and were gazing up at the smoky ceiling, puffing away dreamily. The moment she was outside, Marianne hugged her shawl about her and set off running across the open square. It was quite dark by this time and only a lantern here and there served to illuminate the pale bulk of the ancient cathedral.
A light wind had got up, bringing with it the scents of the countryside, and Marianne paused for a second in the centre of the square to breathe in its odours. Above her head, a myriad stars twinkled softly in a blue-black arch of sky. Somewhere in the darkness a man was singing, accompanying himself on a guitar, while from the open doors of the church came the solemn notes of a psalm. The man's song was a love song, the psalm proclaimed the glory of God and the bitter joys of renunciation and humility. One was a call to happiness, the other to stern obedience, and for the last time, Marianne hesitated. Her hesitation was brief, because for her the choice between love and duty was no longer possible. Her love was not calling her, was not seeking for her. He was. travelling the roads of the Low Countries, surrounded by the rejoicings of his people, smiling at his young bride, careless of the one he had left behind who was now, to her grief and shame, turning to a stranger to ensure that her child would have the right to hold up its head.
Resolutely turning her back on the song, she looked instead at the church. It loomed enormous in the darkness, with its squat shape and the tall tower reaching skywards like a cry for help. Yet God had allowed her own cry to go unheard: the friend to whom she looked for help had not come, and would not come. He too was far away, he too had forgotten her perhaps… Marianne's throat contracted, then she shook herself with a spasm of anger.
'You little fool,' she told herself through clenched teeth. When will you stop feeling sorry for yourself? You have made your own fate, you have brought it on yourself! You always knew you would have to pay for your happiness, however short it seemed. So now pay, and don't complain. You are going to meet someone who has always loved you, who cannot wish for anything but your happiness, or at least your peace of mind. Try and trust him as you used to...'
Resolutely, she made her way to the triple doorway, climbed the shallow steps and pushed open the left- hand door. Yet still her mind was not easy. In spite of everything, she could not quite bring herself to trust her godfather and the knowledge gave her pain and made her reproach herself. She longed to feel again the same blind trust she had known as a child. But this fantastic marriage! The submission it demanded of her whole being!
Except for the red sanctuary lamp and a few lighted candles, it was dark as night inside the cathedral. At the high altar, an aged priest with white hair and a tarnished silver chasuble was officiating before a handful of kneeling worshippers. Marianne could see only their bowed shoulders and bent heads, hear nothing but the murmur of their voices mingling with the sighing of the organ that floated up into the blue, Gothic vaults above.
She paused for a moment beside a holy water stoup, crossed herself and knelt to say a brief prayer, but her heart was not in it. It was more a formal gesture of politeness towards God. Her thoughts were elsewhere. Swiftly, making no more noise than a shadow, she glided down the aisle, past a delicate, octagonal edifice containing a weird figure of Christ crucified in long Byzantine robes, and finally reached the transept. A few figures knelt there, but she could not see the one she had come to find, and no one turned to look at her.
She had seen the tomb at once and she moved slowly towards it. It was so beautiful that her eye went to it immediately, ignoring even an exquisite painting of the Virgin and two saints, and remained fixed on it. She could never have believed that any tomb could be so lovely, so full of purity and peace. A girl in a long robe lay on the stone which was supported by cherubs bearing heavy garlands. Her hands were folded quietly on the delicate folds of her gown, her feet were resting on a little dog, and her hair, escaping from a wreath of flowers, framed a face so ravishing that Marianne found herself staring, fascinated by the young girl whom the sculptor had portrayed so lovingly. She did not know who she was, this Ilaria who had died four hundred years before, but she felt strangely close to her. There was no trace in the delicate features of the suffering which had brought her to the grave when she was hardly out of childhood.
Resisting an urge to clasp the dead girl's hands in her own, Marianne went and knelt a little way away. She rested her head on her hands and tried to pray, but her mind was too watchful. She did not start when someone came to kneel beside her. She raised her eyes and recognized her godfather in spite of the black collar turned up to hide his face. He saw her look at him and gave her a quick smile.
'The service is almost over,' he whispered. 'When they have all gone, we can talk.'
They did not have long to wait. In a few moments the priest left the altar, carrying the censer. The church emptied slowly. There was a sound of chairs scraping, then footsteps moving away. The verger came to extinguish the candles and the lamp. The only lights left burning were those standing before a fine statue of John the Baptist in the transept, the work of the same artist as the tomb. The cardinal rose and seated himself, with a gesture to Marianne to do the same. She was the first to speak.
'I have come, as you commanded…'
'No, not commanded,' Gauthier de Chazay corrected her mildly. 'I merely asked because I thought it best for you. You have come – alone?'
'Alone. As you knew I should, did you not?' There was an almost imperceptible shade of bitterness in her voice which did not escape the priest's subtle ear.
'No, God is my witness that I should have preferred to see you find a man in whom your duty and your inclination could combine. But I realize that you had little time, or choice, perhaps. And yet, it seems to me that you feel some resentment towards me for the situation in which you find yourself.'
'I blame no one but myself, godfather, be sure of that. Only tell me, is everything arranged? My marriage…'
'To the Englishman? Has been duly annulled, of course, or you would not be here. It was not difficult. The circumstances were exceptional and since the Holy Father's position was also somewhat unusual we were obliged to make do with a small court to decide your case. I had counted on that to enable us to proceed so rapidly. I have, moreover, sent word of these proceedings to the consistory of the Church of England and written to the lawyer responsible for marriage settlements. You are quite free.'
'But for so short a time! But thank you. I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for releasing me from a bondage that was hateful to me. You seem to me, godfather, to have become a remarkably powerful person.'
'I have no power but what comes to me from God, Marianne. Are you now ready to hear the rest?'
'I think I am.'
How strange it was, this conversation in the empty cathedral. They were alone, sitting side by side, gazing into a dark world in which, from time to time, a candle flame would spurt up to reveal a masterpiece. Why here, rather than the inn where the cardinal could have entered in disguise as easily as the Abbe Bichette had done, in spite of the soldiers? Marianne knew her godfather well enough to be sure that he had chosen his ground deliberately, perhaps in order to add to the solemnity of what he had to say. It may have been for the same reason that he seemed to pause now before going on. His eyes were closed and his head bent. Marianne guessed that he was praying but her nerves had been strained to breaking point by the journey and her mental anguish. She could not control the impatience in her voice as she muttered: 'I am listening.'
The cardinal rose and laid his hand on the girl's shoulder. 'You are on edge, my child,' he said, with gentle reproach, 'and it is no wonder, but you see the responsibility for what is to come will be mine and it is only natural that I should feel the need for a moment's reflection. Listen, then, but remember, above all, that you must never despise the man who is about to give you his name. You will be joined in marriage but your union will never be complete and it is this which troubles me, for it is not thus that a man of God should contemplate a marriage. Yet each of you has something to give the other. He will save you and your child from dishonour and you will give him a happiness for which he had ceased to hope. Thanks to you, the great name which he had doomed to die with him will yet survive.'
'Can this man not have children? Is he too old?'
'He is neither old nor impotent but for him the idea of having children is unthinkable, fraught with terror even. It is true that he could have adopted a child but he recoils in horror at the thought of grafting a common shoot on to his ancient stock. You bring him the best blood of France and mingled with it the blood, not merely of an emperor, but of the one man he admires most in all the world. Tomorrow, Marianne, you are to be married to Prince Corrado Sant'Anna —'
Forgetting her surroundings, Marianne uttered a faint cry. The man whom no one has ever seen?'
