The rain which had been falling all night and for most of the morning ceased abruptly as the coach left Carrara after a change of horses. The sun broke through the clouds and sent them scudding back towards the mountains, giving way to a wide, sweeping canvas of blue sky. The mountains of white marble which had loomed so dully only a short while before now shone with the dazzling brightness of a glacier carved by some gigantic ice-axe. Blinding arrows of light glanced off every ridge but Marianne was too tired to have eyes for any of it. There was a marble everywhere at Carrara, in rough-hewn lumps, in squared blocks, in slabs, in the white dust lying over everything, even on the tablecloths at the inn where they had snatched a hasty meal.
We supply every court in Europe, in the whole world in fact. Our Grand Duchess sends vast amounts into France. Every single statue of the Emperor comes from here!' The innkeeper spoke with simple pride but Marianne's answering smile was perfunctory. She did not doubt Elisa Bonaparte's willingness to bury her energetic family under tons of marble in the form of busts, bas-reliefs and statues, but she was in no mood today to listen to tales about any of the Bonapartes, Napoleon least of all.
Everywhere on her long journey she had encountered towns and villages decked out, as they had been for a month past, in honour of the imperial wedding. It was an endless succession of balls, concerts and festivities of every description, until it began to seem as if the loyal subjects of his Majesty the Emperor and King would never be done with celebrating a union which Marianne regarded as a personal insult. Their road was lined with a depressing assortment of limp flags, drooping flowers, empty bottles and tottering triumphal arches only too well suited to her own journey, at the end of which lay a marriage to a total stranger which she could not contemplate without revulsion.
The journey itself had been appalling. In spite of Arcadius's anxious protests, Marianne had delayed her departure until the last possible moment, still hoping that Jason would arrive in time. In the end it was not until dawn on the third of May that she climbed into her coach. As the four powerful horses drew the berline over the cobbles of the rue de Lille and Arcadius's troubled face and waving hand were lost in the morning haze, she felt as if she were leaving a part of herself behind. It was like leaving Selton all over again and this time too the future looked grim and uncertain.
In order to make up for lost time and avoid being late at the appointed meeting place, she travelled at breakneck speed. For three days, until they reached Lyon, she refused to stop for anything except to change horses and for the briefest of meals, paying the postillions two or three times the normal rate to encourage them to make better speed. They galloped on regardless of deeply rutted roads that sometimes degenerated into a sea of mud, and still Marianne leaned perilously out of the window to look back at the road behind them. But whenever a horseman did come in sight, it was never the one she hoped for.
After a few hours' rest at Lyon, the coach began climbing towards the mountains and was forced to slow its killing pace. The new road across Mont Cenis, begun by Napoleon seven years before, had been advised by Arcadius because it shortened the distance considerably. But the work was only recently completed and the crossing was an uncomfortable one for Marianne, Agathe and Gracchus, who were obliged to go a good deal of the way over the pass on foot while the coach was drawn by mules. Yet for all that, thanks to the comforting welcome they received from the monks of the hospice, and thanks, still more, to the splendours of the mountain scenery, which she beheld for the first time in her life, Marianne found here a brief respite from her troubles. There was something a little intoxicating, perhaps, in the knowledge that her coach was, if not actually the first, certainly only the second or third to travel that way. She did not feel in the least tired and, forgetting the need for haste, she sat for a long time beside the blue waters of the lake at the top of the pass, conscious of a strange yearning to remain there for ever breathing in the pure air and watching the slow flight of the jackdaws, black against the snowy majesty of the peaks. Time, here, stood still. It would be easy to forget the noise and deceits and complications of the world, its furies and its heartbreaks. There were no faded banners here, no popular songs, no trampled flowers to destroy the harmony of the scene, only the blue stars of gentian in the crevices of the rocks, and the silver lace of lichen. The bare, almost barrack-like shape of the hospice, it too enlarged by the Emperor, seemed to take on a kind of nobility, a strangely mystical air, as if its stern walls were illumined by the prayer and charity that dwelt within. Not until one of the monks came and laid his hand gently on her arm to remind her that an exhausted maid and a half-frozen coachman were waiting for her by the coach, now ready for the descent, did she consent to continue her journey to Susa.
The same wicked pace was resumed. They clattered through Turin and Genoa with hardly a glance. Neither the sun, nor the flower-filled gardens, nor the indigo sea had any power to lift the black mood that settled more firmly on Marianne with every turn of the wheels. She was possessed by a demoniacal urge to travel faster and yet faster, causing Gracchus to look anxiously at her from time to time. He had never seen his mistress so coldly desperate, so tense and irritable. He could not know that as they drew nearer to their goal she was suffering increasingly from misery and self-disgust. Until this point, she had still hoped against all hope that somehow Jason would come to her, Jason whom she had come to look on as her natural protector. Now that hope was gone.
They had slept last night for a bare four hours in a wretched inn tucked away in a fold of the Apennines. Sleep to Marianne was a series of nightmares broken by feverish wakings which left her feeling so little rested that before cock-crow she was up from her lumpy straw mattress and calling for her coach. Dawn on the day that was to be the last of the journey saw the berline with its occupants racing madly downhill to the sea. It was the fifteenth of May, the final day, but Lucca was not far ahead.
'Thirteen leagues or thereabouts,' said the innkeeper at Carrara.
Now the coach was travelling along a level, sandy road, almost as smooth as a private driveway, following the coast. Only the antique flagstones which stood out here and there showed that this was the ancient Via Aurelia, built by the Romans. Marianne closed her eyes and let her cheek sink on to the cushions. Beside her, Agathe was sleeping, curled up like a weary animal with her hat tipped forward over her face. Marianne wished she could do the same but, tired as she was, her taut nerves would not let her rest. The landscape of dunes and reeds, with a few distant umbrella pines standing out tall and black against a sky dotted with fleecy clouds, only served to depress her further. Her eyes would not stay shut and she found herself following the movements of a tartan that was flying seawards under its triangular sail. The tiny vessel looked so lighthearted, rejoicing in its freedom, and Marianne yearned to be out there with it, running straight before the wind, thinking of nothing else.
She realized suddenly what the sea could mean to a man like Jason Beaufort and why he remained so passionately faithful to it. She was sure that it was the sea which had come between them now to prevent him coming to her in her need. She knew now that he would not come. He might be on the other side of the world, far away in his own country perhaps, and Marianne's cry for help had gone unheard or, if it ever reached him, it would be too late, much, much too late.
A crazy idea came to her, born of a sudden panic and the sight of a dilapidated finger-post on which she read that Lucca was now a mere eight leagues distant. Why should she not escape, she too run away to sea? There must be ships, a harbour within reach. She could take ship and go herself to find the man who, perhaps just because she could not reach him, had suddenly become so strangely dear, so necessary, like the symbol of her threatened freedom. Three times he had asked her to go away with him and three times she had refused, in her blind pursuit of an illusory love. How could she have been such a fool!
Acting on this impulse, she called out to Gracchus who, carefree and tireless, was calmly whistling the latest popular tune from Désaugiers: 'Bon voyage, Monsieur Dumollet, safely land at Saint-Malo . ..' with an aptness of which he was quite unaware.
'Do you know if there is a port on this road, somewhere with a fair-sized harbour?'
Gracchus's eyes opened wide beneath the dusty brim of his hat.
'Yes. The girl at the inn told me. There is Leghorn but aren't we going to Lucca?'
Marianne did not answer. Her eyes strayed once again to the tiny tartan which was now setting course along a golden pathway straight into the setting sun. Gracchus reined in the horses.
'Whoa there!' The coach came to a stand and Agathe opened big sleepy eyes. Marianne shivered.
'Why have you stopped?'
'Because if we're not going to Lucca any more, better say so at once. That's the road there, on the left. Straight on for Leghorn.'
It was true. On the left, a road led away towards hills dotted with cypress trees among which blossomed here and there the red-brown walls of a small farm or the warm pink campanile of a church. On the other side, the tartan had disappeared, absorbed into the red sunset. Marianne shut her eyes and swallowed back an anguished sob. She could not do it. She could not go back on her given word. Besides, there was the child-he made all such escapades impossible. His mother had no right to expose that frail life to the perils of the sea. From now on it was her duty to sacrifice everything, even her own deepest feelings, even her most natural hopes and fears, for his sake.
'Are you ill?' Agathe was asking, watching her white face. 'It is this dreadful journey.'
'No, it is nothing. Drive on, Gracchus. Of course we are going to Lucca.'
The whip cracked and the horses sprang forward. The coach turned its back resolutely on the sea and headed into the hills.
Dusk had fallen with a soft mauve haze by the time Lucca came in sight, and Marianne was feeling calmer. After leaving the Via Aurelia, they had crossed over a beautiful river, the Serchio, by a noble Roman bridge and driven over a peaceful, fertile plain towards a ring of hills in the centre of which the city had suddenly appeared before them, pink and charming within its bastion of walls, their sternness lightened by trees and greenery. Lucca, with its tracery of towers and romanesque campaniles, all clothed in softest green, seemed to rise up towards the rounded hills where the last rays of light still lingered in the air.
Marianne sighed. 'Here we are. Ask for the Duomo, Gracchus. That is the cathedral and the inn where we are to stay will be in the square.'
The travellers' papers were in order and the guards placid and good-humoured. After the briefest of formalities, the berline rumbled through the arched gateway just as the tinkling notes of the angelus floated from the belfries out over the surrounding countryside. A noisy band of children followed the coach, struggling to hitch a ride on the springs.
They passed along a street lined with tall, medieval houses. Lanterns were already burning here and there in the gathering dusk. Just as on every fine evening in Italy, the whole town seemed to be out of doors and the coach was obliged to travel at a walking pace. A good many of the crowd were men, groups of them arm in arm, heading towards the main squares of the town, but there were women also, dressed in sad colours for the most part but all of them enveloped from head to foot in big shawls of white lace. There was much talk and mutual greeting, occasional snatches of song, but Marianne noticed that many of the men wore uniform and concluded with a sigh that the Grand Duchess Elisa was probably in residence at her luxurious summer villa at Marlia. If news of the so-called 'cure' being undertaken by the cantatrice Maria Stella were to reach her, Marianne might well find herself the object of an embarrassing invitation which would please neither her godfather nor herself. In fact, Lucca would see the end of Maria Stella's brief career. Henceforth her new identity would surely put the stage out of the question for her. Moreover, Marianne had to admit that she did not feel herself cut out for the theatre and would abandon it without regret. Her last public appearance at the Tuileries had been too painful. She would have to do her best to avoid the notice of Napoleon's sister.
The coach rolled on its way, still with its escort of shouting children, picking up speed as it crossed a broad, handsome square, tree-lined and dominated by a statue of the Emperor, and came to a halt at last before a splendid romanesque church, the solemnity of its massive, crenellated tower alleviated by the lightness of the façade with its triple row of columns.
'There's your cathedral,' Gracchus said.
'Where's the inn?'
'Over there, of course. You can't hardly see anything else.'
Next door to a charming renaissance palazzo, the heavily barred but well-lighted windows of the Albergo del Duomo were plain to see. Honeysuckle twined about the sign which hung over its broad, arched door.
'It looks rather full,' Marianne said doubtfully.
A number of saddle horses stood outside with soldiers at their heads.
'Must be a regiment on the march,' Gracchus muttered. 'What do we do?'
'What should we do?' Marianne spoke impatiently. 'Go in! We cannot spend the night in the coach just because there are people at the inn. Rooms will have been reserved for us.'
Like a good servant, Gracchus asked no more questions but drove through the arched gateway and brought his steaming horses to a halt in the inn yard. Grooms and servants appeared as if by magic from every shadowy corner while the innkeeper himself, armed with a large lantern, came bustling through the door at the far end to bow and scrape before the owner of this elegant equipage.
'Orlandi, madame, at your excellency's service. Madame's visit honours the Albergo del Duomo but I venture to say that nowhere will madame find better board and lodging.'
'Have rooms been reserved for myself and my servants?' Marianne inquired in perfect Tuscan. 'I am the Signorina Maria Stella and—'
'Si, si ... molto bene! If the signorina will condescend to follow me. Signor Zecchini has been waiting since this morning.'
Marianne accepted this without a blink although the name was perfectly unknown to her. Some messenger of the cardinal's perhaps? It could scarcely be the man she was to marry. She gestured towards the uniformed figures that were visible through the smoky kitchen windows.
'The inn appears to be very full?' she said.
Signor Orlandi shrugged his fat shoulders and spat on the ground to show his contempt for the military.
'Pah! The men belong to her highness, the Grand Duchess. They make only a brief stay – or so I trust!'
'Manoeuvres, no doubt?'
Orlandi's round face, to which a flowing moustache like a Calabrian bandit's attempted unsuccessfully to impart a touch of ferocity, seemed to lengthen strangely.
'The Emperor has given orders for the closing of all religious houses throughout Tuscany. Some bishops of Trasimene have rebelled against authority. Four have been apprehended but it is thought that the others have fled into Tuscany. This is the result…'
The same old story of the antagonism between Napoleon and the Pope! Marianne frowned. Why had her godfather brought her into these parts where the feud between Napoleon and the Church seemed hottest? It would scarcely lessen the difficulties she foresaw attending her journey back to Paris. Even now, she could not think without a shudder of what the Emperor's reaction would be when he learned that, without even consulting him, she had given herself in marriage to a stranger. The cardinal had certainly promised that the man would not be an enemy, the reverse indeed, but could anyone foresee the reactions of a man who was so obsessively jealous of his power?
Noise struck them in the face as they entered the main room of the inn. A group of officers were crowding round one of their number who had clearly just arrived. He was dusty and red-faced, his moustaches quivering with anger, and his eyes flashed as he spoke: ' – a damned, cold-blooded fellow of a servant came and shouted through the bars, above the barking of the dogs, that his master never received visitors and it was no use looking for those confounded bishops in his house. And with that he simply turned his back on me and walked off just as if we were not there! I'd not enough men with me to surround the place but damn me if they'll get away with this! Come on, to horse. We'll show this Sant'Anna what he'll get for defying the Emperor and her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess.'
This martial declaration was greeted with a chorus of approval.
Orlandi had turned pale. 'If the signorina will be kind enough to wait a moment,' he whispered hurriedly, 'I must interfere. Ho there, Signor Officer!'
'What d'you want with me?' growled the angry man. 'Fetch me a carafe of chianti and sharp! I've a thirst on me that won't wait!'
But Orlandi, instead of complying, shook his head.
'Forgive me saying so but, if I were you, signor, I should not try to see Prince Sant'Anna. In the first place you will not succeed, and in the second, her highness will be displeased.'
The noise ceased abruptly. The officer thrust aside his comrades and came towards Orlandi. Marianne shrank back into the shadow of the stairs to avoid notice.
'What do you mean by that? Why should I not succeed?'
'Because no one has ever done so. Anyone in Lucca will tell you the same. It is known that Prince Sant'Anna exists, but no one has ever seen him, no one but the two or three servants closest to him. Not one of the others, and there are many, here and in the prince's other houses, have ever seen more than a figure in the distance. Never a face or a look. All they know of him is the sound of his voice.'
'He is hiding!' roared the captain. 'And why should he hide, eh, innkeeper? Do you know why he hides? If you don't know, I will tell you, because I shall know soon enough.'
'No, Signor Officer, you will not know, or expect to feel the anger of the Grand Duchess Elisa, for she, like the Grand Dukes before her, has always respected the Prince's wish for seclusion.'
The soldier gave a shout of laughter but to Marianne, listening eagerly to this strange story, his laugh rang false.
'Is that so? Is he the devil, then, your Prince?'
Orlandi shivered superstitiously and crossed himself hurriedly several times while one hand behind his back, where the officer could not see it, pointed two fingers in the sign to ward off the evil eye.
'Do not say such things, Signor Officer! No, the Prince is not – not what you said. It is said that he has suffered since childhood from a terrible affliction, and this is why no one has ever seen him. His parents never produced him in public and not long after he was born they went abroad and died there. He was brought back, alone – or at least with only the servants I spoke of who have been with him since his birth.'
The officer wagged his head, more impressed by this than he cared to admit.
'And he lives so still, shut away behind walls and bars, and servants?'
'Sometimes he goes away, to some other of his estates most probably, taking his major-domo and his chaplain with him, but no one ever sees him go or is aware when he returns.'
There was silence. The officer tried to laugh, to lighten the atmosphere. He turned to his friends who stood gaping uncomfortably.
'This Prince of yours is a joker! Or a madman! And we don't like madmen! If you say the Grand Duchess won't like it if we attack him, then we won't attack him. In any case, we've plenty of things to do besides that just at present. But we'll send word to Florence and' – his tone changed abruptly, the threatening note returned and he thrust his fist under poor Orlandi's nose – 'and if you have been lying to us, we'll not only go and dig your night bird out of his hole, but you'll feel the weight of my scabbard on your fat carcass! Come on, all of you! Our next call is the monastery of Monte Oliveto – Sergeant Bernardi, you stay here with your section! They're a bit too pious in this damned town. As well to keep on eye on them. You never know…'
The militia trailed out of the room in a great clatter of boots and sword belts. Orlandi turned to Marianne who had been waiting quietly, with Gracchus and Agathe peering avidly over her shoulder, for this bizarre scene to end.
'Signorina, excuse please, but I could not let these men attack the Villa Sant'Anna. It would have brought trouble for everyone, for them and for us.'
Curiosity impelled Marianne to find out more about the strange person whom the innkeeper had described.
'Are you really so much afraid of the Prince? Yet you yourself have never seen him?'
Orlandi shrugged and picking up a lighted candle from a side table turned to conduct the travellers upstairs.
'No, I have never seen him, but I have seen the good which is done in his name. The Prince is very generous to the poor and who knows how far his power may extend? I would rather he were left alone. We know his generosity, we do not yet know his anger – and what if he should indeed be in league with the Evil One…' Once again, Orlandi crossed himself three times in quick succession. This way, signorina. Your coachman's lodging shall be seen to and there is a small room for your maid next door to your own.'
In a moment he had thrown open a door and ushered Marianne into a chamber, simple but clean, with bare, whitewashed walls and furnished with a table, a pair of upright chairs and a long, narrow bed, its massive black wooden head so tall that it reminded Marianne uncomfortably of a tomb. There was also a large crucifix and a number of holy pictures. Except for the red, cotton counterpane and window curtains, the room might have been a convent cell. Jug and basin, made of thick green and white pottery, were shut away neatly in a cupboard and the whole room was dimly illuminated by a single oil lamp.
'My best room,' Signor Orlandi remarked with pride. 'I hope the signorina will be comfortable. Should I perhaps inform the Signor Zecchini?'
Marianne gave a little shiver. The story of the invisible Prince had in some degree taken her mind from her own troubles and from this mysterious individual who had been waiting for her since that morning. She thought she might as well find out at once who he was.
'Yes, tell him I am ready to receive him. Then you may bring us some food.'
'Does the signorina wish her baggage brought up?'
Marianne hesitated. She had no idea whether her godfather's plans for her included a lengthy stay at the inn, but she reckoned that her baggage would not suffer from one more night strapped to the coach.
'No, I do not know if I shall be staying. Just send up the big carpet bag from inside.'
When Orlandi had gone, Marianne took the precaution of despatching Agathe, who was practically asleep on her feet, to explore her own small chamber, a cubby-hole reached by a door in the corner of the room. Marianne told her not to come back until she was called.
'But – suppose I fall asleep?' the girl said.
'Then sleep well. I will wake you in time for supper. My poor Agathe, you had no idea this journey would prove such a penance, had you?'
Under her crumpled bonnet, Agathe smiled happily at her mistress. 'Oh it has been tiring, but ever so interesting. And I would go anywhere with mademoiselle. All the same, I can't say I think much of this inn. A nice fire would do no harm. It's that damp in here.'
Marianne's gesture of dismissal silenced her. There had been a light tap on the door.
'Come in,' Marianne called when the girl had gone.
The door opened slowly, so slowly that it seemed as if the person outside were nervous or embarrassed. A lanky figure appeared, dressed in a coat of cinnamon-coloured cloth with knee breeches and white stockings, big, buckled shoes and a round hat set atop a curious kind of cap. The hat was raised, the cap remained in place, after which the visitor clasped both hands and raised his eyes to heaven and sighed deeply.
'God be praised! You have come! I cannot tell you how anxious I have been all day with all these soldiers. But you are here, and that is all that matters.'
During the utterance of this thankful greeting, Marianne had time to get over her initial surprise at the realization that Signor Zecchini was none other than the Abbé Bichette. Even so, she could not help laughing a little at the poor man, he was so obviously ill-at-ease in his unfamiliar garb.
'Why, monsieur l'Abbé, how strange you look! Surely carnival time is long past now?'
'I beg you, do not laugh. I feel sufficiently uncomfortable, I can assure you. If it were not for the most urgent necessity, if His Eminence had not particularly requested it…'
Instantly, Marianne was serious again. 'Where is my godfather? I thought to find him here.'
'In these dreadful days you will understand that a Prince of the Church must be especially careful. We have been staying at the monastery of Monte Oliveto but we considered it wiser to leave there.'
'As indeed it was,' Marianne agreed, remembering what the angry captain had said not long before.
'Where is His Eminence now?'
'Over there,' the Abbé answered, indicating through the window the campanile of the cathedral opposite. 'He has been waiting for you in the verger's house since this morning.'
Marianne looked at the tiny gold-enamelled watch that she wore round her neck. 'It is late. The church will be closed – perhaps watched…'
'The evening service has only just begun. The Emperor's orders concern religious houses only. Church services are not affected. In any case, the verger was to leave a door open all night in case of need. His Eminence will be waiting for you after the service.'
'But where? The church is very large —'
'Enter by the left-hand door and go straight to the transept. Find the tomb of Ilaria. You will know it by the figure of a young woman lying with a little dog at her feet. The cardinal will meet you there.'
'Will you not come with me?'
'No. My orders from Monseigneur are to leave the inn during the night. He does not wish us to be seen together. My task is done and I have other business.'
'Thank you, monsieur l'Abbé. I will tell my godfather how faithfully you have carried out your trust. And now I must go to him.'
'May God keep you in His holy care. I will pray for you.'
Putting one long finger to his lips to enjoin her to silence and walking on tiptoe in his clumsy shoes, the so-called Signor Zecchini departed as quietly as he had come.
Marianne went quickly to her dressing-table and took off her hat. A swift glance at her hair and she turned to the carpet bag which Orlandi had sent up before the Abbés entrance and extracted from it a big, dark-red cashmere shawl. This she put over her head, wrapping it closely round her in imitation of the local women she had seen. She opened the door that led into Agathe's room. As she had expected, the maid was lying on her bed, fully dressed, and so sound asleep that she did not even hear the door open. Marianne smiled, knowing that Agathe would not wake while she was out.
On her way downstairs she encountered Orlandi carrying a tray loaded with plates, glasses and dishes.
'Bring supper in a little while, if you please,' she said. 'I – I wish to slip across to the church to say a prayer or two, if I may.'
Orlandi's professional smile became touched with a hint of something warmer.
'But of course you may! The evening service has just this moment begun! You run along now, signorina, and I will have supper for you when you return.'
'The soldiers – they will not hinder me?'
'Hinder you going to church?' The worthy landlord was indignant. 'I should think not indeed. We are good Christians here. The town would be up in arms if they tried to close the churches. Would you like me to go with you?'
'Thank you, but only as far as the inn door, I will go alone from there.'
Escorted by Orlandi, his moustaches bristling, Marianne passed through the main room of the inn without interference from the soldiers who seemed, in fact, little disposed to make trouble. The sergeant was playing cards with one of his corporals and the other men were quietly drinking. One or two had produced long clay pipes and were gazing up at the smoky ceiling, puffing away dreamily. The moment she was outside, Marianne hugged her shawl about her and set off running across the open square. It was quite dark by this time and only a lantern here and there served to illuminate the pale bulk of the ancient cathedral.
A light wind had got up, bringing with it the scents of the countryside, and Marianne paused for a second in the centre of the square to breathe in its odours. Above her head, a myriad stars twinkled softly in a blue-black arch of sky. Somewhere in the darkness a man was singing, accompanying himself on a guitar, while from the open doors of the church came the solemn notes of a psalm. The man's song was a love song, the psalm proclaimed the glory of God and the bitter joys of renunciation and humility. One was a call to happiness, the other to stern obedience, and for the last time, Marianne hesitated. Her hesitation was brief, because for her the choice between love and duty was no longer possible. Her love was not calling her, was not seeking for her. He was. travelling the roads of the Low Countries, surrounded by the rejoicings of his people, smiling at his young bride, careless of the one he had left behind who was now, to her grief and shame, turning to a stranger to ensure that her child would have the right to hold up its head.
Resolutely turning her back on the song, she looked instead at the church. It loomed enormous in the darkness, with its squat shape and the tall tower reaching skywards like a cry for help. Yet God had allowed her own cry to go unheard: the friend to whom she looked for help had not come, and would not come. He too was far away, he too had forgotten her perhaps… Marianne's throat contracted, then she shook herself with a spasm of anger.
'You little fool,' she told herself through clenched teeth. When will you stop feeling sorry for yourself? You have made your own fate, you have brought it on yourself! You always knew you would have to pay for your happiness, however short it seemed. So now pay, and don't complain. You are going to meet someone who has always loved you, who cannot wish for anything but your happiness, or at least your peace of mind. Try and trust him as you used to...'
Resolutely, she made her way to the triple doorway, climbed the shallow steps and pushed open the left-hand door. Yet still her mind was not easy. In spite of everything, she could not quite bring herself to trust her godfather and the knowledge gave her pain and made her reproach herself. She longed to feel again the same blind trust she had known as a child. But this fantastic marriage! The submission it demanded of her whole being!
Except for the red sanctuary lamp and a few lighted candles, it was dark as night inside the cathedral. At the high altar, an aged priest with white hair and a tarnished silver chasuble was officiating before a handful of kneeling worshippers. Marianne could see only their bowed shoulders and bent heads, hear nothing but the murmur of their voices mingling with the sighing of the organ that floated up into the blue, Gothic vaults above.
She paused for a moment beside a holy water stoup, crossed herself and knelt to say a brief prayer, but her heart was not in it. It was more a formal gesture of politeness towards God. Her thoughts were elsewhere. Swiftly, making no more noise than a shadow, she glided down the aisle, past a delicate, octagonal edifice containing a weird figure of Christ crucified in long Byzantine robes, and finally reached the transept. A few figures knelt there, but she could not see the one she had come to find, and no one turned to look at her.
She had seen the tomb at once and she moved slowly towards it. It was so beautiful that her eye went to it immediately, ignoring even an exquisite painting of the Virgin and two saints, and remained fixed on it. She could never have believed that any tomb could be so lovely, so full of purity and peace. A girl in a long robe lay on the stone which was supported by cherubs bearing heavy garlands. Her hands were folded quietly on the delicate folds of her gown, her feet were resting on a little dog, and her hair, escaping from a wreath of flowers, framed a face so ravishing that Marianne found herself staring, fascinated by the young girl whom the sculptor had portrayed so lovingly. She did not know who she was, this Ilaria who had died four hundred years before, but she felt strangely close to her. There was no trace in the delicate features of the suffering which had brought her to the grave when she was hardly out of childhood.
Resisting an urge to clasp the dead girl's hands in her own, Marianne went and knelt a little way away. She rested her head on her hands and tried to pray, but her mind was too watchful. She did not start when someone came to kneel beside her. She raised her eyes and recognized her godfather in spite of the black collar turned up to hide his face. He saw her look at him and gave her a quick smile.
'The service is almost over,' he whispered. 'When they have all gone, we can talk.'
They did not have long to wait. In a few moments the priest left the altar, carrying the censer. The church emptied slowly. There was a sound of chairs scraping, then footsteps moving away. The verger came to extinguish the candles and the lamp. The only lights left burning were those standing before a fine statue of John the Baptist in the transept, the work of the same artist as the tomb. The cardinal rose and seated himself, with a gesture to Marianne to do the same. She was the first to speak.
'I have come, as you commanded…'
'No, not commanded,' Gauthier de Chazay corrected her mildly. 'I merely asked because I thought it best for you. You have come – alone?'
'Alone. As you knew I should, did you not?' There was an almost imperceptible shade of bitterness in her voice which did not escape the priest's subtle ear.
'No, God is my witness that I should have preferred to see you find a man in whom your duty and your inclination could combine. But I realize that you had little time, or choice, perhaps. And yet, it seems to me that you feel some resentment towards me for the situation in which you find yourself.'
