[Marianne 4] - Marianne and the Rebels

by Juliette Benzoni

  Giuseppe bent forward as though to draw the black leather curtain.

  'What are you afraid of?' Marianne asked with contempt. 'I do not know this city and no one here knows me. Let me look, at least!'

  Giuseppe hesitated for a moment before sighing resignedly and resuming his seat beside her, leaving the curtains as they were.

  The gondola turned into the Grand Canal and now Marianne saw that the splendid ghost was indeed a living city. Lights shone in palace windows, driving back the darkness here and there and making the water sparkle with reflections of spangled gold. Sounds of voices and music floated out of open windows, filling the soft May night. A tall gothic palace was ashimmer with light, and a waltz tune sounded above a garden which dripped luxuriant greenery into the canal. A cluster of moored gondolas danced to the rhythm of the violins below the steps of a noble stair which seemed to rise from the very depths of the waves.

  Huddlled in her dark retreat, Giuseppe's prisoner saw women in brilliant gowns and well-dressed men mingling with uniforms of every colour, the white of Austria prominent among them. She could almost smell the scents and hear the bursts of laughter. A party!… Life, joy… Then, suddenly, all was gone again and there was only the darkness and a vaguely musty smell. The gondola had turned aside abruptly into a little cut walled in by blind house walls.

  As in a bad dream, Marianne glimpsed barred windows, emblazoned doorways, and now and then walls with crumbling plasterwork, as well as graceful arched bridges under which the gondola glided like a ghost.

  At last they came to a small landing-stage below a red wall topped with black ivy, in which was the ornately carved lintel of a little stone doorway framed by a pair of barbaric wrought-iron lanterns.

  The fragile craft came to a halt and Marianne knew that this time it was really the end of the journey, and her heart missed a beat. She had come again to the house of the Prince Sant'Anna.

  But on this occasion no servant waited on the green-stained steps leading down to the water, or in the slip of a garden where plants sprang thickly round the ancient carved-stone well, as though out of the very stones. Nor was there anyone on the handsome stairway which led up to the slender pillars of a gothic gallery, at the back of which the red and blue glass of a lighted window shone like jewels. But for that light, the palace might have been deserted.

  Yet, as she climbed the stone steps, Marianne found all her courage and fighting spirit come flooding back. As always with her, the imminent prospect of danger galvanized her and restored the equilibrium which waiting and uncertainty invariably drained away. She knew, could feel, with an almost animal instinct she had, that danger lurked behind the delicate old-world graces of that building, even if it were no more than the horrible memory of Lucinda the Witch, whose house this might once have been. For, if Marianne's recollections were correct, this must be the Palazzo Soranzo, the birthplace of that terrible princess. She nerved herself for the fight.

  The vestibule which opened before her was so sumptuous as to take her breath away. Great gilded lanterns of exquisite workmanship, which must have originated in some ancient galley, threw moving patterns on the many-coloured marble floors, flowery as a Persian garden, and on the gilding of a ceiling with long, painted beams. The walls were covered with a succession of vast portraits and lined with imposing armorial benches, alternating with porphyry chests where miniature caravels spread their sails. The portraits were all of men and women dressed with unbelievable magnificence. There were even two of doges in full dress, the corno d'oro on their heads, pride in their faces.

  The seafaring associations of the gallery were plain and Marianne was surprised to catch herself thinking that Jason or Surcouf might have liked this house, so dedicated to the sea. Alas, it was as silent as a tomb.

  There was not a sound to be heard except the newcomers' own footsteps. In a little while this had become so ominous that even Giuseppe seemed aware of it. He coughed, as though to reassure himself, and then, going to a double door about halfway along the gallery, he whispered, as though in church:

  'My mission ends here, Excellenza. May I hope that your ladyship will not think too hardly of me?'

  'And of this charming journey? Rest assured, my friend, that I shall dwell on it with the greatest of pleasure – supposing I have the time to dwell on anything, that is!' Marianne spoke with bitter irony.

