As for Jason Beaufort, his almost British phlegm had flown to the winds at Marianne's first moan. He was pale and hollow-eyed and smoked continuously, in a kind of frenzy, lighting one cigar after another and pressing his hands to his ears from time to time when her screams were more than he could bear. The heel of his boot had worn a large hole in the carpet.
Day was breaking. Neither Jason nor the vicomte had slept since the previous night but neither seemed aware of it. Then, at the very moment when the distant gun proclaimed the dawn, aery from the bedroom ending in a despairing sob made Jason start as if the cannon had been fired at Marianne herself.
"This is intolerable!" he cried. "Can nothing be done? Must she endure this agony?"
Jolival shrugged. "It is nature's way, it seems. The doctor tells me that the birth of a child is often a lengthy business."
"The doctor! Do you trust that pompous ass ? Well, I do not!"
"Is that on account of his turban?" Jolival inquired. "I suppose you think no doctor can be any good unless he's dressed in a frock coat. This one seems competent enough, as far as I have been able to judge from talking to him. Not but what I'm beginning to share your opinion. When I looked in just now he was sitting in the corner with his chin on his chest playing with a string of amber beads and taking no notice whatsoever of poor Marianne, who was screaming her head off."
Jason strode toward the door as though intending to batter it down.
"I'm going to tell him what I think of him," he said wildly.
"You will do no good. It makes no impression on him at all. I tried it. I asked him how much longer this agony would go on."
"And what did he say?"
"Insh'Allah."
Beaufort's bronzed face darkened to brick red.
"Oh, did he! Well, we'll see whether he'll dare to answer me in the same way!"
He was on the point of bursting into Marianne's room when a door which gave on to an external gallery was opened by a woman servant who stood aside to permit the entrance of an extraordinary apparition. The newcomer was a tall woman swathed in black muslin robes and wearing on her head a curious kind of pointed headdress which gleamed with pure gold in the first rays of the morning sun. Gold, too, were the long earrings that dangled against either cheek.
The room was thick with the reek of Jason's and Jolival's cigars and Rebecca recoiled a little as she entered and waved her hand before her face in an effort to clear the smoke. She looked thoughtfully at the two men, who were staring at her as though she had been the statue of the Commendatore come to life to demand an account of their misdeeds. Then, going to the window, she flung it open, letting in the cold, damp air from the garden.
"One does not smoke near the chamber of a woman in labor," she said sternly. "Moreover, men have no business in the women's quarters at such times. Go now."
The two men looked at one another, considerably taken aback by this quelling speech, but Rebecca was already opening the door by which she had just entered and pointing commandingly to the gallery.
"Go, I say! I will call you when it is over."
"But—but who are you?" Jolival managed to ask.
"I am called Rebecca," the strange woman deigned to answer. "Judah ben Nathan, the physician of the Kassim Pasha quarter, is my father. The lord Turhan Bey sent for me an hour past to attend a friend of his who is suffering greatly in childbed."
Satisfied with this information, Jolival turned meekly to the door, but Jason stood eyeing this autocratic female, whose headdress made her taller than himself, suspiciously.
"He sent for you, you say? I don't believe it. He has his own doctor in there."
"I know that. Jelal Osman Bey is a good doctor but his ideas on childbirth are those of a true believer of Islam. The woman must fight her own battle and it is necessary to wait the outcome before interfering. But there are times when it does not do to wait too long and so, if you please, do not waste any more of my time with idle questions."
"Come along," Jolival said, drawing the reluctant American away. "Leave it. Turhan Bey knows what he is about."
Neither he nor Jason had set eyes on the master of Hamayunabad since early the previous morning. He had appeared suddenly in the midst of the confusion caused by Jolival's cries for help and when Jason, who had also been awakened by the servants' clamor, had come to see what the matter was, the two men had found themselves face to face.