'I blame no one but myself, godfather, be sure of that. Only tell me, is everything arranged? My marriage…'
'To the Englishman? Has been duly annulled, of course, or you would not be here. It was not difficult. The circumstances were exceptional and since the Holy Father's position was also somewhat unusual we were obliged to make do with a small court to decide your case. I had counted on that to enable us to proceed so rapidly. I have, moreover, sent word of these proceedings to the consistory of the Church of England and written to the lawyer responsible for marriage settlements. You are quite free.'
'But for so short a time! But thank you. I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for releasing me from a bondage that was hateful to me. You seem to me, godfather, to have become a remarkably powerful person.'
'I have no power but what comes to me from God, Marianne. Are you now ready to hear the rest?'
'I think I am.'
How strange it was, this conversation in the empty cathedral. They were alone, sitting side by side, gazing into a dark world in which, from time to time, a candle flame would spurt up to reveal a masterpiece. Why here, rather than the inn where the cardinal could have entered in disguise as easily as the Abbé Bichette had done, in spite of the soldiers? Marianne knew her godfather well enough to be sure that he had chosen his ground deliberately, perhaps in order to add to the solemnity of what he had to say. It may have been for the same reason that he seemed to pause now before going on. His eyes were closed and his head bent. Marianne guessed that he was praying but her nerves had been strained to breaking point by the journey and her mental anguish. She could not control the impatience in her voice as she muttered: 'I am listening.'
The cardinal rose and laid his hand on the girl's shoulder. 'You are on edge, my child,' he said, with gentle reproach, 'and it is no wonder, but you see the responsibility for what is to come will be mine and it is only natural that I should feel the need for a moment's reflection. Listen, then, but remember, above all, that you must never despise the man who is about to give you his name. You will be joined in marriage but your union will never be complete and it is this which troubles me, for it is not thus that a man of God should contemplate a marriage. Yet each of you has something to give the other. He will save you and your child from dishonour and you will give him a happiness for which he had ceased to hope. Thanks to you, the great name which he had doomed to die with him will yet survive.'
'Can this man not have children? Is he too old?'
'He is neither old nor impotent but for him the idea of having children is unthinkable, fraught with terror even. It is true that he could have adopted a child but he recoils in horror at the thought of grafting a common shoot on to his ancient stock. You bring him the best blood of France and mingled with it the blood, not merely of an emperor, but of the one man he admires most in all the world. Tomorrow, Marianne, you are to be married to Prince Corrado Sant'Anna —'
Forgetting her surroundings, Marianne uttered a faint cry. The man whom no one has ever seen?'
The cardinal's face was stony. His blue eyes flashed.
'What do you know of him? From whom have you heard this?'
Briefly, Marianne described the scene which she had witnessed at the inn. At the end, she added: 'They say he suffers from some terrible disease and that is why he hides himself away, they say even that he is mad —'
'People will talk and if they do not talk, still they will think. No, he is not mad. As for why he chooses to live in seclusion, that is not for me to divulge. It is his secret. He may reveal it to you one day, if he sees fit – although I should be surprised. All you need to know is that his motives are not merely honourable but very noble.'
'But – surely I must see him – if we are to be married?' Unconsciously, Marianne spoke hopefully.
The cardinal shook his head. 'There is no curbing feminine curiosity. Listen to me, Marianne, for I shall not say this again. Between you and Corrado is a new pact, like the one you and I have made together. He will give you his name and acknowledge your child, who will one day inherit all his titles and possessions, but it is unlikely that you will ever look upon his face, even during the wedding ceremony.'
'But you know him?' Marianne cried, galled by this mystery to which the cardinal appeared to be a party. 'You have seen him? Why does he hide himself like this? Is he a monster?'
'Certainly I have seen him, many times. I have known him ever since the dreadful day of his birth. But I have sworn on my honour and on the Gospels never to speak of his person. Yet God knows, I would give much to make it possible for your marriage to be a real one in the sight of all, for I have met few men of such worth. But as things are, I believe that in bringing about this marriage I am acting in the best interests of both of you, by joining together, as it were, two people in trouble. As for you, you must repay him for what he gives to you, for in future you will be a very great lady, by conducting yourself honourably, with due respect for the ancient family to which you will belong. Its roots go back as far as classical times and she who lies in this tomb was not unconnected with it. Are you prepared for this? For make no mistake, if you have come seeking nothing but a cover that will allow you to live as you please with any man, you had better go away and look elsewhere. Never forget that what I am offering you is not happiness but the honour and dignity of a man who will not be beside you to defend them, that and a life free from all material cares. In short, I expect you to behave as befits your birth and breeding. If these conditions seem too hard to you, you may still draw back. I will give you ten minutes to think whether you will remain the singer Maria Stella or become the Princess Sant'Anna.'
He made a move as if to leave her alone to her thoughts but Marianne, seized with a sudden panic, gripped his arm.
'One thing more, godfather, I beg of you. I must make you understand what this decision means to me. I know it is not for the daughter of a great house to raise objections to the match made for her by her family, but you must admit the circumstances are unusual.'
'I do admit it. Yet I thought you had done with objections.'
'It is not that. I do not object. I trust you and I love you as I should my own father. All I ask is that you explain a little more. You tell me that I must live henceforth as befits a Sant'Anna, respect the name I bear?'
The cardinal's voice hardened. 'I did not think to hear such a question from your lips.'
'I do not know how to say it,' Marianne said desperately. 'What I mean is: what will be my life when I have married the Prince? Shall I be obliged to live in his house, under his roof —?'
'I have already told you, no. You may live precisely where you choose, in your own house, at the Hôtel d'Asselnat or where you will. You may also reside whenever you wish to in any of the houses belonging to the Sant'Annas, either in the villa you will see tomorrow or in any of their palaces, in Venice or in Florence. You will be perfectly free and Sant'Anna's steward will ensure that your life is not merely free from practical cares but as magnificent as befits your station. I only mean that you should live up to that station. No scandals, no passing fancies, no —'
'Oh, godfather!' Marianne cried, hurt. 'What right have I ever given you to think that I could sink so low —'
'Forgive me. I too am expressing myself badly. That was not what I meant to say. I was still thinking of your chosen profession. You may not have been aware of its dangers. I know you have a lover, and who he is. I may deplore the choice of your heart, but I know that he can call you back to him whenever he will. You cannot fight both him and yourself. All I ask, my child, is that you should remember the name you bear and be discreet. Never do anything that may give your child – now the child of both of you – any cause to reproach you. Indeed, I believe that I may trust you. You are still my own dear child. Only you have been unlucky. Now I will leave you to think.'
The cardinal moved away quietly to kneel before the statue of St John, leaving Marianne alone by the tomb. She turned to it instinctively, as if those stone lips could give the answer for which the cardinal was waiting. Dignity, that must have been the story of the girl who lay there. She had lived and died in dignity, and in what grace she clothed it! Marianne had to confess, moreover, that she did not honestly care for adventures, not at least for those she had encountered, and she could not help thinking that if things, and especially Francis, had been different, she would at that very moment have been living a life of peace and dignity amid the grandeurs of Selton Hall.
Stepping softly up to the tomb, she laid her hand on the marble folds. Their coldness surprised her. Was it an illusion, or had there been a suggestion of a fleeting smile on the narrow face with its closed eyes, resting so quietly in its high, framing collar? As if Ilaria were trying from beyond the grave to give encouragement to her living sister.
'I must be going mad,' Marianne told herself furiously. 'I am seeing things! This has gone on long enough.'
She turned her back firmly on the statue and went to her godfather where he was praying, his head bowed on his hands. She did not kneel but said in a small, clear voice: 'I am ready. Tomorrow I will marry the Prince.'
The cardinal did not turn or look up. With his eyes still on the statue, he answered softly: 'It is well. Go home now. Leave the inn at noon tomorrow and tell your coachman to take the road leading to the Baths of Lucca. It is some twelve or fifteen miles. This will cause no surprise since you are supposed to have come for the purpose of taking the waters, but you will not go all the way. About three miles from here you will see a small wayside shrine. I will be waiting for you there. Go now.'
'You are staying? It is so dark – and cold.'
'I am staying here. The verger is one – is a friend. Go in peace, my child, and God be with you.'
He seemed suddenly tired, and anxious for her to be gone. With one last look at the statue of Ilaria, Marianne left by the way that she had come, her mind busy with a new idea. There seemed no end to her godfather's capacity to surprise her. What was it that he had started to say about the verger? That he was one of what? Was it possible that a Roman cardinal, a prince of the Church, could belong to a secret society? And if so, which? This was a fresh mystery which might be better left alone. Marianne was tired of all these secrets which were creeping into her life.
After the smell of cold wax and moist stone inside the cathedral the night air was delicious, soft and fragrant, and the sky was beautiful. To her surprise, Marianne found that she was at peace with herself now that her decision had been made. She felt almost glad that she had finally agreed to this strange marriage, and indeed it would have been madness to have rejected a match which guaranteed her the kind of life she had been born to and understood while at the same time leaving her fully her own mistress. All she had to do was to be worthy of the name of Sant'Anna.
Even the momentary thought of Jason could not disturb her new-found serenity. She had probably been wrong to persist in looking to him for help. Fate had chosen for her and perhaps it was better so. All things considered, the only person she really missed was her dear Arcadius. Everything was always so much easier when he was there.
As she crossed the dark square she was struck by the silence. No sound was to be heard there now, no love songs hung in the air. There was only the night with its disquieting shadows beyond which lay another dawn whose colours she could not foresee. Marianne shivered, without quite knowing why.
It seemed to Marianne that she was entering a new world as her coach passed through the huge wrought-iron gates set between high walls, their heraldic bearings a fantastic tracery of black and gold. Its guardians, the two stone giants that stood upon the entry piers, one bearing a lance, the other a drawn bow, seemed to challenge all who would enter these forbidden precincts. The gates swung open as if by magic at the horses' approach. No gatekeeper appeared, nor was there any sign of the dogs which had so alarmed the militia captain. Not a soul was in sight. Within, a long, sanded avenue lined with tall, black cypresses and lemon trees in stone urns, gave on to a wide expanse of green, a peaceful prospect stretching away until the view was closed by the tall, misty plumes of fountains rising from a lake.
As the carriage advanced up the smooth drive, park-like vistas opened up with glimpses of a romantic landscape peopled with statues, massive trees and soaring fountains, a world where water reigned supreme but from which flowers were absent. Marianne stared about her, holding her breath as if time had stood still, a prey to a terror she could not control. Opposite her was Agathe, her pretty face fixed in a faintly apprehensive expression. Only the cardinal, absorbed in his own thoughts, seemed unconscious of his surroundings and immune from the strange melancholy of the place. Even the sun, which had been shining as they left Lucca, had disappeared behind a thick bank of white cloud, pierced now and then by broad shafts of light. The day had grown suddenly oppressive. No birds sang, there was no sound at all but the melancholy song of the water. Within the carriage, no one spoke and even Gracchus on his box forgot to sing or whistle as he had been in the habit of doing all through that endless journey.
The berline rounded a bend, past a grove of gigantic thuyas and emerged into a dream. A long lawn adorned with statues of prancing horses, and where white peacocks trailed their snowy plumes, led up to a palace whose ordered serenity was mirrored in still waters and backed by blue Etruscan hills. White walls, surmounted by balustrades, tall windows gleaming around a great loggia, its columns interspersed with statues, an old dome rising above the central body of the house crowned by a figure mounted on a unicorn: this was the dwelling of the unknown Prince, renaissance with touches of baroque magnificence, on the threshold of a legend.
Arrows of sunlight shot through the great trees massed on either side of the vast lawn, illuminating here and there in the depths of a glade the graceful lines of a colonnade or a leaping waterfall.
Out of the corner of his eye, the cardinal watched the effect of all this upon Marianne. Wide-eyed, with parted lips, she sat as if drinking in the beauty of this enchanted domain through every fiber of her being. The cardinal smiled.
'If you like the Villa dei Cavalli, it is in your power to remain here for as long as you wish – for ever if you will.'
Marianne ignored the subtle hint but asked instead: 'The Villa dei Cavalli? Why that?'
That is the name given to it by the people hereabouts. The villa of the horses. It is they who are the real masters here. The horse is king. For more than two centuries the family of Sant'Anna has possessed a stud which, if any of its products ever left it, would no doubt rival the fame of the Duke of Mantua's celebrated stables. But, except for occasional magnificent gifts, the princes of Sant'Anna have never parted with their animals. Look —'
They were nearing the house. To one side Marianne saw yet another fountain, the water spouting from a huge conch shell. Beyond it, between a pair of noble pillars marking, perhaps, the way that led to the stables, a groom was holding three superb horses whose snowy whiteness, flowing manes and long, plumed tails, might have been models for the statues that filled the park. From her earliest childhood, Marianne had always loved horses. She loved them for their beauty. She understood them better than she had ever understood any human being and even the most fiery-tempered had never been known to frighten her. It was a passion which she inherited from her Aunt Ellis who, before the accident which had left her a cripple, had been a notable horsewoman. The sight of these three magnificent animals seemed to her the most comforting of all welcomes.
'They are superb,' she said with a sigh, 'But how do they adapt themselves to an invisible master?'
'He is not so for them,' the cardinal said abruptly. 'For Corrado Sant'Anna they are life's one real joy. But we have arrived.'
The coach swept round in a stylish curve and came to a halt at the foot of an impressive flight of marble steps on which the palace servants were drawn up to welcome it. Marianne beheld an imposing array of white and gold footmen, their powdered wigs accentuating the olive tints of their impassive faces. At the top, where the perron joined the loggia, three figures in black stood waiting. They were a white-haired woman, the severity of whose garments was relieved by a white collar and the bunch of gold keys hanging at her waist, a bald, shrivelled priest who might have been almost any age, and a tall, well-built man with roman features and thick, black, lightly grizzled hair, dressed with impeccable neatness but without real elegance. There was about this latter personage an indefinable air of the peasant, a kind of toughness which only the earth could give.
'Who are they?' Marianne whispered with some alarm as two of the footmen stepped forward to open the carriage door and let down the steps.
'Dona Lavinia has been housekeeper to the Sant'Annas for many years. She is some kind of poor relation. It was she who brought up Corrado. Father Amundi is his chaplain. As for Matteo Damiani, he is both the Prince's steward and his secretary. Get out now, and remember your birth. Maria Stella is dead – once and for all.'
As though in a dream, Marianne descended from the coach. As though in a dream, she climbed the marble steps between the double row of motionless footmen, supported by her godfather's suddenly iron hand, her eyes on the three people above. Behind her, she could hear Agathe's awe-struck gasp. It was not hot, although the sun had come out again, but Marianne felt suddenly stifled. The strings of her bonnet seemed to be choking her. She hardly heard her godfather perform the introductions or the words of welcome spoken by the housekeeper who curtsied low to her as if to a queen. Her body felt as if it were controlled by some mechanism outside herself. She heard herself replying graciously to the chaplain and to Dona Lavinia but it was the secretary who fascinated her. He too seemed to be moving like an automaton. His pale eyes remained fixed stonily on Marianne's face. He seemed to be scrutinizing her every feature, as if he could read there the answer to some question known only to himself, and Marianne could have sworn that there was fear in that relentless stare. She was not mistaken: Matteo's silence was heavy with suspicion and warning. It was clear he did not look with favour on the intrusion of this stranger and Marianne was certain, from the very first, that he was her enemy.
With Dona Lavinia it was quite otherwise. Her serene face held, in spite of the marks of past sufferings, nothing but gentle kindness and her brown eyes expressed complete admiration. Rising from her curtsey, she kissed Marianne's hand and murmured: 'Blessed be God for bringing us so lovely a princess.'
As for Father Amundi, he might carry himself nobly enough, but he did not appear to be in possession of all his faculties. Marianne was quick to notice his habit of mumbling to himself, a rapid, low-pitched gabble that was perfectly incomprehensible and very irritating to listen to. But the smile he bestowed on her was so beaming, so innocent, and he was so clearly pleased to see her that she found herself wondering if he were not by any chance some old friend whom she had forgotten.
'I will take you to your room, Excellenza,' the housekeeper told her warmly. 'Matteo will take care of His Grace.'
Marianne smiled and her eyes went to her godfather.
'Go, my child,' he told her, 'and rest. I will send for you this evening, before the ceremony, so that the Prince may see you.'
Marianne followed Dona Lavinia in silence, repressing the question that sprang instinctively to her lips. She was consumed with a curiosity greater than anything she had ever known, she felt a devouring urge to 'see' this unknown Prince herself, this master of a fairytale domain who kept such wonderful creatures in it. The Prince was to see her. Then why should she not see the Prince? Was the malady with which he was afflicted, as she now suspected, so terrible that she could not approach him? Her eyes rested suddenly on the housekeeper's straight back as she led the way, her keys chinking softly. What was it Gauthier de Chazay had said? It was she who had brought up Corrado Sant'Anna? Surely none could know him better than she – and she had seemed so glad to see Marianne…
'I will make her talk,' she told herself. 'She must be made to talk!'
The interior of the villa was no less magnificent than the gardens. Leaving the loggia, which was decorated in baroque plaster-work with gilded lanterns of wrought iron, Dona Lavinia led her new mistress through a vast ballroom that shimmered with the dull gleam of gold, then through a series of apartments, one of which was especially sumptuous, with delicate red and gold carvings setting off the dark shine of black lacquer panels. This, however, was the exception. The general colours of the house were white and gold, with floors of a black and white marble mosaic on which their feet slid silently.
The bedchamber assigned to Marianne, which was situated in the left-hand wing of the house, was decorated in a similar style. Even so, she found it startling. Here, too, all was white and gold except for a pair of red lacquer cabinets which added a warmer note to the room. The ceiling, however, was painted with trompe-l'œil figures, who appeared to be leaning over the cornice, as though from a balcony, observing the movement of whoever was in the room below. The walls were covered in a profusion of mirrors. On every side, the two dark forms of Marianne and Dona Lavinia were reflected over and over again into infinity, along with the great Venetian bed hung with rich brocades. The bed was raised up on three steps like a throne and flanked by a pair of torchères in the shape of two Negroes dressed in oriental style, bearing clusters of tall red candles on their heads.
Marianne gazed at this magnificence with a kind of appalled wonder, while the servants carried in her trunks.
'Is – is this my room?'
Dona Lavinia threw open a window and applied a deft touch to the massive spray of orange blossoms dripping from an alabaster vase.
'It has belonged to every Princess Sant'Anna for two hundred years. Do you like it?'
To avoid the necessity of answering, Marianne asked another question.
'Why all these mirrors?'
At once, she had the feeling that the question was an unwelcome one. The housekeeper's worn features tensed a little, and she turned away to open a door leading into a small room apparently hollowed out of a block of white marble. A bathroom.
'Our Prince's grandmother,' she said at last, 'was a woman of such remarkable beauty that – that she desired to contemplate herself continually. It was she who ordered the mirrors put in here. They have been allowed to remain —'
Her tone intrigued Marianne who found her curiosity about this family increasing all the time.
There is no doubt a portrait of her somewhere in the house,' she said with a smile. 'I should like to see her.'
'There was one – but it was destroyed in the fire. Would your ladyship care to rest, a bath, perhaps, or a little refreshment?'
'All three, if you please. But first, a bath. Where have you put my maid? I should like to have her near me.' This was to the obvious relief of Agathe who, ever since entering the villa, had been walking on tiptoe as though in a church or a museum.
'In that case, there is a small room at the end of this passage.' As she spoke, Dona Lavinia pressed a knob on one of the carved panels. The join was so fine that the door was wholly invisible. 'A bed shall be set up there. I will prepare the bath.' She was about to leave the room when Marianne stopped her.
'Dona Lavinia —'
'Excellenza?'
Her green eyes gazing directly into those of the housekeeper, Marianne asked quietly: 'Whereabouts in the palace are the Prince's apartments?'
The question was a perfectly natural one but clearly Dona Lavinia was not expecting it. Marianne could have sworn that her face paled.
'When he is here,' she said with an effort, 'his highness resides in the right wing – the room equivalent to this.'
'Very well. Thank you.'
Dona Lavinia curtsied and went away, leaving Marianne and Agathe alone. They looked at each other. The maid's pretty face was crumpled with fright and all her pert, Parisian assurance had deserted her. She clasped her hands together in a gesture of childish entreaty.
'Oh, mademoiselle – are we going to stay here long?'
'No, Agathe, not very long, I hope. Don't you like it?'
'It's very beautiful…' She cast a doubtful glance around her. 'But – no, I don't like it. I don't know why. I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but I don't think I could ever feel at home here. It's all so different…' Marianne smiled.
'Well, go and unpack my things,' she told her kindly, 'and don't be afraid to apply to Dona Lavinia, she is the housekeeper, you know, for anything you might need. She will be kind to you, I think. Now, be a brave girl, Agathe. There is nothing to be afraid of here. It is just the fatigue of the journey, and being in strange surroundings…' As she spoke, Marianne became aware that in trying to comfort Agathe it was to herself that she was really talking. She, too, had been conscious, ever since entering the gates of this strange and splendid mansion, of an indefinable sense of oppression, all the more strange in that she could perceive no tangible signs of danger. It was something more subtle, like a bodiless presence, the presence, perhaps, of this man who kept himself so closely guarded. But there was something else besides and that, Marianne could have sworn, emanated from this very room, rather as if the ghost of the woman who had hung these mirrors still roamed here, intangible but supreme, as though in a shrine of which the great, gilded bed was the altar and the fantastically dressed figures on the ceiling a host of attentive worshippers.
Marianne moved slowly to a window. Perhaps it was her English blood that made her believe in ghosts. She could feel something now, here in this room.
The opposite wing of the house was hidden from view behind the jutting central block, but the windows commanded the whole extent of the peacock lawn, which ended in an immense cascade down which the water foamed and tumbled from pool to pool to fill a wide basin framed by two groups of plunging horses. It seemed to Marianne that these churning waters, in such strong contrast to the green and peaceful gardens, were a symbol of some powerful, hidden force penned beneath a surface of deceptive calm. But then, after all, those boiling waves, the restless plunging of the horses, these things were life itself, the passion to be and to act which Marianne had always felt fretting within herself. It may have been that which made this place, with its uncanny silence, strike her like a tomb.
Dusk found Marianne standing in the same place. The green park had melted into indistinct shades of grey, the cascade and the statues were pale blurs and the regal birds had gone. Marianne had bathed and nibbled half-heartedly at a light collation but she had found it impossible to sleep for an instant. The blame for this could probably be assigned to the preposterous bed, which made her feel like a victim offered up to the sacrificial knife.
Now she was dressed in a gown of heavy, creamy-white brocade, stiff with gold embroidery, which Dona Lavinia had brought to her, spread out in both arms as solemnly as if it had been some precious relic. Her head was crowned for the first time with a weighty diadem of gold set with outsize pearls, the fellows of the ones that made up the collar and bracelets of almost barbaric splendour which adorned her neck and arms. She stared out into the darkening garden, trying to quell the nervous fears that mounted in her as the hour drew near.
She saw herself, so short a time before, standing in another place, looking out at a different park, on the brink of another marriage. That was at Selton, on the eve of her wedding to Francis. Good God, was it possible that it was scarcely nine months ago? It felt like several centuries! She had stood at the windows of the marriage chamber, dad in a flimsy wisp of cambric, her girlish body quivering with mingled fear and anticipation, staring out as darkness shrouded the familiar landscape. How happy she had been that night! It was all so simple and beautiful. She loved Francis with all her youthful being and hoped to be loved by him, and she waited with passionate intensity for the moment when, in his arms, she would learn the overwhelming joys of love.
It was another who had taught her love and every fibre of her body trembled even now with intoxicating gratitude at the memory of those white-hot nights at Butard and the Trianon. Yet it was this love also which had given birth to the woman whose image she had contemplated only a moment past in those ridiculous mirrors: a statue of almost Byzantine majesty and splendour, huge eyes in a set, pale face, Her Serene Highness the Princess Sant'Anna. Serene… most serene… ineffably serene, while her heart was wrung with grief and anguish. What a mockery!
Tonight there was no question of love, only of a marriage, positive, realistic, implacable. A union of two people in trouble, Gauthier de Chazay had called it. Tonight no man would come knocking at the door of this room, no desire would come to claim her body in which life, secret as yet but already all-powerful, was growing… no Jason would appear to demand payment of a debt, fantastic yet disturbing…
Marianne leaned on the bronze window hasp, fighting off the giddiness which overwhelmed her, thrusting back the mariner's image as she suddenly thought that if he had come she might have felt a real happiness. But he was not there and the world was strangely empty. She wanted to cry out, and she pressed her be-ringed fingers into her mouth to keep back that absurd call for help. Decked in jewels an empress might have envied, she had never felt more miserable.
She was shaken out of her morbid state when the double doors of her room were flung wide open and the shadows were dispelled by the appearance of six footmen holding branched candlesticks aloft. Aureoled in the sparkling light of the dancing flames, his robes of red watered silk sweeping the polished floor, the cardinal entered in all the splendour of the Church of Rome and at the glory of his entrance Marianne blinked like a night bird brought suddenly into the light. The cardinal's gaze rested thoughtfully on her for a moment but he made no comment.
'Come,' he said, merely. 'It is time.'
Whether it was his words or the blood red of his garments, Marianne could not have said, but she felt like one condemned, being summoned to the scaffold. She went to him, none the less, and laid her bejewelled hand on the red gloved fingers he held out to her. Their two trains, the sweeping capa magna and the queenly gown, whispered in concert over the marble surface of the rooms.
As they walked through them, Marianne saw with amazement that every room was lighted as if for a ball, yet nothing could have been less festive than this huge, magnificent emptiness. She thought, for the first time in years, of the fairy stories she had loved as a child. Tonight, she was Cinderella, Donkeyskin and the Sleeping Beauty all rolled into one, but for her there was no Prince Charming. Her prince was a phantom, invisible.
In this way, in slow and solemn procession, they traversed the entire palace. It was as though the cardinal were proudly presenting the newcomer to the assembled shades of all those who had once lived, loved and, perhaps, suffered in this place. At last, they came to a small saloon, hung with red damask, in which the principal article of furniture was a tall mirror of the French regency period, set on a gilt console and framed by a pair of bronze girandoles bearing clusters of lighted candles.
Bidding Marianne with a gesture to be seated, the cardinal stood beside her in silence with the air of one waiting for something. His eyes were on the mirror, which Marianne was sitting facing, but he had retained her hand in his, as if for reassurance. Marianne felt more oppressed than ever and she was already opening her mouth to ask a question when he spoke.
'My friend, here, as I promised, is Marianne d'Asselnat de Villeneuve, my god-daughter,' he said proudly.
Marianne shivered. It was to the mirror he had spoken, and now it was the mirror that answered.
'Forgive my silence, my dear cardinal. I should have spoken first, to welcome you, but I must confess that I was dumb with admiration. Madame, your godfather endeavoured to describe your beauty to me but, for the first time in his life, his eloquence has proved unequal to the task; so far unequal that only the fact that none but a poet could find words to express such divinity can excuse him. Let me say how deeply – humbly grateful I am to you for being here – and for being yourself.'
The voice was low and muffled. Its very tonelessness gave it a note of weariness and profound sadness. Marianne tensed, to control the excitement which was quickening her breath. She too looked at the mirror from where the voice seemed to come.
'Can you see me?' she asked softly.
'As clearly as if there were no obstacle between us. Let us say, I am the mirror in which you see yourself reflected. Have you ever seen a mirror happy?'
'I wish I could be sure of that – your voice is so sad.'
'That is because it is little used. A voice that has nothing to say comes to forget that it could sing. In the end, it is crushed by silence. But your voice is pure music.'
It was strange, talking to someone who remained invisible, but little by little Marianne acquired confidence. She decided it was time she took her own fate in hand. The voice was that of one who had known suffering, or was suffering still. She determined to play this game for herself. She turned to the cardinal.
'Godfather, would you leave me for a moment? I should like to talk to the Prince, and I should find it easier alone.'
'It is natural. I will wait in the library.'
No sooner had the door closed behind him than Marianne rose but instead of moving closer to the mirror she turned away towards one of the windows. It unnerved her to sit face to face with herself, hearing the bodiless voice speaking, as it was speaking now, with a shade of hesitation.
'Why did you send the cardinal away?'
'Because I must speak to you. There are some things, which must, I think, be said.'
'What things? I understood that my eminent friend had explained the precise nature of our agreement?'
'And so he has. It is all perfectly cut and dried; at least, I think so.'
'He told you that I shall not interfere in your life? The only thing he may not have said – but which I will ask…'
He paused and Marianne was aware of a slight break in his voice, but he recovered himself almost at once and continued: 'I will ask you, when the child is born, to bring him here sometimes. I should like him to learn to love this land, in my place, to love this house and its people, for whom he will be a real person – not a furtive shadow.' Again there was the slight, almost imperceptible break and Marianne felt her heart swell suddenly with a rush of pity. At the same time, another part of her mind was saying that all this was absurd, fantastic, and most of all this desperate veil of secrecy in which he wrapped himself. Her voice, when she spoke, was imploring.