  Giuseppe bowed without answering and withdrew. Yet the double doors were opening, creaking a little but to all appearances without human aid.

  Beyond lay a room of impressive dimensions, in the centre of which was a table laid for a meal, with an almost unbelievable magnificence. It was like a field of gold: plates and dishes of chased gold, enamelled goblets, jewelled flagons, the whole adorned with wonderful purplish roses, and tall branched candlesticks spreading their burden of lighted candles gracefully over this almost barbaric splendour, while outside the ring of light the walls hung with antique tapestries and the priceless carved chimneypiece lay in deep shadow.

  It was a table set for a banquet, and yet Marianne shivered as she saw that it was set with only two places. So… the Prince had decided to show himself at last? What else could be the meaning of those two places? Was she to see him, at last, as he was, hideous as that reality might be? Or would he still wear his white mask when he came to take his seat here?

  Despite herself, she felt fear clawing at her heart. She knew now that however much her natural curiosity might urge her to penetrate the mystery with which her strange husband surrounded himself, since that night of magic she had always feared, instinctively, to find herself alone and face to face with him. Yet surely that table, with its flowers, could not portend anything so very terrible! It was a table laid to please, almost a table for lovers.

  The double doors through which Marianne had entered closed with the same creaking. At the same time another door, a little, low one at the side of the hearth, opened slowly, very slowly, as though at some well-timed dramatic highlight in the theatre.

  Marianne stood rooted to the spot, her eyes wide and her fingers tensed, sweat starting on her brow, watching it as it swung on its hinges, so much as she might have stared at the door of a tomb about to deliver up its dead.

  A glittering figure appeared in silhouette, too far from the table to be seen clearly. Lit only from behind, by the light in the next room, it was the figure of a stockily-built man dressed in a long robe of cloth of gold. But Marianne saw at once that it was not the slender figure of the man who had mastered Ilderim. This man was shorter, heavier, less noble. He came forward into the huge dining-room and then, with anger and disbelief, Marianne saw Matteo Damiani, dressed like a doge, step forward into the pool of light surrounding the table. He was smiling…

  CHAPTER THREE

  Slaves of the Devil

  Prince Sant'Anna's steward and trusted agent advanced with measured tread, hands folded in the wide sleeves of his dalmatic, and coming to one of the tall, red chairs drawn up to the table laid one beringed hand on its back while with the other he made what was intended as a gracious gesture towards the remaining place. The smile was like a mask affixed to his face.

  'Be seated, I beg, and let us eat. You must be tired after the long journey.'

  For a moment it seemed to Marianne that her eyes and ears must be deceiving her but it was not long before she knew that this was no evil dream.

  The man who stood before her was indeed Matteo Damiani, the dangerous and untrustworthy servant who, on one night of horror, had almost been her murderer.

  She had not seen him since that dreadful moment when he came towards her, hands outstretched, like a man in a trance, with murder in his eyes from which all human feeling had gone. But for the appearance of Ilderim and his tragic rider—

  But at that fearful recollection, Marianne's fear very nearly became panic. She had to make a superhuman effort to fight it off and even to succeed in concealing what she felt. With such a man, whose frightening past history she knew, her on
e chance of escape lay precisely in not letting him see her terror of him. If he once knew she feared him, her instinct told her, she was lost.

  Even now she still did not understand what had happened, or by what species of magic Damiani was able to parade himself like this, dressed up as a doge (she had seen the same costume on one of the portraits in the hall), in a Venetian palace where he gave himself all the airs of being master, but this was no time to indulge in speculation.

  Instinctively, she attacked.

  Folding her arms coolly, she eyed him with unconcealed scorn. Her eyes narrowed to glittering green slits between the long lashes.

  'Does carnival in Venice continue into May?' she asked bluntly. 'Or are you going to a masquerade?'

  Taken unawares, perhaps, by the sarcastic tone, Damiani gave a short laugh but, unprepared for an attack in this direction, he glanced uncertainly, almost with a shade of embarrassment, at his costume.

