Жюльетта Бенцони - Marianne

Turning her back on the tempting heath, Marianne regained her room by the same way that she had left it and got into bed.

She had hardly pulled the covers over her head when she heard the almost imperceptible sound of the key turning in the lock. The hunchback tailor had kept his word.

When, the next morning, Jean Le Dru was discovered to have fled, Marianne felt as though the skies had fallen on her head. She had taken advantage of a brief spell of sunshine to walk out on to the stretch of bare heath land lying between the manor and the sea. The greasy peasant soup, which was all that was provided by way of breakfast, proved highly indigestible and Marianne felt a strong desire for fresh air. The fragrant tea and crisp toast of Selton Hall seemed a long way away. All thought of them was driven out of her head, when Morvan's cry of wrath rent the quiet morning air.

She did not understand at first what had happened. She was sitting at the foot of one of the strange sandy stones that were dotted about the countryside, watching the calm sea as it lapped lazily against the rocks where seaweed lay in bright green patches. A few patches of timid blue showed between great banks of white cloud against which the flying gulls were half invisible, and down in the hollow of the little bay, a few chimneys were smoking peaceably alongside the boats drawn up on the pebbles.

Some women and children were making their way down to the beach, armed with long boathooks and rakes with which, at low tide, they scraped the seaweed off the rocks and brought home the long, shiny ribbons that were the only wealth of this god-forsaken land.

After the passion of the night before, Marianne was glad to sit dreaming over this scene of beauty and tranquillity. As a result, when she saw Morvan coming towards her, her first feeling was one of irritation. Could the man not let her alone for a moment? The next moment he was on her, grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.

'Come back inside – you have deceived me, lied to me – well, you'll not do it again.'

'Do what again? Are you mad? What have I done now?' Marianne cried, stung to quick anger. 'And first of all, let me go!'

She wrenched her arm away. Morvan, forced to let go suddenly, staggered and almost fell. But Marianne could see, that under his ridiculous mask, his face was unusually red. His hands were clenched as he rounded on her again.

'Your precious servant! Whose loyalty you swore by! Well, he's run away and left you!'

Now it was Marianne's turn to stagger. She had expected anything, but not this and did not attempt to hide her shock.

'Run away?' she echoed. 'But – it's not possible! He couldn't.'

She was on the point of saying: 'He couldn't do that to me,' but she bit back the words. But Morvan was already going on.

'I thought so too and I took every care. I had him chained up in the barn. But this morning, when Soizic took him his food, she found the bird flown, the door wide open and the chain sawn through!'

Marianne was hardly listening.

'It's impossible,' she said again blankly. 'Impossible!'

Boiling with anger at such black treachery, she was struggling desperately to remember everything she could. The previous night's events passed through her mind with merciless clarity. Le Dru had been asleep when she had left him, and so deeply asleep that she could have sworn not even a thunderclap would wake him. The chain was unbroken and when she left she had locked the door carefully and put the key back in its place. At that moment, she was quite certain Jean had no means of escape; if he had, he would have told her, and agreed to escape with her at once as she had asked. Her next thought was for the tailor. But Perrinaic had told her that if she meant to escape, she would have to do so alone. It was surely not he who had given the Breton the file to saw through the chain and opened the door. Then who? She had no time for further wondering. With an effort, Morvan had regained control of himself and was saying coldly: 'I am waiting for your explanation.'

Marianne shrugged and sensing that the only thing to do was to appear very cool, she plucked a long stalk of dry grass and began to chew it thoughtfully.

'What explanation do you expect me to give? I am like you, I do not understand. Perhaps he was afraid? If you had chained him—'

'I invariably chain all those who dare to utter certain names in my presence and I am beginning to think that I was mistaken in not doing the same to you. After all, I have no idea where you come from or who you are! All I know is what you have deigned to tell me—'

'Are you forgetting the queen's locket?'

'You might have stolen that. Come back with me now unless you would have me take you back by force. I—'

He broke off. For a moment or two, as he talked, he had been instinctively following with his eyes the movements of a small boat which had just rounded the headland on which he and Marianne were standing. She was running before the wind and her red sails struck a brilliant note against the grey sea. They could make out the shape of the man at the tiller and suddenly, born on a gust of wind, they heard his voice. He was singing gaily.

'… We saw an English frigate

Hard on our starboard bow,

A-sailing o'er the briny deep,

For to attack Bordeaux…'

The words of the song came to them with impudent clarity through the crystalline air. Behind her, Marianne heard an odd noise which she realized with a shock was Morvan grinding his teeth. The eyes that watched the small boat through the hole in his mask were those of a madman and Marianne felt a thrill of terror as they were turned on her.

'You hear? Will you still deny it? Where do you find your servants, Mademoiselle d'Asselnat? On the English hulks?'

'I still do not understand you!' she said with dignity.

'That song is known throughout the seven seas! It is the song of Robert Surcourf's men! And your so-called servant is one of them!'

'What nonsense! He has always served me faithfully!' Marianne spoke with such conviction that for a moment the other was shaken.

'It may be that you too have been deceived, but we shall know soon enough.'

'What do you mean?'

'Last night I had word at last. A messenger from the Comte d'Antraigues will be here before long. Then we shall get your position clear, my beauty. Until then, you will remain under lock and key!'

