Жюльетта Бенцони - Marianne

The wreckers had been keeping the plunder from the wreck about the fires on the beach but there was still a good deal of debris floating between the ship, now three quarters submerged, and the shore. Men were still plunging into the water, in the grip of a frenzied and unremitting lust for gain. But the storm was abating and already the tide was on the turn. The thunder of the waves which, only a moment before, had been breaking on the rocks in great fountains of spray, gave way to a degree of calm in which the men's frenzy also abated. The waters began to go down and, at the same time, a greyish light touched their surface and spread over the sky. Dawn was not far off and Morvan, moving slowly up the beach with Marianne, paused to sniff the air and, taking a silver whistle from his pocket, blew three short, piercing blasts which had the effect of stopping his men in their tracks. He raised his arm and pointed to the sky. Regretfully, the wreckers left the water and made their way to the fires where they set about loading the chests and bales on to their shoulders. The corpses were left where they lay. Marianne passed quite close to one of them and closed her eyes to shut out the poor, sightless face. If she valued her life, she dare not let the man beside her see how deeply he appalled her. Little by little, she was learning the hard way that most cruel of all lessons, that if she were to survive, she would have to lie, cheat and use all her wits to do so. It was a lesson she would never forget. With the exception of the poor young man now being dragged along behind her and possibly of Black Fish whose giant corpse must still be floating somewhere in the receding waters of this hateful bay, her first contacts with men in this wide world had brought her nothing but disgust and a profound contempt. In future, she meant to emerge victorious from any further brush with them, at least so far as the still untried limits of her strength allowed.

A mizzling rain began to fall from skies of unrelieved dark grey. The fires were out and the growing daylight glimmered on wet, seaweed covered rocks. Somewhere inland, a cock crowed hoarsely. Marianne's feet stopped sinking into sand and trod on hard ground covered with dry grass. This, then, was Brittany.

The manor house belonging to the man who called himself Morvan lay at the end of a hollow road, at this season deep in mud, between high banks crowned with gorse and stunted ash trees which turned it into a long, greenish tunnel; a crumbling sixteenth century façade flanked by turrets. Some way off, in a dip in the ground, was a small village made up of a few low cottages with walls of grey granite and roofs of heavy thatch. The sea was close by, overhung by ragged cliffs that, to the south, curved back sharply inland to form a narrow estuary. Out on the heath, a pair of standing stones like lonely sentinels kept their gloomy vigil among the gorse and whin bushes while on the summit of a nearby hill the remains of a stone circle lay in the short grass, waiting endlessly for the return of a sun worship now gone for ever. But of all this, in the livid light of a rain-sodden dawn, Marianne saw little. She was too frozen and exhausted to notice anything but the bed which Morvan conjured out of the wall by opening a wooden panel carved in intricate, lacy patterns. The mattress was stuffed with seaweed, the blankets rough wool and the sheets raw, unbleached linen but she threw herself down on them as gratefully as a hunted animal and fell instantly asleep.

When she awoke at last from the deep, dreamless sleep which had possessed her, Marianne saw that it was dark again. Candles were burning in silver sconces, a fire roared up the soot-blackened chimney and before the ancient stone hearth an old woman in a black gown and white cap was busy laying out some clothes on a bench while she watched the great cauldron of water set on to boil. Her face had the sunken look of those whose teeth have gone and there was something uncomfortably witch-like about the dark shadow thrown by the flames on to the old-fashioned coffered ceiling. Her jaw moved continuously above the froth of ribbons fastening her bonnet.

The wooden bed creaked as Marianne sat up. The crone turned colourless eyes on her beneath wrinkled, tortoise lids.

'You can be stirring now. Here's clothes for you and hot water to wash.'

The old woman's peremptory tone nettled Marianne, accustomed to the quiet deference of her own servants.

'I'm hungry,' she said sharply. 'Get me something to eat.'

'Time enough,' the old woman told her calmly. 'Dress yourself and join the master. If he means you to eat, you will eat.'

