Jacqueline de Belleville Pt. 04

"Jules! Jules Dupont!" I call out. "What are you doing here? What game are you up to?"

"Jackie! Jacqueline de Belleville! Well this is a coincidence. I could ask you the same question."

An uneasy truce is called. As I surmised, the men have resorted to piracy. Jules bought the farm he wanted, but the constant flow of soldiers marching into Spain means most of what he produces is taken by the French army. Their worthless chits for the produce seized has pushed many farmers into a life of crime to make ends meet. Ninon is only prepared to let the matter drop once the men promise never to attack her barge again.

"So, how come you are working on a canal barge?" asks Jules.

"I'm travelling east to escape from the English," I reply, sighing in relief that Jules didn't mention my notoriety as a pirate.

"The English are a long way from here, and I thought the French were after you as well."

"Hmm ... well, yes, but the French aren't quite so persistent. I thought I'd enjoy the sights of France for a while."

We don't spend too long talking as Ninon is keen to reach the next town before dark. We part company with the men and resume our journey. Thankfully the short break in our journey has enabled Napoleon to graze and rest, so he should be okay for a longer spell than he managed yesterday.

"I think we deserve an explanation of your background and what you are doing here, Jacqueline," says Ninon as the three of us sit around the table for our evening meal. "Why are the authorities after you?"

"Well it's all over a misunderstanding," I say. "But nobody in power is interested in my side of the story."

"Well tell us anyway and we'll be the judge of that," says Ninon.

"Hmmm ... okay. Well. I was twelve when I ran away to sea. I was an orphan living on the streets of London and my future looked bleak. Girls in my situation invariably ended up as prostitutes, and were lucky to live more than a few years. I disguised myself as a boy, just as Valentine has done. It was a hard life, but the captain and crew of the Zafiro were okay, particularly after my deception was discovered. They could have dumped me at the next port, but we reached an understanding we could all accept.

"We were privateers. We sailed around the Caribbean using the English Admiralty's Letter of Marque as permission to raid French and Spanish ships and territory while enjoying the protection of the English against charges of piracy. Things worked out okay until an unfortunate incident on the island of Saint Martin.

"The Zafiro had captured a small French schooner and I had been put in charge of a prize crew of four. We sailed to Saint Martin, a French colony which had recently been captured by the English. But when we arrived we found a French frigate in the harbour and a French flag flying from the fort on the island. In the space of a few days the French must have routed the English garrison and retaken the island.

"We were caught between a rock and a hard place. If we docked, then the French would undoubtedly demand the return of their ship and execute us in the process. But with such a small crew, we couldn't hope to flee from the French frigate.

"Our only hope was to somehow cripple the French frigate and escape. We quickly devise a plan, and we sail near to the frigate while flying the French flag. Our ruse works and we get close enough to use our solitary cannon to damage the frigate's rudder. We turn tail and make a run for it. A few shots from the frigate fall harmlessly into the sea and we congratulate ourselves on a successful escape.

"It was several months later when we learned of the bizarre misfortune which had befallen us. It turns out that the French frigate was actually manned by English sailors posing as Frenchmen in order to deceive the French garrison on the island. A garrison who were actually English posing as French in order to lure the frigate into their trap. In a classic act of bungling incompetence only the English toffs seem able to achieve, neither the ship's crew nor the garrison were aware that the other side was English. They came within a hair's breadth of shooting each other to bits. Our intervention had spoiled both parties' plans and inadvertently saved many lives. Of course, when this near disaster was discovered, the Lords of the Admiralty had to quickly find a scapegoat. It wouldn't do for the son of an admiral or the cousin of a duke to be held to account for their stupid mistakes. The scapegoats they chose were, of course, me and my crew. Fortunately the Admiralty had no idea who my crew were, but a woman captain of a ship is a rarity and I was much easier to identify. Of course the French wanted my hide for stealing their ship, so I've had to keep one step ahead of both the English and French authorities ever since."

