They went down a wooden staircase into the cellar in almost total darkness, illumined only by the candle held by one of the masked riders. The cellar was like any other, filled with barrels, bottles and a strong smell of wine. But in one corner underneath a rack which was moved with surprising ease, there appeared another trap-door, opening this time on to stone steps.
For all her show of courage, Marianne felt herself trembling as she made her way down into the bowels of the earth. She shuddered at the memory of the threats she had heard. A horrible idea came to her that perhaps these silent men were really leading her to her grave. From the anguish of her heart she sent out one desperate thought to Charles. He had promised her that they would meet again soon, he might be thinking of her at that very moment, unaware that she was perhaps being torn from him forever. She saw all the cruel irony of a fate which opened the gates of death to her at the very moment when she had discovered love and happiness. No, it was too stupid! Marianne swore silently to fight for her life to the very end if only she might yet see Charles again.
About two dozen steep steps had echoed under their feet when they came at last into a huge, decaying crypt with semi-circular arches. A fierce draught blew through it, making the torches which the riders had brought with them from the first cellar stream out wildly. Their booted feet rang ominously in the tomb-like vault.
The crypt was cut in two by a large black curtain. A gleam of light showed from behind it. Before Marianne had time to wonder what was there, it was thrust aside and a man appeared. He was of medium height with short, crisp, slightly greying hair but of his face nothing was visible except a long, pale nose, owing to his mask and to his thick, black beard. The man's neck and shoulders indicated the strength of a bull, but the eyes which shone through the slits in his mask sparkled so gaily that Marianne found it hard to believe her own. His hands clasped behind his back, displaying the pair of long pistols thrust through his belt, the newcomer strolled up to the prisoner, stared at her closely for a moment and then burst out laughing, which was certainly the last thing Marianne had been expecting.
'S'blood! What a beauty!' He began but his smile changed to a frown as the baron gave an exclamation of annoyance then stepped forward and murmured something in his ear.
'Very well, if you insist! But I don't like it, Saint-Hubert, I don't like it at all. However, let's get on with it—'
The curtain was pushed aside completely to reveal a long table covered with a scarlet cloth, behind which four men sat facing them with an empty place in the middle for their leader. The bearded man sat down. Six candles stood on the table and these he lighted, revealing the faces of his companions who were also masked and sat as still as stone. But Marianne found her eyes drawn instantly to one of them. All too well she knew that strong, sardonic mouth, that rosy scar that ran up under his mask and in that instant, she knew why she had been kidnapped. One of her judges was Baron Hervé de Kerivoas, otherwise Morvan, the wrecker, the man whom Fouché had so incautiously allowed to escape. She had no eyes for any of the others. One only concerned her: the man she knew as her implacable enemy.
He did not move as she came in. There was no tightening of his features, no exclamation, but the eyes that fastened on the girl's face were bright with hatred. Marianne's only response was a slight scornful movement of her shoulders. She was not really afraid of Morvan. There was something unbalanced about him which made him weak, vulnerable perhaps. It remained to be seen what metal her other judges were made of. The four riders surrounded Marianne and marched her up to the table. All five remained standing and the leader's deep voice rang out.
'We are here,' he said solemnly, 'to hear and pass judgement on this woman who stands accused by one of our brethren of treachery, treason and intelligence with the enemy. Riders of the Shadows, are you ready to listen and pass judgement fairly and with justice?'
'We are,' judges and guards answered in unison.
'But I am not ready!' Marianne cried boldly. 'I am not ready to be judged by strangers for what crime I know not. By what law, by what right do you sit in judgement on me? And what wrong have I done you?'
'You shall know that,' the leader told her, 'when you have heard the accusation.'
'Not before I know with whom I have to deal. One who accuses should have the courage to do so openly, and a judge to pass sentence in broad daylight. I see nothing here but a dark, shadowy cellar and blind moles buried in the earth. My face is not hidden! Dare to show yours if you are really what you claim to be, if not true judges, at least real men!'
Some instinct, deep within her, drove her to defy these men. She found some comfort in it and even a kind of enjoyment.