'Prince – pardon me, I beseech you, if my words give you pain, but I do not understand and I want to so much. Why all this mystery? Why may I not see you? Surely I have the right to know my husband's face?'
There was a silence, so long and heavy that for a moment she was afraid that she had driven her strange interlocutor away. She was afraid that her impulsiveness had made her go too far, and too soon. But at last the answer came, slow and final as a judgement.
'No. That cannot be. In a little while, we shall be together in the chapel and my hand will touch yours – but we shall never be as close again.'
'But why, why?' she persisted. 'My birth is as good as your own and I fear nothing – however terrible – if that is what restrains you.'
There was a brief, low, mirthless laugh.
'You have been here so short a time and already you have heard men talk, have you not? I know – they have all sorts of theories about me, of which the most agreeable is that I am the victim of a hideous disease, leprosy or something of that kind. I am not a leper, madame, or anything of the kind. Nevertheless, it is impossible for us to meet face to face.'
'But in the name of God, why?'
This time it was her voice that broke.
'Because I would not risk becoming an object of horror to you.'
The voice was silent, and this time the mirror did not speak for so long that Marianne realized she was truly alone. Her hands, which had been gripping the thick, shiny leaves of some unknown plant in a Chinese vase, relaxed and she let out her breath in one long sigh. The disturbing presence had gone, to Marianne's great relief, for now she thought she knew what she was dealing with. The man must be a monster, some wretched semblance of humanity, doomed to darkness by repulsive disfigurement, too hideous to be endured by any eyes but those which had known him from birth. That would explain Matteo Damiani's stony countenance, the pain in Dona Lavinia's and perhaps also the childishness of Father Amundi's old features. It would explain, too, why he had broken off their interview when so many things were still to be said.
'I was clumsy,' Marianne reproached herself. 'I was in too much of a hurry. I should have approached the subject more cautiously, not rushed in at once with the question I wished to ask. I should have tried to penetrate the mystery little by little, by careful hints. And now I daresay I have frightened him.'
One other thing which surprised her was that the Prince had asked her nothing about herself, her life, her tastes. He had merely praised her beauty, as if that were the only thing that mattered in his eyes. Marianne reflected a little bitterly that he could scarcely have shown less curiosity if she had been a handsome filly destined for his precious stables. Indeed, it was more than likely that Corrado Sant'Anna would have made inquiries into the health and habits of such an animal. But, after all, for a man whose sole object in life was the possession of an heir to carry on his ancient name, the physical characteristics of the mother were bound to be of paramount importance. Why should Prince Sant'Anna concern himself with the affections, feelings and habits of Marianne d'Asselnat?
The door of the red salon opened to admit the cardinal once more, but this time he was not alone. Three men were with him. One was a little, dark fellow with a face that seemed entirely made up of nose and whiskers. The cut of his coat and the big, leather folder which he carried under his arm proclaimed the notary. The other two might have stepped straight down from a gallery of ancestral portraits: two venerable gentlemen in velvet suits dating from the time of Louis XV, and bob wigs. One leaned on a stick, the other on the cardinal's arm and both their faces were expressive of extreme old age.
They bowed with an exquisite, old-fashioned courtesy to Marianne who curtsied deeply in return. They were presented to her as the Marquis del Carreto and Count Gherardesca, kinsmen of the Prince, and they were there to witness the marriage. The last-named, the one who walked with a stick, was also, in his capacity as the Grand Duchess's chamberlain, to register the marriage officially.
The lawyer seated himself at a small table and opened his brief-case. Everyone else sat down. At the far end of the room were Dona Lavinia and Matteo Damiani, who had come in after the witnesses.
Marianne was so nervous and distraught that she hardly listened to the long, pedantic reading of the marriage contract. The endless convolutions of legal terminology were irritating. All she wanted now was to get it over, quickly. She was not in the least interested in the enumeration of the possessions which Prince Sant'Anna was to settle on his wife, any more than in the truly royal sum of her allowance. Her attention was divided between the silent mirror facing her, behind which the Prince might once more be watching, and the unpleasant sensation that she herself was the focus of an insistent gaze.
She could feel that gaze between her bare shoulders and on the back of her neck where her hair was piled up into a heavy chignon to support the diadem. It slid over her skin, dwelling on the soft curve of her neck with an almost magnetic force, as if someone were trying, by sheer force of will, to attract her attention. At last, her overwrought nerves could bear it no longer. She turned quickly but met nothing but Matteo's frozen stare. He seemed so indifferent that she thought she must have been mistaken but no sooner had she turned back than the sensation was renewed, more distinctly than ever.
Her discomfort increased until she welcomed with relief the end of this obligatory ceremony. She signed, without so much as glancing at it, the act of settlement which the lawyer presented to her with a low bow, then her eyes went to her godfather's and he smiled at her.
'Now we can go to the chapel,' he said. 'Father Amundi is already waiting for us there.'
Marianne had expected the chapel to be situated somewhere in the building but she realized that she was mistaken when she saw Dona Lavinia coming towards her with a long, black velvet cloak which she placed on her shoulders, taking care to put up the hood.
'The chapel is in the park,' she explained. 'The night is warm but it is chilly under the trees.'
As he had done when leading her from her room, the cardinal took his god-daughter's hand and led her solemnly to the great marble steps where footmen armed with torches awaited them. The remainder of the little procession formed up behind them. Marianne saw that Matteo Damiani had offered his arm to the aged Marquis del Carreto, next came Count Gherardesca with Dona Lavinia, who had thrown a black lace shawl hastily over her head and shoulders. The lawyer and his brief-case had vanished.
In this way they descended into the park. As they emerged, Marianne saw Gracchus and Agathe waiting in the loggia. They were staring at the approaching procession with such flAbbérgasted expressions that Marianne suddenly wanted to laugh. They had clearly not yet taken in the incredible news which their mistress had imparted to them before she dressed, that she was here in order to marry an unknown prince, and if they were too well-mannered to make any comment, the dismay on their honest faces gave a good idea of their thoughts. Marianne smiled at them as she passed and indicated that they were to follow after Dona Lavinia.
'They must think I am mad,' she thought. 'Agathe does not matter. She is a nice girl but she has no more brain than a linnet. But Gracchus is a different matter. I shall have to speak to him. He has a right to know a little more.'
The night was black as ink. The sky was starless and invisible but a slight wind blew the torches carried by the lackeys. A low, distant rumbling presaged a storm but the cortege advanced at a slow, solemn pace which set Marianne's teeth on edge. She muttered under her breath. 'This is more like a funeral procession than a marriage! There ought to be a friar chanting the Dies Irae!'
The cardinal's hand tightened on hers until it hurt.
'A little more conduct!' he chided softly, without looking at her. 'It is not for us to impose our wishes here. We must obey the Prince's orders.'
'They indicate his joy at this marriage!'
'Do not be bitter. And above all, do not be stupid and cruel. No one could desire the joy of a true wedding more than Corrado. For you, this is no more than a formality – for him it is a source of bitter regrets.'
Marianne accepted the reproof without protest, aware that she had deserved it. She gave a sad little smile and asked in a different tone: 'All the same, there is one thing I should like to know.'
'And that is?'
'My – Prince Corrado's age.'
'Twenty-eight, or a little more, I believe.'
'What? Is he so young?'
'I thought I told you he was not old.'
'Yes, but – so young!'
She forbore to add that she had pictured a man in his forties. To one like Gauthier Chazay on the brink of old age, forty was the prime of life. But now she discovered that the unfortunate whose name she was to bear, whom a cruel fate had condemned to perpetual seclusion was, like herself, young, with all the same youthful aspirations towards life, and happiness and freedom. The recollection of that muffled voice, with its weight of sadness, filled her with an immense pity, joined to a real desire to help him, to lighten as far as might be possible the sufferings she could imagine.
'Godfather,' she whispered. 'I would like to help him – give him, perhaps, a little affection. Why does he so stubbornly refuse to let me see him?'
'You must leave it to time, Marianne. In time Corrado may perhaps come to think differently – although I do not expect it. Remember only, if it will make it easier for you, that you are bringing him the thing he has always dreamed of: a child to bear his name.'
'Even though he will not be its real father! He asked me – to bring him here from time to time. I will do it gladly.'
'But – were you not listening to the marriage contract? You have pledged yourself to bring the child here once a year.'
'I – no, I did not hear,' she confessed, a slow flush spreading over her face. 'I must have been thinking of something else.'
'It was hardly the time,' the cardinal said gruffly. 'You signed, at all events —'
'And I will keep my word. After what you have told me I shall even be glad to do it. Poor – poor Prince! I would like to be a friend to him, a sister. Indeed I should!'
'God grant that you may,' the cardinal sighed. 'But I do not hope for it.'
The avenue that led to the chapel lay behind the right wing of the house, a little way beyond the gateway leading to the stables. As she rounded the corner of her new home, Marianne saw that the mirror-like sheets of water surrounded it on all four sides, but that stretching almost the whole length of the rear of the building was an elaborate grotto, built around the entrance to a cavern.
Bronze lanterns attached to every pillar illuminated the whole of this remarkable edifice and were reflected in long, gold streamers in the water, giving to the whole the air of a Venetian carnival. Then the way leading to the chapel passed under the shade of a small grove of trees and the elegant grotto was lost to sight. Soon, even the lights of the villa disappeared, showing no more than an occasional glimmer between the leaves.
The chapel itself, raised up in a small clearing, was a low, dumpy building of considerable age. In style, it was a very early romanesque, expressed in massive walls, pierced by few apertures, and rounded arches. Its primitive solidity contrasted with the somewhat artificial elegance of the palace and its encircling waters, like some obstinate, cross-grained elderly relative, sternly disapproving the follies of youth.
The small, arched doorway was open, allowing a glimpse of lighted candles within, an ancient altar stone covered with an immaculate white cloth and the golden cope of the old priest waiting there. There was also a curious, black shape which Marianne was unable to make out clearly from outside. It was only when she stood actually on the threshold of the church that she saw what it was. Black velvet curtains had been hung from the low vaulted roof, cutting off half of the choir, and she realized that the brief hope which she had cherished of being allowed at least a glimpse of the Prince's figure during the ceremony had failed. He was, or would be, concealed within that velvet alcove, next to which were a chair and a prie-dieu, the pair, no doubt, to others placed behind the curtains.
'Even here —' she began. The cardinal nodded.
'Even here. Only the priest will be able to see both parties, for the curtains are open on the altar side. It is necessary that he should be able to see both husband and wife as they make their vows.'
With a weary sigh, Marianne allowed herself to be led to the place prepared for her. Close by, a huge white wax candle burned in a silver sconce standing on the floor but, apart from the sacred vessels and the altar cloth, no other preparations had been made for the ceremony. The little chapel was cold and damp, with the musty smell of buildings that are never aired. Along tie walls of the nave, long dead Sant'Annas slept in effigies of stone upon their ancient tombs. It was a cheerless place and Marianne was reminded of a play she had seen once, in London, in which the hero, under sentence of death, was allowed to marry the heroine in the prison chapel on the night before his execution. There, too, the prisoner had been separated from his bride by an iron grating, and Marianne recalled how vividly the sombre and dramatic scene had impressed her. Now she herself was to play the part of the bride and the union to be solemnized here would be just as brief. When they left the chapel they would be divided as surely as if the executioner's axe were to fall on one of them. Indeed, the man waiting silently behind the frail wall of velvet was also under sentence in his way. His youth sentenced him to Life, when life was an abomination.
The cardinal and the witnesses had taken their places a little way behind but Marianne saw to her surprise that Matteo Damiani had gone to the altar to assist the priest. He was now wearing a white surplice over his massive shoulders from which his bull neck emerged with a plebeian strength in curious contrast to certain traits of nobility in his features. It was a Roman face, beyond a doubt, but not a handsome one: perhaps it was the mouth that was too full, too heavily sensual, or the eyes, fixed and unblinking, whose gaze so soon became an intolerable burden. All through the service, Marianne was conscious of those eyes on her and when at last she turned on him a glance sparkling with anger and disdain the steward's bold stare did not waver and it seemed to her that there was even a cold, fleeting smile on his ugly lips. It so enraged her that for a moment she forgot the man who stood on the other side of the curtain, so near and yet so far away.
Never in her life had she given so little of her attention to the mass. Her whole being was taken up with the already familiar voice which she now heard praying almost uninterruptedly, praying aloud with a fervour and devotion that she found strangely disturbing. It had not occurred to her that the master of a domain of such sensual beauty could be the ardent Christian those prayers revealed. She had never heard such an agonizing combination of melancholy resignation and entreaty on any human lips. Surely, such prayers belonged only to the most strictly enclosed orders, places where the pitiless monastic rule foreshadowed the final annihilation of the grave? Little by little, she forgot Matteo Damiani in listening to that astonishing voice.
The time for the marriage vows had come. The chaplain descended the two stone steps and stood before the strange couple. As if in a dream, Marianne heard him put the ritual question to the Prince and in a moment the voice answered him with unexpected strength.
'In the sight of God and of men, I, Corrado, Prince of Sant'Anna, do here take as my lawful wedded wife…'
The sacred words rang out like a challenge, filling Marianne's ears like the rumble of a storm, and they were given a sinister emphasis by the violent clap of thunder which just then burst directly over the chapel. She blenched as if struck by a premonition of disaster and her own voice shook when her turn came to utter the formal vows. Then the priest said quietly: 'Join your hands.'
The black curtains parted. Wide-eyed Marianne saw a black velvet sleeve, a lace cuff and a hand, gloved in white kid, extended towards her. It was a very large hand, strong and long-fingered, and the glove moulded it perfectly: the hand of a very tall and active man. Trembling suddenly at this real, tangible object Marianne stared, fascinated, not daring to place her own within it. There was something about that open palm, those extended fingers, which was both attractive and alarming. It was like a trap.
'You must place your hand in his,' whispered the cardinal's voice in her ear.
All eyes were on her. Father Amundi's held surprise, the cardinal's a mixture of command and entreaty, Matteo Damiani's were sardonic. It may have been the last which decided her. She placed her hand firmly in the one held out to receive it. The fingers closed on it gently, almost delicately, as if they feared to hurt her. Marianne felt, through the glove, the firm, living warmth of the flesh. The words she had heard so short a time before came back to her.
'We shall never be as close again,' the voice had said.
Now, the old priest was pronouncing the final blessing, the words half drowned by a second peal of thunder.
'I declare you man and wife, for better for worse, until death do you part.'
Marianne felt the hand that held hers quiver. Another hand appeared through the crack in the curtains, for just long enough to slip a broad gold band on her finger, then both hands were withdrawn, taking hers with them. A tremor ran through her. Two lips were pressed to her fingertips before her hand was released.
The brief, physical link was broken. There was nothing behind the wall of velvet, only a sigh. Father Amundi kneeled in prayer at the altar, his back beneath his chasuble so bent that he looked like a bundle of cloth, reflecting the light from its folds. Another thunderclap, more violent than either of the two preceding ones, made the very walls reverberate with the din. At that moment, the heavens opened. Water poured down, drumming on the roof like a cataract. Within seconds, the chapel and those inside it had become an enclosed world, cut off by the storm. The old priest trotted away to the tiny sacristy, bearing the altar vessels, but Matteo almost flung off his surplice.
'A carriage must be fetched!' he exclaimed. The princess cannot return to the villa in this.'
He was already making for the door when Gracchus suggested diffidently: 'May I come with you, to help?'
The steward looked at him. 'There are plenty of servants to do that, and you are not familiar with our horses. Stay here.'
Beckoning authoritatively to two of the servants who had carried the torches, he opened the door and plunged out, head down, into the storm, hurling himself into the wind like a charging bull. After one bewildered glance at the black curtains, behind which there was now no sound of movement, as if the Prince had vanished miraculously into thin air, Marianne sought refuge beside her godfather. This sudden storm, breaking out at the very moment of her marriage, was more than she could bear.
'It is an omen,' she breathed. 'An evil omen.'
'Have you grown superstitious now?' he scolded her in an undertone. This was not the way you were brought up. I suppose you have caught this from the Corsican? They say he is inordinately superstitious.'
She recoiled before his ill-concealed anger. She could think of no reason for it, unless it was that he too had been struck by the storm and was trying to counteract his own feelings. He might have hoped to crush Marianne's childish fears beneath his own adult contempt but the result he achieved was quite different. The reminder of Napoleon was a salutary one for Marianne. It was as if the all-powerful Corsican had suddenly come into the chapel with his eagle eye and that unyielding hardness against which even the strongest broke themselves in vain. She heard his mocking laughter and the evil spell was broken. It was for his sake that she had been forced to accept this curious marriage, for the sake of the child that he had given her. Very soon, tomorrow, she would set out again for France, to him, and all this would be no more than a bad dream.
In a few minutes, Matteo reappeared. Without a word, but with a gesture so full of pride that it dared her to refuse him, he offered his hand to Marianne to lead her to the carriage. But she ignored him and, with an icy stare, made her own way to the door. She had entered the chapel on her godfather's arm: since there was no husband there to give her his arm, she intended to leave it alone. This man with his bold stare must learn to know that from now on she meant to be treated as sovereign mistress here.
Outside, the carriage was waiting with the steps already let down and the door held open by an expressionless and dripping lackey. But between it and the little porch stretched a large puddle, fed by a heavy curtain of water. Marianne swept the train of her precious gown over her arm.
'If your highness permits…' said a voice. Before she could utter a word of protest, Matteo had picked her up bodily in his arms and lifted her over the obstacle. She gave one squeak and then stiffened, shrinking from the hateful touch of his broad hands damped firmly round her thighs and under her arms, but his grip only tightened.
'Your highness should take care,' he said blandly. 'Your highness might fall in the mud.'
Marianne was obliged to let him place her on the cushioned seat of the carriage but she had hated feeling herself, even for an instant, pressed to that man's chest and she merely thanked him curtly, without a single glance. Not even the sight of the little cardinal, all bundled up in his red robes, being transported in the same fashion had the power to erase the angry frown from her brow.
'Tomorrow,' she said through her teeth, as soon as he was set down beside her, 'I am going home!'
'So soon? Is that not a little – hasty? I should have thought that you owed it to – to your husband, and the consideration he has shown you, to remain for, shall we say, a week, at least?'
'I do not feel comfortable in this house.'
'Yet you have promised to return here once a year. Come now, Marianne, is it so difficult to do as I ask? We have not seen one another for so long. I had hoped that you would have been willing to spend these few days with me?'
The green eyes, beneath lowered lids, looked sideways at Gauthier de Chazay.
'You will stay?'
'But of course! My child, don't you think I am looking forward to having my little Marianne again, for a little while, who used to come running to meet me under the trees at Selton?'
The unexpected reference brought the tears starting to Marianne's eyes.
'I thought – I thought you had forgotten that.'
'Because I did not speak of it? It is all the more dear to me. I keep the memory of those days hidden away in the most secret corner of my old heart and, now and then, when I feel very depressed, I open it up and peep inside.'
'Depressed? Nothing ever seems to depress you, godfather.'
'Because I do not let it appear? I am getting old, Marianne, and tired. Stay a little while, my child. We both need to be together again, to forget, in each other's company, that there are such things as kings and wars and intrigues, especially intrigues. Do this for me – in memory of other days.'
The warmth of renewed affection had its influence on the dinner-party which took place shortly afterwards in the ancient banqueting hall of the villa. This was a vast room, lofty as a cathedral and paved with black marble beneath a marvellous ceiling composed of repeated representations of the curious arms of Sant'Anna, a gold snake and a unicorn on a field sable.
The walls of the hall were painted with frescoes by an unknown artist depicting the legend of the unicorn, executed with great freshness of colouring and a charming naivety. This was the first room in the villa which really appealed to Marianne. Except for the table, which was lavishly spread and decorated, there was less gold to be seen than elsewhere and the effect was, on the whole, restful.
Seated at the long table with the cardinal facing her at the other end, she did the honours of the meal as gracefully as if she had been in her own house in the rue de Lille. The aged Marquis del Carreto, who was somewhat hard of hearing, was not the most enlivening of conversationalists. Count Gherardesca, however, conversed with ease and wit. In the course of the meal, Marianne learned from him all the latest gossip of the court of Florence, including that of the Grand Duchess Elisa's intimacy with the handsome Cenami and of her more turbulent affair with Paganini, the satanic violinist. A gentle hint was also allowed to drop that Napoleon's sister would be pleased to welcome the new Princess Sant'Anna at her court, but Marianne declined the invitation.
'I have little taste for court life, Count. Had my husband been able to present me himself to her imperial highness, it would have been a great joy to me. But, as matters stand…'
The old nobleman directed at her a glance full of understanding.
'In marrying my unhappy cousin, Princess, you have performed an act of great charity. But you are young and beautiful, and there are limits to devotion. There are none, among the nobility of this country, who would condemn you should you choose to go into society without your husband, since, alas, Prince Corrado's temper leads him to live the life of a recluse.'
'I thank you for saying so but indeed, just at present, I am not tempted to do so. Later, perhaps – and I should be grateful if you will convey my apologies, and my respects to her imperial highness.'
While her lips were almost mechanically framing the polite, formal words, Marianne's eyes were studying the Count's pleasant features in an effort to guess how much he knew of his cousin. Did he know what it was that forced Corrado Sant'Anna to lead this terrible existence? He had spoken of his 'temper' when the Prince had himself confessed that he did not wish to give her a horror of him. She might have questioned him more closely but the cardinal, as though guessing her intention, turned the conversation into other channels by asking the Count about the recent measures which had been taken against the religious houses and the meal ended without an opportunity to return to the subject that she most wished to know about.
The two witnesses took their leave immediately on rising from table, putting forward their age as their excuse for not remaining longer. One was bound for his palace at Lucca, the other for a villa he owned in the country nearby, but both used their exquisite, old-world courtesy to express their hope of soon meeting again 'the prettiest of princesses'.
'Well, you have made two conquests,' Gauthier de Chazay remarked with a mischievous smile. 'One must make allowances, of course, for the excitability of the Italian temperament, but even so… Not that I am altogether surprised. But,' his smile faded, 'I trust the ravages of your beauty will stop there.'
'What do you mean?'
'That I should infinitely have preferred it if Corrado had not seen you. You see, I wished to give him a little happiness. I should be deeply distressed to cause him any pain.'
'What makes you suddenly say this? You knew I was not precisely repulsive.'
'It is a very sudden thought,' the cardinal admitted. 'Do you know, Marianne, that Corrado did not take his eyes off you all through the meal?'
She shivered. What? But – how could he? He was not present!' Then, as she recalled the red damask salon: There was no mirror…'
'No, but there are places in the ceiling where the carving can be put aside to allow a view of what is passing in the room, old spy holes which had a certain usefulness in the days when the Sant'Annas were involved in political life. I know them well. I saw a pair of eyes – which could have belonged to no one else. If this unfortunate should fall in love with you —'
'You see, it is best that I should go.'
'No. That would appear like flight and you would wound him. After all – we may give him that small happiness. And who knows? It may encourage him one day not to conceal himself so completely from you, if not from others.'
But Marianne's momentary relaxation had gone and her discomfort returned. In spite of the cardinal's comforting words, she felt a kind of horror at the idea that the owner of that sad voice could fall in love with her. She tried with all her might to cling to the terms of the bargain, for that was all it was, a contract, and that was all it must ever be. And yet, what if Gauthier de Chazay were right and she had brought this unseen man a new burden of pain and regrets? Remembering the kiss that had been pressed on her fingers, she shivered.
She regained her own bedchamber to find Agathe in a state of complete bewilderment. The strange ceremony which she had witnessed, added to the terror already inspired in her by the palace, had plunged the poor girl into total disarray. She stood beside Dona Lavinia, who was as imperturbable as ever, trembling like a leaf and at her mistress's entrance sank into a curtsey so deep that it landed her on the floor. This was all that was needed to put her in hysterics and the housekeeper's reproving eye finished the matter. Without even attempting to get up, Agathe burst into tears.
'Tut!' said Dona Lavinia. 'Has the girl lost her wits?'
'No,' Marianne answered calmly, 'she is merely frightened. You must forgive her, Dona Lavinia. I had told her nothing and it has all been such a shock to her. The journey, too, was very trying.'
Between the two of them, they managed to get Agathe to her feet, mumbling desperate apologies.
'Oh mad – madame – your highness – forgive me. I – I don't know what came over me. I – I —'
'Her highness is perfectly right,' Dona Lavinia said briskly, thrusting a handkerchief into her hand. 'You are hysterical, my girl. What you need is a good night's rest. With your permission, madame, I will see her to bed and give her a sedative. She will be better tomorrow.'
'Thank you, Dona Lavinia, if you will.'
'I will be back immediately to help your highness to undress.'
While the housekeeper bore off the still weeping Agathe, Marianne walked over to a big Venetian mirror in front of which was a low, Chinese lacquered table bearing innumerable bottles and toilet articles in crystal and solid gold. She felt horribly tired and all she wanted now was to go to bed. Now that the covers had been drawn back, revealing clean, white linen sheets, the great gilded bed looked much more welcoming. A soft night light was burning below the huge, curtained baldaquin and the big, down-filled pillows were an irresistible invitation to sleep.
She could feel one of her headaches coming on and the diadem seemed to weigh very heavy on her temples. Not without difficulty, for it was firmly anchored with pins, she managed to rid herself of it, laid it on the table without so much as a glance and finished letting down her hair. The dress, too, with its crusted embroidery and long train, was beginning to irk her and Marianne set about getting it off without waiting for Dona Lavinia. With a twist of her slim waist, which gave as yet no hint of her approaching motherhood, she unfastened the hooks, then wriggled it off her shoulders and, with a sigh of relief, allowed the heavy fabric to fall to the floor. She stepped out of it, picked up the dress and threw it over a chair, stripped off stockings and petticoats and then, wearing only her flimsy cambric shift with its trimmings of Valenciennes lace, she stretched like a cat and sighed happily. But the sigh was choked off in a scream of terror. There, in the mirror opposite, was a man, his eyes devouring her greedily.
She swung round but saw only the other mirrors on the wall reflecting nothing but the quiet candlelight. There was no one in the room. Yet Marianne could have sworn that it was Matteo Damiani who had been there, watching her with lustful eyes as she undressed. But there was nothing there. The silence was absolute. Not a sound, not a breath.
Her legs felt weak and she subsided on to the brocade-covered stool that stood before the dressing-table and passed a trembling hand across her face. Had it been an hallucination? Had the steward made such an impression on her that she was beginning to see him everywhere? Or was it simply fatigue? She could no longer be quite sure that she had really seen him. She had heard that nerves strained to breaking point could conjure up phantoms, bring forms and faces into being where none existed.
Dona Lavinia returned to find her lying on the stool, half-naked and white as a sheet. She wrung her hands agitatedly.
'Your highness should not have done it,' she exclaimed reproachfully. 'Why did you not wait for me? See, you are trembling all over. You are not ill?'
'No, just exhausted, Dona Lavinia. I can't wait to get into bed, and sleep. Won't you give me some of whatever it was you gave to Agathe? I want to be sure to sleep well.'
'It's only natural after such a day.'
In a very few moments, Marianne was lying in bed while Dona Lavinia brought her a warm tisane, its pleasant scent already beginning to relax her tired nerves. She drank it gratefully, longing to escape from her wild imaginings. She was sure that, without some outside aid, she would never manage to get to sleep, however tired she was, while she could still see that face. As though guessing something of her trouble, Dona Lavinia sat down on a chair near the bed.
'I will stay here until your highness is asleep,' she promised, 'and be sure that nothing disturbs you.'
Relieved, although she would not admit it, of a weight on her mind, Marianne closed her eyes and let the tisane take its soothing effect. Within minutes, she was fast asleep.
Dona Lavinia sat still in her chair. She had taken a set of ivory beads from her pocket and was quietly saying her prayers. Quite suddenly, there came a sound of horses' hooves galloping in the darkness, softly at first, then growing louder. The housekeeper rose noiselessly and went to the window, pulling one of the curtains a little aside. Outside, in the thick darkness, a white shape appeared, moved swiftly across the grass and vanished as fast as it had come: a white horse going at full gallop, bearing a dark figure on its back.
Dona Lavinia let fall the curtain with a sigh and returned to her place at Marianne's bedside. She felt no desire for sleep. On this night, more than any other, she felt the need to pray, both for the sleeper in the room and for that other whom she loved like her own child; if happiness were impossible, she prayed that heaven would grant them at least the gentle numbness of peace.