My story seems to pass whatever test Ninon had in mind. Valentine seems impressed by my adventures, and perhaps she's a little bit jealous. Constantly working back and forth along this canal disguised as a man can't provide much excitement for her. But it at least means she and her mother don't go hungry. As Jules' misfortunes illustrated, France is a country whose people are deprived of many things thanks to the war.

Ninon doesn't leave the barge again until we reach Arles on the river Rhône, which is the destination for Ninon's cargo. Consequently Valentine and I don't get the chance to repeat our passionate interlude. At the end of our journey I help unload the cargo into a warehouse before Ninon gives me the wages I'm due. She and Valentine need to find a cargo for Toulouse or beyond before making a return trip. Judging by the number of barges berthed in the canal basin, it seems likely they are in for a long wait. Fortunately for them, the profit from our trip will tide them over for quite a while.

My own plans are not much easier to put into practise. There are no craft sailing north along the river Rhône as far as Lyon. The hardships of war have hit trade along the rivers and canals particularly hard. The taverns are busy with boatmen, but most seem to be drowning their sorrows and bemoaning the lack of cargo.

"Are you looking for a ride to Lyon?" asks a man sitting alone at the bar of one seedy tavern.

"Yes," I reply. "Are you able to help me?"

"I might be able to do that if we can come to some mutually acceptable arrangement."

Which translates into everyday words as 'I'll help you if you let me fuck you'. Duh! What an original pick up line. But beggars can't be choosers, so I don't dismiss the idea out of hand.

"You got a name?" asks the man.

"Yes, have you?" I reply.

"Hah! A feisty one. I like that. I think we will get on fine. I'm Georges Lebranleur, Inspecteur Georges Lebranleur of the Revenue Department."

In English his name would be George the Wanker. What an appropriate name for a government man responsible for extracting every last centime of tax from impoverished French citizens. Still, despite his arrogant talk, he's not bad looking. I've fucked worse men before and the alternative is a long and dangerous walk to Lyon.

"Jacqueline Lachatte," I reply to his earlier question. "You mentioned something about a ride to Lyon."

"Yes. I'm heading back to Paris by way of Lyon. My carriage has room for two, and I'd welcome some feminine company. Particularly one as pretty as you."

"Hmm. Okay. When are you planning on leaving?"

"How about now?"

I'll give Georges his due; he's a fast worker. Ten minutes later I'm sitting next to him in his small four wheeled enclosed carriage. The driver's name is Henri, who I gather is one of Georges' servants.

"Why are you going to Lyon, my pretty Jacqueline?" asks Georges while his hand roams up and down my right arm.

"I'm looking for my father's wife," I reply.

"From the way you refer to her, I presume she's not your mother."

"My mother was my father's mistress."

Since it isn't uncommon for French toffs to have one or more mistresses, the origins of my birth aren't that unusual. However, Georges seems to interpret my out-of-wedlock birth as an excuse to press home his desire to fuck me. The carriage isn't big enough to get into a comfortable position for sex. That doesn't dampen his desire to sample my treasures. Henri is probably listening to the whole act and I wouldn't be surprised if he's got his hand on his cock and giving it a good rub.

I lean over Georges' lap and pull out his erect cock. It isn't the cleanest cock I've seen and it has a unique smell which I do my best to ignore. At least there's no sign of any of the more repellent sexual diseases. I proceed to give him a blow job which he accepts with a contented sigh. If nothing else, my actions stop him from ripping my dress in his haste to undress me.

"Ah! You're a wonderful cocksucker, Jacqueline," moans Georges as he clutches his balls in an attempt to heighten his arousal.

Moments later my face is covered in his cum. With his lust sated for now, he simply sits back while I clean myself up. I glance through the small front window used to talk to the driver and notice Henri has a damp patch on the inside of his trousers.

We continue in this fashion for the rest of the day. Every half an hour or so, Georges is ready for more sex and I'm starting to enjoy all the erotic attention. Georges takes me into the nearby woods when we stop for a break to rest the horses. He strips me naked and then we fuck like newly weds for the best part of an hour. Henri is probably watching from the bushes somewhere, but neither Georges nor I are the least bit concerned. To be honest, I could keep this up for hours, but eventually Georges' cock starts to wilt from overuse. Henri would probably like a turn between my legs, but Georges is very possessive and Henri misses out.