The meeting had passed off smoothly, in spite of Jolival's fears and the fumes of old brandy. Jason Beaufort had thanked his preserver warmly and with a perfect self-command. He had also contrived tactfully, and with unexpected delicacy for a man of his temper, to convey his regrets for the somewhat rough-and-ready treatment he had accorded to him when the true identity of the man was unknown to him and he had seen him only in the romantic guise of an escaped slave. Turhan Bey, not to be outdone in courtesy, had assured his erstwhile captain that he bore him no malice for usage which he had brought on himself. Then he had begged the American to consider his house his own and to call freely on his wealth and influence.
He had listened without expression to Jason's halting words of thanks for having taken the Princess Sant'Anna into his house and, in some sort, making up for the grave wrongs which he, Jason, had unconsciously done her, replying merely that it was the least he could do. Then he had bowed politely and withdrawn and they had not seen him since.
When Jolival had presented himself at the door of the pavilion where he dwelt, he had been informed that the lord Turhan Bey was at his warehouse.
After being sent packing by Rebecca, the two men wandered down the long covered passage which ran through the bare, wintry gardens to a brightly painted kiosk that rose up against the surrounding grayness like an outsized and improbable flower. Each was feeling awkward and out of place and neither could think of anything to say, although both of them were secretly relieved to have escaped from the smoke-filled atmosphere of the boudoir and the cries from the next room. The silence of the empty garden seemed to them delicious and each sought to prolong it as long as possible.
But their moment of respite was fated to be a brief one. Jason was just lighting a fresh cigar when the sound of running footsteps echoed along the gallery. An instant later Gracchus appeared. He was out of breath and scarlet with exertion, while the carroty hair stood up straight on his head. Obviously the news he brought was far from good.
"The brig!" he called out as soon as he caught sight of the two men. "She's not at her moorings!"
The color drained from Jason's face and as the boy stumbled, exhausted, almost at his feet, he seized him by the shoulders and hauled him upright again.
"What's that you say? Has she been stolen?"
Gracchus shook his head, opened his mouth, gasping for breath like a fish out of water, gulped painfully two or three times and managed to say: "Put… put her in quarantine, damn them! She's… riding at anchor… out in… the Bosporus, near the Tower of the Maiden…"
"Quarantine!" Jolival exclaimed. "But why?"
The onetime errand boy of the rue Montorgueil jerked his shoulders angrily.
"It seems one of the men on board her took ill and died suddenly of the cholera. They took the body ashore at once and burned it, but the port authorities insist on the ship's being quarantined. When we got there with Monsieur O'Flaherty she'd just put out from her moorings with one of my lord Turhan's men made to pilot her. It's dreadful, isn't it, Monsieur Jason? What are we going to do?"
Gracchus, whose delight at seeing his favorite hero once again—aided by such explanations as Jolival thought proper to give him—had made the harsh memories of their last encounter melt like butter in the sun, had been dispatched by Jason to find Craig O'Flaherty and instruct him to set about assembling a crew.
Unexpectedly enough, Jason's old lieutenant of the Sea Witch had not left Constantinople. Something in his Irish soul had responded to the color and poetry of the city, and also to the possibilities of the contraband trade in Russian v
odka and the wines of the Crimea for a man with some small business sense.
Left to himself after Achmet Reis had taken the brig and some of those aboard her to the Ottoman capital, O'Flaherty had at first been at a loss what to do. It would have been possible, certainly, for him to have signed on with one or another of the British vessels which, like the frigate Jason, were frequent visitors to the Golden Horn, and so make his way back to Europe. But once again his Irish soul rebelled at the thought of treading an English deck, even with the object of returning to his native seas.
Furthermore, not only was he still a welcome visitor at the French embassy, where he called frequently to see Jolival, but he was also drawn by something stronger than himself to the American brig. He loved the ship almost like a child and when he learned that the Haseki Sultan had bought her and given her to Marianne, he had settled down to wait for Beaufort, like Marianne herself, with the same complete faith only rather more patience.
The early days of waiting had not been easy. He had no very clear idea what to do with himself but divided his time and what little money he had between the various taverns in the city and the shadow play in Seraskier Square, which delighted his boyish heart. He had gone on in this way until one day his thirst for alcohol had taken him into a certain tavern in Galata which was the haunt of the most fervent devotees of Bacchus of all the European shore.
