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.
Standing in a pool of sunlight that poured into the room, Donna Lavinia held up an antique flask which she had taken from a small box and it shone with a gleam of dull gold. She turned a tiny drop from it onto a fine linen cloth and passed it over the baby's lips.
"This wheaten flour comes from your lands, my lord. It is the bread that nourishes all those who are your own, servants and peasants. They make it grow for you, but you must watch all your life that it does not fail them."
She repeated the action with almost the same words, pouring out from another, similar flask the very lifeblood of the Tuscan soil: a wine, dark, red and thick as the vital fluid itself.
When it was done, the old woman turned again to the bed where Marianne sat watching, fascinated in spite of herself, the stages of this curious little ceremony which had the grave simplicity of a religious rite.
"My lady," she said earnestly, "the priest will be here in a moment from the church of St. Mary Draperis to baptize the young prince. What name is it Your Highness's wish that he shall be given?"
Taken unawares, Marianne felt herself flushing. Why must Donna Lavinia force her into a maternal role she did not want? Surely the old lady must know that the birth was simply part of a bargain between her master and the woman she persisted in regarding as her mistress, a bargain that was only the prelude to a final separation. Or was she trying to ignore it? Probably that was it, because she was making no attempt to bring the child to his mother. Yet some answer had to be given.
"I don't know," Marianne said faintly. "I don't think it is for me to decide… Have you no suggestion to make?"
"Yes, indeed! If it is agreeable to Your Highness, Prince Corrado would wish the child to be called by the family name of Sebastiano. But it is usual for him to bear that of his maternal grandfather also."
"But surely Don Sebastiano was Prince Corrado's grandfather, not his father?"
"That is so. But he preferred that the name Ugolino should not be used again. Will you tell me your father's name, my lady?"
Marianne felt as if the jaws of a trap were closing around her. Donna Lavinia knew what she was doing. She was deliberately seeking to bind the child's mother, willy-nilly, to the family she was endeavoring to leave. Marianne had never felt so weak and exhausted. She was tired out. Why did they have to bother her with the baby? Why couldn't they leave her alone even now and let her rest? She had a sudden vision of the portrait that reigned over her salon in Paris. Surely the proud and splendid Marquis d'Asselnat, whose title of nobility went back to the Crusades, in whatever warrior heaven he was now, would be angry to see his name given to a child of the steward Damiani? But even as the thought crossed her mind, she heard herself answering in a dreamlike voice that did not seem to belong to her, as though driven to the capitulation, as it seemed to her, by some power stronger than herself.
"His name was Pierre… Pierre-Armand…"
Her whole subconscious being was in rebellion against what she felt to be her own weakness, but although she tried to fight it the vast weariness overcame her. Her eyelids were like lead and her brain was sinking into a fog. She had fallen into a deep sleep even before Rebecca had finished her ministrations.
Donna Lavinia stood for a moment looking at the slender form, so thin and frail now that it seemed lost in the great bed. There were tears in her eyes. Was it possible for so much strength of will to endure in one so young and so exhausted? Even after all that she had been through, she still retained sufficient presence of mind to reject the child, refusing to allow herself to succumb to the powerful maternal instinct.
The old woman glanced down pitifully at the tiny face nestling with closed eyes in its lace cap, from which a single saucy lock of black hair peeped.
"If she would only look at you, my little prince… just once. Then she could never bear to send you away. But come along then. Let's go and see him… He'll love you with all the love he has to give. He will love you for two."
Leaving Rebecca, aided by a waiting woman to finish doing what was needful for the young mother and set the room to rights, she wrapped the baby in a shawl of soft white wool and tiptoed from the bedchamber. She was halfway through the boudoir when Jolival burst in with Jason hard on his heels.
"The baby!" cried the vicomte. "He has arrived? We've only just heard… Oh, God! You've got him there?"
Poor Jolival was beside himself with excitement. The anguish of the past hours had given way all at once to such a joy as he would never have believed possible. He wanted to laugh and sing, to dance and drink and do a thousand foolish things. Like the prince himself, he had thrust the facts of the baby's conception behind him, and in his love for Marianne he saw the baby only as her son, the son of one who was like a daughter to him. Suddenly he was discovering the marvelous thrill of being a grandfather.
Donna Lavinia parted the shawl with a careful finger to show them the little red face sleeping peacefully, the tiny fists clutching fast to the new life that had just been given to him. Jolival felt the tears prick at his eyelids.
"Oh, my God, he is so like her! Or rather, so like his grandfather."
