Жюльетта Бенцони - Marianne

The boy lifted his arm and pointed out into the roadstead.

'Look! That's the Fowey . Just turning into the Sound.'

A wave of despair swept over Marianne. Too late! When, breathless and exhausted, she had fallen rather than dismounted from her horse on the old quay at Plymouth known as the Barbican, the abbé de Chazay had already left. Out there, on the sparkling water plucked by the wind into choppy wavelets, the lugger was plunging gaily out to sea under full sail, carrying with it her last hope.

'You are sure,' she asked the boy without conviction, 'that the French priest was on board?'

He raised his hand and spat with dignity. 'Sure as my name's Tom Mawes! Carried his traps from the Crown and Anchor meself, I did! Take you there, if you like? Best inn in town, right by St. Andrew's Church.'

With a shake of her head, Marianne declined this offer and the boy shrugged and strolled away, muttering under his breath something about 'blasted females' with no proper notions of the reward due to goodwill. Marianne walked on a little way, leading her horse, and sat down on one of the large stone capstans used for tying up vessels. All her strength and courage had drained away. Out there, on the green water, the little ship was slowly disappearing into the pale sunlight of a wintry morning that had clothed the hills around the bay in bluish mist. This was the end. Now, she had not one friend left on English soil, no one to whom she could turn for help. Now, she had only herself to rely on. It was necessary to escape, and to escape quickly, but where could she go?

The deserted Barbican was slowly coming to life. Fishing boats came in and the heaped baskets were swung up onto the stone quay, filled with plaice and sole, still wet and shiny. Granite-coloured crabs waved their black pincers from inside lobster pots and there were great clumps of greenish seaweed studded with deep purple mussels. Housewives hurried by, their starched caps bobbing, bearing great baskets on their arms and casting curious glances at the pretty, tired-looking girl dressed in boy's clothes and holding a blood-horse by the bridle.

At last, their silent scrutiny brought Marianne back to an awareness of herself and she got up, unable to endure the continued bombardment of so many curious glances. At the same time, she realized one simple fact. She was starving hungry. It may have been the sight of all that fish, the intoxicating smell of the sea, the fresh breeze, but whatever the cause, her stomach was crying out for food as only a seventeen year old stomach can. Yesterday, at that dreadful wedding dinner, she had been too agitated to eat much and she had taken nothing since.

Was it really only yesterday that she had married Francis! It seemed an eternity since that wedding ceremony. So, it had needed only a few hours to make her first an outraged wife, then a widow and now a criminal and a fugitive from justice who would soon be hunted down, if they were not already on her track. But when she thought of those who had so cruelly wounded her, no remorse troubled her mind. They had deserved their punishment and in striking them down she had done no more than avenge an insult to her honour, as any man of her family would have done. Only, when she thought of Francis, she was conscious in her inmost heart of a kind of vertigo, as though she stood on the brink of a precipice, and a bitter taste of ashes in her mouth.

With an effort of will, she drove out these gloomy thoughts. Marianne was young and strong and determined with all the force that was within her to overcome the malign fate which dogged her and to do that, it was necessary to remain alive. And, first and foremost, to eat, rest and think. She looked around her, searching for the boy she had spoken to earlier but he had vanished. However, she remembered what he had told her. The Crown and Anchor was the best hostelry in Plymouth and situated not far from St Andrew's Church. And there, rising above the steep pitched roofs, was indeed a Gothic tower which undoubtedly belonged to the former Catholic cathedral. A narrow, twisting street led her towards it and before long, she discerned the ancient timbered facade, gleaming leaded casements and impressive sign of a substantial old inn. Giving her horse into the care of a groom who appeared as though by magic, Marianne entered the inn and descending a few steps found herself in a large and welcoming common room adorned with much gleaming copper and brass with a large table in the centre and a number of smaller tables disposed around it, all covered with clean white cloths. A good peat fire burned in the hearth and a number of lusty serving wenches, their cheeks red and polished in the glow from the fire, tripped about the room bearing loaded trays.

There were few people about as yet and Marianne was able to slip unnoticed into a seat at a small table somewhat in the shadow of the wide chimney piece. From the maid-servant who appeared almost at once, she ordered oysters, a crab, a dish of the clotted yellow Devonshire cream she adored, as well as tea and toast. Then, as the girl sped away in a whirl of crisp petticoats to carry out her order, she tried to take stock of her position. Everything that had happened to her seemed so very improbable. Not even her beloved novels brought any guidance! None contained any situation remotely comparable to her own. She had, to be sure, a little money, but so very little. It would not enable her to subsist for more than a week. Then, she had to find a passport without having recourse to the authorities in the county, and find a boat prepared to face the considerable risks involved in running the blockade which had existed on all traffic between England and France for the past three years. All that would take money, probably a great deal of money. Marianne still had the pearl necklace she had brought with her but if she were to sell that here, quite apart from the dangers involved in such a sale and the questions to which it would give rise, she would have very little left to live on wherever she eventually took refuge, or where fate might decide to place her. And, to tell the truth, it mattered little to the fugitive where the winds might carry her provided they put a sufficient distance between herself and the hangman's noose. So, she must keep the necklace.

Suddenly she thought of her horse. He was a valuable animal and by selling him she might perhaps obtain enough money to pay her passage on some vessel whose master would not be over scrupulous in the matter of payment. At all events, it would be less dangerous than the necklace.

Somewhat heartened by her plans, Marianne did full justice to her breakfast and, by the time she had swallowed the last mouthful of cream, she was feeling very much better. Her clothes had dried. Warmth and nourishment had restored some measure of elasticity to muscles chilled and stiffened by hours on horseback. A gentle drowsiness crept over her and, bit by bit, her eyelids began to droop.

All at once she sat up with a start, wide awake on the instant. A man had come into the room, from the staircase leading to the upper floor where the guest bedchambers lay.

The newcomer was tall, thin and very ugly, grey-faced and hollow chested; he was aged about fifty but looked at least twice that on account of his evidently decrepit state of health. He was followed closely by two servants who hovered anxiously in the way of those members of a superior household whose duty was to be constantly alert to attend to their master. His out-moded garments, red heeled shoes, bob-wig and three-cornered hat suggested the émigré, and so indeed he was. Marianne knew him. Only the day before, he had been present, along with Monseigneur de Talleyrand-Périgord, at her marriage. It was the duc d'Avaray the confidential friend and favourite of Louis XVIII, the Castor to his Pollux, out-of-office Sully to his would-be Henri IV.