When Marianne awoke after a night's uninterrupted slumber to a room flooded with brilliant sunshine, she was fully herself again. The previous night's storm had washed everything clean and such debris of broken branches and wind-tossed leaves as it had left about the park had been already swept up by the gardeners of the villa. Grass and trees put forth their brightest green and all the sweet fresh smells of the warm countryside were wafted in at the open windows, bringing the mingled scents of hay and honey-suckle, cypress and rosemary.
Just as when she closed her eyes, she opened them to find Dona Lavinia standing by her bedside, smilingly arranging a huge armful of roses in a pair of tall vases.
'His highness desired that the first thing you saw this morning should be the loveliest of all flowers.' She hesitated. There is this, also.'
'This' was a sandalwood box and a number of black leather cases stamped with the arms of Sant'Anna but all bearing the unmistakable signs of wear inseparable from old things.
'What are they?' Marianne asked.
The jewels of the princesses of Sant'Anna, my lady. Those which belonged to Dona Adriana, our Prince's mother, and – and those of the other princesses. Some of them are very old.'
There was, in fact, jewellery of every description, from ancient and very lovely cameos to an assortment of curious oriental objects, but the greater part was made up of heavy renaissance ornaments, huge baroque pearls made to look like sirens and centaurs in settings of multicoloured gems. There was jewellery of more modern workmanship also; ropes of diamonds to adorn a décolletage, dusters of brilliants, collars and necklaces of gold and precious stones. There was also a number of unset stones and when Marianne had examined everything, Dona Lavinia produced a small silver casket lined with black velvet on which reposed twelve incomparable emeralds. They were huge, rough-cut stones of a deep, translucent green and intense luminosity, certainly the finest Marianne had ever seen. Even those which Napoleon had given her could not begin to match their beauty. And suddenly, the housekeeper echoed the Emperor's words.
'His highness said that they were the same green as my lady's eyes. His grandfather, Prince Sebastiano, brought them back from Peru for his wife, but she did not care for the stones.'
'Why ever not?' Marianne was holding the perfect gems up to watch the play of light upon them. 'They are beautiful!'
'They were thought in earlier times to be a symbol of peace and love. Dona Lucinda believed in love – but she hated peace.'
So it was that Marianne heard for the first time the name of the woman who had been so enamoured of her own reflection that she had covered the walls of her room with mirrors. But there was no time to ask more. Dona Lavinia informed her with a curtsey that her bath was prepared and the cardinal awaited her company at breakfast. Before the new Princess could summon up courage to ask her to stay and answer her questions, she had gone, leaving her to Agathe's ministrations. A shadow had undoubtedly passed over the old woman's face, a faint darkening of her eyes as if she regretted having uttered that name, and she had certainly been in a hurry to be gone. Clearly, she was anxious to avoid the questions that she sensed were coming.
When Marianne joined her godfather in the library, where he had ordered breakfast to be served, she lost no time in asking the question which had put Dona Lavinia to flight. She began by describing how she had been presented with the ancestral jewels.
'Who was the Prince's grandmother? I gather that her name was Lucinda but no one seems anxious to talk about her. Do you know why?'
The cardinal spread a thick layer of delicious-smelling tomato sauce over his pasta then added cheese and mixed the whole carefully together. At length, having tasted the resultant combination, he said coolly: 'No. I have no idea.'
'Oh come, that is surely impossible! I know you have been acquainted with the Sant'Annas for ever. Otherwise how does it come about that you are permitted to share the secret which surrounds Prince Corrado? You must know something of this Lucinda. Say, rather, that you will not tell me.'
The cardinal chuckled. 'You are longing to know so much that in a moment you will be calling me a liar,' he said. 'Well, my dear, let me tell you that a prince of the Church does not tell lies, or at least, no more than a simple parish priest. It is quite true that I know very little, beyond the fact that she was a Venetian, of the noble family of Soranzo, and extremely beautiful.'
'Hence the mirrors! But the mere fact of being beautiful and over-fond of her own reflection does not explain the kind of reserve which everyone here seems to feel with regard to her. Even her portrait seems to have vanished.'
'I should add that, by what I have heard, Dona Lucinda's reputation was – er – unsavoury. There are those among the few people still alive who knew her who claim that she was mad, others say that she was something of a witch, or at least in league with the devil. Such things do not make for popularity here – or elsewhere.'
Marianne had an idea that the cardinal was being deliberately evasive. For all the trust and respect in which she held her godfather, she could not help having an odd suspicion that he was not telling her the truth, or at any rate not the whole truth. Determined, however, to drive him as far as possible, she asked innocently, while pretending to be absorbed in the selection of cherries from a basket of fruit: 'Where is she buried? In the chapel?'
The cardinal choked as if he had swallowed a mouthful the wrong way but it seemed to Marianne that his subsequent fit of coughing was not altogether accidental and that it was designed to cover up the sudden flush which coloured his cheeks. However, she smiled prettily and offered him a glass of water.
'Drink this. It will help.'
'Thank you. Her grave – hmm – no, there is not one.'
'No grave?'
'No. Lucinda died tragically in a fire. Her body was never recovered. No doubt there is, somewhere in the chapel, an inscription – er – commemorating the fact. Now, do you care to step outside and take a look at your new estate? The weather is perfect and the park is looking its best. There are the stables, too. You will certainly be impressed by them. You used to be so fond of horses as a child. Did you know that the animals here are of the same stock as those in the famous Imperial Riding School in Vienna? They are Lipizzaners. The Archduke Charles, who founded the famous stud at Lipizza in 1580, presented the Sant'Anna of the period with a stallion and two mares. Ever since then, the princes of this house have devoted themselves to the perfecting of the breed.'
Once the cardinal had begun on this subject it was impossible to stem the flow, much less to bring him back to one which, like Dona Lavinia, he clearly preferred to avoid. This flood of eloquence was intended to prevent Marianne from getting a word in and at the same time give her thoughts another direction. In this it was to some extent successful for as soon as the two of them entered the vast stable yard, Marianne temporarily forgot the mysterious Lucinda in abandonment to her lifelong passion for horses. She found, too, that her coachman, Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche, was there before her, apparently as happy as a pig in clover. Although he spoke no Italian, he had succeeded in making himself perfectly understood with his Parisian street urchin's capacity for mime. He was already friends with all the grooms and stable lads who instantly recognized a fellow worshipper at the shrine of the horse.
'This place is heaven, Mademoiselle Marianne!' he exclaimed joyfully as soon as he set eyes on her. 'I never saw finer animals!'
'Well, if you want to be allowed in here much longer, young man,' the cardinal observed, half-angry, half-amused, 'you will have to learn to say your highness – or even your serene highness, if you prefer.'
Gracchus blushed violently and stammered: 'Ser – you'll have to be patient with me, mad – I mean your highness. I'm not sure I'll find it easy to get it right first off.'
'Just call me madame, Gracchus, and that will do very well. Now, show me the horses.'
They were in truth magnificent, full of fire and blood, with powerful shoulders and strong, slender legs. Nearly all of them had pure white coats. A few were pitch black, but no less beautiful. Marianne had no need to feign admiration. She had an excellent eye for the points of a horse and within an hour had succeeded in convincing all the inhabitants of the stables that the new Princess was altogether worthy of the family. Her beauty did the rest and by the time she returned to the villa, late in the afternoon, Marianne left behind her one small world irrevocably won, much to the cardinal's satisfaction.
'Do you realize what you are going to mean to them? A real, live mistress, someone visible who can understand them. Your coming is a real relief to them.'
'I am glad of it, although they will have to continue to do without me for a great part of the time. You know that I must go back to Paris – if only to explain my new position to the Emperor. You do not know him in his rages.'
'I can imagine it. But you are under no compulsion to go. If you were to remain here...'
'He would be quite capable of sending an armed guard to fetch me, just as he escorted you – or your double – to Rheims. No, I thank you. I have always preferred to stand and fight and this time I mean to explain myself in person.'
'What you mean is that you would not for the world lose this opportunity of seeing him again.' The cardinal sighed. 'You are still in love with him.'
'Have I ever denied it?' Marianne retorted proudly. 'I do not think I ever pretended otherwise. Yes, I do love him still. I may regret it as much as you, although for different reasons, but I love him and that is all there is to it.'
'I know. We need not quarrel about that again. There are times when you put me very much in mind of your Aunt Ellis. The same impatience and the same relish for a fight! And the same generosity. Never mind. I know you will come back here, and that is what matters.'
The sun was going down behind the trees in the park and Marianne watched its descent with a sense of foreboding. The coming of twilight wrapped the domain in an indefinable sadness, as if life as well as light were being withdrawn.
Marianne shivered suddenly as they made their way back to the house and hugged the muslin shawl that went with her simple white dress more closely about her shoulders. Walking slowly beside the cardinal, she stared up at the white mass of the house as it loomed up before them. They were approaching it now from the right, the side where Prince Corrado had his apartments. The tall windows were dark. Possibly the curtains were already drawn but if so no chink of light showed through.
'Do you think,' she said suddenly, 'that I ought to thank the Prince for the jewels he sent me this morning? Surely it would be the merest politeness?'
'No. It would be a mistake. As far as Corrado is concerned, they are rightfully yours. You are their keeper, in much the same way as the French king was keeper of the crown jewels. One does not return thanks for such a charge.'
'But the emeralds —'
'Are doubtless a personal gift – to the Princess Sant'Anna. You will wear them, display them – and hand them on to your descendants. No, it is useless to try and approach him. I am sure he does not wish for it. If you would please him, wear the jewels he has given you. That will be the best way to show him your pleasure.'
For dinner that night, which she took sitting opposite the cardinal in the vast dining-room, Marianne clasped a large, antique brooch of pearls and rubies in a gold setting to the low-cut bosom of her high-waisted dress. Heavy, matching ear-rings hung from her ears. But although she kept glancing discreetly at the ceiling throughout the meal she saw no sign of movement and no eyes watching her, and she was surprised to note a small pang of disappointment. She knew that she was looking beautiful and she would have liked her beauty to be a silent tribute to her unseen husband, a kind of thank you. But she saw no one, not even Matteo Damiani on whom she had not set eyes all that day. When she met Dona Lavinia later, on her return to her own room, a question sprang naturally to her lips.
'Has the Prince gone away?'
'Why, no, your highness. Why should you think so?'
'I have seen no sign of his presence all day, not even his secretary or Father Amundi.'
'Matteo has been seeing some tenants at some distance and the chaplain has been with his highness. He rarely leaves his own apartments, unless for the chapel or the library. Do you desire me to inform Matteo that you wish to see him?'
'By no means,' Marianne said, rather too quickly. 'I was merely asking.'
That night in bed she found it hard to sleep and lay for several hours unable to close her eyes. Round about midnight, just as she was beginning at last to fall into a doze, she heard the sound of a horse galloping across the park and roused for a moment to listen. Then, reflecting that it was most probably Matteo Damiani returning home, she relaxed and, closing her eyes, fell into a deep sleep.
The next few days passed quietly, in much the same way as the first. Marianne explored the estate, accompanied by the cardinal, and drove out several times to see the surrounding countryside in one of the many carriages which belonged to the villa. She paid a visit to the baths of Lucca, and also to the gardens of the Grand Duchess Elisa's sumptuous villa at Marlia. The cardinal, dressed in plain black, attracted little attention but Marianne's beauty aroused admiration and a good deal of curiosity, for the news of the marriage had spread fast. People in the villages and country lanes came out to catch a glimpse of her, bowing deeply as she passed and regarding her with an admiration touched with compassion that drew a smile from Gauthier de Chazay.
'Do you know, they look on you practically as a saint?'
'Me? A saint? How absurd!'
'The general belief in these parts is that Corrado Sant'Anna is a desperately sick man. They are impressed that you, who are so young and beautiful, should give yourself to one so afflicted. When the birth of the child is announced you will be hailed almost as a martyr.'
'How can you make a joke of it!' Marianne was shocked by the prelate's lightly cynical tone.
'My dear child, if one is to get through life without being too much hurt, the best way is to look for the funny side of things. Besides, it was necessary for you to know the reason why they regard you in this way. Now it is done.'
Most of Marianne's time, however, was spent in the stables, in spite of the cardinal's remonstrances. He did not consider the stables a proper place for a great lady, besides which it alarmed him that in her condition she should spend long hours in the saddle, mounting each animal in turn in order to discover at first hand its merits and defects. Marianne laughed at his fears. She was in the best of health. No sickness troubled her, and the open air life suited her to perfection. Rinaldo, the head groom, followed her everywhere, like a large dog, as with the skirts of her habit flung over her arm (she had not dared to adopt the masculine dress which she preferred for riding for fear of causing a scandal), she tramped for miles over the fields where the horses were pastured.
On her return from these exhausting treks she would eat a hearty dinner and then tumble into bed to sleep like a child until sunrise. Even the curious sadness which descended on the villa each night with the gathering darkness no longer affected her. The Prince had made no further sign, except for a message to express his delight at her interest in his horses, and Matteo Damiani appeared to be keeping his distance. On those occasions when he chanced to meet Marianne, he merely bowed deeply, inquired after her health and then effaced himself.
The week slipped by, swiftly and without incident, and so pleasantly that she was hardly aware of it until it dawned on her at last that she was not particularly anxious to return to Paris. The deadly weariness of the journey, the unbearable nervous tension, her agonies and fears had all vanished.
'After all,' she thought, 'why not stay here for a little while? There is nothing for me to do in Paris. The Emperor is unlikely to return for some time.'
Even Napoleon's honeymoon journey had ceased to trouble her. She was at peace with herself and so thoroughly enjoying the tranquillity of her new home that it even crossed her mind to spend the whole summer there and write to Jolival to join her.
But the end of the week brought the Abbé Bichette, back at last from his mysterious mission, and with him came a change. The cardinal, who had shown himself the most delightful and affectionate of companions, was closeted for hours on end with his secretary. He emerged wearing a deep frown, to inform Marianne that he was called away and must leave her.
'Must you really go?' she said, feeling disappointed. 'I was hoping that we should be able to prolong our stay here. It was so good to be together. But, since you are going, I will pack also.'
'But why? I shall only be away for a few days. Can you not wait for me here? I, too, have enjoyed being with you like this, Marianne. Why should we not make it last a little longer? When I return, I shall certainly be able to give you another week.'
'What shall I do here without you?'
The cardinal laughed. 'Why, just as you have done with me. Don't you think it might be a good idea to grow accustomed to, well, to reigning alone? It seemed to me that you enjoyed yourself here.'
'Yes, indeed, but…'
'Well? Gin you wait a few days for me? Five or six, at most. Is that really too much?'
'No.' Marianne smiled, 'I will wait for you. But next time, when you go, I shall go too.'
On this understanding, the cardinal left the villa that afternoon accompanied by the Abbé Bichette, as busy as ever and still bowed beneath a load of secrets, real or imaginary. But almost as soon as the carriage had rolled out through the gates Marianne was regretting her decision to stay. All the oppressive sensations of the first day returned, as if only the cardinal's presence had been keeping them at bay.
Turning, she saw Agathe standing behind her, her eyes full of tears. When she expressed surprise at this, Agathe clasped her hands together piteously.
'Aren't we going to go away as well?'
'Why should we? Aren't you happy here? I thought that Dona Lavinia was being very kind to you?'
'Oh yes. She is kindness itself. I am not frightened of her.'
'Of whom then?'
Agathe gestured vaguely, taking in the whole house.
'Of all this – this house which gets so sad at night, the silence when the fountains are turned off and the shadows that make you think something is going to jump out at you, and of his highness that no one ever sees – and the steward!'
Marianne frowned, disconcerted to find that her own uneasiness was shared by her maid, but she forced herself to answer lightly to avoid adding to Agathe's fears.
'Matteo? What has he done to you?'
'Nothing – but I feel as if he is stalking me. It's the way he has of looking at me when we meet, brushing against my dress when he passes by. I'm scared of him, my lady! I want to go away.'
Agathe was looking very white-faced and, remembering her own sensations, Marianne tried to laugh away her alarms.
'Come, Agathe, there is nothing so very dreadful in that. You won't tell me this is the first time a man has made up to you? I seem to recall that you were not short of admirers in Paris. What about the butler at the Hôtel de Beauharnais? Or even our own Gracchus? And you did not appear to mind them?'
'In Paris it was different,' Agathe persisted, her eyes downcast. 'Here, it is all so funny, not like other places. And that man scares me,' she added obstinately.
Well, you had better tell Gracchus. He will look after you, and stop you worrying. Would you like me to speak to Dona Lavinia?'
'No – she will only think I am being foolish.'
'And she would be right! A pretty girl should be able to take care of herself. Don't worry, anyway, we shall not be here much longer. His Eminence is coming back in a few days, but only for a short while this time, and when he goes away again so shall we.'
All the same, Agathe's fears had infected Marianne, adding to the uneasiness which she already felt. She did not like the idea of Matteo Damiani hanging round Agathe. He was a fine figure of a man and did not look his age, but the fact remained that he was well past fifty and Agathe not yet twenty. She made up her mind to put a stop to it, discreetly, but with the greatest firmness.
That evening, feeling unequal to dining alone in the huge dining-room, she gave orders that she should be served in her room. She begged Dona Lavinia to keep her company and put her to bed while Agathe took a turn about the park, with Gracchus for protection, on the excuse that the girl was looking peaked. But as soon as Marianne broached the subject which was occupying her mind the housekeeper seemed to retreat into herself like a sensitive plant.
'Your Highness must forgive me,' she said, with evident embarrassment, 'but I cannot undertake to say anything to Matteo Damiani.'
'Why ever not? Surely you are the person who has always had charge of the household, the servants and the running of the house?'
'That is so – but Matteo's position here is a special one and it is not for me to interfere in his concerns. For one thing, he is not a man to take kindly to criticism and, for another, he is deep in his highness's confidence, for he too served the Prince's parents. If I were to venture to offer the smallest hint, I should get nothing but a scornful laugh and a recommendation to mind my own business.'
'Indeed?' Marianne gave a tiny laugh. 'I imagine that I need have no such fears, however privileged the fellow may be.'
'Oh, your highness —!'
'Well, go and fetch him to me. We shall see who will have the last word. Agathe is my personal maid, she came with me from France and I will not have her life made a misery. Go, Dona Lavinia, and bring the steward to me at once.'
The housekeeper sank into a deep curtsey and departed, to return a few minutes later, but alone. She said that Matteo was nowhere to be found. He was not with the Prince or anywhere else in the house. It might be that he had been detained in Lucca, where he often had occasion to go, or at one of the farms…
Dona Lavinia spoke very fast, her words falling over one another, like a woman trying to sound convincing, but the more good reasons she produced for the steward's absence, the less Marianne believed her. Something told her that Matteo was not far away but that he did not wish to come.
'Very well,' she said at last. We will forget it for tonight, since he is not to be found, but tomorrow morning we shall see. Let him know that I shall expect him here first thing, or I shall ask the Prince – my husband to listen to me.'
Dona Lavinia said nothing but looked increasingly unhappy. While she performed Agathe's task of unpinning her mistress's black hair and brushing it for the night, Marianne could feel that her hands, usually so deft, were trembling. But she did not take pity on her. On the contrary, in an effort to shed some light on the mystery surrounding this unassailable steward, she did her best to press Dona Lavinia, almost cruelly, questioning her closely about Damiani's family and his connection with the Prince's parents. Dona Lavinia twisted and turned, returning such evasive answers that in the end Marianne was goaded into begging the housekeeper to go away and leave her to put herself to bed. Dona Lavinia made no secret of her relief and hurried from the room without waiting to be asked twice.
Left alone, Marianne took two or three restless turns about the room before she flung off her dressing-gown, blew out the candles and threw herself down on her bed. Ever since that morning, the country had been basking in a heat-wave and darkness had brought very little relief. In spite of the cooling effect of the many fountains, the heat, heavy and stifling, had during the day invaded the villa's large rooms and now it clung to the skin until Marianne, stretched out under the gilded hangings of her bed, was drenched with perspiration.
At last she sprang out of bed and drew back the curtains, flinging the windows wide open in the hope of a little relief from the feverish heat. The gardens, bathed in white moonlight, looked magical and unreal, deserted but for the musical rustle of the fountains. The shadows of the great trees stretched deep black over the colourless grass. Beyond the gardens, the countryside lay wrapped in silence, all nature seemed turned to stone. That night, the whole world seemed dead.
Marianne's throat was parched and she was just about to go back to her bed to pour herself a glass of water from the carafe on her night table when she stopped suddenly and turned back to the window. The distant sound of galloping hooves had reached her ears, a soft drumming that came slowly nearer, growing louder and sounding clearer. Something like white lightning flashed out from a grove of trees. In a moment, Marianne's sharp eyes had recognized Ilderim, the finest stallion in the stables and also the most difficult to mount, a snow-white thoroughbred of unbelievable beauty but capricious temper whom, for all her skill, she had not yet dared to try. She could see now the dark shape of a rider on his back but could not recognize him. He seemed tall and well-made but at that distance it was difficult to be sure of anything. One thing was certain: it was not Matteo Damiani or Rinaldi or any of the grooms. A second later, horse and rider had crossed the expanse of turf and were swallowed up once more in the shadow of the trees. The rhythmic hammering of the hooves died away and ceased altogether. But Marianne had had time to marvel at the rider's incomparable horsemanship. The dark, ghostly figure on the white horse had seemed one with his mount. Proud Ilderim recognized his master.
A sudden thought entered Marianne's mind and settled there, tormenting her until, unable to wait until morning for an answer, she strode over to the bell-rope hanging by her bedside and tugged it furiously, as if it were a matter of life and death. Dona Lavinia appeared almost at once, dad in her shift and a nightcap on her head, quite clearly terrified and fearing the worst. Finding Marianne out of bed and to all appearances perfectly cool, she let out a sigh of relief.
'Dear God, you frightened me! I thought your highness must be ill—'
'Do not alarm yourself, Dona Lavinia, I am quite well. I am truly sorry to have woken you but I want you to tell me something, at once, and as clearly as you can.'
The candle in Lavinia's hand trembled so violently that she was obliged to set it down.
'What is it you wish to know, my lady?'
Marianne gestured towards the open window by which she still stood and her eyes fixed themselves imperiously on the housekeeper's face which had turned chalk white in the moonlight.
'You know quite well, Dona Lavinia, what it is I wish to know, or you would not look so pale. Who was the man I saw just now, riding like the wind across the park? The horse he rode was Ilderim, whom I have not so far known anyone to mount. Tell me, who was he?'
'My lady – I —'
The unfortunate woman seemed scarcely able to stand. She clutched at a chair back for support but Marianne advanced on her relentlessly and seized her arm in a painful grip.
Who – was – it?'
'P-prince Corrado.'
Marianne's pent-up breath was released in a long sigh. She felt no surprise. Ever since she had first set eyes on the blurred figure of the rider, she had been prepared for this answer. But Dona Lavinia had dropped into a chair, and was weeping softly, her head in her hands. At the sight of her grief, Marianne was instantly filled with remorse and fell on her knees beside her, trying desperately to calm her.
'Calm yourself, Dona Lavinia. I did not mean to hurt you by questioning you like that, but you must see how dreadful it is for me to find myself in the midst of all this mystery!'
'I know – I do understand,' sobbed Lavinia. 'I knew, of course, that some night you were bound to see him and to ask me, but I hoped – God knows what I hoped.'
'That I would not remain long enough to see him, perhaps?'
'Perhaps. But it was a childish hope, because sooner or later… You see, my lady, he goes out like this nearly every night. He gallops for hours on Ilderim whom no one but himself can mount. It is his greatest joy – the only one he permits himself.' The housekeeper's voice broke. Marianne took both her hands and held them gently.
'Surely, he is too hard on himself, Dona Lavinia?' she said softly. 'The man I saw is not crippled or an invalid, if he were he could not ride Ilderim. He did not seem to me in any way abnormal. I thought he looked tall and, to all appearances, strong. Why should he hide himself like this, why condemn himself to this dreadful seclusion, why bury himself alive?'
'Because it is impossible for it to be otherwise. Impossible! Believe me, Princess, it is no morbid love of mystery or any wish to be eccentric which makes my poor boy hide himself from the world like this. It is because he cannot help himself.'
'But, the person I caught a glimpse of was in no way repulsive. He looked – he looked perfectly normal.'
'Perhaps it is – otherwise with his face.'
'That could only be an excuse. I have seen men with ghastly faces, disfigured by injuries, men one could hardly bear to look at, yet they still lived openly. I have even known men to wear masks,' she added, remembering Morvan and his scarred face.
'Corrado wears one when he goes out like this. Darkness and the shadow of a hat and cloak he does not think enough to hide him. But in the full light of day, even the mask would not be enough. I beg you, my lady, believe me, and do not try to find out, or to see him. He – he might die of shame!'
'Of shame?'
Dona Lavinia rose, painfully, and drew Marianne to her feet also. She was no longer crying and her face had become very calm. She seemed in some way relieved to have spoken. Looking Marianne straight in the eyes, she continued, with great earnestness: 'You see, Corrado is the victim of a curse which once fell on this house that was formerly so strong and powerful, a curse that bore the face of an angel. Only the child that you will give him can exorcise it, not Corrado himself, for his sufferings there is no cure, but at least the house of Sant'Anna, so that it may shine once more among men. Good night, your highness. Try and forget what you have seen.'
This time, Marianne, defeated, did not insist. She let Dona Lavinia go without a word. She felt wearied to her very soul, and utterly depressed. The mystery of Corrado filled her whole being, obsessed her, like an insoluble torment. Her excited curiosity urged her to commit the wildest follies, such as hiding where she could watch the phantom horseman ride by or throwing herself under Ilderim's hooves so as to force him to stop. But something she could not explain held her back. It might have been Dona Lavinia's words: 'He might die of shame…', words as heavy with sadness as the voice that spoke out of the depth of the mirror.
In an effort to soothe her nerves and cool her burning head, she went into the bathroom and bathed her face and hands and sprinkled her whole body with eau-de-Cologne but when she lay down again sleep still refused to come. The oppressive heat and the thoughts that jangled wildly in her head drove it relentlessly away. Her ear was still tuned to the vague sounds of the night, listening for the distant sound of a horse galloping. But the hours passed and no sound came until at last Marianne sank, exhausted, into a kind of torpid doze that was neither sleep nor waking. Strange images passed through her mind, as in a dream, and yet it seemed to her that she was not asleep. There were vague, cloudy forms and sometimes the characters on the ceiling seemed to have come down to dance around her, grinning and gibbering, or strange, unnatural flowers leaned over her and turned into faces, and then it was the wall of her bedchamber that opened suddenly to reveal a head, and the head belonged to Matteo Damiani…
Marianne woke abruptly with a cry. The final impression had been so strong that it had ripped through the mists of sleep and jerked her back into reality, gasping and pouring with sweat. She sat up in bed, tossed back the long, damp strands of hair that had fallen over her face and stared about her. Dawn was breaking, filling her room with a pale, mauve light that was already beginning to be tinged with the rosy colour of sunrise. Away in the countryside, cocks were beginning to crow, their harsh cries taken up from one farm to the next. Cool air was coming in from the garden and Marianne felt suddenly chilled in her damp bed with her nightshirt clinging to her body. She got up to take it off and find a dry one and a dressing-gown, when suddenly her eyes fell on the place where, in her nightmare, she had seen Matteo's head appear and she uttered a cry of amazement. There, just below the gilt edge of one of the mirrors, was a dark line on the wall, a dark line she had never seen before.
Making no more sound than a cat in her bare feet, Marianne crept up to it with a pounding heart, and felt a faint draught. The panel yielded quietly to her hand, revealing the black opening of a narrow spiral stair, cut in the thickness of the wall.
At once, everything fell into place in her mind. So she had not been dreaming! As she lay there half-asleep, she really had seen Matteo Damiani's face look through that opening. But why? What did he want? How many times already had he dared to come into her room like this while she slept? At that moment, she recalled the face which she had caught sight of in the mirror on the night of her wedding, while she was undressing. So that, too, had not been a dream! He had indeed been there, and at the recollection of the naked lust in his face, Marianne's own cheeks flushed scarlet, with anger as much as injured modesty. She was seized with a furious rage. So, not content with persecuting Agathe, that vile creature had actually dared to enter her room, the room of his own master's wife, and pry into her most private moments! What was his object in creeping in like a thief in the night? What mad act might he not have committed one day, this very morning perhaps, if she had not discovered the panel which, in his hurried retreat, no doubt, he had forgotten to close properly.
'I'll make sure he never wants to try it again,' she muttered furiously. Without stopping to think, she slipped on a dress at random, pushed her feet into a pair of light sandals and quickly tied the strings, then went to her portmanteau and fetched one of the pistols which Napoleon had given her and which she had brought with her from Paris. One swift check to make sure of the priming and she slid it into her belt and lighted a candle. Thus armed, she marched determinedly to the still-open panel and began to descend.
