Жюльетта Бенцони - Marianne

Marianne woke from a fitful sleep broken by nightmares, shivering with fever in spite of all the straw which the kindly, anxious Arcadius had heaped over her. Her throat hurt and in a little while she had begun to cough.

'You have certainly caught cold,' her new friend lamented. 'You were frozen when they brought you here. You need proper care!'

Consequently, when the bearer of their food, Requin, arrived, Arcadius set up a vigorous demand for tisanes, blankets and a soothing draught for the cough.

'I've no orders,' the man said roughly. 'Makes no difference to me if she catches her death!'

'But Fanchon will make a difference to you if anything happens to her, for the excellent reason that she will have to answer for her to the chevalier. If you have no orders, then go and get some!'

Requin dragged away reluctantly, without hurrying, but returned much more quickly carrying a heap of old blankets which he dropped carelessly on top of Marianne. After that he took a flask from his pocket.

'Medicine,' he said.

'I asked for a hot tisane!'

'It's coming—'

He stood for a moment apparently engaged in some kind of inner struggle. At length with a massive sigh he took out a second flask and handed it to Arcadius with the agonized look of one parting from a beloved friend.

'Rum,' he growled.

Arcadius held the flask up to the light and laughed.

'It's not full! Helped yourself to your share, have you? Well, I'll say nothing if you'll bring me everything I want for her.'

'Let her die,' the other muttered in an ugly voice.

'You said that before. It is of no interest to me. Now, be off with you, and do what I ask, or I shall tell Fanchon!'

Like a mother, Arcadius de Jolival set himself to make the invalid swallow a little of the medicine. Then he wrapped her snugly in the blankets. She let him do it. Her mind was a blank and she was tired to death, yet on the verge of tears. She had been ill so little in her life that she had no resources of patience or endurance with which to face this sudden weakness. Her illness only increased her longing to escape and get out of this cavern that was so depressingly like a tomb. She did not want to die there, like a rat in a hole. The moment of despair which had prostrated her the night before had vanished and nothing was left but the commanding instinct of self-preservation.

With the fever, her brain worked more frantically than ever. She cast about desperately for some source of salvation, because although she had gathered that Bruslart did not mean to kill her, she was much less sure of Morvan. He was determined not to let her escape his vengeance even if he had to stand up to the chevalier himself. Unless, that was, he would consider himself sufficiently revenged were old Fanchon to succeed in reducing Marianne to the kind of ignoble slavery she had threatened. For the present, Morvan had gone with Bruslart and the other Riders of the Shadows, but he would return and who could tell whether he would not by that time have succeeded in persuading the chevalier that she must die? He had a substantial ally in the Baron de Saint-Hubert whose contempt for Marianne was overwhelming. Day after day, while the prisoner pined in her dungeon, they could be pleading their cause, wearing down Bruslart's resistance. The more she thought of it, the more Marianne was convinced that it would come down to a choice between the Seine and the house at Ranelagh. She had to escape first. But how?

'Stop worrying your head so,' Jolival's voice broke soothingly into her thoughts. 'You think too much, my dear. The man whose regard you won last night is all powerful, surely he will seek you out?'

'If he wished for me tonight, I would have a chance, but he did not conceal from me that it might be several days before he could send for me again. Supposing he ever does—'

'You underestimate yourself. I am sure he thinks of you.'

'You are a kind friend. You are trying to comfort me but is it possible that for him I was anything more than a moment's pleasure? Is there no other woman in his life? I heard in the Prince of Benevento's house of a certain Polish countess—'

'Walewska? It is true, she loved him passionately. She gave up everything to follow him – and it was even the fact that she was pregnant that determined him to give up Josephine.'

'You see,' Marianne sighed.

'Countess Walewska has left him. Not very long ago, but she has left.'

'Because he must remarry and because she would not suffer! Why should I be more fortunate than she? They called her his 'Polish wife' – and she is young, lovely, noble – and yet he let her go. What can I hope for more than this one night?'

This time, Arcadius de Jolival had no answer. He knows, Marianne thought, that I am right but he does not like to admit it. He fears that I shall give way to despair.