We stay the night at a small wayside inn. It goes without saying that I'm expected to share Georges Lebranleur's bed. Which I'm more than happy to do. Once we got over the furtive groping stage, I quite enjoyed myself today. I need a good wash, though. My hair and face are sticky with his cum, and my clothes are in need of some running repairs.

It's with a degree of sadness that we part company on the outskirts of Lyon. Georges gives me his address in Paris and an open invitation to visit his house. It's an invitation I've a mind to accept once I've finished with my business here.

I've enough money to rent a room at an inn for a few days while I explore the area and try to find out more about what happened to Angelique two decades ago. The innkeeper tells me where Belleville is located, but is less knowledgeable about the fate of Angelique. There are so many contradictory tales about what happened when Angelique, Comtesse de Belleville, single handedly defended her family château against sixty lusty peasants intent on getting revenge for years of oppression.

The innkeeper lets me borrow a horse for the usual fee I'm expected to pay any man for doing me a favour. The innkeeper is in a happy mood when he fetches the horse. It's a young stallion in good condition, so I can probably reach Belleville in a few hours. I head towards Belleville at a canter.

My first sight of the Belleville château is a surprise. I had expected to see a ruin like so many other châteaux I've seen. But this château seems to be in good condition. It's perched on a small hill overlooking the surrounding countryside. I press on towards the town of Belleville. It's a typical town of the region, and the citizens are no more surly to strangers than in any other town or village I've passed through on my travels. I make a few inquiries about Angelique with local traders, but I'm only bombarded with repeats of the stories I've heard so far. The barkeep at a nearby tavern is more helpful, but it's the local priest who gives me some real help.

Father François is at least seventy years old, and his age is starting to tell on him. He rambles a lot when he answers my questions, but at least there are some gold nuggets in the meandering story he weaves.

"Young Angelique was always a headstrong girl," sighs Father François. "She should never have married that cowardly idiot of a Comte. She was ten times the man he was. Still, he was descended from royalty, so his privileged position was secure. The revolution changed all that, of course. I don't know what became of him after he disappeared."

"He was involved in a royalist plot to overthrow the government and restore the king to his throne," I reply. "The plot failed disastrously and he and his co-conspirators were executed."

"Probably the best outcome for all concerned, then. Oh! Are you related to him?"

"He was my father," I reply.

"Oh! That's a shame. My commiserations."

I'm not sure whether Father François is commiserating for my loss of a father, or for my being related to him in the first place. I guess it doesn't matter after all this time.

"Do you know what happened to his wife, Angelique, when the château was attacked?" I ask.

"Ah! You are referring to the legend of her battle against the good citizens of Belleville. You will appreciate that a lone woman fighting against sixty lusty and vengeful men has only one probable outcome. Even the indomitable Angelique couldn't fight against those sorts of odds."

"So, she's dead then?"

"Oh my goodness, I hope not. No, no. Angelique not only had more balls than her husband, she had considerably more brains too. Her divide and conquer strategy was a stroke of genius. By sowing dissent among her would-be ravishers, the men started fighting among themselves for the right to sample the delights of their former mistress. Many fled the scene when the better armed men started threatening to use their weapons on their own compatriots. Those who remained fought it out in a bloody and inglorious brawl. By the time the issue was resolved only eight men remained outside the château gate."

"So what happened then?"

"Perhaps you should ask Angelique herself."

"Does she live nearby?" I ask.

"Oh yes. She still lives in the château."

I talk with Father François for a while longer, but he starts to repeat what he tells me so I politely say farewell and ride towards the château. The road leading to the château passes several farms. Unlike the farms I've seen recently, these farms are well tended, and men and women are working hard in the fields. From what Jules told me, the rural areas throughout France have been crippled by a combination of the military requisitioning most of the food without paying for it, and young men being conscripted into the army. Belleville appears to be a curious exception.

I finally reach the gates to the château.

Chapter 12: A Night at Belleville

The gates to the château are open and nobody is standing guard. I take it as an invitation to enter. The people working in the huge courtyard stop their work and stare at me for a while. Finally a man aged in his forties comes towards me as I dismount.

