reminder of Napoleon was a salutary one for Marianne. It was as if the all-powerful Corsican had suddenly come into the chapel with his eagle eye and that unyielding hardness against which even the strongest broke themselves in vain. She heard his mocking laughter and the evil spell was broken. It was for his sake that she had been forced to accept this curious marriage, for the sake of the child that he had given her. Very soon, tomorrow, she would set out again for France, to him, and all this would be no more than a bad dream.
In a few minutes, Matteo reappeared. Without a word, but with a gesture so full of pride that it dared her to refuse him, he offered his hand to Marianne to lead her to the carriage. But she ignored him and, with an icy stare, made her own way to the door. She had entered the chapel on her godfather's arm: since there was no husband there to give her his arm, she intended to leave it alone. This man with his bold stare must learn to know that from now on she meant to be treated as sovereign mistress here.
Outside, the carriage was waiting with the steps already let down and the door held open by an expressionless and dripping lackey. But between it and the little porch stretched a large puddle, fed by a heavy curtain of water. Marianne swept the train of her precious gown over her arm.
'If your highness permits…' said a voice. Before she could utter a word of protest, Matteo had picked her up bodily in his arms and lifted her over the obstacle. She gave one squeak and then stiffened, shrinking from the hateful touch of his broad hands damped firmly round her thighs and under her arms, but his grip only tightened.
'Your highness should take care,' he said blandly. 'Your highness might fall in the mud.'
Marianne was obliged to let him place her on the cushioned seat of the carriage but she had hated feeling herself, even for an instant, pressed to that man's chest and she merely thanked him curtly, without a single glance. Not even the sight of the little cardinal, all bundled up in his red robes, being transported in the same fashion had the power to erase the angry frown from her brow.
'Tomorrow,' she said through her teeth, as soon as he was set down beside her, 'I am going home!'
'So soon? Is that not a little – hasty? I should have thought that you owed it to – to your husband, and the consideration he has shown you, to remain for, shall we say, a week, at least?'
'I do not feel comfortable in this house.'
'Yet you have promised to return here once a year. Come now, Marianne, is it so difficult to do as I ask? We have not seen one another for so long. I had hoped that you would have been willing to spend these few days with me?'
The green eyes, beneath lowered lids, looked sideways at Gauthier de Chazay.
'You will stay?'
'But of course! My child, don't you think I am looking forward to having my little Marianne again, for a little while, who used to come running to meet me under the trees at Selton?'
The unexpected reference brought the tears starting to Marianne's eyes.
'I thought – I thought you had forgotten that.'
'Because I did not speak of it? It is all the more dear to me. I keep the memory of those days hidden away in the most secret corner of my old heart and, now and then, when I feel very depressed, I open it up and peep inside.'
'Depressed? Nothing ever seems to depress you, godfather.'
'Because I do not let it appear? I am getting old, Marianne, and tired. Stay a little while, my child. We both need to be together again, to forget, in each other's company, that there are such things as kings and wars and intrigues, especially intrigues. Do this for me – in memory of other days.'
The warmth of renewed affection had its influence on the dinner-party which took place shortly afterwards in the ancient banqueting hall of the villa. This was a vast room, lofty as a cathedral and paved with black marble beneath a marvellous ceiling composed of repeated representations of the curious arms of Sant'Anna, a gold snake and a unicorn on a field sable.
The walls of the hall were painted with frescoes by an unknown artist depicting the legend of the unicorn, executed with great freshness of colouring and a charming naivety. This was the first room in the villa which really appealed to Marianne. Except for the table, which was lavishly spread and decorated, there was less gold to be seen than elsewhere and the effect was, on the whole, restful.
Seated at the long table with the cardinal facing her at the other end, she did the honours of the meal as gracefully as if she had been in her own house in the rue de Lille. The aged Marquis del Carreto, who was somewhat hard of hearing, was not the most enlivening of conversationalists. Count Gherardesca, however, conversed with ease and wit. In the course of the meal, Marianne learned from him all the latest gossip of the court of Florence, including that of the Grand Duchess Elisa's intimacy with the handsome Cenami and of her more turbulent affair with Paganini, the satanic violinist. A gentle hint was also allowed to drop that Napoleon's sister would be pleased to welcome the new Princess Sant'Anna at her court, but Marianne declined the invitation.
'I have little taste for court life, Count. Had my husband been able to present me himself to her imperial highness, it would have been a great joy to me. But, as matters stand…'
The old nobleman directed at her a glance full of understanding.
'In marrying my unhappy cousin, Princess, you have performed an act of great charity. But you are young and beautiful, and there are limits to devotion. There are none, among the nobility of this country, who would condemn you should you choose to go into society without your husband, since, alas, Prince Corrado's temper leads him to live the life of a recluse.'
'I thank you for saying so but indeed, just at present, I am not tempted to do so. Later, perhaps – and I should be grateful if you will convey my apologies, and my respects to her imperial highness.'
While her lips were almost mechanically framing the polite, formal words, Marianne's eyes were studying the Count's pleasant features in an effort to guess how much he knew of his cousin. Did he know what it was that forced Corrado Sant'Anna to lead this terrible existence? He had spoken of his 'temper' when the Prince had himself confessed that he did not wish to give her a horror of him. She might have questioned him more closely but the cardinal, as though guessing her intention, turned the conversation into other channels by asking the Count about the recent measures which had been taken against the religious houses and the meal ended without an opportunity to return to the subject that she most wished to know about.
The two witnesses took their leave immediately on rising from table, putting forward their age as their excuse for not remaining longer. One was bound for his palace at Lucca, the other for a villa he owned in the country nearby, but both used their exquisite, old-world courtesy to express their hope of soon meeting again 'the prettiest of princesses'.
'Well, you have made two conquests,' Gauthier de Chazay remarked with a mischievous smile. 'One must make allowances, of course, for the excitability of the Italian temperament, but even so… Not that I am altogether surprised. But,' his smile faded, 'I trust the ravages of your beauty will stop there.'
'What do you mean?'
'That I should infinitely have preferred it if Corrado had not seen you. You see, I wished to give him a little happiness. I should be deeply distressed to cause him any pain.'
'What makes you suddenly say this? You knew I was not precisely repulsive.'
'It is a very sudden thought,' the cardinal admitted. 'Do you know, Marianne, that Corrado did not take his eyes off you all through the meal?'
She shivered. What? But – how could he? He was not present!' Then, as she recalled the red damask salon: There was no mirror…'
'No, but there are places in the ceiling where the carving can be put aside to allow a view of what is passing in the room, old spy holes which had a certain usefulness in the days when the Sant'Annas were involved in political life. I know them well. I saw a pair of eyes – which could have belonged to no one else. If this unfortunate should fall in love with you —'
'You see, it is best that I should go.'
'No. That would appear like flight and you would wound him. After all – we may give him that small happiness. And who knows? It may encourage him one day not to conceal himself so completely from you, if not from others.'