A desperate fit of coughing almost choked her. Jolival hastily made her drink some medicine and then tried to get her to drink a little of the soup which Requin had brought. But Marianne was not hungry. The mere smell of the food, which was certainly not very appetizing, made her feel sick.

'I'm thirsty,' she said. 'Just dreadfully thirsty.'

He nodded anxiously and made her drink a little water which he had warmed slightly over the brazier, then he wrapped the covers well around her and sat down beside her bed to wait. As she lay there in the silence and exhaustion of the fever, Marianne thought for the first time of Jason Beaufort. She was sorry now that she had not accepted his offer. Dazzled by the glittering, unreal prospect of a brilliant future in the theatre, she had refused to understand his warning. And yet, he had been right. The danger he had foretold had come to pass and now there was nothing he could do for her. When Bruslart and his band returned, the American would be already on the high seas. To be sure, he had spoken of a friend, a man called Paterson, the American consul at Nantes, but to the prisoner in the quarries of Chaillot, Nantes was as far away as Mars. Marianne closed her eyes and tried to force herself not to think. Thinking was painful, it only increased her fever and she wanted desperately to be better.

***

Hour upon unending hour, days and nights blending into one another with nothing to tell them apart. Hours that were like days, even weeks. Time dragged so slowly, broken for Marianne into periods of tense, anxious waking and heavy sleep from which she would sometimes wake trembling and drenched with sweat from the grip of a nightmare. During all this time, Arcadius's friendship and concern were inexhaustible. He did not spare himself in his efforts to make the invalid take a little food, making her swallow the endless potions and tisanes which he demanded from Requin. Once a day, old Fanchon came to see how matters stood. There was no solicitude or pity in her manner, nothing but the cold calculation of a horse dealer who sees his stock in trade likely to perish.

'She watches over you like a market gardener when the frost is on his lettuces,' Arcadius would say, attempting to laugh. But his laughter quickly died away, unable to withstand the oppressive atmosphere of the cavern. At other times, the prisoner's wants were supplied by Requin who was as gruff and unapproachable as ever. Even if she had possessed any money, Marianne would not have risked trying to bribe him. He served Fanchon-Fleur-de-lis like a dog and was not the kind of watchdog to be won over by a bone.

And yet, little by little, she recovered. The bouts of coughing became further apart, the fever diminished and her cracked voice recovered normal tones. There came a time when Marianne was able to smile at her faithful companion:

'I think I'm better – but for you I am sure that I could never have recovered.'

'You are very young. I have merely helped nature. You would have got over it very well without me.'

She shook her head and looked thoughtful for a moment.

'No,' she murmured. 'Because if you had not been here, I should have had no wish to live.'

For the first time since her capture, she fell into a real sleep of the kind that is more restorative than any medicine on earth. She was dreaming that the black cab was taking her back to a Butard of fantasy, shining like a great star under a dazzling blanket of snow, when an unusual sound made her start up wide awake. She sat up and saw that Arcadius, in his own corner, was also awake and listening. Their eyes met in the gloom.

'What is it?' Marianne whispered.

'It sounded like a fall of rock. Listen! There it is again. It comes from somewhere back in the quarry.'

Jolival had already explained to Marianne that the passage outside their prison cave ended a little further on in a blank wall.

Now they could hear a scratching sound followed by a muffled but unmistakable oath. Arcadius was on his feet in an instant. There was a glimmer of candlelight in the passage, wavering on the chalky walls as it came nearer. By now, Marianne, too, had got nervously to her feet and moved closer to her companion. Someone was coming, beyond a doubt, but who could it be, and where had they come from?

'They must have dug through the wall,' Jolival said in a whisper. 'It's easy enough to pierce the chalk with good tools. But who—'

He did not finish. The light was coming nearer. They heard cautious footsteps, light but real. A shadow loomed up along the wall and, despite herself, Marianne pressed closer to Arcadius. Then, suddenly, she bit back a cry of amazement. Even in the distorting light of the candle he held, she recognized the features and the mop of red hair belonging to Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche, the errand boy who had warned her about the black cab. A sigh of relief escaped her.