"Who are you? And what's your business here?" he asks in a less than friendly tone.

"Jacqueline Lachatte. I'm looking for Angelique de Belleville."

"And why would Comtesse Angelique want to see you?"

"Oh! Stop that pompous nonsense, Hugo," says a woman about his age. "I'm Angelique de Belleville. You look as though you've travelled a long way to find me. Come and sit awhile and tell me why you are looking for me."

Angelique escorts me into her living quarters. There's a degree of luxury in her surroundings which I haven't come across in my travels through Spain and France. The last time I saw such opulence was during my time on the plantation in Martinique. It's as though two decades of revolution and war have bypassed Belleville entirely.

"Now, why are you here?" asks Angelique.

"My real name is Jacqueline de Belleville. My father was le Comte de Belleville. Your husband."

"Hah! Marianne's little girl! Or are you Renata's child. Or Marguerite's brat ... ah, no, hers was a boy. Charles had so many mistresses, it's hard to keep count of his bastards, and I never bothered remembering their names. If you've come here hoping for money, then you are out of luck."

"I don't want your money. I merely came to see where my father came from, and to discover how much of the legend about you is true."

"The Belleville's have lived here for nearly four hundred years. As for the tales about me, very little is true. It's a legend which I and the citizens of Belleville have fabricated to ensure that we can all live in relative peace and harmony. The government has no reason to investigate the myth, and superstitious soldiers keep well away from the 'cursed' château when they forage for food. It has worked well for us so far, and unless you want more trouble than you can handle, you'd do well to keep our little secret."

"Who are those people outside in the courtyard?"

"They work for me. There are a few like Hugo who were among those who attacked the château in a fit of revolutionary fervour not long after Charles fled France. They claimed ownership of the château in the name of the revolution. However, nobody in charge of the revolution seemed to want the château. Hugo isn't the smartest of leaders and I easily convinced him that ownership of the château should remain in the de Belleville family. The others here are the brothers, cousins, mistresses, wives and children of Hugo and his followers."

"But how did you survive through those early days of the revolution? I thought anyone connected to the landed gentry got sent to the guillotine."

"Many did suffer that fate, but only if the local population denounced them. I reached an accommodation with Hugo and his comrades. I let them fuck me, and they allowed me to remain as La Comtesse de Belleville. Once the men's revolutionary zeal faded, we reverted to the way things were before. Only without my pig of a husband. The commune of Belleville thrives in a country where few others are so fortunate."

"Well your secret is safe with me," I reply. "I'm in enough trouble with the authorities as it is."

"I've heard stories of a pirate by the name of Jacqueline de Belleville. Any connection?"

"Hmm ... That's me. Although the pirate label isn't entirely justified. I sailed with a Spanish and French crew using an English Letter of Marque to attack merchant shipping. We were privateers rather than pirates, but it seems to be a distinction those wanting my neck seem to conveniently overlook."

"Then I'm pleased you have chosen to come here. I previously thought all of Charles' brats were a worthless brood of layabouts, but you've proved me wrong. I'm glad at least one of his children has brought distinction to the de Belleville name."

"I'm not sure being a wanted pirate brings distinction to the family name," I reply.

"Of course it does. Those with noble titles are invariably thieves and crooks. It's just that they are bigger and better thieves and crooks than anyone else. Steal a loaf of bread and you'll get imprisoned; steal the whole bakery and you'll get respect. How else do you think I survive here? I showed the townspeople a way to ensure they never go hungry, and they play their part in the deception that protects me and this château. By spreading the myths and legends of a cursed château and a valiant Comtesse transformed into a vengeful ghost, we keep our farm produce intact, and all but the most determined stranger away."

"It's a brilliant plan," I concede.

"So, do you want to stay here tonight?"

Returning to the inn tomorrow will probably mean that I'll need to let the innkeeper fuck me again for returning his horse a day later than agreed. But that's a price worth paying for the experience of sleeping in my father's ancestral home for one night. I accept Angelique's offer and she summons a servant to show me around the place and, finally, to my room.