  'Oh, the gown? I donned it in your honour, madame, just as I had this table set for your pleasure, to make your arrival in this house a celebration. I thought—'

  'I?' Marianne broke in. 'I do not think I can have heard you correctly, or you so far forget yourself as to put yourself in your master's place. Recollect yourself, my friend. And tell me where is the Prince? And how comes it that Dona Lavinia is not here to welcome me?'

  The steward drew out the chair before him and sank into it so heavily that it groaned under his weight. He had put on flesh since that terrible night when, maddened by his occult practices, he had attempted in his rage to kill Marianne. The Roman mask, which had then lent his face a certain distinction, was now melted into fat, and his hair, once so thick, was thinning alarmingly, while the fingers loaded with such vulgar profusion of rings had become like bloated sausages. But there was nothing in the least laughable or absurd about the pale, impudent eyes in that fat, ageing body.

  'Eyes like a snake,' Marianne thought with a shiver of revulsion at the cold cruelty they revealed.

  The smile had faded, as if Matteo no longer considered it worth while to maintain the fiction. Marianne knew that the man before her was her implacable enemy, and it came as no surprise to her to hear him say:

  'That fool Lavinia! Pray for her, if you like. Myself, I had enough of her lectures and her pious airs – I—'

  'You killed her?' Marianne exclaimed furiously, conscious of both outrage and a wave of grief as bitter as it was unexpected. She had not known that she had allowed the quiet housekeeper become so dear to her. 'You were base enough to murder that good woman who never did anyone any harm? And the Prince did not shoot you dead like the mad dog you are?'

  'He might have done so,' Damiani growled, 'had he been in a position to.' He started to his feet with a violence that set the heavily laden table rocking and the golden vessels clinking. 'I did away with him first. It was time,' he added, thumping the table with his fist to emphasize his words, 'high time I took my rightful place as head of the family!'

  This time, the blow went home, with such force that Marianne reeled as though she had been struck, and uttered a moan of horror.

  Dead! Her strange husband was dead! The prince in the white mask, dead! Dead, the man who on that stormy night had taken her trembling hand in his, dead, the wonderful horseman whom even from the depths of her fear and uncertainty, she had admired! It was not possible! Fate could not deal her such a scurvy trick.

  'You're lying,' she said in a voice that was firm, though drained of all expression.

  'Why should I? Because he was the master and I the slave? Because he forced on me a life of humiliation, servile and unworthy of me? Can you tell me any good reason why I should not have done away with the puppet? I did not hesitate to kill his father because he slew the woman I loved! Why should I spare him who was the prime cause of that deed? Until I was ready, I let him live, so long as he did not get in my way. Then, a little while ago, he did get in my way.'

  A dreadful feeling of horror and revulsion, mingled with a sense of disappointment and, strangely, with pity and grief also, was creeping over Marianne. It was absurd, grotesque and profoundly unfair. The man who had voluntarily offered his name to a stranger pregnant by another man, whether emperor or no, the man who had made her welcome, heaped riches and jewels on her, and even saved her life – he did not deserve to die at the hands of a sadistic madman.

  For a moment she saw again, clear in the unfailing record of her memory, the shapes of the great white stallion and his silent rider flying through the shadowy park. Whatever the man's secret shame, at that moment he and the animal had made an extraordinarily beautiful picture, a combination of power and grace which had remained graven in her mind. The thought that this unforgettable picture had been destroyed for ever by a creature so sunk in evil and depravity seemed to her so intolerable that her hand went out instinctively to feel for a weapon with which to deal justice on the murderer then and there. She owed it to one who had perhaps loved her and from whom, she knew now, she had never had anything to fear. Who could tell whether he had not paid with his life for his intervention that night?

  But the dainty gold knives that gleamed on the table offered no help. For the present, the Princess Sant'Anna had nothing but words with which to flay the villain, and words could have little power over such as he. Yet a time would come. To that Marianne swore a solemn oath in her heart. She would avenge her husband.

