Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

  “I can’t thank you enough, Madame d’Oinville,” Marietta said gratefully.

  “Everything I’ve done has been for Alix,” Louise replied coolly. She opened the door again and looked out. “It’s safe for you to leave now. Don’t go through the archway into the andron, but follow the passageway that will take you to the hall leading to the courtyard. Now go! I must return to my guests before I’m missed.”

  In the courtyard Alix waited impatiently, eager to get Marietta to the ship with the least possible delay. He had a dual purpose now in wishing to get home as quickly as possible. Just that day he had received a letter from his mother that had been following him across Europe for almost three months. His father, she wrote, had been gradually deteriorating in his mind over a considerable period, which had resulted in business misjudgements that had only recently come to light. There was a financial crisis and the silk mill was under threat of foreclosure. She urged him to return to Lyon at once.

  Alix thought thankfully of Louise. He had confided in her during the evening, relating the troubles at home, and had given her the letter to keep for twenty-four hours before handing it to the comte. Fireworks exploded overhead, jerking Alix from his reverie. The noise of Carnival was everywhere. Outside the double gates costumed figures holding colored lanterns were dancing and cavorting on their way past, their raucous singing rising in the night air.

  When the gates suddenly swung open three broadly built pulcinellas entered with invitations in their hands. They talked together as they came across the courtyard, the huge beaked noses of their masks catching the fireworks’ glow. Alix stood aside to let them go past, nodding a greeting as they drew level. Then, catching him completely off guard, one shot a fist like a battering ram into his ribs. He gasped, doubling over as he staggered back. His hand flew to his sword, but he had no chance to draw. The invitations went fluttering away as all three threw themselves upon him. He fought fiercely, landing punches and even kneeing one of his attackers, who fell back in pain. But the other two only redoubled their efforts.

  As Marietta was coming from the lighted vestibule onto the scene she was in time to see Alix, pinioned by the arms in the grip of two pulcinellas, being dragged, struggling and kicking, toward the gates, which were held open by a third. She screamed and ran to his aid.

  “Alix!”

  He saw her and shouted anxiously. “Don’t get hurt, Marietta! I’ll come back to you! I’ll return!” Then a savage punch to the point of his jaw jerked his head backward and he sagged senseless in his captors’ arms.

  The gates slammed in her face as she reached them, and it was Jules, dressed for travel in tricorne and cloak, who held them fast from the opposite side. His face was cold and hostile.

  “Let me through!” she shrieked, rattling the gates and trying to claw his gloved hands away.

  “This is the end of your elopement, signorina,” he stated mercilessly. “Young gentlemen abroad get sentimental notions that they soon forget when they’re home again. It is fortunate that the arrangements made for this night were overheard, for had a marriage of this kind taken place it would have been annulled in France. Be thankful you have been spared that humiliation.”

  “You can’t keep Alix a prisoner! Henri will help him get free!”

  “Henri has been similarly dispatched to a waiting boat that will take us to the mainland. I would advise you to return to the Pietà as soon as possible. All is over for you here!”

  Then, with all his force, he thrust the gates inward, knocking her to the ground. By the time she scrambled to her feet and gave chase he was out of sight among the revelers.

  In shock, she sank down on a nearby bench. Would the comte have Alix held captive all the way to Lyon? How else could he be prevented from returning to her? If that were the case he would write as soon as he reached home. But his name would not be on the list of those whose letters she was allowed to receive. There was a growing fear in her that could not be dismissed. It was that she and Alix had been parted irretrievably. She recalled her fanciful notion, when Alix first showed himself to be falling in love with her, that an imaginary Carnival ribbon was binding her fast. Maybe it had been an illusion in more ways than one. It was Venice itself that had been taking her in thrall, never to set her free.

  She had no idea how long she sat on that bench. The final fierce glory of many exploding rockets went unnoticed. Neither did she hear the bells of the Basilica ring in Lent and the end of Carnival. Not until dawn did she lift her head in sudden realization that the night had gone.

