'What you mean is that the trial will be hurried through and Jason is condemned already?'
Talleyrand shrugged. 'Perhaps not… but, as the English would say, their lordships are certainly a great deal more at home with the old Code. It is always troublesome accustoming oneself to new procedures.'
In these circumstances, it was understandable that Marianne should have begun to sink under the burden of her own gloomy thoughts, especially when the only relief from these thoughts was the conversation of two elderly persons living exclusively in the past. For them, in fact, as Jolival had foreseen, she had become the ideal listener, since her own life was as fraught with drama as theirs had been.
However, if she felt little interest in the doings of Marie-Antoinette, except in so far as they were concerned with that terrible period in which her own father and mother had met their deaths for the queen, Marianne was very willing to listen to Eleonora's tales, which dealt exclusively with Lucca and the strange family into which her own fate had introduced her.
Oddly for a woman whose Italian blood had gifted her with a highly talkative nature, Eleonora maintained a total silence on the subject of her own private life, and especially about the one man who, more than any other, had been the great love of her life, that Count Fersen in whom so many women besides the queen had seen the living image of their dreams. The only sign of emotion which Mrs Crawfurd permitted herself was a small frown and a slight tightening of the muscles round her mouth when her husband, in the course of one of his interminable monologues, evoked the elegant figure of the Swedish count who had died so tragically two months earlier. But on the subject of the Sant'Annas, Eleonora waxed tirelessly eloquent, and so vivid were her powers of description that Marianne, sitting curled up for hours at a time in a deep armchair beside the tapestry frame over which the older woman's hands had fallen still, seemed to see the people of whom she talked conjured up, one by one, by her voice in the shadowy room.
In this way, Marianne learned that Eleonora had been born actually on the Sant'Anna estates. Her father had been the prince's head groom and her mother the princess's personal maid, an office she shared with the mother of Donna Lavinia, the present housekeeper, who was some years older than herself and with whom Marianne was already well acquainted. It was not difficult for her now to recall the sweet, lovely face, with the grey hair and the deep sadness of expression which seemed to carry in it all the latent melancholy of the domain. It did not seem that Lavinia had altered over the years: she had always been quiet, reserved and inclined to melancholy.
Eleonora and Lavinia had, naturally, been childhood friends. It was otherwise with the man whom Marianne had known as the agent, Matteo Damiani, the unnerving worshipper of statues who had tried to kill her once, one dreadful night when she had discovered his secret. Eleonora had been ten when Matteo was born but, maturing young like all southern girls, she had known immediately that the perilous Sant'Anna blood ran in the veins of the new-born baby brought to the villa one winter's night in the folds of her mother's cloak.
'He was the son of your husband's grandfather, Prince Sebastiano, and a poor girl from Bagni di Lucca called Fiorella who no sooner brought the child into the world than she drowned herself in the Serchio. Fiorella was pretty but slightly simple, yet she had seemed happy enough and no one could think what had made her do it – unless it was not entirely her own doing…'
'You mean – someone pushed her?'
Mrs Crawfurd made a vague gesture. 'Who can say? Don Sebastiano was a terrible man – and I imagine you must have heard something of his wife, the notorious Lucinda, the Venetian, the witch whose malignant shade still hangs over the house…'
The quiet voice had changed suddenly and become filled with such horror and revulsion that for a moment Marianne seemed to see the credulous and superstitious peasant girl she had once been. But she herself could not repress a shudder as she recalled the temple and the sensuous figure which reigned over the ruins. Instinctively dropping her voice, she asked with an eager curiosity not unmixed with fear: 'You know her – Lucinda?'
Mrs Crawfurd nodded and closed her eyes briefly, as if the better to remember.
'In fact, she is the only other Princess Sant'Anna I have known. As for forgetting her – I think if I were to live out many lives I could still not wipe her from my memory. You can have no idea what she was like. I myself have never seen such beauty as hers – so strange and yet so perfect – so demoniacally perfect! God knows you are beautiful, my dear, but next to her you would have ceased to exist. When she was there, one saw only her. Venus herself would have looked like a peasant girl beside such splendour.'
