Жюльетта Бенцони - Marianne

Jean's hand crept up again to her shoulder. She turned her head and saw him looking at her with eyes that were strangely bright. His voice, when he spoke was husky.

'I am glad you are my friend but – I had hoped for something more – I had hoped you liked me a little. When I kissed you on the boat, you didn't mind.'

She opened wide astonished eyes.

'But of course I like you! Especially now that I can see your face. And I liked it when you kissed me. It – it made me feel brave again.'

'And supposing – I were to do it again?'

She felt his arm go round her waist to draw her to him but instead of answering, she only smiled and closed her eyes, waiting for his kiss. It was true, she did like him. He smelled of the sea, from which they had both come. His eyes were as blue as the sky and very soft. They were gazing at her tenderly, a hint of anxious pleading in their blue depths. Perhaps he loved her? He was the first young man who had ever dared come near her, with her own consent, for she discounted Jason Beaufort's stolen kiss. But this man in chains whose trembling lips were now close to her face stirred and troubled her all at once. She wanted him to be happy. Tomorrow he would risk his life again for her sake and she wanted to give him a little happiness in return. She let him kiss her, let him draw her down into the straw and even slid her own arms round his neck to make him keep on kissing her.

At one moment he left her lips and began to cover her face and neck with little, quick kisses, light as butterfly wings yet which drew from her a long, shuddering sigh which Jean did not miss. When he fastened on her lips again, he grew more daring and began gently to unfasten her bodice. Panting a little, her head on fire, Marianne did not resist. She felt on the threshold of some great and already overwhelming discovery. Her feminine instinct whispered to her that her body held some incredible surprises in store for her.

Her thoughts went back briefly to Francis Cranmere. His should have been the hands to awaken her to these new and strange sensations. Even through the turmoil of her senses, she realized that she was on the point of giving to this stranger something which by rights belonged only to a husband and yet oddly, she felt neither shame nor scruples. She was living now outside her past life, outside any normal existence. Why not give to Jean what the American, Beaufort, had so boldly demanded, what no woman could be sure of keeping once a man had made up his mind to take it from her by force or cunning? The wretched Clarissa Harlowe whose sad history Marianne had devoured in secret, had been given a sleeping draught by the unworthy Lovelace in order that he might wreak his will on her. Marianne was not entirely sure what wreaking one's will involved, but she was sure that Jean would need no potions to achieve his ends. Dimly conscious of the ties of flesh binding men and women, she felt no will to resist. His caresses were so gentle and roused such delicious sensations in her! Then, he seemed to grow delirious, muttering broken words she only half understood, and interspersing them with more and more burning kisses. It was quite the most thrilling experience that could happen to any girl and whatever happened next must be marvellous indeed—

Then, abruptly, the magic spell was broken and there was only crude, painful reality. Marianne screamed but Jean did not even hear. He had been starved for too long and now he fell on her, carried away by a hunger and a passion he could no longer control. Gone was the tender lover, gone the soft caresses and, in their place, an agonizing pain and a man who seemed like one possessed. Frantic with horror, she tried to struggle free, but he held her fast. She tried to scream and he stopped her mouth with another kiss, but the magic had departed. Now, Marianne endured it with muscles tensed and straining nerves. Then, quite suddenly, it was all over and, as if by magic, she was free.

Too stunned to move, she lay looking up at the dusty roof beams struggling with disappointment and a longing to burst into tears. So this was love? This, nothing more nor less? In that case, she could not understand why they made so much fuss about it in novels and why so many women and girls ruined themselves for its sake. It was nice to begin with, but, all things considered, not really very rewarding. All she had now was this vague feeling of disgust coupled with a strong sense of frustration. No, never in her whole life had she been so disappointed.

A gentle finger stroked her cheek and at the same time she heard Jean laugh softly.

'Why don't you say something? You made me very happy, you know. I'll not forget. And besides that I'm glad I was the first.'

'How did you know?' Marianne said sulkily.

This made him laugh outright.

'What a little girl you are! It is something a man knows at once. Now, you must get back inside. The candle is nearly out and it is better your absence should not be noticed. Besides – I'm abominably sleepy!'

She propped herself on one elbow but the sight of his cavernous yawns only added to her disappointment. In her view, only a great deal of tenderness could have removed the disagreeable impression she had received. He was nice, but that was all and now she sensed he wanted to be left in peace.

'Tomorrow, then—' she said dully, 'what will you do?'

He smiled teasingly and winked.

'You're a cool customer! Don't worry I'll do what you want. I owe you that—'

He sighed luxuriously and curled himself into a ball then, having arranged his chain so as to cause the minimum of inconvenience, he folded his arms and shut his eyes.

'Sleep well—' he added sleepily.

Marianne sat back on her haunches and stared at his sleeping figure in bewilderment. Really, she thought resentfully, men were the oddest creatures. A moment ago this one had been all fire and flames, half mad with love – and now, barely minutes afterwards, there he was sleeping peacefully having forgotten her very existence. Was there anything in this to justify the secretive smile and air of inward triumph common to brides in books after their wedding nights? Always, excepting the unfortunate Clarissa Harlowe who, having slept deeply throughout, was not even aware of what had happened to her. There did not seem to Marianne to be much reason to give themselves such airs! For her own part, she had quite made up her mind not to repeat the experience in a hurry, not even to please Jean! Oh no!

The candle put an end to Marianne's musings by going out altogether. All she could do now was go back to the house and climb into her bed in the cupboard. She sat still for a moment until her eyes grew accustomed to the dark and then got up, hunted for the key which she had put down somewhere near the candle and then left the barn, closing the door carefully behind her and putting the key back in its hole.

Outside, the night was darker than it had been. A high wind was blowing that tugged at her blanket and almost threw her to the ground. For a moment, she was tempted to make her escape then and there, alone, but she suppressed the thought bravely. It was not Jean's fault after all, if she did not find lovemaking very enjoyable and besides, if she were honest, she had to admit that she had to some extent asked for what had happened. In any case, she was bound to Jean by their mutual plot against the wreckers. A pact was a pact.

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!'