the sake of my own peace of mind and perhaps of the life of one dear to me. I shall be in the church of Or San Michele at five o'clock, in the right aisle, which is the one with the Gothic tabernacle. Wear a veil so that you will not be recognized. You are the only person who can save your unhappy Z.'
Marianne re-read the letter carefully in a good deal of bewilderment. Then, crossing to the hearth where owing to the prevailing dampness of the palace a fire still burned even at that late season, she tossed Zoe's missive into the flames. It was gone in a moment but Marianne continued to watch it until the last white ashes had fallen apart. She was thinking hard.
Zoe must be in dire trouble to have called on her for help like this, for she was noted for her shyness and discreet behaviour, as well as for her talent for making friends. There were many of these of far longer standing than Marianne, so why call on her? Because she inspired more confidence? Because they were both French? Because she was a friend of that indefatigable help in trouble, Fortunee Hamelin…?
Whatever the answer, Marianne, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, saw that it was not far off five already and called to Agathe to come and dress her.
'Give me my olive-green dress with the black velvet trimmings, my black straw hat and a Chantilly-lace veil to go with it.'
Agathe's top half emerged slowly backwards out of the trunk which had all but swallowed her and she stared at her mistress blankly.
'Wherever is your highness going in that gloomy get-up? Not to Madame Cenami's, surely?'
Agathe enjoyed all the devoted servant's freedom of speech, and normally Marianne was ready to indulge her. Today, however, was an exception. Marianne's temper was sharpened by her anxiety for Zoe.
'Since when has it been any business of yours where I go?' she snapped. 'Do as I ask, that is all.'
'But if Monsieur le Vicomte should return and ask for you?'
'Then you will tell him all you know: that I have gone out. And ask him to wait for me. I don't know when I shall be back.'
Agathe said no more but went in search of the required garments, leaving Marianne to slip hastily out of the rose-pink lawn which she felt was rather too conspicuous for a discreet assignation in a church, especially since Zoe had asked her to come veiled.
Helping her mistress on with the plain dress, Agathe, still bridling from her set-down, inquired through pursed lips whether she was to order Gracchus to bring the carriage.
'No. I'll walk. The exercise will do me good and it is only on foot that Florence is to be seen to the best advantage.'
'Very well, my lady, if you don't mind going up to your ankles in mud…'
'Never mind. It will be worth it.'
A few minutes later, Marianne was dressed and making her way out of the palace. The full lace veil placed a delicate screen of leaves and flowers between her and the sparkling daylight as, walking quickly, with her skirts lifted a little to keep them from the dirt of the streets, where patches of wet mud still lingered here and there in the shade, left over from the last shower of rain, Marianne made her way in the direction of the Ponte Vecchio. She crossed it without a glance at the jewellers' shops ranged in picturesque clusters on either hand.
In her gloved hands she held a fat morocco-bound missal with gilt corners. Agathe had seen her take it, eyes bulging with curiosity but her lips discreetly sealed. Thus armed, Marianne had the perfect air of a well-bred lady going to evening service. It had the added advantage of preserving her from the unwanted gallantries which every Italian male worth the name felt in honour bound to address to any personable woman: and the streets, at that hour, were always full of men.
A few minutes' brisk walk brought Marianne within sight of the old church of Or San Michele, formerly the property of the rich Florentine guilds, which had adorned it with the priceless statuary standing in its Gothic niches. She was hot in her enveloping black lace and heavy cloth. There was sweat on her forehead and trickling down her spine. It seemed a sin to be muffled up like this when the weather was so warm and the sky a canopy of exquisite and ever-changing hues. Florence seemed to be floating in a huge and iridescent soap-bubble lifting to the whim of the setting sun.
The city, so shuttered and secretive in the heat of the day, opened its doors and spilled out into the streets and squares a throng of chattering humanity, while the thin sound of convent bells called to prayer those men and women whose conversation was henceforth dedicated to God.
The church struck surprisingly chill, but its coolness did her good: it was a reviving coolness. It was so dark inside, with only the dim light that filtered through the windows, that Marianne had to pause for a moment by the holy-water stoup until her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom.
Soon, however, she was able to make out the double nave and, in the right-hand aisle, Orcagna's masterpiece, the splendid medieval tabernacle aglow with soft dull gold in the trembling flames of three altar candles. But no figure, male or female, prayed before it. The church appeared empty and the only sound which echoed beneath its great roof was the shuffling footsteps of the verger making his way back to his sacristy.
The emptiness and silence made Marianne uneasy. She had come with a strange reluctance, torn between her real wish to help her charming friend in her trouble and a vague foreboding. Moreover she knew that she was on time and Zoe was the soul of punctuality. It was odd and disquieting: so much so that Marianne had half a mind to turn round and go home. It was thoroughly unnatural, this meeting in a dimly-lighted church…
Without thinking, almost, she took a step or two towards the door but then the words of the letter recurred to her:
'… for the sake of my own peace of mind and perhaps the safety of one dear to me…'
No, she could not leave that call for help unanswered. Zoe, who had given her this extraordinary proof of confidence, would never understand, and Marianne would blame herself for the rest of her life if a tragedy occurred which she had not done everything in her power to prevent.
Fortunee Hamelin would never have known that impulse to retreat, that moment of distrust: she was always ready to leap into the fire for a friend, or throw herself into the water to save a cat. The church was empty. Very well. All that meant was that something had happened to delay Zoe…
Thinking that the least she could do was to wait for a few minutes, Marianne advanced slowly towards the appointed meeting place. She gazed at the tabernacle for a moment before sinking to her knees in fervent prayer. She had too much to thank heaven for to neglect so excellent an opportunity. It was, in any case, the best way of passing the time.
Deep in her prayers, she failed to notice the approach of a man draped from chin to calves in a black cloak with triple shoulder-capes, and she started suddenly when a hand was laid on her shoulder and an urgent voice whispered in her ear.
'Come, madame, come quickly! Your friend has sent me to find you. She implores you to come to her…'
Marianne had risen swiftly and was studying the man before her. His face was strange to her. It was the kind of face, moreover, which gives nothing away, broad, placid and unremarkable, but imprinted now with desperate anxiety.
'What's happened? Why does she not come herself?'
'Something terrible. Only come with me, madame, I beg of you! Every moment counts…'
But Marianne stayed where she was, struggling to understand first this strange meeting and now this stranger… It was all so unlike the tranquil Zoe.
'Who are you?' she asked.
The man bowed with all the marks of respect.
'A servant, Excellenza, that's all… but my family have always served the Baron's and my lady honours me with her confidence. Must I tell her that your highness will not come?'
Quickly, Marianne put out her hand and detained the messenger, who seemed on the point of withdrawal.
'No, please don't go! I'm coming.'
The man bowed again but in silence and followed her through the shadowy church to the door.
'I have a carriage close by,' he said when they had emerged into the light and air again. 'It will be quicker.'
'Have we far to go? The palace is very near.'
'To the villa at Settignano. Now, if you will forgive me, that is all I am allowed to tell you. I'm only a servant,