'Did you like her?' Marianne breathed, too eaten up with the desire to know to feel the slightest pique at the slighting way in which Eleonora had spoken of her own appearance. The answer came like a cannon shot:
'I hated her! God, how I hated her! And even after so many years I think I hate her still. It was because of her that when I was fifteen I fled from my parents' home with a Neapolitan dancer who, with his company, was performing at the villa. But when I was a little girl, I used to hide behind the bushes in the park to watch her pass by, dressed always in dazzling white, always covered in pearls or diamonds and always followed by her slave, Hassan, carrying her scarf, her parasol or the bag with the bread she used to feed the white peacocks in the park…'
'She had a slave?'
'Yes, a gigantic Guinean Don Sebastiano had brought back from Accra on the Slave Coast. Lucinda made him her bodyguard, her dog and, I learned afterwards, her executioner.'
At this point, Mrs Crawford's voice seemed to flicker, like a lamp in need of oil. She felt in the reticule of black silk which hung always by her chair and, taking a pastille from a silver comfit box, sat sucking it with eyes half-closed while Marianne held her breath for fear of disturbing her contemplation. In a moment or two, the older woman resumed more strongly:
'In those days, I did think that I loved her. She dazzled me. But afterwards—'
'What was she like?' The question had been hovering on Marianne's lips for several minutes. 'I have only seen her statue—'
'Ah, that famous statue! Does it still exist? Well, it was certainly very like her as to face and form, but the colours, the subtle shades of life, it gave no idea of those… If I told you that Lucinda had red hair, I should be giving you a wrong idea. Her hair was like a flame, like liquid gold, her great eyes were black velvet and glowing coals and her skin ivory and rose petals. Her mouth was like an open wound filled with pearls. No, there was never anyone like her. Nor was there anyone so cruel and depraved. Anything, human or animal, that crossed her was in danger. I have seen her slaughter the finest mare in the stables in cold blood, merely because she fell from her saddle, I have seen her order Hassan to beat an ironing maid until she bled, merely for scorching one of her laces. My mother never went near her without fingering her beads in her apron pocket. Even her husband, Prince Sebastiano, was forced to fly from her to find rest and peace of mind, and he was thirty years older than she and had loved her and still loved her passionately. That was why he used to spend three parts of the year on his travels, far away from Lucca.'
'And yet,' Marianne said, 'there was one child, at least?'
'Yes, and she was prepared for that because she accepted that there must be an heir. But when she found herself with child, her temper grew so ungovernable that her husband went away again, leaving her sole mistress of the estates. And for seven months no one set eyes on her.'
'No one? But – why?'
'Because she could not bear to let anyone see her in less than her usual beauty. All those months she spent shut up in her own apartments, never going out, never letting anyone in except my mother, Anna Franchi, and Maria, Lavinia's mother, who were her waiting women. And she scarcely spoke even to them. I can still remember hearing my mother tell my father, in a whisper, that when darkness came Donna Lucinda ordered all the candles to be lit and made sure all the doors and
windows were fast shut, and no one knew what was the reason for this nocturnal illumination, which lasted until the candles guttered out.
'One night, my curiosity got the better of me. I was ten years old and as quick and agile as a cat. I got out of my bedroom window when my parents were asleep and ran in my bare feet all the way to the house. The climbing plants on the walls made it easy for me to climb up to Donna Lucinda's balcony. My heart was thumping in my chest, for I was convinced that if I were caught my father and mother would never see me again alive. But I wanted to find out – and I did.'
'What was she doing?'
'Nothing. I peeped through a crack in the curtains and I saw her. She had the candlesticks placed in a circle on the floor and she was standing in the centre, facing the statue you have seen and stark naked also. The two figures must have been reflected over and over again to infinity in the mirrors, the white and the flesh pink, and Lucinda stood there for hours, comparing herself with her own marble image, searching for the slightest alterations and deformities brought about by her condition, with her hair all tumbled and the tears streaming down her cheeks… Believe me, there was something so hauntingly dreadful in the sight that I never went there again. Besides, when it came to the final weeks there was no more light of any kind. By her orders the mirrors were all veiled and the princess's rooms remained in darkness, day and night.'
