Michele Mercier in the Angelique movies part 2
The reunion with her husband Joffrey de Peyrac, who was thought to be dead, lasts only a short time. The beautiful Angélique is once again kidnapped by pirates. After a long odyssey, she ends up in the harem of a sultan who not only desires her physically, but also tortures her.
Do you want to know how I will send you to the afterlife if you spoil my business? Do you want to know how I will kill you if you don't throw away twelve thousand piastres? If you decide to drive away my buyers?’
He held her by the hair, bent over her and blew his breath, which smelled sweet from the hashish, into her face as he spoke.
‘Because you're going to die! Don't hope for my pity! ... If no one bids twelve thousand piastres, I'll withdraw you from the auction and you'll die. Do you want to know how...?’
‘Have you realised?’ he asked. ‘Will you be compliant?’
She repeated, sobbing:
‘No, not that ... Not the whip! No more hitting, please!’
He lifted her head.
‘You'll be docile? ... You will let yourself be led to the slave market?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘You will allow yourself to be stripped.’
‘Yes, yes ... anything ... anything you want ... just no more beating, please.’
Angélique buried her face in the pillows, tormented by the feeling of shame that had not left her since Moulay Ismaël's gaze had awakened the primal urge in her. His eyes had taken possession of her, just as his arms would take possession of her, and now he was probably waiting for her to offer herself to him of her own accord. She would not be able to resist the touch of this demanding body. I'm not up to it, she thought, oh, I'm just a woman ... What can I do?
She fell asleep, tearful, like a child. Her sleep was restless. Hot desire haunted her. She heard the rough, passionate voice of Moulay Ismaël: ‘Woman! Woman! ...’ A call! A humble plea! ...
He stood before her, bent over her, at the edge of the divan, in the wafts of incense, with his large, unfathomable eyes and his bulging lips that resembled those of an African idol. Then she felt his soft mouth on her shoulder, the weight of his body on hers. She felt the delicious squeeze of his embrace, the strength and hardness of his muscular chest. She wrapped her arms around his body, which was gradually turning from a dream into reality. Her hands glided over the musky-scented skin, caressing the firm hips encircled by a steel belt. Then her fingers encountered an angular, cold object: the handle of a dagger. Her hand clutched it instinctively, and a memory from a past life suddenly rose up: Marquise of the Angels! Marquise of the angels! Do you remember the dagger of Rodogone the Egyptian, with which you killed the Great Coesre? ... How surely you wielded it then, the dagger ...!
And she held it in her hand, this dagger. Her fingers clutched it, and the coldness of the metal penetrated her, tearing her from her torpor. She pulled it out with all her strength and thrust ...
Steel muscles saved Moulay Ismaël from death. He flinched like a cat of prey the moment he felt the blade at his throat.
Stunned beyond measure, his eyes wide open, he knelt on the divan, felt the blood trickling down his chest and realised that death had passed him by a hair's breadth ... Without taking his eyes off Angélique - although she was too weak to move - he went to the wall and struck a gong. Osman Ferradji, who had obviously been standing nearby, rushed in. With a single glance, he grasped the situation. Angélique was half-erect on her bed, dagger in hand. Moulay Ismaël was bleeding, seething with rage, unable to utter a word.
The head eunuch signalled. Four blacks rushed in, grabbed the young woman by the arms, dragged her from her bed and threw her at the Sultan's feet.
The king finally caught his breath and roared like a bull. If Allah had not protected him, he would now be lying in his own blood with his throat cut, through the fault of that damned Christian woman who had tried to kill him with his own dagger. He would have her tortured to death in a terrible way. And on the spot ... On the spot! ... Let the prisoners be taken, the most unruly ones! ... Especially the French. They should see a woman of their own race suffer. They should see a presumptuous woman punished for daring to lay hands on the sacred person of the ruler of the faithful ...
And now everything happened quickly and without further ado. Angélique's wrists were bound and she was pulled up and tied to one of the pillars in the hall.
Her back was bared. The lashes hit her like small flames that gradually grew into a scorching fire. Angélique thought: I used to see this in the beautiful pictures in my book of the holy martyrs of the church ... Now it was she herself who was tied to the stake. Her flesh twitched under the burning blows. She could feel the warm blood trickling down her legs. And she thought: It's not so bad! ...
But worse would follow! ... Just the same! She couldn't stop it. She was the pebble swept away by the flash flood. In her mind's eye, she saw the torrents of the Pyrenees that had impressed her at the beginning of her first marriage. A terrible thirst overcame her and her vision clouded ...
The blows stopped, and now the pain spread over her whole body and became unbearable.
Her bonds were loosened, but only to turn her round so that she was facing the hall and to bind her to the pillar again. Through the mist that flickered before her eyes she saw the executioner with his basin full of glowing coals, she saw horrible instruments that he was arranging on a small board. It was a fat eunuch with a gorilla face. Other eunuchs surrounded him. They had not had time to put on their execution garb, they had only taken off their turbans ...
Moulay Ismaël sat a little to the left. He had refused to be bandaged because his wound was harmless. He wanted people to see the blood that was already running. He wanted everyone to realise what an outrage had been committed.
And in the back of the room, some twenty French slaves were gathered. Colin Paturel in his chains, the red-haired Jean-Jean from Paris, the Marquis de Kermœur and others who stared in shock at the white, half-naked woman being tortured. Guards held her at bay, whips and sabres in their fists.
Osman Ferradji leant towards Angélique. Carefully, emphasising word for word, he said in Arabic: ‘Listen. The great King of Morocco is ready to forgive you for your senseless deed. Agree to obey him and he will show you mercy. Do you agree?’
The black face of Osman Ferradji wavered in the mist, barely recognisable. That's the last face I'll see in this world, she thought. And it's a good thing ... Osman Ferradji is so tall! And most human beings are so small, so pathetic.
Then Colin Paturel's shaggy face appeared next to the head eunuch's.
‘My poor child ... He's telling me to implore you in our language to agree ... You won't let yourself be massacred like this ... My poor child!’
‘Why did you let yourself be crucified, Colin Paturel?’ she would have liked to ask him. But she could only get out one word: ‘No.’
‘Your breasts will be torn out! They'll mutilate you with red-hot tongs,’ said Osman Ferradji.
Angélique's eyelids drooped again. She wanted to be alone with herself and the pain. The figures faded away. They were already very far away ...
Would it take long?
She heard the prisoners grumbling in the background and shivered. What was the executioner preparing?