The draught made the candle flame waver but did not extinguish it. Carefully, without making the smallest sound, she descended the worn steps, protecting the candle flame with her free hand. The stairway was quite short, no more than a single storey. It came out at the back of the house, the exit masked by thick, leafy bushes. Peering through the branches, Marianne was suddenly aware of the calm waters of the grotto stretching before her, rosy in the dawn. She also saw Matteo just disappearing into the cavern, the entrance to which lay within the central colonnade. She determined to follow him. Quickly blowing out the candle, she set it down under the bushes ready to pick up on her return.
Her anger was touched now with the excitement of the chase, and a certain feeling of triumph. She did not know what the steward was about, but she knew that he would be caught there in a trap and could not escape her now. She was familiar with the grotto for she had explored it with her godfather. It was a pleasant place in hot weather. The lake continued inside the grotto, making a kind of room with a pool in the centre. The rock walls of the cavern had been hung with silk and carpets and cushions set out around the pool in oriental profusion.
Marianne sprang lightly in pursuit of the steward. She ran along the colonnade, pausing for a moment at the entrance to the cave to flatten herself against the rocky wall and draw her pistol from her belt. Slowly, with infinite caution, she crept forward and turned the corner. Then she gave a gasp of astonishment. Not only was there no one in the cave, but one of the silken panels that covered the walls had been lifted up to reveal the entrance to a tunnel which seemed to pass right through the hill, for there was a glimpse of daylight at the end.
Not hesitating for an instant, only tightening her grip a little on the weapon in her hand, Marianne stepped into the tunnel. It was quite wide and the floor was covered with a fine sand, pleasant to walk on and absolutely silent underfoot. Little by little, some of her anger had faded, giving way to excitement, the kind of excitement she had felt out with the hounds at Selton, but here she was dealing with something more dangerous than any fox and the nearness of danger filled her with exaltation. There was also the thought that she had, in so short a time, begun to penetrate some of the secrets of the Sant'Annas. But when she reached the end of the passage, she stood, pressed close to the rock in the shadow of the opening, staring at the spectacle which met her eyes.
The tunnel opened into a narrow clearing, no more than a steep cleft in the rocks, closed in at the top on both sides by a tangled mass of trees and undergrowth. Down below, leaning at crazy angles in niches cut in the rock walls, was a weird population of statuary, clothed in brambles and rampant bines, their limbs frozen in attitudes of frantic gesticulation which gave a tragic emphasis to the burnt-out ruins of a building that occupied the centre of the dell.
Nothing was left but a confused heap made up of stumps of charred and broken columns, tumbled stones and shattered carvings, all overgrown with matted brambles and bitter-smelling ground ivy. The fire which had destroyed it must have been uncommonly fierce, for rubble and rock walls alike showed the long, blackened streaks caused by the flames. Yet, standing among the ruins, as though preserved by a miracle, was a single, gleaming statue of pure white marble. Marianne caught her breath in wonder at the scene.
A few steps had been roughly hacked out of the pile of ruins and on the top step, kneeling with both arms clasped about the knees of the statue, was Matteo Damiani.
The statue itself was the strangest and most beautiful that Marianne had ever seen. It was the life-sized figure of a naked woman, shaped with such sheer, sensual perfection as to be almost demoniacal in its beauty. The woman was standing with her arms spread backwards, away from her body; her head was flung back, as if drawn by the weight of her unbound hair and she seemed, with her closed eyes and parted lips, as if on the point of giving herself to some unseen lover. The sculptor had rendered every detail of the female form with an uncanny accuracy and the skill with which he had delineated the features, the narrowed eyes and voluptuously swollen lips, an ecstasy of pleasure so agonizing that it was almost pain, was close to genius. Disturbed by that breathing image of desire, Marianne thought that the artist must have loved his model with a torturing intensity.
The sun was rising and one golden beam slipped over the cliff and lighted on the statue. At once the cold marble glowed and came to life. The polished grain of the unfeeling stone took on a golden sheen, softer than any human skin, and for a moment it seemed to Marianne that the statue was truly living. Matteo had risen to his feet and was standing on the pedestal, clasping the marble woman in his arms. He was kissing the lips that offered themselves in a frenzy of passion, as if he were trying to infuse his own warmth into them, and murmuring an incoherent stream of words, words in which insults and endearments were strangely mixed, a curious litany of love and rage and the crudest expressions of lust. At the same time his hands roved feverishly over the marble body which seemed, in the warm light of morning, to be quivering in response to his caresses.
There was something so unnerving about this love scene with a statue that Marianne stepped back with an instinctive revulsion into the tunnel, forgetting that she had come there to confront the man and cow him. The pistol hung uselessly from her shaking hand and she restored it to her belt. The man was mad, there could be no other explanation of his insane behaviour, and Marianne was suddenly afraid. She was alone with a madman in a secret place which might well be unknown to most of the inhabitants of the villa. Even the weapon she carried seemed a puny defence. Matteo's strength was certainly prodigious. If he once realized her presence, he could overpower her before she had a chance to defend herself. Or else she would be compelled to shoot, and she did not wish to kill him. She had suffered enough, and suffered even now, from having involuntarily caused the death of Ivy St Albans.
She could hear the man making delirious promises to return that night to his insensate mistress.
'The moon will be full, my she-devil, and you shall see that I have not forgotten.'
Marianne's heart leaped. He was coming away, he would find her. Without waiting for more, she fled back along the tunnel and out through the cavern and the grotto with the speed of a hunted hare. She darted in amongst the bushes but turned, before plunging into the staircase passage, to take one last look through the leaves. She was only just in time. Matteo was coming out of the grotto and once again Marianne asked herself if she had not been dreaming. The man who a moment before she had surprised in a state of total erotic frenzy was now strolling quietly along the path that lay between the colonnade and the water, his hands clasped behind his back and his coarse features seemingly lifted to enjoy the light breeze that ruffled his grey hair. He might have been anyone taking an early morning walk in the cool, dew-fresh gardens before starting the day's work.
Marianne ran quickly up the stairs and stepped through the open panel but before she closed it again she took careful note of its inner and outer workings. It was, in fact, possible to open it from either side, by means of a handle on the stair or by pressing a boss on the gilded moulding within the room. Then, seeing that it was nearly time for Agathe to bring her morning tea, she slipped hurriedly out of her dress and sandals and got into bed. The last thing Marianne wanted was for Agathe to find out about this morning's expedition.
Snuggling down among the pillows, she tried to think calmly but this was not easy. The discovery in quick succession of the secret panel in the wall and then of the temple in the dell, the statue and Matteo's madness was enough to overcome a far more robust nervous system than Marianne's. In addition, there was that curious and highly ominous assignation he had made with his marble mistress. What was the meaning of his strange words? What was it he had not forgotten? What did he mean to do that night in the ruins? Most of all, what was that monument, gutted by fire, on whose ruins the statue stood? A villa? A temple? To what cult had it been dedicated, and was perhaps dedicated still? To what dark ritual of madness did Matteo Damiani mean to offer sacrifice that night?
Marianne turned all these questions over in her mind without finding the slightest answer. At one moment, she thought of questioning Dona Lavinia again, but she knew that her questions caused the poor woman pain and she would hardly have recovered from the previous night's ordeal. Besides, it was quite possible that she knew nothing, either of the steward's insanity or of the strange goddess to whom he meant to make his secret sacrifice. She wondered whether even the Prince knew how his steward and secretary passed his nights and, if he did, whether he would answer her questions, even supposing that she were able to ask them. Perhaps the best way was still to question Matteo himself, although this would naturally have to be done cautiously. In any case, she had ordered Dona Lavinia the night before to send him to her first thing in the morning.
'Well, we shall see,' she muttered under her breath.
Her mind made up, Marianne swallowed the scalding tea which Agathe brought in at that moment, then got up and dressed. The day promised to be as hot as yesterday and she selected a morning dress of sulphur-yellow jaconet embroidered with a design of big, white daisies and a pair of matching slippers. Dressing in light, gay colours seemed to her a good way of combating the unpleasant memories of the night. Then, when Dona Lavinia came in to tell her that the steward was awaiting her pleasure, she made her way to the small sitting room adjoining her bedchamber and rang for him to be admitted.
She sat at a small desk and watched him enter, doing her best to conceal her dislike of him. The scene in the dell was still too fresh in her mind for her to feel anything but distaste but if she wanted to find out anything it was necessary to control herself. He appeared in no way disconcerted at her summons and anyone seeing him, standing before her in a deferential attitude, would have sworn that he was a model servant and not a man so base that he could steal, like a thief, into the very same woman's bedchamber while she lay helplessly asleep.
To keep her fingers from trembling, Marianne had picked up a long goose quill from the desk and was fiddling with it absent-mindedly. When she said nothing, Matteo took it on himself to open the conversation.
'Your highness sent for me?'
She glanced up indifferently.
'Yes, Signor Damiani, I sent for you. You are the steward of this estate and I imagine there is very little you do not know about it?'
He smiled faintly. 'I think I may claim to know it, yes.'
'Then you will be able to tell me. Yesterday afternoon was so hot that even the gardens were stifling. I sought refuge, and coolness, in the grotto…' She paused, her eyes never wavering from the steward, and thought that she saw his thick lips tighten a little. With a pretence at carelessness, but measuring every word, she went on: 'I noticed that one of the hangings was a little awry and that a draught was coming through. I found that there was an opening behind it. I should not be a woman if I were not inquisitive and I entered the passage, and found the remains of some burnt-out monument.'
She had deliberately refrained from mentioning the statue but this time she was sure that Matteo had paled under his tan. There was a darkling look in his eyes as he answered:
'I see. Permit me to tell your highness that the Prince would not be pleased to know that you had discovered the little temple. For him, it is a forbidden subject, and it would be best for your highness —'
'I am the only judge of what is best for me, Signor Damiani. Naturally, the reason that I have spoken of this to you is because I do not intend to ask – to ask my husband about it, and with all the more reason if the subject is a disagreeable one to him. But you will answer me.'
'Why should I?' the steward retorted, more insolently than he may have meant.
'Because I am the Princess Sant'Anna, whether you like it or not.'
'I did not say —'
'Have the goodness not to interrupt me. When I ask a question, let me tell you, I expect an answer. All my servants,' she leaned a little on the word, 'know this. You have yet to learn it. Moreover, I fail to see why you should not give me an answer. If the place were not meant to be seen, if its associations for your master are unpleasant, why has the passage not been walled up?'
'His highness has not ordered —'
'And you never act without precise instruction, is that it?' Marianne spoke with heavy irony.
He stiffened but appeared to accept defeat. His eyes met hers, coldly.
'Very well. I am at your highness's service.'
Recognizing that she had won, she permitted herself the luxury of a smile.
'Thank you. Then just tell me about this "little temple" and, more particularly, about the woman whose statue stands among the ruins. It is an astonishing and magnificent piece of work. And do not tell me that it is antique because I shall not believe you.'
'Why should I not tell the truth? The statue, my lady, is that of Dona Lucinda, our Prince's grandmother.'
'Surely she is somewhat, er, scantily clothed for a grandmother. They are not commonly found so in France.'
'No, but the Emperor's sisters are,' he said forcefully. 'Did not the Princess Borghese commission Canova to immortalize her beauty in stone? Dona Lucinda did likewise. You cannot conceive how beautiful she was! It was terrible, beyond bearing. And she knew how to use it, like a devil she knew. I have seen men at her feet, I have seen men go mad and kill themselves for her – even when she was forty-five years old and more! But she was possessed of the devil!'
Matteo was talking now, the words pouring out of him like a pent-up flood released and Marianne listened, fascinated, her loathing and resentment temporarily forgotten.
'You knew her?' she murmured softly.
He nodded and his eyes shifted slightly, as if her intent gaze irked him. Then he went on in a voice thick with anger.
'I was eighteen when she died – died by fire, burned to death in that temple which, in her folly, she had erected to her own glory. There, she used to entertain her lovers, most of them taken from among the peasantry, or sailors, for her worship of her own beauty was only equalled by her lusts.'
'But – why from the common people?'
He rounded on her at that, with sudden violence, his head lowered like a bull about to charge, and Marianne shivered for she heard the fires of hell roaring in his voice and guessed that Lucinda had ignited them.
'Because she could then dispose of them without awkward questions. There were men of her own rank who gratified her and them she kept, safe in the knowledge that they were her slaves and would not live without her. But how many young men vanished without trace after giving all their youth and ardour to the insatiable she-wolf in one night of love? No one – no one can imagine what that woman was like. She could awaken the basest instincts, the ultimate madness, and she liked to see death as the end of love. Perhaps, after all, the legend was right —'
'What legend?'
'Men said that her deathless beauty was the outcome of a pact with the devil. One night, as she was studying herself anxiously in the mirrors of her bedchamber, a handsome young man dressed in black appeared to her and offered her, in exchange for her soul, thirty years of unfading beauty, thirty years of pleasure and power. They say that she agreed but that time passed and she had made a fool's bargain because before the thirty years were up her servants entered her room one morning to find only a carcass, crawling with worms.'
Marianne sprang to her feet with a cry of horror but he gave her a contemptuous smile.
'It is only a legend, my lady. The truth was quite different for, as I told you. Dona Lucinda perished in the fire which ravaged the temple – a fire she lighted with her own hands the night she found a wrinkle at the corner of her mouth. I dare say, Princess, you may be wondering why she should choose so terrible a death. Well, I will tell you. She did not wish that marvellous body which she had cherished with such care to rot slowly in the ground with all the horrors of decay. She preferred to see it consumed by fire! That was a dreadful night. The fire burned so fiercely that the flames were seen far off and the peasants still swear in terror that it was the fires of hell opening for her. I can still hear her screams… like a wild beast howling… But I know that she is not wholly gone. She lives on.'
'What do you mean?' Marianne cried, struggling to shake off the horror which threatened to overwhelm her.
Matteo turned glazed eyes on her. He smiled, drawing his lips back over his strong, yellow teeth. His answer came in a voice of mysterious, incantatory power.
'She still walks in this house – in the gardens – in your chamber, here she used to stand, naked, watching herself in the mirrors, always comparing her beauty to that of the statue which she had placed there. She brought a curse to this place and she is watching over that curse, which is her revenge. You will not stop her!'
His tone changed abruptly. Almost obsequiously, he asked: 'Is there anything more your highness wishes to know?'
Marianne wrenched herself out of the spell in which the steward's words had held her enthralled. She coloured violently under the insolent gaze which seemed to be studying her boldly in every detail and, striving to hold her own, she returned his gaze haughtily and answered: 'Yes. Since she had such a predilection for peasants – were you also one of her lovers?'
He did not hesitate. With triumph in his voice, he answered her.
'Why, yes, my lady. And believe me, I can never forget the hours I owe her.'
Unable to control her anger any longer, Marianne merely indicated to him with a gesture that she had no further need of him. But, left alone, she sank down, prostrate, on her chair and remained so for a long time, fighting down the panic terror that filled her. All the beauty of the place where, for a short while, she had found peace and happiness had been destroyed, smirched and defiled by the memory of the she-devil who had left her mark on it. The recollection of the dark figure of the man bestriding Ilderim in the night made her heart ache with pity; it seemed to her that between the Prince and the curse which lay upon him was an unceasing struggle, a battle lost and always recommenced. It took all her resolution not to send for her coach and her baggage at once and fly back to France without a moment's delay. Even the sound of the fountains now seemed charged with menace.
But she had promised to wait for the cardinal, and there was also the curious promise which Matteo had made to the ghost of Lucinda. Marianne meant to find out the exact nature of the promise and, if need be, to intervene. Could it, perhaps, be the means of exorcising the devil that haunted the house of Sant'Anna at last? Her eye fell on the family crest embroidered on the back of a chair and she was suddenly struck by the powerful symbol which it represented. The snake and the unicorn. The venomous, crawling beast, silent and deadly, and the creature of legend, clothed in white light. This strife must cease before her child was born. She did not mean him to rule a world in Lucinda's image. Her maternal instinct awoke, violently opposed to the slightest shadow on her child's future. She, Marianne, must make an end of the devils. Even if she had to risk her life to do it, she would be present that night to see what those ties were which bound Matteo to the evil dead. Afterwards, she would do as her conscience dictated, even if it meant forcing herself on her unseen husband.
Yet, when night returned to cover the villa and its gardens, all Marianne's heroic plans melted away before the most primitive of all terrors, the terror of the unknown perils that lurk in darkness. The thought of going back to that ill-omened glade, and looking again on that devilish statue now that she knew the truth, chilled her to the marrow. Never in all her life had she known such fear, not even in that moment after Francis Cranmere's escape when she feared for her own life. Francis was, after all, only a man, whereas Lucinda belonged to the unseen, immeasurable world of the supernatural.
In her fear of being obliged to meet the steward again, she had spent the better part of the day shut up in her own rooms. Not until the afternoon, when she had seen him set off in the direction of the main road, did she venture down to the stables and there she spent a long time meticulously examining Ilderim, as if by some sign the beautiful stallion could give her the key to the mystery of his master. She said nothing to Rinaldo who had watched with some surprise the Princess's long colloquy with the thoroughbred.
Indoors again, she had waited for the night in a state of utter indecision. Curiosity urged her to go back to the ruins of the unholy temple but all that Matteo had told her of Lucinda filled her with an uncontrollable disgust and she feared the sight of that shameless statue almost as much as that of the fanatical servant.
She partook of a light supper, soon over, and then allowed her women to undress her for the night, but she did not go to bed. Her rich bedchamber, her splendid bed, now filled her with horror. She seemed to see the statue still standing there and hardly dared to turn her eyes to the mirrors for fear of seeing the ghost of the evil Venetian woman reflected there. Although it was still very hot, she had had all the windows tightly closed and the curtains drawn, prompted by an impulse of childish terror of which she was secretly ashamed. She had stared for a long time at the moving panel and ended by piling up a table and some chairs in front of it, reinforced by a few heavy metal objects, such as candlesticks, so that it was quite impossible for anyone to open it from the other side without causing a resounding crash.
Before sending Agathe and Dona Lavinia away, she had requested the housekeeper to send Gracchus to her. Her idea had been to make her youthful coachman sleep on a mattress in the short passage connecting her room with Agathe's, but Gracchus, unaware of his mistress's terrors, had gone to spend the evening with Rinaldo, with whom he had struck up a great friendship, at the farm-house where he lived on the far side of the estate. Marianne was obliged to deal with her fears alone, fears which a hundred times that day had sent her hand creeping to the bell to send for her coach. Her will had prevailed but now she was obliged to live through a night which seemed fraught with dangers. The few hours that must pass before the sun rose again seemed an eternity.
The best thing I can do,' she told herself, 'is to go to sleep, fast asleep. Then I shan't be tempted to go back to the glade.'
With this object, she had asked Dona Lavinia to make her some of the tisane which had worked so well the first night, but on the point of drinking it, she had set it back, untouched, on the table by her bed. Suppose she were to sleep too soundly even to hear the collapse of the barrier she had erected in front of the panel?
No, even if the night were to be a hideous nightmare, she must endure it all, with all her wits about her.
With a sigh, she laid both her pistols within reach of her pillow, picked up a book and settled back to try and read. The book was a moving novel by Monsieur de Chateaubriand telling of the love of two young Indians, Chactas and Atala. Marianne had been enjoying it very much but that night her mind was not on it. Her thoughts were wandering far away from the banks of the Meschacebe to the glade where some unspeakable ritual was to take place. Gradually, her old curiosity revived, insidious and tormenting. At last she threw aside her book.
'This is impossible,' she said aloud. 'If this goes on, I shall go mad.'
She reached out and tugged at the bell which rang in Agathe's room, intending to ask the girl to come in and spend the night with her. With someone else there, she would be better able to combat her fears, and Agathe herself, still in a state of nerves, would be delighted to stay with her mistress. But although she rang again and again, no one came.
Thinking that the girl might have taken one of Dona Lavinia's potions, she got up and, slipping on a cotton dressing-gown and pushing her feet into a pair of slippers, she made her way to Agathe's room. Light was showing under the door and Marianne tapped softly, then, getting no answer, she turned the handle and went in. The room was empty.
A lighted candle stood on the bedside table but the bed itself was empty, the sheets lying half on the floor as if they had been dragged there as the maid got out of bed. Worried, Marianne glanced up at the bell communicating with her own room which hung above the bed. An exclamation of surprise and irritation escaped her: the bell had been effectively muffled with a cloth. This was too much. Not content with leaving her room in the middle of the night, Agathe had even had the effrontery to silence the bell. But where had she gone? Whom had she gone to meet? Not Gracchus, he was with Rinaldo, and certainly none of the other servants, for Agathe had little to do with any of them. When she was not with her mistress, she was hardly ever out of sight of Dona Lavinia, the only person in the house she trusted. As for —
On the point of going back to her own room, Marianne paused and, turning back towards the bed, stood thoughtfully regarding the curious condition of the sheets. That was precisely the way they would have fallen had the girl been lifted bodily out of her bed. No one dragged the bedclothes off like that getting out of bed in the ordinary way, but when a body was lifted, asleep or awake… Marianne's heart almost stopped beating as a terrible idea struck her. The muffled bell, the disordered bedclothes, the candle left burning – and there was a cup, too, on the table by the bed, an empty cup that still smelled faintly and unmistakably of the familiar tisane, and with it another, more subtle odour. Agathe had not gone of her own accord. She had been carried off, and Marianne shrank from guessing by whom.
She hesitated no longer. In the same instant, the fear which had been lurking in the pit of her stomach all evening vanished. She sped back to her room and began feverishly dismantling the barrier which stood before the panel. With a scarf tied hastily around her waist to confine her billowing robe, a candle in one hand and a pistol in the other, a second pistol stowed safely in her waistband, she descended the staircase for the second time.
This time, she accomplished the descent swiftly, without hesitation, buoyed up by a rage which banished even the most elementary caution. She had no need to blow out her candle when she reached the entrance: the wind did it for her. It had been rising steadily all evening but behind her curtained windows she had not been aware of it. It was also very much cooler. As she took a deep breath of the night air, she thought that it must have been raining somewhere. The sky was quite light, for the moon was full, but clouds were scudding across it, every now and then hiding the silver disc. The brooding silence had vanished. The park was alive with the rustling of numberless leaves and the creak of swaying branches.
Marianne plunged resolutely into the cave and hurried through it but in the passage underneath the hill she moved more slowly so as to make no sound. A red light showed from the clearing beyond. The draught in the passage chilled the air and Marianne shivered and clutched the thin cotton of her robe closely to her throat. As she approached the end of the tunnel, her heart began to beat faster but she settled the gun more firmly in her hand and, flattening herself against the wall, ventured to put her head outside. Instantly, it seemed to her that she had been transported back in time, out of the noisy, fast-moving era of Napoleon with all its military glories and its busy, bustling life, back into the darkest, medieval night.
The statue stood gleaming in the light of a pair of tall black wax candles. More light, the strange, ruddy glow she had seen from the tunnel, came from a pair of low vases which also gave off a powerful, acrid smoke. Between them, a kind of altar had been set up on the ruins. On it, motionless and apparently unconscious since she remained perfectly still although evidently unbound, lay the figure of a naked woman. A receptacle resembling a chalice stood on a small board laid across her stomach. With mingled horror and amazement, Marianne saw that it was Agathe. Even so, she managed to hold her breath, for the silence was so deep that it seemed as if the smallest sound would precipitate disaster.
Matteo was on his knees beside the motionless girl, but a Matteo whom Marianne hardly recognized. He was wearing a kind of long, black dalmatic decorated with weird signs and unfastened over his chest. There was a gold circlet on his grizzled locks. This was no longer the Prince of Sant'Anna's taciturn steward but a necromancer preparing to celebrate one of the most ancient and unhallowed rites of all time. Suddenly he began reciting Latin prayers at the sound of which Marianne was left in no more doubt as to what he was doing.
'The black mass!' The thought appalled her, and her eyes went from the kneeling man to the statue which, in that sinister light, seemed clothed in blood. Once, long ago, she had unearthed a dusty volume from a long-forgotten shelf in the library at Selton and read, with growing horror, the details of that abominable rite. Soon, when he had reached the end of his sacrilegious orisons, Matteo would offer up his chosen victim to his goddess who, here, stood in place of Satan himself. Having first possessed her, he would then sacrifice her, so much was clear from the long knife which lay, gleaming ominously, at Lucinda's feet.
Matteo seemed to have fallen into a kind of ecstasy. It was no longer possible to distinguish what he was saying. The words had degenerated into a form of mumbling chant which filled Marianne with horror. With eyes wide with dread, she saw him rise and remove the chalice which he set down beside him. She watched him covering the unconscious form with kisses. He seized hold of the knife and Marianne's senses swam but, by some miracle, her fear had gone. Leaving the shelter of the tunnel, she stepped out into the clearing, raised her right arm, took careful aim and fired.
The report seemed to fill the narrow space. Matteo sprang up, letting fall the knife, and gazed about him with a bewildered air. He was unhurt, for Marianne had aimed at the statue, but at the realization that the lower half of Lucinda's uplifted face had disappeared he uttered a dreadful, choking cry. He was about to spring at her, but pulled up short at the sound of Marianne's icy voice.
'Stay where you are, Matteo,' she said, throwing aside the now useless pistol and taking the other from her waist. 'I could have killed you, but I saw no reason to deprive your master of an excellent servant. However, I have another ball ready for you if you do not do as I say. As you have seen, I am not in the habit of missing. I have decapitated your she-devil there. The next will be for your own head. Carry Agathe away from here and put her back in her room. I shall not tell you twice.'
It did not seem that he had even heard her. He was on his hands and knees, crawling over the ruins, wild-eyed, slack-lipped, but struggling to get to his feet. He seemed to be in a trance, the sharp edges of the stones and the thorny brambles might not have existed for him. As he advanced towards her Marianne felt her flesh, shrinking at the thought that, to defend herself from this man she was going to be compelled to fire, almost at point blank range.
'Stop!' she commanded him. 'Go back, I tell you. Do you hear me, go back!'
He did not listen to her. He had succeeded in staggering to his feet and was lurching towards her, hands outstretched, still with that frightening, sleep-walker's face. Instinctively, Marianne stepped back, then back again, unable to bring herself to fire. It was as if a power stronger than her own will had paralysed her arm. Matteo, with his contorted face, his black robes and his torn and bleeding hands, truly resembled some demon cast up out of the pit. Marianne felt her strength ebbing. She took another step backwards, feeling behind her with her free hand for the entrance to the tunnel, but she must have changed direction without knowing it and met nothing but rampant weeds and branches. The undergrowth? Could she push through and hide? But even as she stepped back again, her foot struck against some obstacle and with a scream she staggered backwards into a bush. Still Matteo advanced, with outstretched hands. She saw him growing huge, out of all proportion. The pistol had slipped from her hand as she fell and Marianne gave herself up for lost.
She screamed again but the scream died in her throat. There was a sound like thunder and a fantastic apparition burst out of the thicket at the far end of the clearing. A tall white horse and black-clad rider, a rider who reared over Matteo with upraised whip, seeming enormous to the terrified girl. She screamed at the sight. Before consciousness left her, she had caught one glimpse of a broad hat brim and, below it, a blank face, white, dead and featureless, in which the eyes were black, glowing holes, a shapeless thing, hidden in the folds of a flying, black cloak. The rider mounted on Ilderim was a phantom, a spectre risen from the terrors of darkness about to ride her down… Marianne gave one desperate moan and fainted.
She never knew how long she remained unconscious. When she opened her eyes, with the sense of awakening from some interminable nightmare, she saw that she was in her own room, in her own bed, and as the mists cleared from her brain, she thought for a moment that it had indeed been nothing but a dream. Outside, a wind was blowing but everything else was quiet. Surely it had all been a bad dream: Agathe's room, the clearing, Matteo's insane attack on her and the fearsome rider bestriding Ilderim? The thought was deeply reassuring. It was all so strange. She must be suffering from an overactive imagination to have dreamed up that ghastly scene.
At that moment, Agathe was no doubt peacefully asleep in her own little bed, very far from thinking of the part that she had played in her mistress's nocturnal fantasies.
She decided that it would do her good to get up and wash her face in cold water. Her head felt heavy and her thoughts were still confused. But when she threw back the bedclothes, she realized that she was lying naked in her bed which had been strewn by some unknown hand with sprigs of sweet-smelling jasmine. Then she knew that she had not been dreaming. It was all true: the clearing and the black mass, the shot that she had fired at the statue, Matteo's murderous rage and the final irruption of the terrible horseman.