  Springing up, her lashes still wet with tears, she ran to hire a gondola. The litter of Carnival was like a multicolored carpet underfoot and exotically clad revelers were making their way toward home. Those too drunk to move sat by walls and colonnades or lay among the debris like puppets released from their strings. As before, the gondolier took her to meet the baker’s apprentice under the bridge. With his help she was able to get into the Pietà undetected and flew unseen to her room.

  When Marietta reappeared for breakfast she was ashen-faced and swollen-lidded. Even as she saw Elena staring at her in disbelief, Sister Giaccomina came hurrying forward, throwing up her plump hands in dismay.

  “How ill you look, Marietta! You must be sickening for something. I can tell you haven’t slept a wink. Go back to your room and rest for a while. I’ll have a light meal sent up to you.”

  Elena spoke up quickly. “I’ll fetch it.”

  Marietta was grateful for the nun’s consideration, and for the opportunity to tell Elena all that had happened.

  LOUISE HAD NOT enjoyed her birthday celebration. To her the whole occasion had been a nightmare that had started when Alix first enlisted her help in his unwise romance. She could hear the servants still putting the ballroom to rights as she wandered into the salon to sit on the yellow sofa where she had listened to Alix, his face full of love for another woman. Looking at her right hand, she placed it lightly over her left. This was exactly as it had been after Alix had kissed her in gratitude for her support of his plan to get Marietta to France. When he had gone away down the stairs she had risen to go to the window, and it was then that the door of the adjacent oratory had opened to reveal her grandmother standing there.

  “I heard everything, Louise.”

  Louise had shown no dismay. “I did not know you were at your prayers, Grandmère.”

  “I had thought you and Alix would make a match.”

  “A man in the first flush of love cannot always see the woods for the trees,” Louise had remarked drily. She remembered painfully the bitter disappointment she had felt the first time she received Alix in this salon. She had truly believed he was about to propose to her. Not by the flicker of an eyelash had she revealed her innermost feelings when it turned out not to be the case.

  The marquise had come toward her. “For his own good that foolish young man must not be allowed to run away with the Pietà girl.”

  Louise, straight-backed, had looked the older woman full in the eye. “I have not the least intention of letting that happen, but I cannot break his trust or all will be lost. There has to be another way.”

  As she had hoped, the marquise had nodded understandingly at her. “Do everything he has asked, my dear. You shall emerge blameless from the whole affair. I will speak to your grandfather at once. The Comte de Marquet shall be informed. How he nips this elopement in the bud will be his decision, but he can count on the full support of your grandfather and me.”

  All had gone well. Now Alix was safely on his way back to France and Marietta most certainly installed once more at the Pietà. Louise smoothed a crumpled cushion and brushed some confetti from the sofa, evidence that a tired guest had escaped from the ballroom for a doze, or perhaps two lovers had made use of the sofa to kiss and embrace. She had played her part exactly as Alix requested and had not been involved in anything else.

  She glanced in the direction of the oratory. When Alix came to see her on that fateful day she h
ad guessed immediately that he wished to speak again of the girl he loved. So why then had she received him here at an hour when her grandmother was so often in the oratory at prayer? She could have taken the precaution of receiving Alix in any number of other rooms. Had it been her intention to invite the intervention of others on her behalf?

  She stood up swiftly in a rustle of amber silk to drive away the thought. It was a possibility she must never call to mind again if she were ever to face Alix with a clear conscience. Fortunately this would present no problem to her determined nature. By the time she left the room, her thoughts were already on her own departure for home. She would visit her uncle and aunt in Lyon at the first opportunity. Alix would be pleased to see her, a friend to him once more in time of trouble.

  The business world had always intrigued her, although she had not yet had the opportunity to engage her sharp wits and mathematical ability in that direction. But she was a wealthy woman, capable of salvaging Alix’s failing mill, and to be the director of a silk mill was enticing. Maybe even a partner in time. Suddenly the future looked decidedly promising.

