But Marianne had already lost interest in her captor of yesterday. Now that she had made a clean breast of it all to her friend, her next preoccupation was with her love, and her thoughts turned irresistibly to the man she had come to meet and with whom she still meant to make her life.
'But Jason?' she asked desperately. 'Should I tell him all this? You are very fond of me, and yet even you found it difficult to accept my story, didn't you? I'm afraid—'
'Afraid that Beaufort, who loves you, will find it even more difficult? But, Marianne, what else can you do? How are you going to explain your disappearance during the past weeks except by telling the truth, however painful?'
Marianne sprang up from her cushions with a cry and running to Jolival took both his hands in hers.
'No, for pity's sake, Arcadius, don't ask that of me. Don't ask me to tell him those shameful things. It would make him loathe me… he might even hold me in disgust…'
'Why should he? Was it your fault? Did you go to the villain of your own free will? You have been abused, Marianne, first in your kindness and simplicity and secondly as a helpless woman, not to mention the base means employed: drugs and violence!'
'I know. I know all that but I know Jason, too. He can be jealous… violent. He has already had much to forgive me. Remember what it must have done to his strict moral principles to find himself in love with Napoleon's mistress. Then remember that after that I was obliged to literally sell myself to a total stranger in order to preserve my honour. And now you want me to tell him… to try and explain…? Oh, no, my dear friend! I can't. Don't ask me to do that! It's just impossible.'
'Be sensible, Marianne. You said yourself that Jason loves you enough to overlook a good deal.'
'Not that! Oh, he wouldn't blame me, of course. He'd… understand, or try to look as though he understood to spare me pain. But I should lose him. There would always be that frightful picture between us, and if I kept anything back from him, he would imagine it! I should die of grief. You don't want me to die, do you, Arcadius? You wouldn't like that…'
She was trembling like a leaf in the grip of a panic fear resulting partly from the terrors of the past days and partly from despair and the tormenting dread of losing her only love.
Arcadius put his arm round her, led her very gently to a chair and made her sit down. Clasping her suddenly ice-cold hands in his, he knelt beside her.
'Not only do I not want you to die, my child, I very much want you to be happy. Of course, it's natural for you to be frightened at the idea of telling the man you love a thing like this, but what can you tell him?'
'I don't know. That the Prince kidnapped me… locked me up somewhere… and I escaped. I'll think of something… and you'll think too, won't you, Arcadius? You're so clever… so intelligent…'
'And supposing something comes of the affair? What will you say then?'
'Nothing will come of it. I won't let it! To begin with, there's no reason to think that monster's efforts were successful, and if they were…'
'Well?'
'I'd get rid of it, if I have to risk my life to do it. I'd do anything to be free of that rotten fruit, and I will, if I ever find out that it's true! But Jason must never, never know! I told you: I'd rather die! You must promise me you'll not tell him, even on pledge of secrecy. You must swear to it. If you won't, I shall go mad!'
She was in such a state that Jolival saw it was impossible to reason with her. Her eyes were burning with fever and exhaustion and there was a shrill note in her voice that revealed nerves strained almost to breaking point, ready to snap at any moment.
'I promise, my dear, and now, for heaven's sake, calm yourself. You need rest and sleep… to help you recover. You are quite safe with me. No one can harm you and I'll do all I can to help you to forget this time as quickly as possible. Gracchus and Agathe are here with me, you know. And now I'll call your maid and she shall put you to bed and take care of you and no one, I promise you, is going to ask you any more questions…'
Jolival's voice flowed on in a gentle, reassuring murmur, soft and soothing as velvet, and it acted like oil on troubled waters.
Little by little, Marianne relaxed, and when, a minute later, Agathe and Gracchus burst into the room with cries of joy, they found her weeping softly in Jolival's arms.
But these, too, were healing tears.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dreams to Reality
Late on the following afternoon, Marianne lay on a sofa pulled up to the open window and watched two ships come sailing through the Lido Channel. The first and larger of the two was flying the American colours from her peak but it did not need the stars on her flag to tell the watcher it was Jason's ship.
She had known from the confused and contradictory state of her own feelings, even when the tall, square-rigged brig was no more than a white dot against the sky.
The sun which all day long had blazed down on Venice was sinking in a welter of molten gold behind the church of the Redeemer. A breath of cooler air drifted through the window, bringing with it the sound of seabirds crying, and Marianne sniffed appreciatively, enjoying the fragile peace of these last moments of solitude, and wondering a little that she should be doing so when the thing she was waiting for was the arrival of the man she loved.
In a few minutes, he would come. She pictured his entrance, his first look, his first words and trembled with mingled joy and apprehension: apprehension that she might not be able to sustain the role she had decreed for herself, that she might not be sufficiently natural.
Waking that morning, after practically sleeping the clock round twice, she had felt much better, her mind easier and her body relaxed by her sleep which, thanks to Jolival, had been surrounded by more luxury than might have been expected.
Instead of putting up at one of the inns, Jolival had taken rooms in a private house on his arrival in Venice. In Florence he had been recommended to the house of a Signor Giuseppe Dal Niel, a polite, good-natured and cheerfully-disposed individual who, at the fall of the Republic, had rented the upper floors of the splendid old palace built for the doge Giovanni Dandolq, the man who had given Venice her coinage and had been responsible for striking the first golden ducats.