Marianne, wide-eyed, had listened breathlessly to her hostess's strange tale.
'She must have been mad, surely?' she said at last.
'Mad, yes, about herself, without a doubt. But apart from that, apart from her insensate worship of her own beauty, she behaved more or less normally. The birth of her son, Ugolino, was the occasion for endless celebration. The servants and the local peasants were almost swimming in gold and wine. Donna Lucinda was quite obviously radiant – as much on account of recovering her old beauty as of having gained an heir! For a little while, we all thought that a new era of happiness had begun for the house. But then – three months later, Prince Sebastiano set out again for some distant land and met his death there. The building of the little temple was begun almost immediately after he went away. It was a little more than a year after Matteo Damiani had been brought to the villa.'
'Donna Lucinda did not mind his presence?'
'No, she simply tolerated it. But then, when her own child was born, she began to neglect it almost entirely and showed a curious preference for the little love-child. She would play with him like a puppy, she took an interest in the way he was treated, how he was dressed, but most of all, she seemed to take a kind of perverted pleasure in bringing out all the most savage instincts in the child. She would alternately tease him and caress him, always encouraging him to be cruel and bloodthirsty. Not that that was very difficult. The foundations were already there. By the time he was five years old, when I left the villa, Matteo was already a little devil, I can tell you, a mixture of brutality and cunning. And from what I have been able to discover since, his character has only grown in those respects. Now, if you please, child, be so good as to ring for tea. I am as dry as a bone and if you want me to talk any more…'
'Oh please. You told me just now that Donna Luanda was the cause of your going away—'
'It is not a story I care to recall, but you stand now in her place. You have a right to know. But – tea first, if you please.'
In a few moments a tray of china tea had been brought in by a soft-footed servant and the two women drank it in pleasurable silence. To Marianne, the fragrant brew, drunk in that comfortable, elegantly appointed sitting-room, brought with it a faint scent of time past. She saw herself as a little girl, and then as a young woman, seated on a stool by her Aunt Ellis's chair sharing in the daily ritual which Lady Selton would not have neglected for anything in the world. Now the old woman in her old-fashioned cap, the furnishings from a previous age, even the scent of roses floating in through the open window, all reminded Marianne of the happy days of her childhood and for the first time for very many days she was conscious of a sense of relaxation and well-being such as she used to feel when, at the height of some childish outburst of grief or rage, her Aunt Ellis had come and stroked her hair and said in her gruff voice: 'Come now, Marianne! You should know that there is nothing in this world that cannot be got over with courage and perseverance… oneself most of all.'
It had always worked wonders and it was both strange and comforting to find the same feeling now in a cup of tea in a strange house. Marianne replaced her flowered teacup on the silver tray and found that Mrs Crawfurd was watching her.
'Why do you smile, my dear? I fear the things I have been telling you were sad enough.'
'It was not that, Madame. It was just that, drinking tea like this, with you, I felt as if I were back again as a child in England. But go on, if you please.'