  MARIETTA, BECAUSE OF her own distress, took a little time to notice that Elena scarcely mentioned her forthcoming marriage these days. The dressmaker and her retinue of seamstresses came and went without her even mentioning what had been shown or if another gown had been fitted. Finally Marietta realized that her own misfortune had cast a blight over her friend’s happiness. It was to spare her feelings that Elena was trying to avoid all reference to the wedding day.

  “Stop this,” Marietta ordered, taking Elena by the shoulders to give her a fierce but affectionate shake. “You are trying to spare me pain and you are making everything much worse! I want to be happy for you! I need to know about your gowns and the jewelry you are to have and everything else. Alix will come back as soon as he possibly can.” She had managed to keep hope alive by throwing herself into work with renewed vigor.

  “But so much has gone against you,” Elena exclaimed sympathetically. “That courtesan-imposter even stole your Columbina costume and two of your best gowns. She must have wrapped them around herself under her cloak. I can never forgive myself for not being suspicious when I fetched her from your room and let her out into the calle.”

  Marietta frowned with unusual sternnes. “You and I had a full share of quarrels when we were younger, but those are in the past and I want it to stay that way. So do not make me cross. You are not to be blamed in any way for the theft. When Alix returns he will give me another costume and a mask to go with it. So now will you stop worrying?”

  “I will try,” Elena promised.

  “Good. Please show me what was in the dressmaker’s boxes that were delivered to you this morning.”

  Elena nodded, glad to display her new possessions. “Come with me.”

  As Marietta followed she wondered sadly where her green and gold Columbina mask was now. If it was not being tossed about by the movements of the ship in an unoccupied cabin, it might well have been thrown overboard with the rest of her possessions to blend its colors with the sea.

  ELENA PAID THE Signora another visit before permission was given for her to move into the Palazzo Celano. Her immediate joy at being able to see Marco every day was dashed when she learned that one of the governors’ stipulations was that he should stay elsewhere until the wedding day. Marco had agreed, but it had only increased the rift with his mother who he suspected of spiteful intent, although she insisted it was the Pietà’s ruling and not hers. Yet she made a further condition of her own that he not disrupt the instruction she would be giving Elena by calling in at the palace. He was to stay away until the ball at which Elena would be officially presented to the Celano family and friends and various important personages. Elena complained bitterly to Marietta, who sympathized, but there was nothing to be done.

  ON ELENA’S LAST day at the Pietà the hour of departure arrived all too quickly. There were so many who wanted to wish her well when finally she stood ready to leave. Marietta held Bianca by the hand as they waited to be the last to speak to her. Sister Sylvia, who was to hand her over to the Signora, was already seated in the Celano gondola. Elena hugged and kissed Marietta and Bianca in turn.

  “After I’m married I shall come back often to see you both,” she promised between smiles and tears. Then she darted away through the water gate and into the gondola.

  When they had waved her on her way Bianca looked up anxiously at Marietta, clinging tightly to her hand. “I’m glad you are still at the Pietà. I would not want to stay on here without you or Maestra Elena.”

  “It may come to that in a year or two,” Marietta replied, seeing that this might be an opportunity to prepare the child. “None of us can stay at the Pietà forever.”

  “But you would not go far away, would you?” Bianca looked alarmed.

  “Distance is nothing between people who care about one another. I will write and always keep in touch. It may prove possible for you to visit me and I shall always want to come back to Venice to see you and Elena whenever I can.” She could not yet offer Bianca a home, but she hoped Alix would agree to it when the time came for her goddaughter to leave the Pietà.

  The child pondered. “But I cannot write well enough to send a long letter to you.”

  “That is easily remedied. I am going to take over the extra teaching that Elena has been giving you. Shall we have half an hour with your writing, Bianca? It could be a little letter for Elena after her wedding day.”

  The child beamed up at her. “Oh, yes!”

