'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 gallopin
g 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 evid
ent 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.
Marianne and The Masked Prince Page 30
