already the instinct for life was reviving in her, willing her to fight on towards the goal which at this moment had eluded her.
'How did you know?'
'He loves you. He would never have parted from you without something of the kind. Now go and get under cover. You are soaking wet and the dawn mist is rising. It's as easy to die of an inflammation of the lungs as it is by drowning.'
She submitted docilely when he led her to a more sheltered spot on the deck and wrapped a heavy canvas sailcloth about her, but rejected all attempts to make her go below. While Jason's ship was still there to be seen, she was determined not to lose sight of it.
Far out, near the islands with their attendant train of rocky reefs and islets, the Sea Witch was heading out to sea, dipping gracefully under the frail, towering white peaks of her crowded sails. In the grey light of dawn, she looked like a gull, gliding among the black rocks. For a moment, as the vessel went about to pass between two jagged islets, she presented herself to Marianne's eyes broadside on and she recalled then what it was that Talleyrand had told her one day about that figure shaped like a woman on the prow. He had said that the figurehead was carved in her own image, that Jason had had it made to adorn the prow of his ship, and Marianne found herself wishing passionately that she could be that woman made of wood whom he had caused to be created, and on whom his eyes must often rest.
A moment later, the American brig had gone about again and nothing more remained to be seen but the stern, with its two lanterns vanishing into the mist.
Sighing, Marianne made her way to where Surcouf and Jolival were sitting, talking quietly together, on some coils of rope while all around them was the slap of the sailors' bare feet as they went about their duties. In a little while now, the carriage would be bearing her back to Paris, as Vidocq had said, back to Paris and the Emperor. She wondered why he should want to see her. Barely recalling now that she had ever loved him, Marianne could think only that she had no desire to see Napoleon.
Three weeks later, as her chaise clattered under the gateway of the chateau of Vincennes, Marianne glanced up at Vidocq with an expression full of alarm.
'Do your orders say I must be put in prison?' she asked.
'Good heavens, no! It is the Emperor's wish to grant you an audience, that is all. It is not for me to know his reasons. All that I can tell you is that my mission ends here.'
They had completed their journey from Brittany the night before and as he set Marianne down at her own door Vidocq had told her that he would come for her the following evening to take her to the Emperor, adding that court dress was not necessary but that she should be sure to wrap up warmly.
She had been a little mystified by this advice but too tired to ask any questions. Nor had she waited to interrogate Jolival. Instead, she had gone straight to bed, like a drowning sailor clutching at a raft, to recruit her strength for whatever was to come, little enough though it might interest her. Only one thing held any meaning for her: three weeks had gone by, three dreadful weeks spent jolting over the endless roads which the bad weather had made more trying even than usual, on a journey rendered hideous by every conceivable kind of unpleasantness, from lost wheels and broken springs to horses that slipped and fell and trees blown across the road. Yet for all this it was three weeks gone from the six months at whose end Jason would be waiting for her.
When she thought of him, which she did every hour, every second of her waking day, it was with a curious feeling of emptiness, like a painful, insatiable hunger which she tried to satisfy by letting her mind dwell constantly on the few, so very few moments when he had been there, close to her, so close that she could touch him, hold his hand, stroke his hair and smell the odour of his skin, the comforting warmth of him and the strength with which, even in his weakened state, he had crushed her to him and pressed that last kiss upon her lips, the kiss whose memory burned her still, and sent a tremor through all her limbs.
They had found Paris deep in snow. The bitter cold froze the water in the gutters, nipping ears and reddening noses. Miniature icebergs floated on the grey, bustling waters of the Seine and there were rumours that people in the poorer districts were dying of cold at nights. Everything was buried under a thick, white blanket which soon became stained and dirty but did not melt, leaving the gardens dressed in a cloak of dazzling white ermine while it transformed the streets into deadly, frozen sewers where it was the easiest thing in the world for anyone to break a leg. Even so, Marianne's horses, frost-nailed, had negotiated the long road from the rue de Lille to Vincennes without mishap.
The ancient fortress of the kings of France had risen suddenly out of the night, grim and uncared-for, its towers demolished now to the level of the walls. Two only remained intact, the village tower bestriding the ancient drawbridge, and the enormous square keep, its dark bulk rising high above the bare trees, flanked by its four corner turrets. Vincennes was an arsenal, its storehouses guarded by veterans no longer fit for active service and a handful of regular troops, but it was also a state prison and the keep itself was strongly fortified.
Yet now it stood, silent within the circle of its curtain wall, cut off on the right hand by the barbican from the wide, white courtyard where the snow-covered piles of ammunition were like odd, conical cream cakes. Opposite was the derelict chapel, beautiful in the frayed lacework of crumbling stone, decaying slowly because no one thought of repairing it, a precious jewel to St Louis but neglected now, in these days of little faith. And Marianne searched her mind in vain for any reason for this audience, held in the secrecy of this rotting fortress with its sinister reputation. Why Vincennes? Why at night?