She felt her flesh creep and her hair stand on end at the memory. Was it he who had brought her back here? It could scarcely have been Matteo – Matteo had tried to kill her and she was sure that she had seen him go down beneath the rider's flailing whip. Then it was the Prince who had carried her back, who had undressed her and put her to bed – and who had strewn these fragrant blossoms about her unconscious and defenceless body – had even perhaps – no, that was impossible. Besides, why should he have done so when, according to his own word and the cardinal's, the last thing he desired was to make their marriage a reality? And yet, struggling desperately to pierce the mists that had enveloped her brain since she fainted, she seemed to find there a memory of kisses and caresses…
A wild feeling that was very close to panic jerked her from her bed. She wanted to escape, at all costs and at once, she wanted to leave this house where madness lurked in wait for her, and where her godfather's departure had left her a prey to all the perils of a house whose inhabitants made secrecy their daily bread. She wanted to go back to daylight and sunshine and the quiet countryside of France, less romantic perhaps but so much more comfortable. She wanted her pretty, peaceful house in the rue de Lille, Arcadius's twinkling eyes, Napoleon's rages, yes, even that would seem wonderful now, even the threat of Francis Cranmere. Yes, anything rather than this atmosphere of morbid sensuality which seemed to be dragging her down and against which all her young, healthy soul revolted.
Without stopping to put on her clothes, she ran to Agathe's room for the second time that night and found, to her immense relief, that she too was back in her bed. She would waste no time on questions. Who had brought the girl back and what had become of Matteo were things that could be left unasked. She shook the girl so hard that at last she managed to bring her to some semblance of consciousness, but when Agathe, who was clearly still suffering from the effects of the drug, sat swaying in her bed, staring at her with eyes clouded with sleep, Marianne picked up the water jug from the dressing-table and flung the contents hard in Agathe's face. The girl jumped and spluttered, but finally came fully awake.
'At last!' Marianne cried. 'Get up, Agathe, and hurry. You must pack our things, and go and wake Gracchus and tell him to put the horses to at once!'
'But – ma – my lady…' the girl stammered, disturbed as much by the sight of a naked Marianne with her hair tumbling down her back as by the shock of finding herself rudely awakened in the middle of the night with a jug of water. 'My lady – are we going away?'
'This minute! I want us to be on the road by sunrise. Come along, up with you. Faster than that!'
While Agathe was extricating herself from her soaking bed, Marianne, possessed now by a furious energy, ran back to her room and started emptying chests and cupboards, dragging out trunks from the box room and stuffing things inside pell-mell, just as they came to hand. By the time her maid appeared a few minutes later, dry and dressed, she found her working like a demon in the midst of the worst chaos she had ever seen. After one look, Agathe snatched up a dressing-gown and ran to wrap it round Marianne's bare shoulders.
'You'll catch your death of cold, my lady,' she said in a tone of strong disapproval, but dared ask no further questions.
'Thank you. Now, help me get these things into the trunks, or rather, no, go and wake Gracchus – no, on second thoughts, I'll go myself.'
But here Agathe rebelled. 'You can't do that, my lady! You just get dressed quietly while I go and find Gracchus. You can't be seen in the servants' quarters, going about in your dressing-gown! I'll send Dona Lavinia to help you.'
Much to Marianne's surprise, Agathe had scarcely left the room before the housekeeper appeared, fully dressed, as if she had not been to bed at all. It might have been the din raised by her mistress which had wakened her but she certainly showed no surprise at finding her surrounded by trunks and boxes and scattered heaps of clothes. Her curtsey was as calm and correct as if it had been eight or ten in the morning.
'Is your highness leaving us?' was all she said.
'Yes, Dona Lavinia. And I can't say you seem particularly surprised.'
The housekeeper's blue eyes surveyed Marianne's flushed countenance mildly. She smiled a little sadly.
'I have been afraid that it would be so, ever since his Eminence left us. Alone here, you could not help but wake the forces of evil which still hold sway over this house. There were too many things you wanted to know – and yours is the beauty that inspires tragedy. Do not take it amiss when I say that I am glad that you are going. It will be best for everyone.'
'What do you mean?' Marianne's brows contracted. Dona Lavinia's calmness amazed her. It was as if the housekeeper were fully aware of the night's events.
'His highness came in a little while ago and sent urgently for Father Amundi. He is closeted with him now. Matteo Damiani is locked up in the cellars and it appears that lightning must have struck behind the hill at the back of the grotto, for I saw a great light there and heard a sound like falling rocks. For the present, it is best you should go, my lady. When you return —'
'I shall never return!' Marianne declared but the violence of her tone had no effect on Dona Lavinia's composure. She merely smiled.
'Indeed you will. You have pledged your word. As I was saying, when you return, many things will have changed. I – I think there will be nothing more to fear. The Prince —'
'I saw him,' Marianne broke in. 'It was dreadful! I thought it was a ghost. I was terrified – that white face —'
'No,' Dona Lavinia said quietly, 'merely a mask, that is all, a mask made of white leather. You must not blame him. He is more than ever to be pitied. He has suffered cruelly tonight. I will see to the baggage.'
Marianne watched speechlessly as she came and went about the room, folding dresses and underwear, putting away shoes in boxes and stowing everything neatly in the open trunks. When she made a move to include the jewel cases, Marianne intervened.
'No, not those. I do not wish to take them.'
'Indeed you must! They are your highness's property now. Do you wish to cause our master further pain? He would be deeply wounded, believing that your highness held him responsible…' She left the sentence in mid-air. Defeated, Marianne acquiesced. She no longer knew what to think. She was even a little ashamed of the panic which had gripped her but lacked the courage to change her mind and prolong her stay. She must go now.
Once outside the bounds of this uneasy domain, she would be herself again, able to think calmly and clearly and come to some conclusions, but for the present, she had to go away. It was the only way to stop herself from going mad and not until she had put a considerable distance between herself and the Villa Sant'Anna would she be able to look back on that night's events without endangering her reason. She needed to be a long way from the rider of Ilderim.
When, at long last, she was ready, her luggage packed, and the sound of the coach outside at the foot of the broad steps, she turned to Dona Lavinia.
'I promised my godfather that I would wait for him,' she began unhappily, 'yet I am going...'
'Do not fret, Princess. I will explain – or rather I and the Prince together will explain everything.'
Tell him also that I am returning to Paris, that I will write to him here, since I do not know where he will go after this. And tell him that I do not blame him. I know he believed that he was acting for the best.'
'As indeed he was. You will see that one day. Bon voyage, your highness. Never forget that this house is your own, like all our master's houses. You need not doubt that in future he will know how to keep you safe in it and, when you return, do so confidently, without fear.'
Marianne was sorry for the old woman who was clearly doing her best to remove the unpleasant associations from her mind. She knew that later on she would probably regret her unheroic behaviour but she knew also that when she returned, since return she must, she would never do so alone. Either the cardinal or Arcadius, or both together, must come with her. But she kept this thought to herself as she held out both hands affectionately to Dona Lavinia.
'Don't worry, Dona Lavinia. Say good-bye for me to your master. And thank you, thank you for everything! I shall not forget you. When I come back, there will be the child and all will be well. Tell the Prince that.'
When at last she climbed into her coach, the morning mist was already lying over the park, giving to it a strange, dream-like quality. The wind of the previous night had dropped and the air was grey and moist. There would be rain later but, sitting with Agathe in the coach, Marianne felt safe, secured against all the spells, real or imagined, contained within that fair domain. She was going home, back to those she loved. Nothing could touch her now.
The whip cracked. With a chink of harness and a faint creaking of springs, the coach moved off. The wheels crunched on the sanded avenue. The horses broke into a trot. Marianne laid her cheek against the cold leather headpiece and closed her eyes. Her fluttering heart was stilled but all of a sudden she felt tired to death.
As the cumbersome berline ploughed through the early morning mist on the first stage of the long, long journey back to Paris, she pondered on the absurdity of fate, and its cruelty in condemning her to this eternal wandering in pursuit of an impossible happiness. She had come here fleeing from an evil and unworthy spouse, she had come in order that the child conceived in the likeness of an emperor might hold his head up in life, she had come, last of all, in the secret hope of exorcizing for ever the fate that seemed bent on destroying her. She was leaving rich, bearing a princely title, a great name, an unassailable position, but with her heart stripped more than ever of illusions and affections. She was going back – to what? To the leavings of love which Marie-Louise's husband could offer her, to the sadness of a solitary life because in future she must not lose face, and because Jason could not, or would not come. In the end, all that awaited her at her journey's end was an old house, inhabited only by a portrait and by one faithful friend. The unborn child, the future, was without shape or colour as yet. She was going, once again, into the unknown.
The coach swept through the Porte d'Aix and clattered down the narrow, dark streets of ancient Avignon. The sun was still high enough to gild the ramparts, picking out the sharp edges of towers and battlements and glancing off the yellow waters of the indifferent river flowing idly under the wide-spaced arches of the old, half-ruined Pont Saint-Benezet The statue of the Virgin on the topmost turret of the formidable papal palace shone like a star. Marianne had let down the dusty window for a better view and was revelling in the scents of the warm air, laden with the spicy fragrance of Provence, of sun-warmed olives, thyme and rosemary.
It was fifteen days since she had left Lucca. They had travelled by the coast road and then up the valley of the Rhone, making easy stages, partly in order to spare Marianne herself, since she was now in her fourth month of pregnancy and obliged to exercise prudence, and partly to avoid overtaxing the horses. These were no longer the common post horses which had drawn the berline on the outward journey but four splendid animals out of the Sant'Anna stables. They proceeded on average some forty miles a day, stopping each night at one of the posting houses with which the route was provided.
The journey had given Marianne an opportunity to measure just how great was the change in her status. The magnificence of her team, the crest and the crown surmounting it on the berline's panel assured her everywhere of prompt and deferential service. She had discovered that there was something to be said for being a very great lady. As for Gracchus and Agathe, they were clearly bursting with pride at serving a Princess and allowed no one to forget it. One had only to see Gracchus stalking into the inn where they had stayed each morning and announcing grandly that her serene highness's carriage awaited. The one-time errand boy of the rue Montorgueil was developing all the airs and graces of an imperial coachman.
Marianne, for her part, was rather enjoying the leisurely journey. She was not looking forward greatly to returning to Paris where, apart from the pleasant prospect of seeing her dear Arcadius again, she expected little but trouble. The threatening shadow of Francis Cranmere loomed large in her thoughts but she had some anxiety to spare also for the welcome that awaited her from the Emperor. While she was still on the road, her perils were confined to the possibility of an encounter with brigands but so far no alarming figures had appeared to bar the passage of the coach. At least the rural scene had succeeded in washing her mind clear of the mists and fantasies of the Villa Sant'Anna, although it had taken all her willpower to keep her thoughts from dwelling on the evil face of Matteo Damiani and the fantastic figure of the rider in the white mask. Later, she would think about them, later, when she had come to terms with the new life that lay ahead for her. For the present, she had no idea what this would be. She was in Napoleon's hands. It was he who had mapped out the career of the singer, Maria Stella, but what would he make of the Princess Sant'Anna? Certainly the Princess herself was none too sure what to make of her. Here she was, married again, married but without a husband.
Marianne was enchanted by Avignon. It might have been the sun or the broad, lazy river, the warm colour of the old stones or the geraniums that clung to every iron balcony. Perhaps the silky murmuring in the silvery-olive trees had something to do with it, or the musical voices of the women in their striped petticoats gossiping and commenting on the passage of the coach. Whatever it was, it made her want to stay there for a few days before finishing her journey to Paris. She leaned out of the window.
'Gracchus, see if there is a good hostelry here. I should like to stay for a day or two.'
'We can try. There's a large inn over there with a handsome sign.'
The Auberge du Palais, one of the oldest and best-appointed in the region, nestled its thick, ochre-coloured walls and roof of semi-circular Roman tiles up against the Porte de l'Oulle. That it was also a staging post for the diligence was attested by the presence in the yard of that vast, unwieldy vehicle, liberally coated with dust, in the process of disgorging its load of stiff and yawning passengers amid a babel of clanging bells, shouting postillions and joyful cries of greeting from those meeting or being met.
One of the postillions, standing on the roof of the coach, was engaged in handing down boxes, portmanteaux and parcels belonging to the passengers to one of the inn servants. When all the luggage had been unloaded, he picked up several bundles of newspapers and tossed them down also. They were copies of the Moniteur from Paris; one of the bundles burst when the ostler failed to catch it, scattering the papers on the ground.
A stable boy sprang forward to retrieve them but, as he did so, his eye fell on the news contained in the front page and he let out a shout.
'Holy Virgin! Napoleon has sent old Fouché packing. How's that for news!'
There was uproar as patrons and inn servants began talking at once.
'Fouché dismissed? Surely not!'
'Bah! The Emperor must have had enough of him at last.'
'No, you're wrong there. The Emperor's done it to please his new Empress. She wouldn't want to be meeting him every day, not one of the old regicides from the Revolution who sent her uncle to his death!'
Some were delighted at the news, others merely amazed. Provence had never wholly supported the new regime. The region had remained royalist at heart and Fouché's fall was greeted on the whole as a hopeful sign.
Gracchus had remained on his box, observing the little scene, but now Marianne leaned out and called to him again.
'Go and fetch me one of those newspapers,' she said, 'and hurry!'
'At once, my lady. As soon as I have bespoke your lodging.'
'No. This minute! If these people are right, we may not be staying here after all.'
The news concerned her closely. It seemed almost too good to be true that her old persecutor Fouché, the man who had dared, by threats, to introduce her into Talleyrand's household as a spy, who had failed to save her from falling into the hands of Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis and who, worst of all, had permitted Francis Cranmere to roam Paris at liberty, should really have lost the dangerous power which had made him the secret master of the whole country. Marianne could scarcely believe it.
Yet, when she held the paper in her hands, yellowed and dusty from its long journey, she was obliged to accept the evidence of her eyes. Not content with the bare announcement that the Duke of Otranto had been succeeded as head of the Ministry of Police by Savary, the Duke of Rovigo, the Moniteur also published the text of the Emperor's official letter to Fouché.
'The services which you have rendered me on various occasions,' the Emperor wrote, 'have led us to entrust to you the governorship of Rome until such time as Article 8 of the Constitution Act of 17 February 1810 shall come into effect. We expect that you will continue, in this new post, to give further proof of your zeal in our service and devotion to our person…'
Crumpling the paper nervously between her hands, Marianne allowed the joyful news to sink in. It was better even than she had hoped! Exiled! Fouché had been exiled! For there was no mistaking the real meaning of his appointment as governor of Rome; Napoleon wanted Fouché away from Paris. Another item of news, placed at a sufficient distance from that of Fouché's dismissal to ensure that no connection between the two should occur to the man in the street, caught Marianne's eye. On the very day of Fouché's 'retirement', the banker Ouvrard had been arrested in the salon of a brilliant Parisienne hostess, on charges of malversation and acting against the interests of the state. Marianne's thoughts went instantly to Fortunée and the threats which she had uttered against her lover. Had she been responsible for Ouvrard's arrest? And, if that were so, was it through her that Napoleon had learned of Fouché's secret negotiations with England? She was perfectly capable of it, for she was as vindictive to her enemies as she was loyal to her friends.
'What is your highness's will?'
Gracchus's everyday tones broke in on her reverie. After such news there could be no more question of dawdling on the way. She must get back, quickly. Now that he had lost his ally, Francis had ceased to be a danger. She favoured her youthful coachman with the most radiant smile seen on her lips since leaving Lucca.
'Drive on, Gracchus, as fast as you can! I want to be in Paris as soon as possible.'
'Your Highness has not forgotten we are not driving post horses now? If we drive the way we did on the outward journey, these will be done in well before Lyon. And that, if I may say so, would be a downright shame.'
'I don't mean to kill my horses but I want you to make the stages as long as you can. We will go on further tonight. Drive on.'
With a resigned sigh, Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche mounted his box and began taming the berline round, watched with a jaundiced eye by the landlord who had stepped out to welcome such an elegant equipage. Then, whipping up the horses, he set the coach bowling along the road to Orange.
It was nightfall when, after a striking demonstration of the stamina of Marianne's horses, the travelling berline, so splashed with mud and coated with dust that even the colour, let alone the crest, was scarcely to be seen, drew up at the Fontainebleau guard post.[3] Marianne could not repress a sigh of relief when she saw the lights in the doorways of the elegant buildings designed by Ledoux which marked the outer limits of the city of Paris. She had arrived at last.
The initial surge of joy which had swept over her at Avignon and sent her speeding along the road to Paris had, it was true, abated somewhat, as it had seemed to do also in the minds of the people she met as she approached the capital. As the towns and staging posts swept by, Marianne had very soon made the discovery that Fouché's dismissal was regarded for the most part in the light of a catastrophe. This was not so much out of any affection for Fouché himself as from a universal dislike of his successor. People feared Savary for his blind devotion to his master; he was the imperial policeman, a man capable of carrying out any order, however monstrous, without blenching. As a result, Marianne had learned to her amazement that, in their alarm and bewilderment, the people of France had begun to think of the slippery Fouché as almost a saint, and regret his departure.
Well, I at least will never regret him!' she told herself, remembering bitterly all that she had suffered at his hands. 'Besides, this Savary has never done me any harm. I have never met him, and I can't see that I need have anything to fear from his appointment.'
However, she could not repress a certain irritation when she saw the men on duty at the guard post paying unwontedly close attention to her coach.
'May I ask what you expect to find?' she snapped sharply. 'I suppose you imagine I am carrying a keg of brandy concealed under my cushions?'
'Orders are orders, madame.' The reply came from a gendarme who emerged at that moment from the guardhouse. 'All carriages entering Paris to be searched, especially those coming from a distance. Where are you from, madame?'
'From Italy,' Marianne said tartly. 'And I promise you I have no contraband goods, or conspirators in my coach. I am merely returning home.'
'Then I daresay you'll have a passport,' the gendarme said, smiling unpleasantly and revealing in the process a set of startlingly white teeth framed in the bristly thatch of his moustache. 'A passport in the name of the Duke of Otranto, perhaps?'
It did not appear that such passports would be well received and Marianne blessed the fate that had made her, henceforth, a loyal subject of the Grand Duchess of Tuscany. Proudly, she produced the passport which Count Gherardesca had presented to her three days after her marriage.
'This bears the signature of her Imperial Highness, Princess Elisa, Grand Duchess of Tuscany, Princess of Lucca and Piombino – and sister to his Majesty, the Emperor and King, as you may perhaps be aware,' she added ironically, taking a sardonic pleasure in retailing the impressive list of titles. However, the gendarme seemed impervious to irony. He was heavily engaged in spelling out the name inscribed on the official document by the light of the lantern.
'Marianne Elizabeth d'Assel… nat de Villeneuve… Princess… Sarta – no, Santa Anna…'
'Sant'Anna,' Marianne corrected sharply. 'Now may I return to my coach and continue my journey? I am extremely tired – and it is starting to rain.'
Big, round drops, heavy as coins, were beginning to fall, making small craters in the dust around the coach, but the gendarme in his cocked hat appeared not to notice it. He was eyeing Marianne suspiciously.
'You can get back in, but don't move on. I've got to check something.'
'Just what, I'd like to know?' Marianne raged, as the man vanished into the guardhouse with her passport. 'Does the oaf imagine that my papers are false?'
The answer came from an old market gardener with a cart full of cabbages who had drawn up alongside the berline.
'No use getting impatient, m'dame. It's the same for everyone, every bloody day standing in the bloody rain! They've got so ruddy nosey you wouldn't believe! I can tell you, I've been made to unload a whole cart of cabbages, just in case I might be hiding some bleeding conspirator.'
'But, what is it all about? Has there been an attempt at assassination? Has a criminal escaped? Or are they looking for robbers?'
'Nothing like that, m'dame. It's all that bloody Savary, thinks he's the only one as knows how to serve the Emperor! So he goes on searching and nosing and asking questions. Who hatched it? Who laid it? Wants to know it all, he does.'
The farmer's confidences might have continued indefinitely but for the reappearance of the hairy gendarme, preceded this time by a sub-lieutenant, a dapper, beardless youth who approached the coach and bowed perfunctorily, taking in Marianne with an eye of insolent appreciation.
'You are Madame Sant'Anna, it appears.'
Outraged at the tone the young whipper-snapper had used to her, Marianne felt herself stiffen.
'I am the Princess Sant'Anna,' she said, very distinctly. 'It is usual to address me as Serene Highness, lieutenant. Apparently they do not teach you manners in the gendarmerie?'
'It is enough that we are taught to do our duty,' the young man said, in no way discomposed by her disdainful tone. 'My duty, Serene Highness, is to conduct you forthwith to the Minister of Police – if you will be good enough to ask your maid to make room for me.'
Before the outraged Marianne could say a word, the lieutenant had opened the door and climbed into the coach. Agathe rose automatically to relinquish to him her place beside Marianne, but her mistress laid a firm hand on her arm.
'Stay where you are, Agathe. I did not tell you to move and I am not in the habit of allowing any Tom, Dick or Harry to sit beside me. As for you, sir, I believe I must have misunderstood you. Will you repeat what it was you said?'
The lieutenant, obliged to maintain an uncomfortable stooping posture in the absence of anywhere to sit down, spoke in a voice of stifled anger.
'I said that I was to conduct you forthwith to the Minister of Police. Your name has been circulated to every guard post for more than a week. These are my orders.'
'Whose orders?'
'Whose orders would you expect? The Minister of Police, his grace the Duke of Rovigo, and therefore of the Emperor.'
'That remains to be seen,' Marianne retorted. 'Very well, if that is what you want, we will go to the Duke of Rovigo. I should not object to telling him what I think of him, and of his subordinates. Until then, however, I intend to remain mistress of my own coach. Have the goodness to take a seat next to my coachman, young man. And while you are about it, you may show him the way. Under no other circumstances will you get me to budge from this spot.'
'Very well. I will go.'
With a very bad grace, the young gendarme climbed out and went to join Gracchus, who welcomed him with a sardonic grin.
'Nice of you to come and bear me company, lieutenant. You'll find it's well enough up here. A little damp, maybe, but you get more fresh air than inside. Now, where is it we're going exactly?'
'Straight on, and none of your sauce my lad, or you'll be the worse for it. Drive on.'
For answer, Gracchus touched up his horses and began to bawl out a lusty, street urchin's version of the soldiers' march from Austerlitz:
'When we break through their line
Ta rum ta ra, ta rum ta ra,
When we break through their line
Then how we'll laugh…'
Laugh? Marianne, hunched up inside the coach, felt no desire to laugh but even so the infectious rhythm of the march and the warlike gaiety of the voice suited something in her mood. She was far too angry to be afraid, even for an instant, of this Savary or of his reasons for ordering her arrest at the very gates of Paris.
When, a little later, they arrived at the Hôtel de Juigné, Marianne saw that there had been changes here also. The place was clearly being redecorated. Everywhere there was scaffolding, buckets of plaster and paint pots left about by the workmen at the end of the day. In spite of this, and of the lateness of the hour (ten o'clock had not long sounded from Saint-Germain) the forecourt and antechambers were filled with footmen in glittering liveries and with visitors from every class of society. Instead of conducting Marianne upstairs to the dusty waiting-room on the first floor which led into the tiny, ill-furnished office that had belonged to the Duke of Otranto, the young lieutenant handed her over to a towering major-domo in red plush and powder. He flung open the doors into a salon on the ground floor furnished with an unswerving obedience to the known tastes of the Duke's imperial master. The room was filled with solid mahogany furniture and trophies made of ormolu, there were hangings of dark green with embroidered bees, a Pompeian chandelier and warlike allegorical scenes executed in stucco upon the walls. The final touch was given by an outsized bust of the Emperor, crowned with bays, sprouting from a marble plinth.
In the midst of all this, a lady in a gown of mauve taffetas, with a black pelisse and a rice-straw hat, was pacing up and down in an agitated manner. She was middle-aged, and her noble features and wide, thoughtful brow suggested a temper of mingled gentleness and austerity. It was a face that Marianne knew already from having seen it often in the house of Talleyrand: the Canoness de Chastenay, an aristocratic and intellectual lady who, it was said, had once entertained a certain partiality for the young General Bonaparte.
At Marianne's entry, she stopped her feverish pacing and regarded the newcomer in some surprise before uttering a joyful cry and hurrying to meet her with hands outstretched.
'Dear Muse of Song – oh, forgive me, dear Princess, I should say, what a joy and comfort to find you here!'
It was Marianne's turn to be surprised. How could Madame de Chastenay have known of the change that had occurred in her station. The Canoness gave a nervous little laugh and drew the younger woman over to a sofa guarded by a pair of forbidding bronze victories.
'But no one in Paris talks of anything else but your romantic marriage! That and the unfortunate Duke of Otranto's fall from grace are almost the only topics of conversation. Did you know that he is not to be governor of Rome after all? It seems the Emperor is perfectly furious with him on account of his making a bonfire of all the secret files and papers belonging to his ministry. He has been exiled, really exiled! It scarcely seems possible! But – where was I?'
'You were saying, madame, that people are talking about my marriage,' Marianne murmured, stunned by this flow of words.
'Ah, yes. Oh, it is quite extraordinary! You know, my dear, you are a real little slyboots! Hiding one of the greatest names in France like that! So romantic! Although, you must know, I was never really taken in. I guessed long ago that you were truly of noble birth and when we heard the truth —'
'But from whom did you hear it?' Marianne asked quietly.
The Canoness paused for a moment and appeared to reflect, then she was off again, more volubly than ever.
'How was it, now? Ah, yes – the Grand Duchess of Tuscany wrote to the Emperor about it as though it were something altogether remarkable! And so deeply moving! The beautiful young singer consenting to marry an unfortunate so dreadfully deformed that he could never bear to show himself in public! And, to crown it all, the great artiste then reveals that she is of noble race! My dear, I should think your story must be all over Europe by now.'
'But – the Emperor? What did the Emperor say?' Marianne persisted, feeling both bewildered and alarmed to discover so much talk about a marriage which she had believed secret. The court of Tuscany must be a hive of gossip indeed for the ripples of gossip started there to have spread so far and so fast.
'Goodness, I hardly know,' the Canoness answered. 'All I know is that his Majesty mentioned it to Monsieur de Talleyrand and roasted the poor Prince most unkindly for making the Marquis d'Asselnat's own daughter reader to the erstwhile Madame Grand.'
That was very like Napoleon. He must have been furiously angry at the marriage and had chosen to take out his wrath on Talleyrand. By way of changing the subject, Marianne asked: 'But what brings you here, madame, at this late hour?'
Instantly, Madame de Chastenay's sophisticated playfulness left her and she began to look as agitated as she had when Marianne had first entered.
'Oh, don't speak of it! I am still quite distracted! There I was in the Beauvaisis, with friends who have such an enchanting estate there and who – well, this very morning along comes a great lout of a gendarme to say that the Duke of Rovigo commands my presence instantly. And the worst of it is that I have not the least idea why, or what I could have done! I left my poor friends in the utmost anxiety and passed a terrible journey wondering all the time why I had been, not to put too fine a point on it, arrested. I was so wretched that I went first to call on Councillor Real to ask him what he thought and he urged me to come here without delay. Any delay, he said, could have the most serious consequences! Oh, my dear, I am in such a state – and I dare swear that you are just the same—'
No, not quite the same. Marianne forced herself to maintain an icy calm. She had her own reasons for thinking that the order concerning her came from a higher source, although she would never have believed that Napoleon would go so far as to have her arrested for daring to marry without his consent. However, there was no time to disclose her own fears to her companion. The majestic usher reappeared to inform Madame de Chastenay that the minister was ready to receive her.
'Oh God!' the Canoness exclaimed. 'What will become of me? Say a little prayer for me, my dear Princess.'
The mauve taffeta dress vanished into the Minister's office, leaving Marianne alone. The room was extremely warm, for the windows were hermetically sealed. For coolness's sake, Marianne unfastened the full dust-coat which she had been wearing over her light gown of green silk, and untied the satin ribbons of her hat. She felt tired, sticky and dirty, certainly in no condition to confront a Minister of Police, and she would have given anything for a bath. But when would the opportunity to bathe be hers again? Would she even be allowed to go home? What was she to be accused of? It was like the Emperor to deal harshly with those against whom he had reason for anger, and remembering the stormy scenes which had already taken place between them, Marianne could not help but feel anxious.
The door opened again.
'If madame will follow me.'
The usher had reappeared and was holding open the door of a large, well-appointed office that was a far cry from Fouché's. Within, seated at a mahogany table decked with roses placed directly underneath a huge, full-length portrait of the Emperor, a good-looking man with dark hair and velvety eyes was working, or pretending to work, on a large file. His air of lofty complacency and invincible self-satisfaction was of the kind that always grated on Marianne, and the fact that he had not so much as looked up at her entrance only increased her irritation. If this were a piece of calculated rudeness, it hardly augured well for her; all the same, Marianne decided it was time to remind him of the respect due, if not to her person, at least to her rank and the name she bore. Besides, she was past caring.
