Marianne and The Masked Prince

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  '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 h
ousekeeper'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.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Night of Enchantment

  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 La
vinia 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.'