'The reason why my husband shuts himself away like a hermit in his ancestral home? The reason why I know him only as a voice in a mirror, a hand in a white glove parting a black curtain, a horseman in a white mask glimpsed from afar? The reason why he married me, a stranger, already pregnant by another man, because that other was the emperor, instead of getting an heir of his own body?'
Princess Morousi inclined her head gravely.
'All these I know. In each case, the reason is the same.'
'Then, tell me! I want to know. I have a right to know.'
'That is so. But it is not for me to tell you, for you have asked me the one question which my conscience will not allow me to answer. All I can tell you is that, in spite of what that devil Damiani told you, Corrado is not dead. I think that at the last moment something stronger than himself stayed the wretch's hand. He missed his stroke and Corrado was only wounded. Then he dared not strike again but chained him in a dungeon, deep under the old Soranzo Palace in Venice, expecting him to die there. But the prince did not die. He recovered from his wound and escaped—'
Suddenly Marianne saw again the wide hall of the Venetian palazzo in which she, too, had been imprisoned. She saw the black servants lying dead and Damiani's huge body sprawled across the marble staircase, still clad in its golden robe, with the blood oozing slowly from it and a pair of iron fetters and a length of chain upon its breast. She had pushed all these mysteries to the back of her mind because of the hideous memories with which they were bound up, but now they rushed out again in a new light.
'So it was he—' she said slowly, as though still trying to grasp what she was saying. 'So it was he who killed Damiani and his slaves that terrible night in Venice?'
'It was he. But it was not done for revenge, but simply out of the most elementary justice. He held Damiani's life forfeit for all the crimes that he had planned and executed. It was both his right and his duty.'
'I am not the one to deny it. But then, why did he run away? Why not come to me and tell me what happened? I, too, was a prisoner in that palace. He must have told you that?'
'He did,' the princess agreed.
'Instead of which he opened my prison door and then vanished without waiting to wake me even! Yet he was in his own house and no one could touch him. We could have got rid of the bodies and waited for the officers together—oh, I don't know… He set me free and then by his very flight put me in danger. I could have been arrested.'
'No, because you, too, were in your own house. As for him, he was obliged to remain in hiding since he could no more show his face in Venice than in Lucca. Had he done so, no one would have believed him. The military governor's men would have taken him for an impostor, and he would have been taken and put to death for sure. Believe me, he could not have stayed.'
Here again was the same tiresome riddle that Marianne came up against every time. She wondered if she would ever meet anyone who would be prepared to treat her as a grown-up person, a woman in her own right, and reveal to her a secret which was already shared by a good many other people. True that most of those were dead…
Still trying instinctively to penetrate the heart of the mystery, Marianne said casually: 'How is it, then, that he cannot appear in public as the Prince Sant'Anna in Italy and yet is able to do so here?'
'What makes you think he uses his real name here? Matters are scarcely less difficult here than they are in Tuscany. Only I and my younger brother, John Karaja, who is a dragoman[4] to the Porte, know the real identity of the man who calls himself Turhan Bey.'
'Turhan Bey?' Marianne said, stunned. 'Do you mean to say that the Prince Sant'Anna has turned—
At that the old lady laughed heartily. Her laughter was frank and full-throated and its character so very individual that Marianne might have imagined herself in a dovecot full of cooing doves.
'By no means!' the princess cried at last, her laughter subsiding into a fit of cavernous coughing. 'If that were so, your marriage would be invalid and I cannot see a prince of the Church lending himself to such a cruel jest. It was your godfather who arranged your marriage, was it not?'
'Yes,' Marianne said, grasping at a new hope. 'Do you know him as well?'
'No, but I know of him. To return to Turhan Bey: he owes his position here to the gratitude of Sultan Mahmoud for having saved his royal life from the attack of a pair of snakes while hunting in Cappadocia. His Highness honors with his friendship a man whose real name he does not know, whom he believes to be a rich foreign merchant attracted by the beauty of his imperial city and the life that men lead here.'
Marianne bit back a sigh of disappointment. Obviously, it was impossible to persuade the old lady to divulge what she evidently regarded as another person's secret. And yet the more that she discovered about the strange man she had married, the more she wanted to know.
'Madame,' she said at last, 'I must beg you to say no more—or else to tell me everything. I can't bear to be obsessed by so many questions which no one will ever answer for me.'
Princess Morousi placed both hands on the knob of her stick and got to her feet with a visible effort. At the same time she favored the younger woman with an utterly unexpected smile: unexpected because it was so wholly young and mischievous.
'No one? Not a bit of it! Someone is coming in a moment who will answer all your questions. And I mean all—every single one!'
'Someone? But who?'
'Why, your husband! What happened last night has forced him out of his silence at last. Besides, he wants to enlighten you a little and do away with some of the misapprehensions under which you have been laboring.'
Marianne felt as if she had received an electric shock. She sat bolt upright in her unfamiliar bed and made as if to throw back the covers, which were, in any case, very much too hot.
'He is here?' she asked, lowering her voice instinctively.
'No. But he will be coming very soon, in an hour I expect. You will have time to prepare yourself to meet him. I will send a woman to you.'
The old princess turned toward the door, walking with a step that was slow, almost pathetic, so earnestly did she strive to overcome her lameness. She grasped the long bellpull of lilac silk which hung on the wall and rang twice. She was already in the doorway when she swung around suddenly and Marianne, who was already half out of bed, stopped short, startled by the pain and grief imprinted on that face which, lined as it was, had not lost all its beauty.
'There is one more thing I should like to say.' The old woman spoke in a hesitant tone which clearly did not come easily to her.
'Of course. What is it?'
'When you meet Corrado face to face, it will be something of a shock. You may feel some horror or revulsion. Oh, don't be afraid,' she added quickly, seeing her involuntary guest's green eyes widen, 'he is not a monster. But I do not know you well enough, indeed, I do not know you at all, and so I cannot tell how you may react to the sight of his face. I would beg you only to remember that he is first and foremost a victim, who has suffered long and deeply—and that you have the dangerous power to hurt him much more in the space of a few minutes than life, with its cruel ironies, has done already. Remember also that the outward form which you will see, although unusual for an Italian prince, conceals a heart which is noble and deeply generous and as free from all meanness as it is from malice. Remember, finally, that he gave you his name at a time when others might have scorned to do so.'
'Madame!' protested Marianne, stung by this last reminder and the tone in which it was uttered. 'Do you think it is wise to insult me when you seem to be anxious above all that I should do nothing to upset the prince?'
'I am not insulting you. The truth is never an insult and there are times when it should be spoken in full even though it may not be pleasant to hear. Don't you agree? I should be disappointed if you did not.'
'Yes, I do,' Marianne said, unpleasantly conscious of having lost once more. 'But, please, won't you answer one more question, only one, and which concerns no one but yourself?'
'What is it?'
'You love the Prince Sant'Anna very much, don't you?'
The old woman stiffened and her free hand went to the great golden cross which she wore on her breast, as