He had gazed too often at the portrait of the Marquis d'Asselnat not to be struck instantly by the resemblance, even though the child was not yet two hours old. By a merciful dispensation of Providence, the baby had no trait of his real father. The imprint of his mother was too strong to leave room for any other influence, and Jolival thought that it was as well that the little boy should be much more an Asselnat than a Sant'Anna. Nor did he think that Prince Corrado would be at all displeased by the resemblance.
"He's a beautiful boy!" Jason exclaimed, with a warmth in his smile that found its way straight to the housekeeper's reluctant heart. "The most beautiful I ever saw, that I will swear. What does his mother say?"
"She could not help but think him beautiful, could she?" Arcadius said quickly, with a note of pleading in his voice.
Donna Lavinia clasped the baby tighter to her breast and looked at the Americ
an with the tears welling up again in her stricken eyes.
"Alas, sir, she would not even look at the poor little angel. She told me to take him away with as much loathing as if he were a monster."
There was a brief silence. The two men looked at one another but it was Jolival's eyes that fell.
"I was afraid of that," he said huskily. "Ever since she first knew she was with child, Marianne has fiercely rejected the idea of the baby."
Jason said nothing. He stood lost in thought, a crease between his brows and another at the corner of his mouth. But when Donna Lavinia, after wrapping the baby again, made as if to go on her way, he checked her.
"Where are you taking the child?"
She hesitated, bowing her head in an effort to hide the color that had flooded into her face.
"I thought—that is, it will be proper to show him to the master of the house."
It may have been the unnatural stiffness in her voice, but Jolival was suddenly aware of an undercurrent he could not define. Neither of the actors in the little scene had stirred but Donna Lavinia seemed to be held rooted to the spot under Jason's searching glance, and her breath was coming in little short, quick gasps, like an animal scenting danger.
Then the American drew back a step to let her pass, bowing politely from the waist.
"Of course," he said gravely. "You are perfectly right, Donna Lavinia. It is a delicate attention that does you as much credit as the child."
When Marianne awakened from the beneficent sleep that had engulfed body and mind, the curtains in her room were drawn and the lamps were shedding a warm golden radiance, for it was already evening. The tiled stove was purring like a big cat and Donna Lavinia was coming toward the bed carrying a tray with something steaming on it. It might have been some slight sound which had woken her, or hunger stimulated by the savory smell of supper, because she felt no wish to leave the quiet haven of sleep. The longing for it still pervaded every fiber of her body.
She opened her eyes all the same and stretched luxuriously like a contented cat, with the sheer physical enjoyment of rediscovered freedom of movement after long months of hampering constraint.
Goodness, what a joy it was to feel oneself again after all this time, when her body had seemed to belong not to her but to an increasingly alien burden! Even the memory of the hours of agony she had endured in this very bed was fading fast, swept away on the tide of time into the thick mists of oblivion.
She shook aside a heavy lock of hair which was tickling her cheek and smiled at the housekeeper.
"Donna Lavinia, I'm hungry. What time is it?"
"Nearly nine o'clock, my lady. You have slept for almost twelve hours. Are you feeling better?"
"Much better. A few more hours' sleep and I shall be quite myself again."
Meanwhile, Lavinia had been busy helping her young mistress to sit up amid a nest of pillows and was bathing her face with a cloth moistened with a fragrant lotion of verbena. That done, she laid the black lacquered tray on her knees.
"What have you brought me?" Marianne asked, finding her interest in food abruptly revived.
"Vegetable soup, roast chicken and fruit stewed in honey, with a glass of Chianti. The doctor says a little wine can do you no harm."
Everything disappeared very speedily, and the modest meal seemed to Marianne the most delicious thing in the world. She was savoring each small physical pleasure of recovery with such intensity that she had no time as yet for the moral dilemmas which would intrude themselves all too soon.
She swallowed the last drop of wine with a sigh of satisfaction and sank back among her pillows, ready to slip back into the sleep which at that moment seemed the most desirable state of being. But then something stirred beyond the curtain which hung over the door. A hand put it aside, revealing the tall figure of Prince Corrado, and all Marianne's sense of well-being was gone in an instant.
He was the last person she wanted to see just then. In spite of the white turban, set with a turquoise stone, which swathed his proud head, she thought he looked a sinister figure in his black caftan, unadorned save for the broad dagger thrust through the silken sash. He was the personification of the dark shadow on her life, the evil genius that dogged her steps. Or was it the symbol of a troubled conscience which would not leave its owner altogether at peace?
Watching him as he came toward her, he struck her as more than ever like a black panther.
He crossed the big room silently with his easy stride until he reached the foot of the bed. Donna Lavinia had dropped a curtsy and vanished, taking with her the empty tray.