Advancing coolly into the big room, she walked across and seated herself in a chair facing the desk. She spoke very smoothly.
'Pray, do not disturb yourself on my account, but when you can spare a moment, sir, perhaps you will be good enough to inform me to what I owe the honour of this summons?'
Savary let fall his pen with a start of surprise which, genuine or not, at least did credit to his histrionic talents.
'Great heavens! My dear Princess! I had not realized —'
'So it would seem.'
He leaped up from his chair and coming round the desk took the hand which she had not held out to him and carried it devoutly to his lips.
'Allow me to express my sincerest apologies – and also my delight that you have returned to Paris at last. You cannot imagine how eagerly you have been awaited.'
'I think I can imagine it very well,' Marianne said wryly. 'If, that is, I am to judge by the manner in which your men pounced on my coach at the Fontainebleau guard post. But now, let us have no more beating about the bush, if you please. I acquit you of the social formalities. I have travelled a long way and I am very tired, so tell me quickly where I am to be imprisoned and, incidentally, why.'
Savary's eyes widened and this time Marianne could have sworn that his surprise was not assumed.
'Imprisoned? You? But, my dear Princess, why should you be? It really is most strange, no one this evening seems able to talk of anything else. Only a moment ago, Madame de Chastenay —'
'—was also ready to swear that you were going to send her there. Good heavens, what can you expect, if you will have people arrested?'
'But neither of you have been arrested. I merely indicated to my people that when you returned to Paris I should very much like to see you, and the same with the Canoness de Chastenay. You see, when my predecessor left this house he made what I can only call a clean sweep of all the files and documents. The result is that I know no one.'
'A clean sweep?' Marianne said, beginning to be amused. 'You mean that he…'
'Everything! He burnt everything!' Savary said pathetically. 'In my innocence, I trusted him. He offered to remain here for a few days, to put all in order, as he said, and for three days he shut himself up here putting all his secret files, all the dossiers compiled by his agents, all his correspondence, even the Emperor's letters, into the fire! Indeed, it was this which made his Majesty so angry.
Monsieur Fouché is now exiled to Aix and he had to move quickly to escape the Emperor's righteous anger, while I am left trying to rebuild the machine which he has smashed. That is why I am asking people to come and see me. I am making contact with all who have been thought to have some dealings with this house in the past.'
A deep flush, part anger and part shame, mounted to Marianne's cheeks. She understood now. Faced with an almost impossible task, this man was ready to do anything to prove to his master that his worth was at least as great as that of Fouché the Fox. If he thought that she was going to fall into the clutches of any policeman again, even a minister, he was mistaken. However, in order to make her own position perfectly clear, she asked quietly: 'You are quite certain that the – the invitation which was pressed on me at the Fontainebleau guard post has nothing to do with the Emperor?'
'Nothing in the world, my dear princess! Only my own desire to make the acquaintance of someone who has been the talk of Paris for fifteen days past led me to give orders which, I see now, have been greatly misconstrued, for which I hope you will forgive me.'
He had eased his chair very close to Marianne's and now took her hand, imprisoning it between his own. At the same time his velvet eyes took on a languorous heaviness that made Marianne wary. She knew that Savary was accounted successful where women were concerned, and there was nothing to be gained by raising false hopes. Gently withdrawing her hand, she asked:
'So everyone is talking about me?'
'Everyone! You are the heroine of the hour.'
'I am honoured indeed. Does everyone include the Emperor?'
Savary flung up his hands in horror. 'Oh, madame! His Majesty stands alone!'
'Very well,' Marianne said sharply. 'So the Emperor has said nothing to you concerning me?'
'No, I promise you! What else did you expect? I do not believe there is at present any woman in the world who could engage his Majesty's attention. The Emperor is deeply in love with his young bride and devotes all his time to her. There never was a more devoted couple. Indeed —'
Marianne got up quickly, unable to listen to any more. It seemed to her the interview had lasted long enough. If this nincompoop had brought her here merely to listen to him describing the Emperor's wedded bliss, he was even more of a fool than she had thought. Was he ignorant of the talk which had linked her name with Napoleon's? Fouché would never have been guilty of such clumsiness, or not without good reason.
'With your permission, sir, I leave you. I am, as I have already told you, very tired.'
'Yes, yes, by all means-very natural, I am sure. I will see you to your coach. My dear Princess, you cannot conceive how delighted…' His voice wandered on, losing itself in compliments which only served to increase Marianne's irritation. She could see only one reason for them: Napoleon no longer cared for her, for if he had Savary would not have permitted himself such liberties. She had been prepared for his anger, had been prepared for some shattering act of revenge, even to be thrown in prison, persecuted, but nothing of the kind had happened. He had merely listened, with one ear no doubt, to the gossip about her, and she had been brought here solely to indulge the curiosity of a raw new minister, eager to make contacts. Her heart swelled with anger and disappointment, there was a furious roaring in her ears through which she was vaguely conscious of Savary saying that his wife was at home on Mondays and would be most happy to entertain the Princess Sant'Anna to dinner one of these days. The last straw!
'I hope you have invited Madame de Chastenay also?' she said with irony as he stood waiting to hand her into her coach. The minister's eyes met hers with an expression of innocent surprise.
'But of course. Why should you ask?'
'Oh, curiosity merely. It is my turn, wouldn't you agree? Good evening to you, Duke. I too have been delighted to meet you.'
The coach moved off and Marianne sank back among the cushions, torn between the impulse to scream with rage, to burst into tears and shout with laughter. Was there ever anything so absurd? Tragedy that ended in farce! She had imagined herself, like a heroine of romance, going to meet a tragic fate, and instead she had received an invitation to dine!
'I am so glad to see you again, madame,' said Agathe at her side. 'I was frightened when that man brought us here.'
Marianne glanced at her maid and saw that the girl's cheeks were wet with tears and her eyes swollen.
'And you thought I should come out under an armed guard, in chains, on my way to Vincennes? No, my poor Agathe, I am not so important. I was sent for merely for the sake of seeing what I looked like. We must resign ourselves, my child, we are no longer the Emperor's beloved mistress! We are only a Princess.'
And Marianne promptly demonstrated her resignation by bursting into tears and thus completing poor Agathe's bewilderment. She was still crying when the coach entered the forecourt of the Hôtel d'Asselnat but her tears ceased abruptly at the sight that met her eyes. The old house was lit up from the basement to the handsome mansard roof.
Candlelight blazed in every window, most of which were open, revealing rooms filled with flowers and an elegantly dressed assembly moving about to the strains of violins. Marianne stared in amazement, recognizing the notes of a piece of ballet music by Mozart. It even occurred to her to wonder if she had not mistaken the house, but no, it was her own house, her own house with a party going on inside, and those were her servants lining the steps in splendid livery with branches of candles in their hands.
Every bit as flabbergasted as his mistress, Gracchus had brought the horses to a standstill in the middle of the courtyard and was staring with bulging eyes, incapable of bringing the coach up to the steps, or even of dismounting from the box. However, the clatter of hooves and iron-shod wheels on the cobbles must have penetrated through the music. From somewhere in the house, there came a shout.
'Here she is!'
In a moment, the entrance was packed with ladies in ball gowns and men in evening dress and, in their midst, the smiling, pointed face, goatee beard and bright black eyes of Arcadius de Jolival himself. But it was not he who came forward to the coach. Instead, a very tall man, dressed with great elegance, detached himself from the group and came down the steps, a man with a slight limp who leaned on a gold-knobbed stick. The haughty features and the cold blue eyes were illumined by a smile full of warmth and Marianne watched stupefied as Monsieur de Talleyrand put aside the footmen with a gesture and, advancing to the coach, himself flung wide the door and held out his gloved hand to her, saying in a loud voice as he did so: 'Welcome to the home of your ancestors, Marianne d'Asselnat de Villeneuve, and welcome also among your friends and your peers! You have returned from a journey longer than you know, but all of us are assembled here tonight to tell you of our sincere rejoicing.'
Marianne gazed at the brilliant crowd before her. Her face had gone suddenly very pale and her eyes dilated. She saw Fortunée Hamelin, laughing and crying at once. She saw, too, Dorothée de Périgord, in white, and Madame de Chastenay in her mauve taffetas, waving to her. There were other faces, as well, which had been scarcely known to her until now but which she knew belonged to the greatest names of France: Choiseul-Gouffier, Jaucourt, La Marck, Laval, Montmorency, La Tour du Pin, Baufremont, Coigny, all those whom she had met in the rue de Varennes when she was merely a humble companion to the Princess Benevento. It came to her in a flash that Talleyrand had brought them here tonight, not only to welcome her home, but also to restore her at last to the position which by birth was rightfully hers and which she had lost only through misfortune.
The vision of pale gowns and glittering jewels was strangely blurred. Marianne placed her fingers, which seemed to be trembling suddenly, in the waiting hand. She stepped out of the coach, leaning heavily on that friendly arm.
'And now,' Talleyrand cried, 'make way, friends, make way for her Serene Highness, the Princess Marianne Sant'Anna, and allow me, in all our names, to wish her every happiness in the future.'
With the whole of society looking on and clapping, he kissed Marianne warmly on both cheeks and then bowed over her hand.
'I knew you would come back to us,' he whispered in her ear. 'You remember what I said to you, one stormy day in the Tuileries? You are one of us and that is something you can never alter.'
'Do you think – do you think the Emperor is of the same opinion?'
The Emperor, always the Emperor! In spite of herself, Marianne could not rid her mind of its obsession with the man whom she knew that she still loved. Talleyrand's mouth twisted.
'You may expect a little trouble in that quarter, but come, they are waiting for you. We will talk later.'
Triumphantly, he led her to her friends. In a second, she was surrounded, petted, kissed, congratulated, passing from Fortunée Hamelin's lavishly rose-scented arms to the tobacco-smelling ones of Arcadius de Jolival. She abandoned herself, unresistingly, too dazed even to think. It was all so sudden, so unexpected. In the ballroom, while Talleyrand proposed a toast to her return, she took Arcadius aside.
'This is all very touching, and very pleasant, my friend, but I wish I understood. How did you know I was coming bade? You seem to have been expecting me?'
'I was expecting you. I was quite sure you would come today, even before this came.'
This' was a large, sealed envelope at the sight of which Marianne's heart beat faster. The Emperor's seal! But the contents, brief and to the point, held little of comfort.
'His Majesty the Emperor and King commands the attendance of the Princess Marianne Sant'Anna on Wednesday the twentieth of June at four o'clock in the afternoon at the Palace of Saint-Cloud…' It was signed: Duroc, Duc de Frioul, Grand Marshal of the Palace.
'Wednesday the twentieth is tomorrow,' Jolival observed, 'and you would not have been asked if it had not been known that you were on your way. Consequently, that meant you would be here today. Besides, Madame de Chastenay came straight here from the Duke of Rovigo's.'
'How could she have known I should not be detained?'
'She asked Savary, that is how. Now, Marianne, my dear, I must not monopolize you like this. Your guests are calling for you. You cannot think what a celebrity you have become since we had the news about your marriage from Florence.'
'I know – but, oh, I would so much rather have been alone with you, at least for tonight. I have so much to tell you!'
'And I have so much to hear,' Arcadius responded, pressing her fingertips affectionately. 'But Monsieur Talleyrand made me promise to tell him as soon as I knew anything. He was determined that your return should be something in the nature of a triumph.'
'That is one way of drawing me, willy-nilly, into his circle, is it not? All the same, he will have to recognize that I have not changed at all. My heart does not alter quite so fast.'
She looked thoughtfully at the imperial summons which she still held in her hand, trying to work out the meaning behind those brief, almost menacing words. She wagged it slowly under Jolival's nose.
'What do you think of this?'
'To be honest with you — nothing at all. Who can tell what is in the Emperor's mind? But I'll wager he's not best pleased.'
'I'll not take you. You would win,' Marianne said with a sigh. 'Dear Arcadius, be kind and take care of my guests while I change and freshen up a little. As this is the first time, I do think I should play the hostess worthily. I owe them that.'
Half-way to the stairs, she paused and turned: 'Tell me, Arcadius, have you heard anything of Adelaide?'
'Nothing,' said Jolival with a shrug. The Pygmy Théâtre is closed for the present and I did hear that it had moved to the spa at Aix-la-Chapelle for the present. I suppose she has gone also.'
'How stupid it all is. Well, that is her affair. And —' There was a tiny pause before Marianne continued: 'Jason?'
'No news of him either,' Arcadius answered easily. 'He must be on his way to America and your letter still awaits him at Nantes.'
'Oh.' It was almost a sigh, a tiny ghost of a sound that yet betrayed the odd jerk at her heart-strings. It was true, of course, that the letter left with Patterson no longer mattered, the die was cast and there was no going back, but weeks of hope had ended in a void. The ocean was vast and a ship no more than a straw upon it: she had sent out her cry for help into infinity and no echo came back. There was nothing Jason could do for her now, and yet, as she mounted slowly to her bedchamber, Marianne found that she felt the same longing to see him again. It was strange when only the next day she would be facing the anger of Napoleon, waging one of those exhausting battles in which her love made her so vulnerable. It would not be easy, and yet her mind refused to worry about it. Instead, her thoughts obstinately kept going back to the sea. Strange, too, how insistently the memory of the sailor returned. It was as if all Marianne's youth, filled with wild dreams and the deep, almost visceral longing for adventure, were clinging to him, the supreme adventurer, as a last means of survival.
The time for adventure was past, however. Listening to the babel of aristocratic voices that mounted to her through the open window, against a background of an air from Mozart, the new Princess reflected that this was the beginning of a quite different life, adult, full of calm and dignity in which the child could share. Tomorrow, when she had arranged matters with the Emperor, there would be nothing left to do but let the days flow past, and live like everyone else, alas.
Four o'clock was striking from the clock set in the central pediment of the palace of Saint-Cloud as Marianne ascended the great staircase, built in the previous century. She felt ill at ease, not so much at the glances which had followed her ever since she entered the courtyard as at the thought of what awaited her in this unfamiliar place. Two and a half months had passed since the dramatic scene in the Tuileries and this would be the first time she had seen him since. It was enough to make her heart quake.
A brief note accompanying the imperial command had informed her that full dress was not worn, the court being in mourning for the Crown Prince of Sweden, and that she should appear in a round gown and 'fanciful head-dressing'. She had therefore selected a dress of thick white satin with no train and with no other ornament than a single gold and pearl pin just below the bosom. Her thick, black hair was dressed with a turban of the same material, trimmed with black and white ostrich plumes that curled softly on her neck. She carried a long black and gold cashmere shawl draped negligently over one shoulder and caught up on the other arm. Baroque pearls hung in her ears and gold bracelets, worn over long white gloves and reaching up almost to her sleeves, completed a toilette which roused envy in the breast of every woman who beheld it. Marianne suffered no qualms on this score. She had thought out every detail, from the deliberate simplicity of the dress which did full justice to her long, slender legs to the absence of jewels at her throat so as not to mar the smooth line of her slender neck, melting gracefully into her rounded shoulders. Even the snowy edge of her daringly low-cut bodice was designed to show off the golden warmth of her skin which, as Marianne well knew, had always been irresistible to Napoleon. As far as appearance was concerned she was a complete success, her beauty was perfect. On the moral plane, however…
She had scarcely slept that night for thinking of the coming interview and there had been ample time to decide on her attitude. She had reached the conclusion that to betray the least consciousness of guilt would be the greatest foolishness. Napoleon had nothing to blame her for except for having taken steps to safeguard the future of his child without consulting him. It was therefore as a woman certain of her own power, a mistress determined to have her lover again, that she meant to go to him. She was tired of all the raptures she had heard since her return to France depicting Napoleon and Marie-Louise as a pair of turtle doves. Only last night, Talleyrand had whispered to her, with a hint of his rakish smile, that the Emperor spent the best part of his time either in his wife's bed or at least closeted with her.
'He is present at her toilette every morning and selects her gowns and jewels for her. He thinks that nothing can be too splendid for her. Our Mars has become a Mars in love.'
Marianne was set on causing a diversion in these amorous skirmishes. She had endured too much since the announcement of this marriage, suffered too much from the ravages of an almost animal jealousy at the thought of their nights together. She knew that she was beautiful, far more beautiful than that other woman, and well able to turn the head of any man. She was out to conquer. It was not the Emperor she was going to see but a man she meant to keep at any cost. It may have been this which made her heart beat so fast when she reached the waiting-room on the first floor where, by custom, the palace chamberlain and four of the Empress's ladies were on permanent duty whenever their majesties were giving audience.
Marianne knew that today she would find there Madame de Montmorency and the Countess de Périgord, for the latter had told her the evening before that she was on duty.
The custom is,' Dorothée had added, 'for one of the palace ladies to present you to the chief lady-in-waiting and to the palace chamberlain before you are admitted to the audience chamber. The chamberlain, the Marquis de Bausset, is a charming man but to my mind the lady-in-waiting, the Duchess de Montebello, is a perfect harpy. Unfortunately, the Empress can think of no one else, listens to no one else, loves and trusts no one else. But never mind. I shall be there and I will present you to her. Madame de Montebello handles me with kid gloves.'
That Marianne could well believe, knowing the young countess well enough to be sure that she would never allow Madame de Montebello to forget that she was born Princess of Courland. It was therefore with a smile of perfect ease that she advanced to meet her friend Dorothée. But before the two young women could utter more than greetings, a third person intervened.
'Is it a ghost come back to us?' It was Duroc's gay voice that spoke. 'And what a ghost! My dear, it is a real pleasure to see you again! And in such beauty! Such elegance! You are – I cannot find words for what you are.'
'Say "imperial" and you will not be far from the truth,' said Dorothée in her rather mannish tones, while Duroc bowed low over Marianne's hand. Dropping her voice a little, she added: There is no denying that she takes the shine out of our beloved sovereign, and I have always maintained that Leroy's gowns cannot be worn by everyone!'
'Come, come,' the Grand Marshal protested. 'Countess, your tongue will get you into trouble one of these days.'
'Say rather my imperfect French,' Dorothée retorted with her abrupt laugh. 'I meant of course that they do not suit all figures. One has to be slim and lithe, and long-legged,' she added, throwing a complacent glance at her own reflection in a nearby mirror as she spoke. 'And her majesty is a little too fond of pastries.'
Madame de Périgord's own elegance was beyond question. Marianne had been struck the night before by the change in her. The thin, gawky girl with the huge eyes had blossomed into a real beauty. Not even Marianne herself was better able to carry off Leroy's creations. Today, she was displaying a robe made of alternating bands of black velvet and heavy white lace. She slipped her arm through Marianne's in a friendly fashion.
'It is wonderful to see you yourself again,' she said with a happy sigh. We are a long way now from Mademoiselle Mallerouse and from the Signorina Maria Stella!'
For all her self-command, Marianne felt herself blushing.
'I seem to be a kind of chameleon,' she sighed. 'And I can't help worrying a little about what people in general will think of me.'
Madame de Périgord's fine black brows rose sharply. 'People in general will not presume to judge you, my dear. As for those who are your equals, well, they have seen worse. Did you never hear that my grandfather was a groom in the Czarina Elizabeth's stables before he became her lover and married the Duchess of Courland? Yet that does not prevent me from being extremely proud of him – in fact he is my favourite of all my forbears. Moreover, I know a good many of you émigrés who have engaged in infinitely less respectable occupations than acting as companion to a princess and giving concerts! Now, stop tormenting yourself and come and be presented to our Cerberus.'
'One moment,' Marianne said. She turned to Duroc. 'Can you tell me, Duke, the reason for my summons? Why am I here?'
The Grand Marshal's round, slightly flabby face creased into a broad smile.
'Why – to be presented to their Majesties, that is all. It is the usual custom. In the normal way, this would have taken place at an evening party, but as we are in mourning…'
'Is that really all?' Marianne said doubtfully. 'You are quite sure?'
'Indeed it is. The Emperor commanded me to invite you and I issued the command in his name. In fact,' consulting his watch, 'it is already time to go into the drawing-room and Madame de Montebello has not yet arrived. The Empress must have detained her. However, I am equally privileged to present new arrivals, so come, madame…'
Two liveried footmen flung open the double doors and the guests moved slowly into the next room and took up positions around the walls, the women in front and the men behind. Duroc, however, remained by Marianne whom he had placed a little apart, not far from the door by which the imperial couple were to enter. There were a great many people present but Marianne hardly gave them a glance, she was too absorbed in her own nervous anticipation and in her eagerness to see again the man whom she still loved. To her, they were merely a faceless mass of gowns and glittering uniforms. She was content with a glance at one of the tall mirrors, in passing, to check that her own appearance was in order. There was room for only one thought in her mind: what would her reception be?
She had thought at first that she was to see him alone, that he would have her brought to his own room, without witnesses. It had not occurred to her that she was in for a formal presentation, and she was bitterly disappointed. It was as though Napoleon were telling her that she was no longer anything to him, merely a woman like any other. Was it really possible that he could have fallen so deeply in love with that fat German? Moreover, Napoleon's reputation for bestowing public insults on a number of ladies was too well established to allow her to welcome the prospect of coming face to face with him in the presence of so many watching eyes and avidly listening ears.
'Their majesties, the Emperor and Empress!' The voice of the master of ceremonies rang out and Marianne shivered. Her nerves tensed. The great doors opened and her heart missed a beat. Napoleon, hands clasped behind his back, trod briskly into the room.
More slowly, a little behind him, Marianne saw Marie-Louise come in, looking pinker than ever in a white gown trimmed with roses of the same colour but edged with silver.
'She is fatter than ever!' was Marianne's first, maliciously gleeful thought.
A number of important people entered in their wake but these remained at one end while the Emperor and Empress made their progress round the room, to a rippling wave of silken gowns and braided uniforms that dipped in endless homage. Marianne recognized Napoleon's sister, the enchanting Pauline, and the Duke of Würzburg, Marie-Louise's uncle. She was third in line after two haughty-looking dames considerably older than herself but she could not have recalled their names or repeated what Napoleon said to them for the buzzing in her own ears. Only Duroc's deep voice penetrated it.
'In response to your majesty's commands, allow me to present her Serene Highness, Princess Corrado Sant'Anna, Marquise d'Asselnat, de Villeneuve, Countess Cappanori and Galleno…'
The long list of the titles which she had acquired by her marriage fell with the weight of doom on Marianne. At the same time, her knees folded in the deep court curtsey which was far more demanding in grace, suppleness and sense of balance than merely kneeling. The blood was pounding in her temples and there was a mist before her eyes as Marianne heard the last of her titles. Her field of vision was limited to a pair of legs clad in white silk and silver-buckled shoes. There was silence. The Emperor was so close that she could hear him breathing but a sudden terror stopped her from raising her eyes. What was he going to say?
A hand she knew well was stretched out suddenly to raise her and Napoleon's cool voice said: 'Rise, madame. This is, I think, a long-awaited pleasure.'
She dared to look at him then and, meeting the grey-blue eyes, read in them no anger but rather a kind of amusement and wondered suddenly if he were mocking her gently. Certainly, the smile he bestowed on her was full of laughter.
'We are pleased, also, to felicitate you on your marriage, and to note that it has not altered you. You are as beautiful as ever.'
It was hardly a compliment. Merely a statement of fact. His gaze flickered rapidly from the charmingly flushed countenance to the uncovered shoulders and the breast that rose and fell so close to him but she could read nothing there. Already he was turning away to present the young princess to Marie-Louise and, like it or no, she was obliged to repeat her curtsey to the one woman whom she detested above all others. But before sinking into her reverence, she had time to note the discontented pout that accentuated the famous Habsburg lip.
'How do you do?' said the Empress sulkily.
That was all. Had she recognized the woman who had made the shocking scene at the Tuileries on the day following her wedding? The woman she had found sobbing at the Emperor's feet and called 'that wicked woman'? Marianne could have sworn that she had. As she rose, she could not prevent her eyes from meeting those of Marie-Louise in a silent challenge. A fierce joy surged up in her. There was an almost electric shock. Marianne was certain that the Austrian woman loathed her and she felt a delirious sense of triumph at the thought. Hatred vibrated between the two women, hatred which gave the measure of the fear which inspired it. Marianne was aware of people around her holding their breath in cruel anticipation. Was this the first encounter between the new bride and the latest mistress to become a confrontation?
No. With a nod, Marie-Louise passed on to join her husband who, in this brief interval, had managed to traverse half the room.
'There!' Duroc's voice murmured in her ear. 'That went off better than I hoped. As soon as this is over, you are to come with me.'
'What for?'
'Why – because you are now to be granted a private audience. The Emperor instructed me to take you to his private office after the reception. You did not imagine that a few polite words would be the end of it, did you?'
Alone. She was to see him alone. Marianne's heart leaped joyfully. All this had been merely a formality, a necessary ceremony due to her new rank, but now she was to be alone with him again, have him to herself for a little while. Perhaps all was not lost.
The amused Duroc found himself gazing into a pair of eyes bright with a thousand stars. He laughed.
'I knew that would please you better. All the same, do not hope for too much. The name you bear has protected you from an open scandal. That does not mean that all will be honey in private.'
'Why should you think that?'
Duroc took out his snuff-box, helped himself to a pinch and nicked the fallen grains off his splendid suit of purple velvet and silver. Then he gave another laugh.
'The best answer to that question, my dear, is in the fragments of one of the finest Sèvres vases in the palace, shattered by his majesty's own hand on the day he learned of your marriage.'
'Are you trying to frighten me?' Marianne said. 'Far from it, you cannot think how happy you have made me! I was frightened, I confess, but that was just now…'
It was true. She had been frightened of his formal politeness, his social smile, his indifference. The worst of his rages, yes, but not that! It was the one thing before which Marianne felt helpless.
The Emperor's office at Saint-Cloud opened directly on to the great terrace, gay with roses and geraniums. Striped awnings were stretched outside the windows and ancient lime trees cast a gentle shade which made the sunlight that lay full on the wide lawns seem more dazzling by contrast. The furnishings were little different from those in the Tuileries, but the businesslike atmosphere was softened by the summery scents and the beauty of the green and golden gardens, laid out for a pleasure-loving age.
Dropping her shawl over the arm of a chair, Marianne walked over to one of the tall french windows, seeking in the view before her a distraction from what she imagined would prove a long wait. In fact, she had hardly reached the window before the Emperor's brisk step was heard on the tiled floor of the corridor outside. The door opened, clicked shut, and Marianne sank once again into her curtsey.
'There is no one who can curtsey like you,' observed Napoleon.
He was still standing by the door, hands clasped in the familiar way behind his back, watching her. But there was no smile on his face. As before, he was merely stating a fact, not paying a compliment designed to please. In any case, before Marianne could think of an answer, he had crossed the room and seated himself at his desk, motioning her to a chair as he did so.
'Sit down,' he said briefly, 'and tell me.'
Feeling a little breathless, Marianne sat down mechanically while he rummaged among the heaps of maps and papers that cluttered his desk, apparently paying no further attention to her. Now that she could see him better, it seemed to her that he was looking both fatter and tired. His smooth, pale skin had a yellowish tinge, like old ivory. His cheeks had filled out, stressing the dark shadows under his eyes, the rather weary curl to his lip.
That royal progress through the northern provinces must have been terribly tiring, Marianne thought, resolutely putting away the memory of Talleyrand's hints about the principal occupation of the imperial pair. But his eyes had glanced up at her for a moment.
'Well? I am waiting...'
'What should I tell?' she asked quietly.
'Everything, of course. This astonishing marriage! I do not ask the reason. I know it.'
'Your majesty – knows it?'
'Naturally. It appears that Constant has a fondness for you. When I heard of this marriage, he told me everything, meaning, I am sure, to spare you the chief part of my anger.' It may have been the remembrance of this anger that made Napoleon bring his fist down suddenly on the desk. 'Why did you say nothing to me? I believe I had a right to be told, and that at once.'
'Certainly, sire, but may I ask your majesty what difference it would have made?'
'Difference to what?'
'To the course of events, shall we say? And after the way we parted, on the night of the concert, I can hardly see how I could have approached your majesty for another audience to tell you the news. I should have feared to intrude on the festivities attending your marriage. It was better for me to disappear and make my own arrangements in view of the coming event.'
'Your arrangements would appear to have been adequate to the occasion,' he said with a sneer. 'A Sant'Anna! Confound it! No mean achievement for a —'
'Permit me to interrupt you, sire,' Marianne said coldly. 'Your majesty seems in danger of forgetting that the character of Maria Stella was no more than a mask. It was not she who married the Prince Sant'Anna but the daughter of the Marquis d'Asselnat. Among our kind, such a union was merely natural. Indeed, your majesty is the only person to express surprise at it, to judge what I have heard since my return. Paris society has been much more surprised by —'
Again the imperial fist came down with a crash.