  'Murderer!' she spat at him at last, with utter distaste. 'You dared to slay the man who trusted you, one who placed himself so unreservedly in your hands, your own master!'

  'I am the only master here now!' Damiani cried in a curiously falsetto voice. 'Justice has come full circle, because I had far more right to the title than that pitiable dreamer! You poor fool, you do not know, let that excuse you,' he added, with a complacency that added the last straw to Marianne's indignation, 'but I too am a Sant'Anna! I am—'

  'I know everything! And the fact that my husband's grandfather got a child on a poor, half-mad creature who could not fight for her honour is not enough to make you a Sant'Anna! You need a heart, a soul, class! You, you are a low thing unworthy even of the knife that will kill you, a stinking animal—'

  'Enough!'

  The word was roared out in a paroxysm of rage and the man's congested face had turned white with evil marks of venom, but the blow had gone home, as Marianne saw with satisfaction.

  He was breathing hard, as though he had been running, and when he spoke again it was in a low, muffled tone, like one suffocating.

  'Enough,' he repeated. 'Who told you this? How – how do you know?'

  'That is my business! It is enough that I know.'

  'No! You will tell me – one day, you will have to tell me. I shall make you talk – because you will obey me now. Me, do you hear?'

  'You are out of your mind. Why should I obey you?'

  An ugly smile slid, like a slick of oil, across the ravaged features. Marianne braced herself for a foul answer. But Matteo Damiani's anger evaporated as suddenly as it had come. His voice resumed its normal tone and sounded neutral to the point of indifference as he went on:

  'I beg your pardon. I lost my temper. But there are things I do not care to speak of.'

  'I dare say, but that does not tell me what I am doing here. If I have understood you correctly, then it would seem that I am a – a free woman, and I'd be glad if you would conclude this pointless interview and arrange for me to leave this house.'

  'By no means. You don't think I took all that trouble to bring you here, which cost me a great deal of money, besides all the business of bribing agents, even among your own friends, simply for the doubtful pleasure of informing you that your husband was no more?'

  'Why not? I can't exactly see you writing me a letter telling me you'd murdered the Prince. For that is what you did, isn't it?'

  Damiani did not answer. He plucked a rose from the centre vase and began twisting it nervously between his fingers, as though seeking inspiration. Abruptly,
he spoke.

  'Let us understand one another, Princess,' he said in the dry voice of a lawyer addressing a client. 'You are here to fulfil a contract. The same contract that you made with Corrado Sant'Anna.'

  'What contract? If the Prince is dead, then the only contract which existed, that concerning my marriage, is null and void, surely?'

  'No. You were married in exchange for a child, an heir to the name and fortunes of the Sant'Annas.'

  'I lost the child, accidentally!' Marianne cried, with a sharp pang of anxiety beyond her control, for the subject was still a painful one.

  'I am not disputing the accident and I am sure it was no fault of yours. All Europe knows of the tragedy of the Austrian ambassador's ball, but as regards the Sant'Anna heir, your obligations remain. You must give birth to a child who may, officially, carry on the line.'

  'You might have thought of that before you killed the Prince.'

  'Why? He was useless in that line; your own marriage is the best proof of that. Unfortunately I am not myself in a position to assume publicly the name which is mine by right. Therefore, I need a Sant'Anna, an heir…'

  Marianne seethed with anger, hearing him speak with such cynical detachment of the master he had killed, while at the same time she was becoming aware of an indefinable fear. Perhaps because she was afraid to let herself understand, she fell back on sarcasm.

  'There is only one thing you have forgotten. The child was the Emperor's. I don't suppose you'd go so far as to kidnap his majesty and bring him to me, bound hand and foot…'

  Damiani shook his head and began to move towards her. Marianne stepped back.

  'No. We must do without the imperial blood which meant so much to the Prince. We'll make do with the family blood for this child – a child I'll bring up as I please and whose lands I'll administer gladly for many long years – a child who will be all the more dear to me because he'll be my own!'