Marianne and The Masked Prince

with a sigh that the Grand Duchess Elisa was probably in residence at her luxurious summer villa at Marlia. If news of the so-called 'cure' being undertaken by the cantatrice Maria Stella were to reach her, Marianne might well find herself the object of an embarrassing invitation which would please neither her godfather nor herself. In fact, Lucca would see the end of Maria Stella's brief career. Henceforth her new identity would surely put the stage out of the question for her. Moreover, Marianne had to admit that she did not feel herself cut out for the theatre and would abandon it without regret. Her last public appearance at the Tuileries had been too painful. She would have to do her best to avoid the notice of Napoleon's sister.

The coach rolled on its way, still with its escort of shouting children, picking up speed as it crossed a broad, handsome square, tree-lined and dominated by a statue of the Emperor, and came to a halt at last before a splendid romanesque church, the solemnity of its massive, crenellated tower alleviated by the lightness of the facade with its triple row of columns.

'There's your cathedral,' Gracchus said.

'Where's the inn?'

'Over there, of course. You can't hardly see anything else.'

Next door to a charming renaissance palazzo, the heavily barred but well-lighted windows of the Albergo del Duomo were plain to see. Honeysuckle twined about the sign which hung over its broad, arched door.

'It looks rather full,' Marianne said doubtfully.

A number of saddle horses stood outside with soldiers at their heads.

'Must be a regiment on the march,' Gracchus muttered. 'What do we do?'

'What should we do?' Marianne spoke impatiently. 'Go in! We cannot spend the night in the coach just because there are people at the inn. Rooms will have been reserved for us.'

Like a good servant, Gracchus asked no more questions but drove through the arched gateway and brought his steaming horses to a halt in the inn yard. Grooms and servants appeared as if by magic from every shadowy corner while the innkeeper himself, armed with a large lantern, came bustling through the door at the far end to bow and scrape before the owner of this elegant equipage.

'Orlandi, madame, at your excellency's service. Madame's visit honours the Albergo del Duomo but I venture to say that nowhere will madame find better board and lodging.'

'Have rooms been reserved for myself and my servants?' Marianne inquired in perfect Tuscan. 'I am the Signorina Maria Stella and—'

'Si, si ... molto bene! If the signorina will condescend to follow me. Signor Zecchini has been waiting since this morning.'

Marianne accepted this without a blink although the name was perfectly unknown to her. Some messenger of the cardinal's perhaps? It could scarcely be the man she was to marry. She gestured towards the uniformed figures that were visible through the smoky kitchen windows.

'The inn appears to be very full?' she said.

Signor Orlandi shrugged his fat shoulders and spat on the ground to show his contempt for the military.

'Pah! The men belong to her highness, the Grand Duchess. They make only a brief stay – or so I trust!'

'Manoeuvres, no doubt?'

Orlandi's round face, to which a flowing moustache like a Calabrian bandit's attempted unsuccessfully to impart a touch of ferocity, seemed to lengthen strangely.

'The Emperor has given orders for the closing of all religious houses throughout Tuscany. Some bishops of Trasimene have rebelled against authority. Four have been apprehended but it is thought that the others have fled into Tuscany. This is the result…'

The same old story of the antagonism between Napoleon and the Pope! Marianne frowned. Why had her godfather brought her into these parts where the feud between Napoleon and the Church seemed hottest? It would scarcely lessen the difficulties she foresaw attending her journey back to Paris. Even now, she could not think without a shudder of what the Emperor's reaction would be when he learned that, without even consulting him, she had given herself in marriage to a stranger. The cardinal had certainly promised that the man would not be an enemy, the reverse indeed, but could anyone foresee the reactions of a man who was so obsessively jealous of his power?

Noise struck them in the face as they entered the main room of the inn. A group of officers were crowding round one of their number who had clearly just arrived. He was dusty and red-faced, his moustaches quivering with anger, and his eyes flashed as he spoke: ' – a damned, cold-blooded fellow of a servant came and shouted through the bars, above the barking of the dogs, that his master never received visitors and it was no use looking for those confounded bishops in his house. And with that he simply turned his back on me and walked off just as if we were not there! I'd not enough men with me to surround the place but damn me if they'll get away with this! Come on, to horse. We'll show this Sant'Anna what he'll get for defying the Emperor and her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess.'

This martial declaration was greeted with a chorus of approval.

Orlandi had turned pale. 'If the signorina will be kind enough to wait a moment,' he whispered hurriedly, 'I must interfere. Ho there, Signor Officer!'

'What d'you want with me?' growled the angry man. 'Fetch me a carafe of chianti and sharp! I've a thirst on me that won't wait!'

But Orlandi, instead of complying, shook his head.

'Forgive me saying so but, if I were you, signor, I should not try to see Prince Sant'Anna. In the first place you will not succeed, and in the second, her highness will be displeased.'

The noise ceased abruptly. The officer thrust aside his comrades and came towards Orlandi. Marianne shrank back into the shadow of the stairs to avoid notice.

'What do you mean by that? Why should I not succeed?'

'Because no one has ever done so. Anyone in Lucca will tell you the same. It is known that Prince Sant'Anna exists, but no one has ever seen him, no one but the two or three servants closest to him. Not one of the others, and there are many, here and in the prince's other houses, have ever seen more than a figure in the distance. Never a face or a look. All they know of him is the sound of his voice.'

'He is hiding!' roared the captain. 'And why should he hide, eh, innkeeper? Do you know why he hides? If you don't know, I will tell you, because I shall know soon enough.'

'No, Signor Officer, you will not know, or expect to feel the anger of the Grand Duchess Elisa, for she, like the Grand Dukes before her, has always respected the Prince's wish for seclusion.'

The soldier gave a shout of laughter but to Marianne, listening eagerly to this strange story, his laugh rang false.

'Is that so? Is he the devil, then, your Prince?'

Orlandi shivered superstitiously and crossed himself hurriedly several times while one hand behind his back, where the officer could not see it, pointed two fingers in the sign to ward off the evil eye.

'Do not say such things, Signor Officer! No, the Prince is not – not what you said. It is said that he has suffered since childhood from a terrible affliction, and this is why no one has ever seen him. His parents never produced him in public and not long after he was born they went abroad and died there. He was brought back, alone – or at least with only the servants I spoke of who have been with him since his birth.'

The officer wagged his head, more impressed by this than he cared to admit.

'And he lives so still, shut away behind walls and bars, and servants?'

'Sometimes he goes away, to some other of his estates most probably, taking his major-domo and his chaplain with him, but no one ever sees him go or is aware when he returns.'

There was silence. The officer tried to laugh, to lighten the atmosphere. He turned to his friends who stood gaping uncomfortably.

'This Prince of yours is a joker! Or a madman! And we don't like madmen! If you say the Grand Duchess won't like it if we attack him, then we won't attack him. In any case, we've plenty of things to do besides that just at present. But we'll send word to Florence and' – his tone changed abruptly, the threatening note returned and he thrust his fist under poor Orlandi's nose – 'and if you have been lying to us, we'll not only go and dig your night bird out of his hole, but you'll feel the weight of my scabbard on your fat carcass! Come on, all of you! Our next call is the monastery of Monte Oliveto – Sergeant Bernardi, you stay here with your section! They're a bit too pious