'I am the only judge of what is best for me, Signor Damiani. Naturally, the reason that I have spoken of this to you is because I do not intend to ask – to ask my husband about it, and with all the more reason if the subject is a disagreeable one to him. But you will answer me.'
'Why should I?' the steward retorted, more insolently than he may have meant.
'Because I am the Princess Sant'Anna, whether you like it or not.'
'I did not say —'
'Have the goodness not to interrupt me. When I ask a question, let me tell you, I expect an answer. All my servants,' she leaned a little on the word, 'know this. You have yet to learn it. Moreover, I fail to see why you should not give me an answer. If the place were not meant to be seen, if its associations for your master are unpleasant, why has the passage not been walled up?'
'His highness has not ordered —'
'And you never act without precise instruction, is that it?' Marianne spoke with heavy irony.
He stiffened but appeared to accept defeat. His eyes met hers, coldly.
'Very well. I am at your highness's service.'
Recognizing that she had won, she permitted herself the luxury of a smile.
'Thank you. Then just tell me about this 'little temple' and, more particularly, about the woman whose statue stands among the ruins. It is an astonishing and magnificent piece of work. And do not tell me that it is antique because I shall not believe you.'
'Why should I not tell the truth? The statue, my lady, is that of Dona Lucinda, our Prince's grandmother.'
'Surely she is somewhat, er, scantily clothed for a grandmother. They are not commonly found so in France.'
'No, but the Emperor's sisters are,' he said forcefully. 'Did not the Princess Borghese commission Canova to immortalize her beauty in stone? Dona Lucinda did likewise. You cannot conceive how beautiful she was! It was terrible, beyond bearing. And she knew how to use it, like a devil she knew. I have seen men at her feet, I have seen men go mad and kill themselves for her – even when she was forty-five years old and more! But she was possessed of the devil!'
Matteo was talking now, the words pouring out of him like a pent-up flood released and Marianne listened, fascinated, her loathing and resentment temporarily forgotten.
'You knew her?' she murmured softly.
He nodded and his eyes shifted slightly, as if her intent gaze irked him. Then he went on in a voice thick with anger.
'I was eighteen when she died – died by fire, burned to death in that temple which, in her folly, she had erected to her own glory. There, she used to entertain her lovers, most of them taken from among the peasantry, or sailors, for her worship of her own beauty was only equalled by her lusts.'
'But – why from the common people?'
He rounded on her at that, with sudden violence, his head lowered like a bull about to charge, and Marianne shivered for she heard the fires of hell roaring in his voice and guessed that Lucinda had ignited them.
'Because she could then dispose of them without awkward questions. There were men of her own rank who gratified her and them she kept, safe in the knowledge that they were her slaves and would not live without her. But how many young men vanished without trace after giving all their youth and ardour to the insatiable she-wolf in one night of love? No one – no one can imagine what that woman was like. She could awaken the basest instincts, the ultimate madness, and she liked to see death as the end of love. Perhaps, after all, the legend was right —'
'What legend?'
'Men said that her deathless beauty was the outcome of a pact with the devil. One night, as she was studying herself anxiously in the mirrors of her bedchamber, a handsome young man dressed in black appeared to her and offered her, in exchange for her soul, thirty years of unfading beauty, thirty years of pleasure and power. They say that she agreed but that time passed and she had made a fool's bargain because before the thirty years were up her servants entered her room one morning to find only a carcass, crawling with worms.'
Marianne sprang to her feet with a cry of horror but he gave her a contemptuous smile.
'It is only a legend, my lady. The truth was quite different for, as I told you. Dona Lucinda perished in the fire which ravaged the temple – a fire she lighted with her own hands the night she found a wrinkle at the corner of her mouth. I dare say, Princess, you may be wondering why she should choose so terrible a death. Well, I will tell you. She did not wish that marvellous body which she had cherished with such care to rot slowly in the ground with all the horrors of decay. She preferred to see it consumed by fire! That was a dreadful night. The fire burned so fiercely that the flames were seen far off and the peasants still swear in terror that it was the fires of hell opening for her. I can still hear her screams… like a wild beast howling… But I know that she is not wholly gone. She lives on.'
'What do you mean?' Marianne cried, struggling to shake off the horror which threatened to overwhelm her.
Matteo turned glazed eyes on her. He smiled, drawing his lips back over his strong, yellow teeth. His answer came in a voice of mysterious, incantatory power.
'She still walks in this house – in the gardens – in your chamber, here she used to stand, naked, watching herself in the mirrors, always comparing her beauty to that of the statue which she had placed there. She brought a curse to this place and she is watching over that curse, which is her revenge. You will not stop her!'
His tone changed abruptly. Almost obsequiously, he asked: 'Is there anything more your highness wishes to know?'
Marianne wrenched herself out of the spell in which the steward's words had held her enthralled. She coloured violently under the insolent gaze which seemed to be studying her boldly in every detail and, striving to hold her own, she returned his gaze haughtily and answered: 'Yes. Since she had such a predilection for peasants – were you also one of her lovers?'
He did not hesitate. With triumph in his voice, he answered her.
'Why, yes, my lady. And believe me, I can never forget the hours I owe her.'
Unable to control her anger any longer, Marianne merely indicated to him with a gesture that she had no further need of him. But, left alone, she sank down, prostrate, on her chair and remained so for a long time, fighting down the panic terror that filled her. All the beauty of the place where, for a short while, she had found peace and happiness had been destroyed, smirched and defiled by the memory of the she-devil who had left her mark on it. The recollection of the dark figure of the man bestriding Ilderim in the night made her heart ache with pity; it seemed to her that between the Prince and the curse which lay upon him was an unceasing struggle, a battle lost and always recommenced. It took all her resolution not to send for her coach and her baggage at once and fly back to France without a moment's delay. Even the sound of the fountains now seemed charged with menace.
But she had promised to wait for the cardinal, and there was also the curious promise which Matteo had made to the ghost of Lucinda. Marianne meant to find out the exact nature of the promise and, if need be, to intervene. Could it, perhaps, be the means of exorcising the devil that haunted the house of Sant'Anna at last? Her eye fell on the family crest embroidered on the back of a chair and she was suddenly struck by the powerful symbol which it represented. The snake and the unicorn. The venomous, crawling beast, silent and deadly, and the creature of legend, clothed in white light. This strife must cease before her child was born. She did not mean him to rule a world in Lucinda's image. Her maternal instinct awoke, violently opposed to the slightest shadow on her child's future. She, Marianne, must make an end of the devils. Even if she had to risk her life to do it, she would be present that night to see what those ties were which bound Matteo to the evil dead. Afterwards, she would do as her conscience dictated, even if it meant forcing herself on her unseen husband.
Yet, when night returned to cover the villa and its gardens, all Marianne's heroic plans melted away before the most primitive of all terrors, the terror of the unknown perils that lurk in darkness. The thought of going back