'Silence!' one of the judges ordered. 'You need not know who we are. You only wish to see our faces the better to denounce us!?
'I understood,' Marianne observed with a disdainful smile, 'that I was not to leave here alive? Are you afraid of me? Afraid of one woman, a prisoner, alone amongst so many. Is that the truth?'
'By all the Gods, I will not have it said that a chit of a girl accused me of being afraid!' the leader cried. He tore off his mask and threw it down before him, revealing a bluff, joyous countenance which had clearly seen more than fifty summers. 'And she is right! What have we to fear from her? I am the chevalier de Bruslart. Are you ready to answer me now?'
It was a name Marianne had heard more than once. The man's reputation was high in England for courage and loyalty. Sworn enemy of Napoleon, he had for years successfully eluded the unremitting efforts of Fouché and his men to capture him. His presence here was some assurance to Marianne that, if he were really the leader of these men, then at least she would receive something approaching a fair trial. She pointed to Morvan.
'You may ask this gentleman also to remove his mask. I am too well acquainted with Monsieur de Kerivoas – or perhaps here too he prefers the name of Morvan?'
Slowly Morvan removed his mask, revealing his mutilated face. He rose to his feet and seemed to Marianne enormous in this shadowy place.
'Insolence will not save you, Marianne d'Asselnat. I accuse you of having deceived me, of pretending to be what you were not by means of stolen jewels, of causing the death of one of my men and, last of all, of loosing Fouché's bloodhounds on my trail. Thanks to you, my band is decimated, myself in flight and—'
'I had no part in what has befallen you,' Marianne interrupted him quietly, 'and my jewels are my own. But suppose we were to mention your own activities which are my best excuse for anything I may have done. I accuse you of lighting false fires on the shore to draw unhappy vessels to destruction on the rocks on stormy nights, of robbing corpses and doing to death the injured. I accuse you of being that worst of all human fiends, a wrecker! If I deceived you, it was to save my life. That is my legitimate defence. If these men are, as I think, faithful subjects of the king, they should hold you in abhorrence!'
Bruslart's great fist slammed down ringingly on the red table.
'Silence! What we may think concerns only ourselves. We are not here to settle a quarrel but to pass judgement on your actions, madame. Answer me. Your name is Marianne-Elizabeth d'Asselnat de Villeneuve as you told this man?' He indicated Morvan. 'But you are living in Paris under the name of Marianne Mallerousse, a name given you by Nicholas Mallerousse, one of Fouché's most active agents. And you have been employed of late as reader to Madame Grand.'
'To her most serene highness the Princess of Benevento,' Marianne corrected him proudly. 'You should have thought of that before you kidnapped me. Do you think that when my absence is noted in the morning there will be no search made?'
'No danger of that! The prince will receive word this morning, by a very short discreetly worded note, that you have found such favour with – the person you know of, that your presence is desired for sometime longer in that charming woodland retreat where you spent the night.'
Marianne acknowledged a hit, fighting down the pain she felt at this cynical reminder of the blissful hours she had spent there. Then another thought came to her. Fouché, who always knew everything, who had agents everywhere, surely he would learn of his star's sudden disappearance! Perhaps he knew already that she had been taken to La Selle St Cloud, although there was no reason why he should be watching the house of someone of no particular importance. But there was also a possibility that Talleyrand, deceived by the letter, would arrange for Fouché to learn of what, in his eyes, would after all be no more than an amorous escapade.
The chevalier's cold voice interrupted the somewhat melancholy trend of her thought .
'Will you tell me, yes or no, whether you are indeed Marianne d'Asselnat?'
'Since you know I am,' Marianne said rebelliously, 'why do you ask? Are we in a court of justice? Are you a real judge?'
'So, you admit your name and rank – you admit them and yet—'
Bruslart paused. His bearded face twisted with sudden fury as he roared:
' – and yet, you, the daughter of a noble house, the daughter of two martyrs who died for their king, you have not feared to associate with the vilest rabble of this monstrous régime, you have dared to meddle with Fouché's police, to become an informer – and worse!'
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