'What right have you?' Marianne protested. Remembering her ally the tailor, she felt safe in allowing herself to carry the matter with a high hand since she had every expectation of making her own escape that night.

'If someone is coming from London, he can only confirm what I have told you. Then, my friend, it will be up to you to explain why you have kept me here. You are delaying me.'

The assurance in her heart clearly disconcerted the wrecker but he pulled himself together, unwilling to go back on his decision.

'At all events, I shall personally keep a close watch on you. Come. We must go to the house and pay our last respects.'

'To whom?'

'To my lieutenant Vinoc. Your – er, servant killed him as he made his escape.'

***

The body of the dead man had been laid out on the table in the great hall covered with a white sheet. All the chests, bales and packages of all descriptions that generally cluttered the room had been removed for the occasion and large sheets had been hung from the ceiling on either side of the table, making a kind of white chapel around the body. Death had brought little nobility to the wrecker. Even when shaved, brushed and dressed in his best embroidered clothes, he retained, in his everlasting stillness, an immense ugliness and an expression of deep cunning. Marianne thought she had rarely seen such a dislikeable corpse. All those she had previously beheld had had about them something quiet, gentle and noble which took away anything frightening about them. But this man had gone into the next world wearing the same ferocious expression that had been his in life. Old Soizic must have some similar thoughts to Marianne's because she wagged her head sorrowfully as she looked at the dead man.

'Died with all his sins upon him! You can see it in his face—'

None the less, she had placed the dead man's hands together and wound a boxwood rosary, but with an evident lack of enthusiasm.

At Morvan's command, Marianne stayed with the other women of the household, who were praying round the corpse in accordance with the strict funeral rites of the region. She had to exchange her bright clothes for a dress of black wool, probably also borrowed from Gwen, a black shawl and a headdress of the same colour. She had raised no objections to all this. Kneeling on a prie-dieu by Vinoc's feet with Gwen opposite her, pretending to tell her beads, she had at least a chance to think. On a stool between the two women stood a bowl of holy water with a sprig of dried boxwood in it. Marianne kept her eyes firmly fixed on it rather than on the dead man's unattractive feet. Whenever she looked up, she found Gwen watching her with a mocking, triumphant expression equally unpleasant to behold, although it undoubtedly gave food for thought. Why should the Bretonne girl look so pleased with herself? Because Morvan was treating Marianne as a prisoner at last or – she wondered suddenly whether there was very far to seek for the mysterious hand which had opened the barn door, sawn through Jean le Dru's chains and been responsible for his otherwise inexplicable flight. Short of being an utterly contemptible hypocrite, he had no reason to escape alone especially after Marianne had refused to go without him. No, there was something else – whoever had opened the door for him must have had to shake him awake and persuade him to go. Something told Marianne that she had won him over last night, and that at the cost of her own disillusionment she had gained his complete allegiance. To his simple, unsophisticated way of thinking, the fact that she had given herself to him made everything straightforward. Then what had been said to him to make him abandon her so callously, even putting her life in danger? It smacked of a woman's revenge.

Footsteps came and went behind her bent back, the clatter of sabots on the worn flagstones, the scrape of hobnailed boots; from time to time, a hand appeared, picked up the box twig and piously sprinkled the corpse. The villagers and local peasants were coming, as custom demanded, to pay their respects to their brother's earthly remains. That, in his lifetime, he had been an out and out villain made no difference. He was a Breton and he was dead and that, for all other Bretons, made him sacred.

In fact, it was really rather moving except that, hearing Morvan solemnly inviting everyone who came to the wake, Marianne began to feel anxious again. With all these people about, how would she ever manage to escape? Would she even be allowed to keep her room to herself? Morvan had promised that he would keep her under close watch in future, which was distinctly unpromising. Moreover, if it were Gwen who had been responsible for Le Dru's flight, she would be unlikely to stop there. Marianne could read in her spiteful expression that she would not rest until she had got rid of the intruder. To be sure, there was still – saving your presence – her friend the tailor, but would he be able to help her this time? With all this in mind, Marianne began to pray in good earnest, but for herself rather than for a dead man who was no concern of hers. She stood in dire need of heavenly aid.

A huge, hairy black hand took hold of the box twig and a deep base voice began intoning:

'De profundis clamavi ad te domine

Domine exaudi vocem meam…'

Marianne felt as though the great bell of the cathedral had sounded in her ear and clapped her hand to her mouth to hold back a cry. The man was a peasant of gigantic size. He wore the traditional Breton costume of wide, pleated breeches, caught in at the knee, embroidered waistcoat under a short cloth jacket with a goatskin coat over all. His long, black hair fell to his shoulders but beneath the blue bonnet of the men of Goulven, she recognized the face of Black Fish.

He was leaning on a massive cudgel, his eyes cast upwards, intoning as fervently as though he had done nothing else all his life. The peasants looked at him with some respect and even Gwen gazed up at him in fascination, enabling Marianne to overcome the inevitable shock at this sudden reappearance of one she had presumed drowned. How had he come there? By what miracle had he escaped the storm, the rocks and the wreckers? These questions were unanswerable but since she and Jean Le Dru had escaped unhurt it seemed quite natural, after all, that a force of nature like Black Fish should have done so as well.