'Enough, madame! You are not here to teach me what may or may not be the opinions of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. I know them better than you! What I wish to hear is how your choice came to fall on a man whom no one has ever seen, who lives shut up on his estates, hidden even from his own servants, like a kind of living mystery? I do not imagine he came here to find you?'
Marianne could feel the anger in him throbbing in her own veins. She lifted her chin and clasped her gloved hands together in her lap as she always did in moments of stress. Outwardly calm, despite the alarm within her, she answered him: 'A kinsman of mine arranged the match, for the honour of the family.'
'A kinsman? But I thought – oh, I see! I'll wager by that you mean the Cardinal San Lorenzo, that impertinent fellow to whom the fool Clary gave his carriage to please you, against my expressed commands. A plotter, like all the rest.'
Marianne permitted herself a smile. Gauthier de Chazay was out of reach of the imperial wrath. The admission she was about to make could do him no harm.
'Wager, by all means, sire, for you will win. It is quite true that it was my godfather who, as head of my family, made the choice for me. That, too, was natural.'
'There I cannot agree with you.' Napoleon rose abruptly and began to stride up and down the carpet of his office in one of his characteristic nervous pacings. 'I cannot agree with you at all,' he said again. 'It was for me, the father, to choose the future of my child. Unless,' he added cruelly, 'unless I am mistaken in thinking myself the child's father!'
Instantly Marianne was on her feet, her cheeks on fire, her eyes blazing.
'I never gave you the right to insult me, or to doubt me either! And I should like to know what arrangements your majesty could have made for the child other than to have forced his mother into some marriage or other!'
There was silence. The Emperor coughed and shifted his eyes away from the sparkling gaze fixed on him in almost insolent interrogation.
'Naturally. Unfortunately, it could not have been otherwise, since it was not possible for me to acknowledge the child. At least I could have entrusted you to one of those I trust, a man I knew intimately and could be sure of.'
'Someone who would shut his eyes and take Caesar's mistress – and the dowry that went with her. For you would have given me a dowry, would you not, sire?'
'Naturally.'
'In other words: a complaisant husband! Don't you understand,' Marianne cried passionately, 'that that was precisely what I could not have borne: to be given away, sold would be more accurate, by you to one of your people! To be obliged to accept a man from your hands!'
'Your noble blood would have rebelled, I take it,' he said, scowling, 'against giving your hand to one of those upstart heroes who make up my court, men who owe everything to their gallantry, to the blood they have shed…'
'And to your generosity! No, sire, as Marianne d'Asselnat I should not have blushed to wed one such, but I would have died rather than that you, whom I loved, should give me to another. By obeying the cardinal, I did no more than follow the noble custom which requires a girl to accept blindly the husband chosen for her by her family. In that way I suffered less.'
'So much for your reasons,' Napoleon said, with a chilly smile. 'Now let me have your – husband's. What made a Sant'Anna take to wife a woman already with child by another?'
Marianne snapped back at him instantly:
'The fact that that other was yourself! Prince Corrado married the child of Bonaparte's blood.'
'I understand less and less.'
'Yet it is very simple, sire. The Prince is, by what they say, a victim of some malady which he is determined not to pass on to his posterity. He had therefore condemned himself of his own will to seeing his ancient name die with him, until, that is, Cardinal San Lorenzo told him of me. His pride was too great to allow him to consider adopting a child, but that pride did not apply in your case, sire. Your son will bear the name of Sant'Anna and ensure that it shall survive!'
There was silence again. Slowly, Marianne made her way over to the open window. She felt suddenly stifled, overcome by the weird knowledge that she had lied in her portrait of Corrado Sant'Anna. Sick? The man she had seen mounting Ilderim with such mastery? It was impossible! But how could she explain to the Emperor what she could not explain even to herself? His voluntary seclusion, the mask of white leather which he wore on his nocturnal rides? She saw again that tall, energetic figure glimpsed beneath the flowing black cloak billowing out with the speed of his gallop. Sick, no! But some mystery there was and it was never wise to present Napoleon with a mystery.
It was he who broke the silence.
'Very well,' he said at last. 'I accept that. It is a valid reason and one that I can understand. Moreover, we have nothing against the Prince. He has always behaved as a loyal subject since our accession to power. But one thing you said just now struck me as strange.'
What was that?'
'You said: by what they say, the Prince is a victim of some malady. That suggests that you have never seen him.'
'Nothing could be more true. I have seen nothing of him, sire, beyond a gloved hand which emerged from a black velvet curtain and was joined to mine in the marriage ceremony.'
'You have never seen Prince Sant'Anna?'
'Never,' Marianne assured him, aware once again that she was not telling the truth. She meant, at all costs, to keep from him the knowledge of what had taken place at the villa. No good could come of telling him about the phantom rider, much less of her strange awakening after that enchanted night in a bed strewn with jasmine flowers. She was rewarded for her lie at once for at last Napoleon smiled. He came towards her, slowly, until he was almost touching her, and looked deeply into her eyes.
'So,' he said, and his voice was low and husky, 'he has not touched you?'
'No, sire. He has not touched me.'
Marianne's heart trembled. The Emperor's eyes were as soft now as a moment before they had been cold and implacable. She saw again, at long last, the look that he had worn in their days at the Trianon, the look she had so longed to see again, the charm that he could use to such good effect when he wished and the caressing expression in his eyes before they made love. For days, and nights too, she had dreamed of that look. How came it, then, that now it gave her no joy? Napoleon laughed suddenly.
'Don't look at me like that. Good God, anyone would swear you were afraid of me! Don't worry, there is nothing more to fear. All things considered, this marriage will do very well indeed and you have carried off a master stroke! By heaven, I couldn't have done better myself! A splendid marriage and, what is more important, a marriage in name only. You have made me suffer, you know.'
'Suffer? You?'
'Yes, I! I am jealous of what I love, am I not? Well, I imagined so many things ?'
And what about me? Marianne thought, with the bitter memory of that terrible night at Compiègne vividly in her mind. Thinking I should go mad when I learned that he could not wait even a few hours to get the Austrian into his bed.
The sudden spurt of resentment was so strong that she did not realize all at once that he had taken her in his arms and was murmuring words in her ear that grew ever huskier and more passionate.
'You, my green-eyed witch, my beautiful siren, in another man's arms, another man kissing and fondling your body… I almost hated you for doing that to me and just now, when I saw you again… so beautiful, more beautiful even than I remembered… I wanted to...' The words were lost in a kiss, a kiss that was greedy, demanding, almost brutal, full of selfish passion, the caress of a master to his willing slave, yet even so, Marianne could not resist it. The mere touch of this man whom she had made the centre of all her thoughts, all her desires, still acted on her senses like the most relentless and demanding of tyrants. In Napoleon's arms, Marianne melted as completely as on that first night at Butard.
Already he had released her and had moved away, calling: 'Rustan!'
The magnificent Georgian's turbanned head appeared, shining and expressionless, to receive the Emperor's curt command.
'Let no one in here until I call. On your life!'
The Mameluke bowed his understanding and withdrew. Napoleon grasped Marianne by the hand.
'Come,' was all he said.
He almost ran with her to a door cut in one of the panels of the wall, disclosing a small, spiral staircase up which he hurried her at a breathless pace. They emerged into a small apartment furnished with the tasteful luxury generally associated with rooms designed for love. The predominant colours were a glowing yellow and soft, rather faded blue. However, Marianne had little time to look at her surroundings, hardly time to think of those who had been before her in this discreet love nest. As deftly as the best of lady's maids, Napoleon had already taken out the pins that held the white satin turban and unfastened the dress. It slid to the ground, followed almost at once by the shift and petticoats. All this at incredible speed. This time, there was no question of the slow, tender preliminaries, the skilled, voluptuous process of undressing of that night at Butard, which had made Marianne a more than willing prey, and had given such delight to the early stages of their love-making in those days at the Trianon. In no time, the Serene Princess Sant'Anna found herself clad only in her stockings, sprawled across the sunshine yellow counterpane in the grip of a man bent only on ravishing her, like some marauding trooper, without a word spoken, merely covering her lips with frantic kisses.
It was so brutal and so swift that this time the famous charm was given no chance to work. In a few minutes it was all over. His majesty popped a kiss on the end of her nose, and patted her cheek.
'My good little Marianne,' he said, with a kind of sentimental fondness. 'You are truly the most delicious woman I have ever met. I fear you will be able to make a fool of me all my life. You make me mad.'
These kind words, however, were powerless to comfort his 'good little Marianne' who, in addition to her frustration and fury, had a disagreeable sensation of being made ridiculous. She discovered angrily that, just when she had believed that she had really found her lover again she had merely served to slake the sudden, violent passion of a married man, who was probably dreading being caught at any moment by his wife and already regretting his loss of control. Outraged, she snatched up the yellow counterpane to cover her nakedness and stood up. Her hair fell loose to below her waist, enveloping her in a shining black mantle.
'I am infinitely obliged to your majesty, I am flattered that your majesty is still pleased with me,' she said coldly. 'May I hope for your continued goodwill?'
He frowned, then he too rose and grinned.
'So you're sulking now, are you? Come now, Marianne, I know I have not been able to give you as much time as I used to, but you are a sensible girl and I think you must realize that many things have changed here, that I cannot be as I once was with you…'
'As a bachelor! I know,' Marianne retorted, turning her back on him to restore some order to her hair in the glass over the fireplace. He followed her and, putting his arms round her, dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. Then he laughed.
'You should be very proud. You are the only woman who could make me forget my duty to the Empress,' he said, clumsily making bad worse.
'Indeed, sire, I am proud,' Marianne said gravely. 'I am only sorry that I can make you forget for so short a time.'
'Duty, you understand…'
'And the desire to get an heir soon!' she finished for him, thinking to goad him, but to no effect. Napoleon bestowed a radiant smile upon her.
'I hope he will not make me wait too long! Of course I want a boy. I hope you will give me a fine boy, also. We will call him Charles, if you agree, after my father.'
Marianne was dazed. He was talking of children now, and as naturally as if they had been married for years. She had a perverse urge to contradict him.
'It may be a girl,' she said. It was the first time such a possibility had occurred to her. Until then, she had always been convinced for some reason that the coming child would be a boy. But tonight it was quite impossible for her to put him out of temper. He answered gaily.
'I should be delighted to have a girl. I have two boys already, you know.'
'Two?'
'Why, yes. Young Leon, who is some years old now, and little Alexandre, born last month, in Poland.'
Marianne was silent at this, more deeply hurt than she cared to show. She had not been aware of the birth of Marie Walewska's son and she was inexpressibly shocked to find herself put on the same level as the Emperor's other mistresses, her child placed firmly in a kind of nursery for imperial bastards.
'Congratulations,' she said grittily.
'If you have a daughter,' Napoleon went on, 'we will call her by a Corsican name, a pretty name! Letizia, like my mother, or Vannina – I like those names! Now, hurry up and get dressed or people will start to wonder at the length of this audience.'
Now he was worrying what people would say! Oh, he had changed, he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into his role of married man! Marianne dressed herself with angry haste. He had left her alone, perhaps out of gallantry but more probably because of his own impatience to be back in his office. He merely told her to come down when she was ready. Marianne's haste was as great as his. She was eager now to be gone from this palace where, she knew in her heart, a perilous rift had occurred in her great love. She would find it hard to forgive him for this hurried interlude.
When she returned to the office, Napoleon was waiting for her, her shawl over his arm. He settled it tenderly about her shoulders, asking in a voice that was suddenly coaxing, like a child asking to be forgiven: 'Do you still love me?'
She merely shrugged and smiled a little sadly.
'Then, ask me for something. I want to make you happy.'
She was about to refuse when all at once she remembered something Fortunée had told her the night before, something which was much on her mind. Now or never was the moment to do something for her most faithful friend, and also to annoy the Emperor a little. Looking him very straight in the eye, she gave him a wide smile.
'There is someone you could make very happy through me, sire.'
'Who is that?'
'Madame Hamelin. It appears that when the banker Ouvrard was arrested in her house, the men also arrested General Fournier-Sarlovèze who chanced to be in the house.'
If Marianne had hoped to annoy Napoleon, she had succeeded abundantly. The smiling face of a moment before was instantly transformed into the mask of Caesar. He did not look at her but turned back to his desk, saying curtly:
'General Fournier had no business to be in Paris without permission. His home is Sarlat. Let him stay there.'
'It would seem,' Marianne said, 'that your majesty is unaware of the ties of affection which exist between him and Fortunée. They are deeply in love and —'
'Rubbish! Fournier is in love with every woman he meets and Madame Hamelin is besotted about men. They can perfectly well do without each other. If he was in her house, there was probably some other reason for it.'
'But of course,' Marianne said blandly. 'He desires quite desperately to be restored to his place in the army, as your majesty well knows.'
'I know he is a troublemaker, a mischievous hot-head – and one that hates me and will not forgive me because I wear the crown.'
'But one that dearly loves your glory,' Marianne said softly, astonishing herself by her ability to produce arguments in favour of a man whom she personally detested. But Fortunée would be so happy.
Napoleon's eye was turned on her in sudden suspicion.
'This man – how do you come to know him?'
A devil came to tempt Marianne. What would he do if she were to tell him that on the night of his august nuptials, Fournier had tried to ravish her behind a garden gate? No doubt he would be furious, and his rage would repay her for many things, but Fournier might well pay with his life or by perpetual disgrace, and he had not deserved that, however odious and impossible he was.
'Know him would be rather too much to claim. I saw him one evening at Madame Hamelin's. He had come from Périgord to beg her to intercede for him. I did not stay long. I had the impression that the general and my friend were anxious to be alone.'
The Emperor's shout of laughter told her she had succeeded. He came to her and took her hand, kissed it and, still holding her, led her to the door.
'Very well! You win. You may tell that urchin in petticoats that she will have her handsome cockerel back soon. I will have him out of prison and he shall have his command again before the autumn. Now, be off with you. I have work to do.'
They parted at the door, he bowing slightly, she sinking once again into the deep, formal curtsey, as stiff and impersonal as if nothing had occurred behind that door but a polite conversation. Marianne found Duroc waiting in the Apollo gallery to escort her to her carriage. He held out his hand.
'Well? Happy?'
'Extremely,' Marianne said in a tight voice. The Emperor was – charming!'
'The whole thing has been a complete success,' the Grand Marshal agreed. 'You are wholly restored to favour. You do not yet know how far! But I can tell you that you will certainly receive your appointment before long.'
'My appointment? What appointment?'
'As lady-in-waiting, to be sure! The Emperor has decided that as an Italian princess you will join the group of great ladies from foreign countries who are now attached to the Empress's person in this capacity. It is your right.'
'But I do not want to!' Marianne cried helplessly. 'How dare he do this to me? Attached to his wife, obliged to serve her, keep her company? He is mad!'
'Hush!' Duroc spoke hastily, casting an anxious glance around him. 'Do not fly into a panic. The appointments have already been made but, for one thing, the decree is not yet signed, although Countess Dorothée has already taken up her post; and for another, if I know anything of the Duchess of Montebello's exclusiveness, your duties will not take up much of your time. Apart from grand receptions, at which you will be obliged to attend, you will see little of the Empress, you will not enter her bedchamber, or converse with her, or ride in her carriage. It is, in fact, largely an honorary appointment but it will have the advantage of silencing busy tongues.'
'If I am obliged to have a post at court, could I not have been given to some other member of the imperial family? Princess Pauline, for instance? Or, better still, the Emperor's mother?'
At this, the Grand Marshal laughed quite openly.
'My dear Princess, you don't know what you are saying! You are a great deal too pretty for our charming, scatterbrained Pauline, while as for Madame Mother, if you want to die a speedy death of boredom, then I advise you to join the company of grave and pious ladies who make up her entourage.'
'Very well,' Marianne said with a sigh of resignation. 'I admit defeat once more. I will be a lady-in-waiting. But for the love of heaven, my dear Duke, do nothing to hasten the signature of that decree! There will be time enough.'
'Oh, with a bit of luck, I can drag it out until August, or even September.'
September? Marianne's smile returned at once. By September her condition would be sufficiently obvious to excuse her from appearing at court since, according to her calculations, the baby should be born early in December.
They had reached the steps and Marianne extended her hand impulsively for the Grand Marshal to kiss.
'My dear Duke, you are a darling! And, and what is more to the point, a very good friend.'
'I preferred your first,' he told her, with a comical grimace, 'but I will be content with friendship. Good-bye for the present, fair lady.'
The sun was setting in a blaze of orange light that made the sky behind the hills of Saint-Cloud seem on fire. The promenade de Longchamp was full of people, a gay, colourful crowd of gleaming carriages, handsome men on horseback, light-coloured gowns and brilliant uniforms. The evening was so mild that Marianne was glad not to hurry home. She was trying out a new carriage that day, an open barouche which Arcadius had ordered as a surprise for her homecoming. With its green velvet cushions and gleaming brass-work, it was both luxurious and comfortable. This splendid equipage attracted a good deal of notice, as also did its occupant. Women stared curiously, and men with an admiration divided equally between the ravishing young woman who reclined on the cushions and the four snowy Lippizaners handled with superb aplomb by Gracchus, glowing with pride in his new livery of black and gold.
Marianne lay back, lulled by the gentle movement of her carriage, and breathed in the warm air, heavy with the sweet scent of acacia and chestnut trees in bloom. Her dreamy gaze took in just enough of the brilliant, passing throng to enable her to recognize a face or return a bow.
At one point, however, the two lines of vehicles were brought to a halt to allow a passage to the numerous retinue of Prince Cambacèrés. During the enforced halt, Marianne's wandering attention was caught and held by a man on horseback who stood out oddly in the colourful crowd. Riding a beautiful chestnut at a gentle trot along the grass track beside the road, he seemed to take no notice of the blockage, merely bowing from time to time to one of the many women, who all smiled at him.
Marianne could tell from his dark-green uniform with red flashes, from the Cross of St Alexander on his high collar and the peculiar shape of his black cocked hat with its cockade, that the man was a Russian officer, although the Cross of the Legion d'Honneur gleamed on his breast.
He was a superb horseman. That much was clear from his easy seat, combining gracefulness with strength, and from the muscular thighs, beautifully moulded by white buckskins. His figure, also, was distinctive: his shoulders were extremely broad but his waist as slim as a young girl's. The most extraordinary thing about him was his face which was very fair with narrow side-whiskers that grew like faint slivers of gold on his cheeks. The features had the absolute regularity of a Greek statue but the eyes, set at a slant, were fierce and of an intense green which betrayed Asiatic blood. The man had some Tartar in him. He was coming towards Marianne's carriage and as he neared it, he rode more slowly.
At last, he stopped altogether, only a few paces away from Marianne, but it was to look curiously and with great attention at her horses. He examined each one carefully, from head to tail, moved slightly back to study the effect as a whole, and then edged closer again. Then his eyes turned to her. The same procedure was repeated. The Russian officer sat his horse two yards away, inspecting her with the attentive look of an entomologist discovering some rare insect. His eye roved in insolent appreciation from her thick, dark hair to her face, already flushed deep red, to the slender column of her neck, her shoulders and her breast, which Marianne hastened to cover with the black and gold cashmere. Bursting with indignation and feeling unpleasantly like a slave put up for sale, Marianne tried to annihilate this unmannerly individual with her glance, but, lost in his contemplation, he seemed not to notice it. More, he actually extracted a glass from his pocket and put it to his eye the better to scrutinize her.
Marianne leaned forward hastily and dug the tip of her sunshade smartly into Gracchus's arm.
'I do not care how you do it,' she said, 'but get us out of here! This person seems determined to stay where he is until Judgment Day.'
The youthful coachman glanced over his shoulder and grinned.
'It would appear your Serene Highness has an admirer. I'll see what I can do. In fact, I think things are beginning to move.'
The long line of carriages was indeed beginning to move again. Gracchus flicked the reins but still the Russian officer did not stir. He merely turned slightly in the saddle so as to follow the carriage and its occupant with his eyes. This was enough: 'Boor!' Marianne flung at him.
'Don't you upset yourself, Highness,' Gracchus told her. 'He's a Russian and everyone knows Russians don't know what's what. They're all savages. I dare say that one doesn't speak a word of French. It was his only way of telling you he thought you were beautiful.'
Marianne said nothing. There could be no doubt of the man's ability to speak French. The language was part of the normal education of all noble Russians and this one was evidently not born in a hovel. He was a thoroughbred, for sure, but his behaviour merely went to prove that it was possible to belong to the Russian nobility and remain horribly ill-bred. Oh well, she told herself, the important thing was to have got rid of him! It was lucky he had not been going her way.
But when her carriage passed through the handsome triple iron gate of the Porte Mahiaux she heard her coachman say casually that the Russian officer was still there.
'What? Is he following us? But he was going towards Saint-Cloud?'
'Maybe he was but he's not going there now. He's right behind us.'
Marianne looked round. Gracchus was right. The Russian was there, a few yards behind, following the carriage as calmly as if that had always been his place. When he saw her looking at him, he even had the audacity to give her a beaming smile.
'Oh!' Marianne cried aloud. This is too much! Spring 'em, Gracchus! As fast as you can!'
'Spring 'em?' Gracchus said in horror. 'We'll have someone over if I do.'
'You can avoid them. Spring them, I said. Now is the time for those horses to show their paces, and you your skill!'
Gracchus knew that it was useless to argue with his mistress when she spoke in that tone. The whip cracked. The carriage set off at a spanking pace along the route de Neuilly, traversed the place de l'Étoile, and thundered down the Champs Elysées. Gracchus, standing up on his box like a Greek charioteer, shouted out warnings with the full force of his lungs whenever he perceived a pedestrian. All these, indeed, stopped in their tracks and stared, spellbound, at the sight of the smart barouche tearing past, drawn like the wind by four snow-white horses, with a horseman riding hell for leather in pursuit. The Russian's quiet following after the carriage had turned into a mad race. When the officer saw the barouche break into a gallop, he set spurs to his horse and set off in enthusiastic pursuit. His cocked hat was gone but he showed no sign of caring. His fair hair streamed in the wind as he urged on his mount with barbaric cries that matched Gracchus's shouts. It was not a sight to pass unnoticed.
With a thunderous roar, the barouche swept over the Pont de la Concorde, and rounded the corner of the Palais du Corps Législatif. The Russian was gaining on them, and Marianne was almost bursting with rage.
'We'll never shake him off before we reach the house,' she cried. 'We are nearly there.'
'Don't lose hope!' Gracchus yelled back. 'Help is coming!'
He was right. Another horseman was converging on their path, a captain of Polish Lancers who, seeing the smart barouche evidently pursued by a Russian officer, instantly decided to intervene. Marianne watched with delight as he cut across the Russian's path, forcing him to stop in order to avoid a collision. Gracchus's hold on the reins slackened instinctively and the carriage began to slow down.
'My thanks, monsieur,' Marianne called out, while the two men faced each other with obvious hostility.
'A pleasure, madame,' the lancer responded gaily, raising a gloved hand to his hat. A moment later, the same hand was applied to the Russian officer's cheek.
'That looks like the beginnings of a nice little duel.' Gracchus observed. Well, a sword thrust is a lot to pay for one smile.'
'Suppose you mind your own business,' Marianne snapped back. 'Take me home quickly and then come back and find out what has happened. Try and discover who both these gentlemen are. I will do what I can to prevent the duel.'
In a very few moments, she was standing in the forecourt of her own house, having despatched Gracchus to the scene of the quarrel. But when he returned not many minutes later, her young coachman could tell her nothing more. The two parties to the quarrel had already disappeared and the small crowd attracted by their altercation had melted away. Fearing the incident would attract a good deal more notoriety than it deserved and might even reach the Emperor's ears, Marianne did what she had always done in such a case and waited for Arcadius to come home to confide her troubles to him.
When he returned, Arcadius found himself entrusted with a confidential mission to prevent an absurd duel between a Russian and a Polish officer. This mission he accepted with his twinkling smile, merely asking Marianne which of the two adversaries she preferred.
'How can you ask!' she exclaimed. The Pole, of course! Didn't he rescue me from a man who was molesting me, at the risk of his life?'
'My experience of woman, my dear,' Arcadius retorted calmly, 'has not shown me that rescuers inevitably receive the gratitude they deserve. It all depends on who has done the rescuing. Take your friend Fortunée Hamelin. Well, I would stake my right arm that not only would she have felt not the faintest desire to be rescued from your pursuer, but she would actually have regarded any man who was fool enough to try it as a deadly enemy.'
Marianne shrugged.
'Oh, I know. Fortunée adores all men in general and anyone in uniform in particular. She would think a Russian a great prize.'
'Not all Russians perhaps, but this one, most certainly.'
'Anyone would think you knew him,' Marianne said, staring. 'Yet you did not see him, you were not there.'
'No,' Jolival agreed pleasantly, 'but if your description is correct, I know who he is. Particularly as Russians who wear the Legion d'Honneur are not exactly two a penny.'
Then who —?'
'Count Alexander Ivanovitch Chernychev, Colonel of Cossacks of the Russian Imperial Guard, aide-de-camp to his majesty Tzar Alexander I and his customary emissary to France. He is one of the finest horsemen in the world and one of the most inveterate womanizers of two hemispheres. Women adore him.'
'Do they? Well, not this one!' Marianne cried, reacting with fury to Jolival's complacent introduction of the insolent rider of Longchamp. 'If this duel does take place, I hope very much that the Pole will skewer your Cossack as neatly as a tailor sewing thread. Attractive or no, his manners are atrocious.'
'That is what pretty women generally say of him the first time. It is odd, though, how often they tend to change their minds later on. Come now, don't be cross,' he added, seeing her green eyes grow stormy. 'I will go and see whether I am able to prevent a massacre, although I doubt it.'
'Why?'
'Because a Russian and a Pole have never yet been known to renounce such a splendid opportunity for killing one another.'
In the event, ten o'clock was striking the next morning as Arcadius, who had gone out well before daylight, returned to inform Marianne that the duel had taken place that very morning at the Pré Catelan. The two parties had fought with swords and had returned unreconciled, one, Chernychev, with a thrust through his arm, the other, Baron Kozietulski, with a wound in the shoulder.
'You need not pity him too much,' Jolival added, seeing Marianne's distressed face. The wound is not severe and it will have the advantage of saving him from a tour of duty in Spain, where the Emperor would most certainly have sent him. And don't worry, I will send to inquire how he does. As for the other…'
'The other does not interest me,' Marianne interrupted curtly.
The faintly sardonic smile which was Jolival's answer to this so offended Marianne that she turned her back on him without a word and went out into the garden. Why, she wondered, had her old friend smiled like that? What was he thinking? Did he imagine that she did not mean what she said when she declared that the Russian did not interest her? Did he think she was like all those other women who had fallen such easy victims to the handsome Cossack?
She strolled a little way along the sanded paths, all leading to the little pool with its murmuring fountain. It was a small garden, made up of no more than a few lime trees and masses of roses basking in the summer sun. The fountain was also small, in the form of a bronze dolphin clasped in the arms of an enigmatically smiling cupid. It was certainly nothing to compare with the marvels of the Villa dei Cavalli. Here, no proud stallion made the ground echo at night to the thunder of his furious galloping hooves, no phantom rider streaked through the shadows on his lonely way, carrying with him to the end of the night some terrible secret, some awful despair. Here, all was peace and cheerfulness, ordered, companionable, as a small Parisian garden should be.
The cupid on the dolphin smiled through the shower of falling crystal drops and it seemed to Marianne that she read a kind of irony in his smile. 'You are mocking me,' she thought. 'But why? What have I done to you? I believed in you and you betrayed me cruelly. You have never smiled at me except to take away what you have given. I entered into marriage as other women enter religion, yet you made marriage nothing but a mockery to me. And yet, here I am, married for the second time, and still as lonely. The first was a villain, the second is no more than a shadow – while the man I love is merely another woman's husband. Will you never have mercy on me?'
But no, the cupid remained silent and his smile did not change. With a sigh Marianne turned her back and went to sit down on a bench of mossy stone where a climbing rose dropped its crimson petals. Her heart felt empty, like one of those deserts created in a night by a hurricane gust of wind, carrying everything away with it, obliterating even the memory of what was there before. And when she tried to revive the fire that was slowly going out within her by remembering the madness of her love, the delirium of joy, the blind despair which the very name, the very picture of her lover had once had power to evoke. Marianne found to her distress that not even the echo of her cries remained. It was as if – yes, it was as if it were a story she had heard, but a story of which someone else was the heroine.
From a great distance, as though at the end of a long series of vast, empty rooms, she seemed to hear Talleyrand's persuasive voice saying: 'This was never made to last…' Could he have been right, after all? Was he proved right already? Could it be that her great love for Napoleon was dying, leaving behind it only the small change of tenderness and admiration that remains after the burning, golden flood of passion has withdrawn?. The present day Place de l'Italie.