There he had made the acquaintance of one Mamoulian, a Georgian from the region of Batum who was endeavoring, in the fumes of Greek and Italian wines, to forget the war that was slowly ruining him. For the hostilities between the Porte and Tsar Alexander had effectively put a stop to the profitable import of vodka, since no seaman worthy of the name was willing any longer to run the risks of taking his ship into Russian waters.
A friendship fostered by a few bottles of wine drunk in company had sprung up between the two, and they had agreed to form a temporary alliance. The end of the war was in sight and O'Flaherty for his part was unwilling to engage himself for any length of time, not wishing to outstay the brig in Constantinople.
As a result, leaving word for Jolival that he could be found at the bar known as the San Giorgio, which had become his favorite haunt, the Irishman had plunged happily into two smuggling expeditions, both of which were crowned with success and besides restoring his fortunes in a most agreeable way had made the time hang much less heavily on his hands.
As luck would have it, he had just returned from the second of these voyages and was back in Galata when Gracchus came looking for him with the news of Jason's arrival and his initial instructions. Craig O'Flaherty had promptly celebrated the happy event by downing an enormous glass of Irish whiskey, procured from heaven alone knew where, and had then set off, towing Gracchus after him, to cross the Golden Horn and hasten to the Phanar waterfront, to be greeted with the disconcerting sight which Gracchus had described.
The two of them had spent the whole day running up and down trying to find out where the brig was lying, so that sunset had caught them on the wrong side of the Golden Horn and they had been obliged to spend the night in a Greek tavern at considerable risk of being taken up by the watch.
There they had drowned their sorrows in a resinated wine which had left them both with aching heads, and at daybreak they had flung themselves into a boat to cross the water again and make their report.
Ignoring Gracchus's anguished query, Jason asked merely: "Where have you left Mr. O'Flaherty?"
"With the porter—the kapiji, I mean. He didn't like to come in—not knowing Turhan Bey. He's waiting there for your orders."
"I'll go and bring him in. We must decide what is to be done. And there's the child still not come—"
"Mon Dieu!" Gracchus exclaimed. "What with everything else, I was forgetting the baby! Isn't it born yet?"
"No," Jolival said. "He—or she, because there's no saying it will be a boy, after all—is taking his time about it."
"But—isn't it dangerous, taking so long?"
Jolival shrugged. "I don't know. We must hope not."
Their hopes were justified. For even as the vicomte was speaking, Rebecca's long, supple and experienced hands, reaching right into the body of her patient to turn the child, which was positioned badly, were delivering Marianne at last.
She, poor girl, had suffered so much that the actual birth drew from her no more than a plaintive cry, followed by merciful unconsciousness. She did not hear the baby's first, remarkably vigorous wail as Rebecca slapped it sharply. Or Donna Lavinia's delighted exclamation: "It's a boy! Sweet Jesus, we have a son…"
"And a very fine boy, too," the Jewess added. "He must weigh nearly nine pounds. He'll be a splendid man. Go and tell those two fools who were smoking away in the next room. No doubt you'll find them in the gallery."
But the faithful nurse of the Sant'Annas was no longer listening. She had fled from the chamber, picking up her starched petticoats to run the faster, and was making straight for the prince's apartments. As she ran, she was laughing and crying and babbling aloud, possessed by a joy that must be shared.
"A son!" she was crying. "He has a son! The curse is lifted. God has taken pity on him at last…"
In the meantime, while Rebecca attended to the newborn child Marianne was recovering consciousness under the ministrations of Jelal Osman Bey. The doctor had roused himself at last from his fatalistic stillness and hurried to revive the young mother from her dangerous swoon. The life of a woman capable of bringing into the world such a boy as she had just given birth to was not to be lightly thrown away.
Marianne, opening her eyes, was vaguely aware of a dark face with a little pointed beard which she was able to identify after a moment.
"Doctor," she breathed. "Will it… will it be much longer now?"