  SIGNORA CELANO WAS a hard taskmaster, finding fault with Elena at every opportunity. She was made to set tables for any number of guests, including a banquet for a hundred or more, which was to ensure that she could check if a single fork was not quite straight or a glass incorrectly placed. Often she and Lavinia would sit down with the Signora and scores of invisible guests to eat small portions of the large number of courses from a menu planned for the Doge, a visiting ambassador, or some other person of importance. It would be Elena’s duty to chose the menu, and if one dish or another was not approved by the Signora there would be quite a display. The woman would utter little cries of dismay, press a napkin to her mouth and wave the delicacy away or show some other exaggerated revulsion to what had been presented. Elena, however, kept herself under tight control and did not once answer back or retaliate in any way.

  Yet through these tasks and others, however unpleasant the procedure was, Elena learned quickly how things should be done. Although at first she had wanted to giggle when making conversation with an imaginary diplomat or other notable of the Signora’s choosing, she soon knew what subjects could be discussed and what could not. One rule she did resent, however.

  “Never mention the Pietà unless in reference to a concert,” the Signora said sternly. “That life is already behind you. As far as this house is concerned your life began when you came to live here, although in an extreme emergency you may refer to your years with your great-aunt since she appears to have been a woman of some taste.”

  On the evening of the ball Elena was beside herself with excitement. She had not seen Marco since she came to the Palazzo Celano, and now she could hardly keep still for the hairdresser, who dressed her hair over a pad in the latest mode, topping it with flowers and ribbons. Then came her gown, wide over side panniers in pale sugar-pink silk trimmed with looped gossamer swags, matching her satin shoes exactly. When she came downstairs and found Marco waiting for her, his eyes full of love, she ran to him, oblivious to the amused stares and raised eyebrows of the other members of the Celano family who had gathered to meet her ahead of the other guests.

  “Darling Elena,” Marco greeted her, kissing her lovingly on the lips. Then he lowered his voice for her ears alone. “Nobody has any right to keep us apart like this. At least I should be able to call on you in my own home!”

  She laughed with him. “Now that I have mastered most of what the Signora has been teaching me, pe
rhaps that will be allowed.”

  “So you are progressing well?”

  “I intend to be the most gracious hostess in all Venice and the best wife in all the world to you!”

  “As I shall be a husband to you.”

  They kissed again and exchanged a secret smile. Then the Signora came bearing down on them in a rustle of wine-red silk to begin the presentations with Elena on one side of her and Marco on the other. Elena noted that collectively her relatives-to-be were all proud-faced men and women, flashing-eyed and elegant. Yet there were several male cousins, some quite distantly removed, who, although attired in their best, were shabby in comparison to the rest of their kinfolk. Despite their time-honored family connections they were among the barnabotti, impoverished noblemen so-named because they lived in the parish of San Barnabà where free apartments were made available to them. Forbidden by family and the State to marry and compelled by law to uphold their dignity by wearing silk like all those of patrician birth, they received moderate stipends from the Great Council and allowances for their mistresses and bastards. It was obvious that these men were even haughtier in their attitude toward her than the rest of the Celanos, their disdain for her humbler origins showing through the veneer of their smooth-tongued manners. Notoriously troublesome and radical, it was the barnabotti on the fringes of the Celano and Torrisi families who kept the vendetta between them in a state of constant eruption.

  Yet to Elena the most fearsome of all the Celanos, including the Signora herself, was Filippo, a tall man of brutish good looks and strong physique. His face was square, with fierce brows and deepset hooded eyes that had a granite glint to them, his nose bold with arrogant nostrils and his chin handsomely shaped. Dressed in silver and blue brocade, he had the air of a man well satisfied with his own appearance; there was cruelty in the set of his mouth and she was repulsed by the way he raked her with his frankly lascivious stare when he was presented. Although she tried to avoid him throughout the evening, he kept stepping deliberately into her line of vision, as if they were engaged in some conspiratorial game. When he came to partner her in a square dance with the graceful high-armed movements that were in fashion her heart sank, but she had to let him lead her onto the floor of the great ballroom. As she had feared, he fondled her fingers, and when she had to pass under his arm in the measure he lowered his lids to look down her décolletage.