Marianne and the Privateer

'It may occur to one of them to warn Beaufort?'

'They will have little enough time to get themselves to safety. Have I earned my reward?'

Marianne nodded. She lowered her hand and laid the pistol back in its case as Francis moved slowly to the table. In silence, he stowed the money away in his capacious pockets then bowed deeply and stepped to the window. Marianne was in haste now to have him gone. The transaction which had taken place between them, if it had not added to her hatred of this man, had at least done away with the fear which he had inspired in her ever since that night at the Théâtre Feydeau, and considerably increased her contempt for him. She knew now that a little money would always make it possible to muzzle Francis Cranmere and render him harmless, and money was the one thing she would not be short of in future. More difficult to digest were his revelations concerning Jason. Despite the facts, Marianne could not bring herself to accept that her friend was a common spy. And yet…

The Englishman had one leg over the balustrade, preparatory to letting himself down from the balcony into the garden, when he paused suddenly:

'I nearly forgot. How do you mean to warn Beaufort? Will you write to him?'

'I do not see how that may concern you. I shall do as I think best.'

'You know where he is living?'

'He told me he was at Passy, in a house belonging to a friend of his, Baguenault the banker.'

That's right. A big house with a terraced garden going down to the river. A beautiful place which used to belong to the Princesse de Lamballe and is still known locally by that name. Well, let me give you a piece of advice.'

'You? Give?'

'Why not? You have been generous. I will be so too, and spare you a piece of foolishness. Do not write. You never know what may happen in matters like this and in the event of Beaufort's house being searched a letter could prove dangerous for you. Where there is no evidence, there is no proof, Marianne, and there are circumstances in which your relations with the Emperor could be damaging to you. It will be best for you to see Beaufort yourself – say, at about nine o'clock tomorrow evening, when he will be at home. The meeting at Crawfurd's is not until eleven.'

'How do you know this? He may not be at home all day—'

'Yes, but I have certain information that he is expecting an important visitor at about eight o'clock tomorrow evening. Consequently, he will be at home.'

Marianne studied Cranmere curiously:

'How is it you are so well informed? One would think Jason made no move without first informing you.'

'In my trade, my dear, it is often a matter of life or death to know as much as possible, about friends or foes. You are at perfect liberty to disbelieve me, after all, and act as you think best – but do not blame me if your actions lead to disaster.'

Marianne made a gesture of impatience. She wanted only one thing now: to get rid of him and then run to Jason without loss of time, go to him that instant and make sure he would not go to that senseless meeting. But her thoughts were written so clearly on her face that Cranmere had no difficulty in reading them. Putting up one hand carelessly to straighten a fold of his neckcloth, he said idly, as if it were a matter of no importance: 'It will not do you much good to go running out to Passy at this hour of night. You would have the devil of a job to get them to admit you. Señora whatshername – Pilar, isn't it? – guards her marital bliss as closely as the original Jason cherished his Golden Fleece. She is the only person you would be likely to see, whereas, tomorrow, I can promise you the lady will be at Mortefontaine, visiting that poor little bourgeoise from Marseille whom they have turned into the Queen of Spain. It appears that Queen Julie, as they call her, considers it her duty to surround herself with anything even remotely connected with Spain, although on the face of it it seems highly unlikely that she will ever set foot there. Her noble husband much prefers to leave her where she is. Where was I?'

'You were about to take your leave,' Marianne said tartly.

'Have patience. I am in the process of behaving with remarkable gallantry. That is worth the expenditure of a few moments' time. I was saying… ah, yes. I was saying that tomorrow the Señora will be away from home and the field, my dear Princess, wide open for you. Assuming that Beaufort is not altogether a fool, I imagine it will be up to you whether you return home before morning.'

Marianne's cheeks flamed but at the same time her heart missed a beat. The meaning behind Cranmere's last words was only too clear, but while she could not repress a thrill of pure joy at the image they conjured up, she was by no means pleased to hear the innuendo in his sardonic tone. That Francis Cranmere should presume to bestow his blessing on it seemed to her to besmirch her love.

'You think of everything,' she said cuttingly. 'One would think your whole object in life was to throw me into Mr Beaufort's arms.'

Cranmere rustled the notes in his pocket.

'Twenty-five thousand pounds is a goodly sum,' he remarked casually. Then, without warning, his attitude changed. He sprang at Marianne and, seizing her wrist in a painful grasp, began to speak in a low, angry voice:

'Hypocrite! Filthy little hypocrite! You haven't even the courage to confess your love! But it was enough to see your face, the way you were looking at him in the theatre tonight, to see that you were dying to fall into his arms! But that would be too mortifying, wouldn't it? Fancy admitting after that farcical episode at Selton, after all your fine airs of outraged virtue, that you had finally fallen in love with him! Tell me, how often have you regretted your silliness that night? How many nights have you lain alone in your bed thinking of it? Tell me? How many times?'

Wrenching her arm free of his grip, Marianne fled to the bed and seized hold of the gilded bell rope that hung beside it:

'Get out of here! You have your money, now go! At once, or I call the servants!'

The anger cleared like a mist from Francis's taut face. He took a deep breath and turned back to the window with a shrug:

'Never mind, I'm going. At any moment you will tell me it is none of my business and you are right, after all. But I cannot help thinking that – things might have been very different if you had been less foolish.'

'And you less vile! Listen to me, Francis. I regret nothing that is past and I have never done so.'

'Why not? Because Napoleon taught you how to make love and made you a princess?'

Ignoring this, Marianne shook her head. 'You did me a great service at Selton. You gave me a taste for liberty. Your only excuse, if any, is ignorance. You knew nothing about me. You thought that I was made of the same stuff as you and your friends and you were mistaken. As for Jason, I love him, and I am willing to cry it from the rooftops, and I have you to thank for that, too. If I had yielded to your horrible bargain, I should not love him now as I do. If there is any one thing I am sorry for, it is that I did not see at once what kind of man he was and go with him that first night as he asked me. But I am young enough, thank God, and love him well enough to wait for my happiness as long as need be. For I know, I know in my heart that one day he will be mine…'

'Well – I wish you no worse fate!'

Without another word, he stepped out on to the balcony, climbed over the balustrade and began to let himself down. Marianne reached the window in time to see his white hands cling for a moment to the wrought-iron balcony rails. Then there came the muffled thud of a falling body, followed almost at once by quick, light footsteps making for the wall of the neighbouring house. Half-unconsciously, Marianne followed him out on to the balcony and walked quickly up and down, striving to calm her agitated nerves and at the same time put some order into her confused thoughts.