"Are you still in pain?"
"N-no. No… that's right. The pains have stopped."
"And so they should have done, for it is all over."
"Over?"
Marianne drew the word out slowly, as though struggling to grasp its meaning. She was conscious of little beyond the blessed relief to her tortured body. Over! The frightful agony was over. The pain was not going to come again and she could go to sleep at last.
But the face was still hovering over her and she could smell the scent of ambergris that clung to his garments.
"You have a son," the doctor said, still more gently but with a hint of respect in his voice. "You should be proud and happy because he is a magnificent boy."
One by one the words were beginning to penetrate, to acquire a meaning. Marianne's hands moved slowly over her body, and as realization broke over her that the monstrous swelling had gone, that her stomach was almost flat once more, the tears welled from her eyes.
They were tears of joy, relief and gratitude toward a Providence that had taken pity on her. As the doctor had said, it was over. Never had the word "delivery" been charged with a deeper meaning.
It was as though the bars of an iron cage which had stood between her and a glorious landscape bathed in sunlight had fallen away all at once. She was free. Free at last! And the very word itself was as if she had newly rediscovered it.
Rebecca, returning with the child in her arms, mistook the reason for the tears that were rolling down her face in a melancholy stream.
"You must not cry," she said gently. "You made the right choice, for it would have been a shame to lose such a child as this. See how beautiful he is?"
She was holding out her arms with their soft burden but even as she did so the reaction came, harsh and sudden. Marianne set her jaw and turned her head away.
"Take it away! I don't want to look at it!"
The Jewess frowned. Accustomed as she was to the unpredictable ways of women, she was shocked by the violence in the girl's voice. Even where the child was not wanted, the most stubborn and determined woman would be softened with pride and pleasure after giving birth to a son. She persisted, as though she had not understood.
"Do you not want to
see your son?"
But Marianne shut her eyes tightly with a desperate obstinacy. It was almost as if she were afraid of what she might see. She rolled her head on the pillow and the damp mass of her hair clung like seaweed about her face.
"No! Send for Donna Lavinia. She must look after it. I only want to sleep… sleep, that's all I want."
"You shall sleep later," Rebecca said sharply. "It is not finished yet. Another half hour or so."
She was laying the child down in the big cradle of gilded wood which two women had brought into the room when Donna Lavinia returned.
The housekeeper's eyes were like stars. Oblivious of everything else, she went straight to the bed and fell on her knees beside it, as though before an altar, and pressed her lips fervently to the hand which lay abandoned on the sheet.
"Thank you," she murmured. "Oh, thank you… our princess!"
Embarrassed by a gratitude she could not feel was in any way deserved, Marianne tried to withdraw her hand. She could feel it wet with tears.
"Please! Don't thank me so, Donna Lavinia! I—I don't deserve it. Only tell me—that you are happy. That is all I want—"
"Happy? Oh, my lady—"
Unable to say any more, she rose and turned to Rebecca. Drawing herself up gravely, she held out her arms.
"Give me the prince," she ordered.
The sound of the title came as a shock to Marianne. She realized all at once that the tiny thing which, while it still lay within her body, she had refused even to think of as a child, this formless being had taken on a new identity on coming into the world. He was the heir! The one hope of a man who, from the day of his own tragic birth, had been paying for someone else's sin, a man so wretched that he could be grateful for a son sired by another man—even such a man! On the little bundle of fine linen and lace which Donna Lavinia was cradling to her heart with all the love and worship she might have given to the infant Savior himself, rested the weight of centuries of tradition, of a great name and vast estates and of fabulous riches…
A bitter, resentful voice muttered deep in her heart: "It is Damiani's child! The monstrous issue of an evil man whose life was all wickedness." And it was answered in Donna Lavinia's calm, grave tones: "He is the prince! The last of the Sant'Annas, and nothing and no one can ever alter that now!" And it was the calm certainty of love and loyalty which carried the day, just as when light and darkness meet, the light always prevails.
Marianne and the Lords of the East Page 15