For a moment, the old woman's eyes lingered on her face and Marianne thought that she read in them a softness and sympathy which she had not seen before. But Eleonora Crawfurd said nothing and, turning her head to look out of the window, offered Marianne only the view of a profile half-hidden by the frill of her muslin cap. She resumed her story after a moment but in a voice so low that Marianne was scarcely able to catch the opening words:
'It is strange how the memory of one's first love can remain alive – and painful, in spite of all the years that have passed. It is something you will learn when you are old. When I think of Pietro, I feel as if it were yesterday I was running to meet him by the chapel of San Cristoforo, running through the purple twilight full of the smell of new-mown hay… I was fifteen and I loved him. He was seventeen. He was strong and handsome, and he lived in the village of Capanori, alone since the death of his father, who was a tinsmith… He wanted to marry me and we used to meet every night… until one night he did not come. One night… two nights… and no one in the village could tell me where he had gone, but all of a sudden I was afraid, although I did not know why – perhaps because he had never had any secrets from me. On the third night I could not sleep. I went out and wandered about the park, just for something to do. It was as hot as an oven, that night. Even the water in the fountains was warm and in the stables the horses were not even stirring… It was then, as I passed by the grotto, that I heard singing – if it could be called singing. It was more like a monotonous wailing, in time to a soft, rhythmic beating on a drum, with now and then a kind of cry. I had never heard anything like it before, but to have dared to walk so close to the house, and especially to the grotto, which was out of bounds to servants, I must have been in an unusual state of mind. Even now, I do not know what instinct made me follow the forbidden path to the clearing with the little temple. But go I did, feeling my way, stealthily, holding on to the rock and flattening myself against it as if I meant to make myself part of it. When the light from the temple fell on my face I drew back, instinctively, then, very carefully, I put my head out again – and then I saw!'
Silence fell once again. Marianne sat rigid, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of breaking the spell through which Eleonora's voice had seemed to come. She recalled too well her own terror when she had discovered the ruins, and Matteo Damiani there, embracing the statue. But she guessed that the ordeal which this woman had endured had been far worse than her own and her voice was very gentle as she breathed: 'You saw…'
'Hassan first of all. He was the singer. He was crouched on the marble steps with a sort of small drum, like a gourd, between his knees and he was drumming on it with his big black hands to accompany his chanting. He was gazing up at the stars as though lost in some mindless dream, but the torches burning inside the temple made his black skin gleam like bronze and glistened on the gilded loincloth and barbaric jewels he was wearing. His back was to the temple and I could see through the pillars to a great, gilded bed, all hung with black velvet. And on that bed two people were making love… The woman was Lucinda… and the man was Pietro – my Pietro. I still wonder why I did not drop dead where I stood, how I found
the strength to escape. But I do know that was the last time I saw Pietro alive. The next day, they found his body hanging from a tree on the hillside. And three days later, I left with the players.'
This time, it was a long moment before Marianne uttered a word. She knew the place so well, the place whose name she bore, that she almost felt, listening to this terrible story, that she had experienced it herself, or at least been there to see. It did not surprise her when she saw the other woman brush away a tear, furtively, with the tip of one finger. Only when she thought that her companion was a little recovered, did she busy herself again with the tea-tray, and as she handed Eleonora her cup, asked: 'You never went back?'
'Yes, once, in 1784, when my mother was dying. She had never left the estate, but she had long ago forgiven me for my flight. I think, at heart, she was glad that I had got away from that dreadful house, where she had seen so much that was tragic. It was she who brought up Prince Ugolino, and she was there at the time of the fire which burned down the temple and in which Lucinda met her own, terrible, though self-inflicted, end. Yet she had hoped, then, that the future would be better once the familiar demon of the house had gone. And for a time, it seemed as if she were right. A year after Lucinda's death, her son Ugolino married a charming girl, Adriana Malaspina. He was nineteen and she sixteen and it was a long time since anyone in those parts had seen a more perfectly matched pair, or one more in love. For the sake of Adriana, whom he adored, Ugolino mastered his naturally violent and difficult nature. As ill luck would have it, he took very much after his mother but, wolf though he was, he made himself a lamb for his young bride. It seemed to my mother that the evil days were indeed gone for ever…
'When, after a little more than a year of marriage, Adriana found herself with child, Ugolino surrounded her with all imaginable attentions, guarding her day and night, even going so far as to have the horses' hooves muffled in case they should disturb her rest. Then the child was born – and the evil returned. When my mother was dying, she wanted to unburden her heart a little and, before sending for the priest, before she received the last sacrament, she told me of the twofold tragedy of that spring of 1782.'
[Marianne 3] - Marianne and the Privateer Page 22