For a moment the two partners in this unlikely marriage stared at one another without speaking, and once again Marianne began to feel uneasy. This man had a strange capacity of making her always feel in some indefinable way in the wrong.
Not knowing what to say, she sought for something neither stupid nor clumsy and then, remembering that she had just presented him with what must surely give him pleasure, she decided to smile and make the effort.
"Are you pleased?"
He nodded but his dark face remained unsmiling. And when he spoke it was in the low, measured tones that she remembered hearing for the first time from the other side of a mirror, a voice that seemed burdened with all the sorrows of the world.
"I have come to bid you farewell, my lady. Farewell and thank you for performing so magnificently your part in the contract between us. I must not inflict on you any longer a presence which must revive unpleasant memories for you."
"Never think that," Marianne cried impulsively. "You have been very good to me, and very kind. Why must you leave me so soon? There is no hurry."
She meant it. For the life of her, she could not have said what made her say it. Why was she trying to keep her strange husband by her when all her hopes were now centered on Jason and she looked forward to a life of happiness with him?
The prince smiled, the shy smile which sat with such a curious charm on that face as of a heathen god.
"It is kind of you to say so, but there is no need to pretend or try to make me believe the impossible. I came to tell you that you are free now to live your own life. Thanks to you, I have a son and heir. Now you may follow your own destiny wherever it may lead you. I will help you, for it is my greatest wish to see you happy… Whatever you decide to do, whether you continue to bear my name or whether you wish to be rid of it as soon as possible, be sure that I shall still see to it that you want for nothing."
"Sir!" Marianne protested, her pride stung.
"Do not be offended. I mean the mother of my son to continue to enjoy the position which is hers by right of birth and beauty. You may remain here until you are quite recovered and when you wish to leave one of my ships will take you wherever you wish to go."
She smiled again, with an unintentional touch of coquetry.
"Why must we talk of this tonight? I am still very tired and my thoughts are a little confused. Tomorrow I shall be better and we can consider together—"
He seemed to be on the point of saying something but suddenly thought better of it and instead bowed deeply in the eastern fashion and murmured quickly: "Permit me to bid Your Highness a good night."
"But—" Marianne began in some bewilderment. Then she broke off, understanding the reason for his sudden change of attitude. Trembling with joy, she watched the door thrust open by a masterful hand and Jason stepped into the room.
She realized at once the reason for Corrado's withdrawal and made no attempt to detain him. It would not be fitting for Turhan Bey to pay more than a brief courtesy visit to his guest, the Princess Sant'Anna. In fact, she had ceased to be aware of his presence at all. Her eyes, her heart and her whole mind were focused on the man who had just entered.
The two men, however, greeted one another with the utmost politeness and Jason's voice sounded unwontedly deferential for a slave owner as he said: "I have to thank you, Turhan Bey, for your advice and counsel. If I may, I should like to come and discuss it w
ith you shortly. I must see you before I leave."
"Come whenever you like, Mr. Beaufort. I shall be expecting you."
He went away at once after that. But Marianne had grasped only one thing from this exchange of civilities. Jason had spoken of leaving! Almost before the door had closed behind the prince, she had framed the question—and made up her mind.
"You are leaving? Then I am coming with you."
Jason walked unhurriedly up to the bed and, bending, took her hand and dropped a swift kiss on it. Then, still holding it between his own, he looked at her with a smile which did not reach his eyes or smooth out the anxious creases from his brow.
"We have always agreed that I was to go, and that it would be tonight," he said bluntly, yet with as much gentleness as he could.
"As to coming with me, you know quite well that is impossible."
"Why? Because of my condition? But that is all over! I am quite well, I assure you! To go with you, I have only to be carried down to the landing stage and from there a boat will take us straight to the Sea Witch. Surely you can carry me that far?" she added, tenderly teasing him. "I am not very heavy."
But his face held no hint of a smile.
"Yes, that would be easy enough, but your health is not the only difficulty."
"Then what is it?" she cried angrily. "Your own feelings? You don't want to take me, is that it?"
Her face was very flushed and her eyes a little too bright, as though with a fever. Jason tightened his clasp on her hands, which felt suddenly burning hot to his touch.
"I cannot take you," he corrected her firmly but very gently. "For one thing, you are not as strong as you think and it will be several days yet before you can leave your bed. You have been through a perilous ordeal and the doctor is adamant. But that is not the main reason. I cannot take you because it is quite simply impossible. Turhan Bey has been with you. Did he say nothing?"
"Should he have? I have only just woken up and had my supper. He only came in to say good evening…"
"Then I'll explain what has happened."
[Marianne 5] - Marianne and the Lords of the East Page 16