She hobbled out of the room, leaning on a knotted stick, taking no further notice of the girl. Marianne scrambled over the fretwork side of her strange bed and found herself standing on a bench from which she could step down on to the floor of beaten earth which still showed, here and there, some remnants of coloured tiles. The room itself was of noble proportions and some traces of gilding glinted here and there among the plentiful cobwebs on the ceiling. But it contained no furniture beyond three of the curious cupboard-beds, their walls carved in primitive but oddly attractive designs, the benches by which they were reached and those by the hearth on which, in addition to the clothes, stood a basin, some soap and towels. The old woman had built up a roaring fire in the hearth and Marianne was able to wash in great comfort. She did so with a good deal of pleasure and finished by washing the sand and salt out of her hair, throwing bowlful after bowlful of dirty water out of the tiny window without a thought of where they might be landing.

At last she felt clean again. She twisted her hair into thick braids and wound it round her head, then turned her attention to the clothes provided for her. She was surprised to find them remarkably grand for any peasant woman. The gown was leaf green damask trimmed at the hem with gold embroidery and there was a small satin apron of the same green edged with lace. A big lace shawl and a muslin cap shaped like a small hennin, with a pair of dainty, buckled shoes, completed the outfit. Marianne's pleasure as she put it on was truly feminine. Taking down the old mirror which hung in a corner, she contemplated herself in it with some satisfaction. The dress might have been made for her. The velvet bodice sat well on her slender waist and the green silk matched her eyes. Draping the Irish lace shawl gracefully round her shoulders, she pirouetted lightly and made for the door.

The two rooms leading out of the large bedchamber showed the same state of dilapidation and neglect, with bare walls showing here and there a glimpse of frescoes in which pallid figures wandered among peeling fields, great overmantels with broken carvings, a complete absence of furniture and abundance of cobwebs so thick they hung like cloudy drapery from the ceiling. For a moment, Marianne wondered if Morvan had brought her to a wholly deserted house but then the sound of voices reached her through a half open door. She went towards them and pushed the door open wider.

The room which met her eyes might just as easily have been the dining room of the great house, by reason of its immense table, the chapter house of a monastery, on account of its vaulted ceiling and the massive, black wooden crucifix on the end wall, or simply a warehouse, from the quantities of chests, bales and packages of all descriptions that lay about on the ancient studded leather armchairs and innumerable stools. A great many of these parcels had been ripped open, revealing lengths of silk or woollen cloth, bales of cotton, bags of tea and coffee, tanned hides and a host of other things, all the more or less recent spoils of wrecks washed up by the sea. But Marianne had scarcely a glance for all this because, right in the midst of all the confusion, a blistering argument was in progress between the chief of the wreckers and a very pretty girl dressed in much the same costume as herself except that her dress was rose pink satin and her shawl of chinese silk embroidered with apple blossoms.

That they were quarrelling was clear only from their angry voices because the words were in the Breton language of which Marianne could not understand a word. She saw, however, that the girl was nearly as dark as herself with a fine pink and white complexion and an expression in her hazel eyes of quite unbelievable hardness. She also noted, with some surprise, that while Morvan had removed his hat, he still wore his black velvet mask. But by this time, the girl had heard someone come in. She swung round and, seeing Marianne, turned her anger against her.

'My dress!' she exclaimed furiously, this time in excellent French. 'You dared to give her my dress – and my shoes, and my beautiful Irish shawl!'

'I did indeed,' Morvan answered her coldly without giving himself the trouble of raising his voice, 'and I shall dare a great deal more Gwen, if you continue to scream in that way. I cannot bear people to scream—'

He was sprawled negligently in a chair, one leg hooked over the arm, playing with what seemed to be a brand new gold-mounted riding whip.

'I shall scream if I like!' the girl retorted. 'That is my dress and I forbid you to give it to her.'

'It was mine before it was yours, since every stitch I gave you. You were half naked when I found you outside the prison in Brest, waiting to see your lover hanged, a thief like yourself – everything you've got on your back you owe to me, my girl. This, and this – and this too!'

With the end of his whip, Morvan lifted the gold chain round the girl's neck and flicked the lace at her sleeves with a contempt that made Gwen shake with fury. When he began to lift her skirts, she slapped them down and screamed at him: