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 her
e. 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.
CHAPTER TEN
The Villa dei Cavalli
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.
Marianne and The Masked Prince Page 26