At a little distance, a noble pair of twin pavilions faced each other, evoking memories of the Grand Siècle of Louis XIV, although they had fared
no better than the rest of the buildings. Panes of glass were missing from the windows, the mouldings of the mansard roofs were broken and the walls seamed with cracks. Yet it was towards the left-hand one of these two that Gracchus, acting on Vidocq's instructions, now turned his horses.
There was a faint light showing on the ground floor, behind the blackened windows. The chaise stopped, and Vidocq jumped out.
'Come,' he said. 'You are expected.'
Marianne looked about her in surprise, her eyes taking in the dismal, comfortless dilapidation of her surroundings. Hugging her black, sable-lined cloak more tightly round her, she pulled the furred hood closer round her face as a biting wind whistled across the court, whipping up handfuls of snow and making her eyes water. Marianne made her way slowly into a tiled vestibule which still retained some traces of a former splendour. The first thing that met her eyes was Rustan. Enveloped in a huge, bright red greatcoat with nothing but the top of his white turban showing above the turned-up collar, the Mameluke was striding up and down on the uneven floor, beating his arms together for warmth. At the sight of Marianne, however, he made haste to open for her the door outside which he had been keeping his energetic guard. At last, Marianne found herself face-to-face with Napoleon.
The Emperor was standing beneath the canopy of an immense hearth on which the better part of a large tree trunk was burning briskly. He was staring down at the flames, one booted foot resting on the hearthstone, one hand behind his back, the other thrust into the breast of his long, grey redingote. His shadow, topped by the curved silhouette of his plain, black cocked hat, innocent of any adornment, stretched fantastically, reared up to the carved and caissoned ceiling on which flakes of the old gilding still remained. That shadow alone sufficed to fill the great empty room, bare of all furnishings except for the frayed ends of ancient tapestries on the walls and a few heaps of rubble on the floor.
He watched, thoughtful and expressionless, as Marianne sank into her formal curtsy, then beckoned her to the fire.
'Come and warm yourself,' he said. 'It's horribly cold tonight.'
In silence, Marianne moved forward and held out her ungloved hands to the blaze, jerking her head back as she did so to let the fur hood slide back from her face. The two of them stood for a moment without speaking, looking down at the dancing flames and letting the warmth seep into their bodies. At last, Napoleon glanced quickly at the girl beside him.
'Angry with me?' he asked, his eyes fixed a little uneasily on the delicate, unsmiling profile, with its lowered lashes and straight lips.
Marianne did not look at him as she answered:
'I should not allow myself to be angry with you, Sire. One is not angry with the master of Europe.'
'Yet that is precisely what you are. And I can scarcely find it in me to blame you. You thought you were going, didn't you? You meant to cut the threads binding you to a life you would be done with, wipe out the past, eliminate everything that had been…'
The green eyes were turned on him then, the faintest twinkle of laughter in their depths. Really, he was the most extraordinary play actor! It was so like him to try and work himself into a rage when he knew that he was in the wrong.
'You need not try to generate an anger which you do not feel, Sire. I am too well acquainted with… Your Majesty. Now that I am here, perhaps Your Majesty will deign to forget whatever it was I meant to do and explain the strange things which have happened in the past months. Dare I admit that I have been very much in the dark, and remain so to this present, indeed?'
'I had not thought you unintelligent?'
'I hope not, Sire. But it would seem that Your Majesty's policies are somewhat too involved for a woman's brain to grasp. And I am not ashamed to admit that I have been able to make nothing of what your judges and your press have been referring to as the "Beaufort affair"… unless it is that an innocent man has suffered unjustly and faced death a dozen times merely to give one of your agents the pleasure and the glory of helping him to escape at last, with your blessing and under the supervision of your imperial navy… and I myself have nearly died of grief! And now, to crown all, you have me brought here by force…'
'Oh ho! Such force!'
'Very well. Against my will, if you prefer. But why?'
Napoleon roused himself from his thoughtful pose and, turning to Marianne, said gravely:
'So that justice may be done, Marianne, and seen to be done by you.'
'Justice?'
'Yes, justice. I have always known that Jason Beaufort was in no way guilty, either of the murder of Nicolas Mallerousse or of anything else. The worst he had done was to take some champagne and burgundy out of France for the delectation of a set of persons whose enjoyment gives me personally no great pleasure. But I had to lay hands on the malefactors – the real malefactors, that is, without destroying the delicate balance of my foreign policies. And in order to achieve that, it was necessary to play the game out to the end.'
