'Very well, Monsieur le Baron,' the innkeeper had replied and Marianne was instantly agog with curiosity. Who was this baron her escaped prisoner was following so meekly? However, there was little time for wondering. Marthon brought up a large tray on which was a highly appetising supper and, putting off her quest for information until later, Marianne set to work to satisfy the pangs of hunger.
She was just finishing an agreeable dessert of pineapple and cream when there was a knock at the door.
'Come in,' she called out thinking it was Marthon returning for the tray. But when the door opened it was Jean Le Dru who came in.
Mastering her surprise and alarm at this unexpected visit, she made herself remain seated and merely pushed away the little table which held the remains of her supper.
'Yes?' she said coldly.
Jean closed the door in silence and leaned back against the jamb, looking at her all the while with sparkling eyes.
'So, I was not mistaken! It was you!' he said harshly. 'How did you get away from Morvan?'
'I scarcely think you have the right to ask me that! If I escaped, it was certainly no thanks to you!'
He laughed unpleasantly, almost mechanically, and Marianne saw from his abnormally flushed face that he had been drinking.
'You thought you'd pulled the wool over my eyes, didn't you? You thought you could pop back into bed in your wrecker friend's musty manor house and I would hand myself over meekly to the English, and all for your pretty face? Though I'll admit you paid fork!'
'Apparently not enough to make you keep your promise to me! What did Gwen give you to make you change your mind so quickly?'
'The truth about you and your little plots, and the chance to save my own life and ruin your plans! A priceless gift, as you can see – even more precious than your own delectable little person! Oh, don't worry, I've not forgotten that night! Do you know how often I've dreamed about you?'
'What should I care! You betrayed me, deceived me! You preferred to listen to the first stupid story you were told, when you knew, better than anyone, that I was forced to get away from England to save my life, that I needed help, support – and you abandoned me like the coward you are, and killed a man besides!'
'You cannot blame me for the death of that vermin? He was a wrecker! I ought to get a medal! As for you, you won't make me believe any more of your stories. I know who you are, and what you've come to France to do!'
'And I know that the story you did believe was a hundred times more unlikely. I know what Gwen told you, that I meant to seduce your wonderful Surcouf until he abandoned all his most cherished convictions. That was it, wasn't it? A likely story! I don't even know the man!'
Jean jerked himself away from the door and strode towards her, sudden anger flaming in eyes that already glittered unnaturally.
'You don't know him. You dare to tell me that you don't know him when you have followed him here, to Paris, to this very inn? Can't you see that everything proves you guilty? You slut, you had no need to escape from Morvan! He let you go himself, he even paid you, set you up in clothes and packed you off to find your prey! You've had plenty of time to go to St Malo, find out that he was in Paris and now, like a good bloodhound, follow the trail as far as here!'
For a moment, this tirade left Marianne numb with shock. Was he too drunk to know what he was saying? Or was she really dealing with a madman? She began to be afraid of this almost uncontrollable rage but even so, she had to get to the bottom of his strange words. She determined to shout back.
'I don't understand a word of what you are saying! I did not go to St Malo and I have never had anything to do with your Surcouf. I have never set eyes on him, I tell you, and if he is in Paris—'
A ringing slap stopped her words and almost her breath. She tried to run to the door and call for help but Jean was after her and, twisting both arms behind her back, held her fast with one hand while with the other, he hit her again a second time, so hard that she thought her head must burst. He bent over her, his face so close she could smell the reek of wine on his breath.
'Liar! You dirty little liar! You have the nerve to tell me you don't know him, that you've never seen him? And what about this evening, on the stairs, didn't you see him then? Didn't you know him then, when all France knows his face almost as well as the Emperor's!'
Marianne struggled furiously to escape from the iron fist that held her.
'Let me go!' she muttered through her teeth. 'Let me go at once or I'll scream! You are mad or drunk, or both! Let me go, I tell you, or I'll scream!'
'Scream? Go on then if you want to! Try!'
Twisting her arm to force her to be still, he pulled her roughly to him and stopped her scream with a savage kiss. Marianne half fainted for a moment, but she recovered quickly. In order to escape his hateful kiss, she bit hard at the mouth crushed against hers. An instant later, she was free.
She saw, with a quick surge of triumph, her late attacker whip out a handkerchief and dab at his bleeding lips. He looked so foolish that she could almost have laughed in his face. But for the moment, it seemed to her that nothing mattered so much as getting rid of this horrid person. How could she ever have liked him, even for a moment? With his vigorous, outdoor frame crammed into that dark suit he looked like a peasant in his Sunday best. He was almost ridiculous. With a contemptuous toss of her head, she turned on her heel and again made for the door, intending to fling it wide, but he caught her half-way and picking her up as though she had been a parcel, he strode with her to the bed, flung her down and held her there, both hands gripping her arms, while he seated himself on the edge.
'Not so fast! You'll not escape so easily, my pretty one!'
Marianne saw to her surprise that his anger had quite gone. He was even laughing, careless of his lip which was already beginning to swell.
'I have told you to leave me alone,' she said calmly, but he seemed not to have heard. He was bending over her, studying her with the intensity of a collector presented with some rare item.
'How lovely you can be!' he said softly. 'It suits you to be angry. If you could see your eyes! They flash like emeralds in the light! I know you're worthless, a filthy little royalist spy, but it makes no difference – I can't help loving you—'
'Loving me?' Marianne said, flabbergasted by this unexpected declaration.
'Yes. It's true, you know, that I have not been able to forget you. You have haunted my days, and my nights – I kept seeing you, lying there in the straw, with your hair all about you, I could feel your soft skin under my hands – and now, I can think of nothing else except that you are here, that I have found you again! I have hungered for you, Marianne, and if you will forget all that lies between us, we will stay together always!'
It could not be true, he must be raving! He had stopped shouting at her, stopped hitting her. Quite suddenly, he had become all gentleness and tenderness. His hands were moving to caress her. He was bending down, slowly, inexorably, towards her lips, as though they held some fascination for him. In a flash, Marianne realized that he was on the point of subjecting her to a repetition of her unpleasant experience in the barn. At once, with an instinctive reaction of her whole body, she thrust him away with all her strength and screamed.
'No!—'
With a quick jerk, she was on her feet while Jean clutched at the bed to prevent himself falling. Smoothing out the disordered folds of her dress, Marianne folded her arms and stared defiantly at her attacker.
'Who do you take me for? You come in here, insult me, strike me and then on top of that, you think you only have to babble a few words of love and I'll fall into your arms! You love me? I am much obliged, and now, sir, do me the favour of leaving this room instantly! I have no wish to renew our – converse of the other night!'
By now, he too was on his feet, automatically brushing down his clothes with one hand. The expression of his face was heavy with chagrin.
'And once, there in Brittany, just for a moment, I could have thought you loved me—'
A rush of childish anger made her answer in words full of scorn.
'Me? Love you? You must be mad, I think! I needed you, that was all.'
The name he called her was too base not to betray the depths of his disappointment. With a look of hatred, he went to the door and opened it at last. But on the threshold he turned.