'And to risk to the end the possibility that Jason Beaufort might die of his sufferings or the inhuman treatment of your prison guards.'
'I saw to it that he had a guardian angel, and by God! he seems to have done his work well! I had to catch the criminals, I tell you… and then there was that matter of the forged English money which forced me to act or else become a laughing-stock, and incidentally reveal too much about the workings of my own secret service.'
By now, curiosity was to some extent overcoming Marianne's first resentment:
'You say, Your Majesty, that it was necessary for you to catch the criminals? May I ask if you have them now?'
Napoleon merely nodded, but Marianne persisted:
'Your Majesty knows who killed Nicolas Mallerousse, who is the coiner?'
'I know who killed Nicolas Mallerousse and I have him fast, as for the coining…'
He paused and glanced at Marianne's strained face as though undecided. Thinking it advisable to give him some encouragement, she said: 'Was it not the same man?'
'No. The coiner was… myself.'
Marianne could not have been more thoroughly stunned had the ancient ceiling fallen on her head. She stared at the Emperor as if she had begun to doubt his sanity!
'You, Sire?'
'I. My idea was to strike a blow at English commerce by producing, in the strictest secrecy, a large amount of English currency and flooding the market with it. I have no idea how the villains who stowed them on Jason Beaufort's vessel managed to get hold of them, but one thing is certain: they were mine… though I could equally certainly not proclaim the fact. That is why I allowed suspicion to remain on your friend, while in and out of prisons everywhere in France my agents were working in the dark to unravel the truth. It was for the same reason that I had his reprieve made out in advance and laid the best plans I could for his escape. That could not fail. Vidocq is a clever man… and I had no doubt that you would give him a hand.'
'Truly, Sire, we are small things in your hands. I begin to wonder whether a man of genius is a blessing of the gods – or a calamity! But, Sire' – she went on, a note of anxiety in her voice, 'this criminal – or criminals?'
'You are right to say criminals, for there are a number of them, but they have a leader, and this leader – but no – come with me.'
'Whereto?'
To the keep. I have something to show you. But wrap yourself warmly.'
He stooped to pick up Marianne's gloves which she had dropped on the hearth and himself settled the hood once more over her head, his hands reverting instinctively to the old, caressing gestures with which, during those enchanted days they had spent together at the Trianon, he had been used to put on her cloak for her and drape the scarf about her hair. Just as he had done then, he took her arm and led her outside, signing to Rustan to follow as he passed.
Out in the open, the icy wind whirled about them but, leaning close together, they plunged across the vast courtyard, up to their ankles in the snow which crunched beneath their feet. They came to
the barbican before the keep and Napoleon made her go before him through the low archway, guarded by two sentries so rigid they might have been frozen stiff. Even their moustaches had icicles on them. On the far side, Napoleon held her back suddenly. In the light of the lantern which hung by an iron bracket from the wall, his blue-grey eyes were very grave, even stern, but there was no hardness in them.
'What you are going to see will be very horrible, Marianne… and altogether exceptional. But, let me say it again, justice must be done. Are you ready to look at what I would show you?'
She met his eyes unflinchingly:
'I am ready.'
He took her hand and drew her forward. They passed through another low arch and found themselves at the foot of the keep, standing on a plank bridge spanning the wide, deep moat. There was a wooden staircase going down into the moat and Marianne looked down, automatically, to where some lanterns were moving about below, to draw back almost immediately with a choking gasp of horror. There, in the trampled snow at the foot of the empty moat, with a guard standing on either side of it, was a sinister wooden framework, like a hideous window made of red-painted wood, with a great triangular blade at its upper end. The guillotine.
Marianne stared at the ghastly instrument with eyes dilated with horror. She was trembling so violently that Napoleon pulled her gently within the circle of his arm and held her close.
'It is dreadful, I know. And none can loathe that fearful thing more than I…'
'Then why…'
'Because it is fitting. In a short while, a man is going to die. He is waiting now in a cell inside the keep and no one, apart from those few who will be present at his execution, will ever know that it took place here tonight, just as no one will ever know how he was condemned. But the fact is that this man is a criminal of an altogether exceptional kind, such a wretch as is rarely found. Last summer, he lured Nicolas Mallerousse into a trap and, with the help of his accomplices, had him carried, gagged and bound to the house at Passy where Jason Beaufort was living at that time, and where he thereafter cold-bloodedly cut his throat. But this killing was only one of his many crimes. Some dozens of my own troops, held captive on the English hulks, have died, torn to pieces by the hounds which this man trained to track them down…'
[Marianne 3] - Marianne and the Privateer Page 38