Dal Niel was a widely-travelled man and consequently deplored the poverty of contemporary inns and hostelries. He had the notion of taking in paying guests and surrounding them with a degree of comfort, even luxury, hitherto quite unknown. It was his dream to get possession of the whole of the mansion and turn it into the greatest hotel of all time, but in order to do so he needed the ground floor, and this, so far, he had failed to acquire, since the present owner, the old Countess Mocenigo, was violently set against any such commercial undertaking.1
He made up for it by taking in only hand-picked visitors in whom he took as much interest as if they had been his personal guests. Twice a day he would attend them in person, or send his daughter Alfonsina to make sure that they had everything they required. Naturally he could not do enough for the Princess Sant'Anna, in spite of her somewhat unconventional arrival, clad in a soaking wet gown, in the arms of an officer of dragoons, and he had given strict orders to his staff that no noise be allowed to disturb her rest.
As a result of his care, Marianne had succeeded, in a single day, in erasing the marks of her imprisonment, and she now presented a fresh and blooming countenance to the sun. If it had not been for the evil memories which still persisted, she would have felt gloriously well.
As soon as the Witch's lines became clear beyond a doubt, Jolival had gone down to the harbour to tell Jason of Marianne's arrival and explain what had happened to her, or that version of it which had been concocted between them. Agreeing that the simplest was always the best, this was what they had decided upon together: Marianne had been carried off by her husband's orders and kept prisoner under strong guard in a house whose whereabouts she did not know, where she remained in total ignorance of the fate in store for her, a fate which her injured husband seemed in no
hurry to reveal. All she knew was that she was to be put on board ship for some unknown destination. One night, however, when her guards were unusually lax, she had succeeded in escaping and making her way to Venice where Jolival had found her.
It was Jolival, of course, who had applied himself to fabricating a sufficiently circumstantial account of her actual escape, and Marianne had spent much of the day going over her lesson until she was sure of being word perfect. Even so, she could not help feeling uncomfortable at telling a lie against which all her natural honesty and truthful instincts rebelled.
The story was a necessary one, certainly, because, as Jolival himself said, 'the truth cannot always be told', especially to a lover, but Marianne found it all the more distasteful because it involved the name of one who was not only innocent of any wrong but was actually the chief victim of the affair. It went against all her instincts to portray as a ruthless abductor the man whose name she bore and for whose death she was, indirectly, responsible.
She had always known that everything, in this imperfect world, had to be paid for, and happiness above all, but the thought that her own would be built upon a lie brought with it a superstitious dread lest fate should exact its penalty for the deception.
All the same, she knew that she was capable of enduring anything for Jason, even the hell of these past days… even to live a lie.
A large mirror ornamented with glass flowers, hanging on the wall near her sofa, showed her her reflection looking charmingly graceful in a dress of white muslin, with her hair beautifully dressed by Agathe, but neither rest nor any amount of beautifying had been able to dispel the worried look in her eyes.
She forced herself to smile but the smile did not reach her eyes.
'Is there anything wrong, your highness?' asked Agathe, who had observed this manoeuvre from the corner where she was sitting quietly with her needlework.
'No, nothing at all, Agathe. Why should you think so?'
'Only that you did not look very happy, my lady. You should go out on to the balcony. At this time of day the whole city is out there on the quayside. And you will be able to see Monsieur Beaufort when he comes.'
Marianne told herself she was a fool. What did it look like for her to be sitting here, skulking on a sofa, when she ought ordinarily to have been bursting with impatience to see him? The previous day's exhaustion made it natural for her to let Jolival go alone to the harbour, but not to be lurking here indoors instead of looking out for him like any woman in love. She could hardly explain to her maid that she was afraid of being recognized by a sergeant in the National Guard or by a nice small boy who had helped her.
At the thought of Zani, she was aware of a twinge of remorse. The child must have watched in utter bewilderment as she was knocked out and carried off by Benielli. He must be wondering now what kind of a dangerous person he had been consorting with and Marianne felt some regrets for a promising friendship which had been broken off.
Nevertheless she got up from her couch and took a few turns up and down the loggia, while taking care to keep in the shade of the Gothic pillars that supported it.
Agathe had been right. Down below, the Riva degli Schiavoni was crowded with people. It was like an endless ballet, full of noise and colour, moving back and forth between the Doges' Palace and the Arsenal and offering an amazing spectacle of life and gaiety. Even defeated, uncrowned, occupied and reduced to the status of a provincial town, Venice still remained the incomparable Serenissima.
'Which is more than I do!' Marianne muttered, remembering that she bore the same title. 'Much more than I do!'
A sudden swirl in the crowd dragged her from her melancholy thoughts. Down there, a few yards away, a man had jumped from a boat and was forging through the throng towards the Palazzo Dandolo. He was very tall, much taller than those he was thrusting out of his path. He cut through the crowd like an irresistible force, as easily as a ship breasting the waves, and Jolival, behind him, was having considerable difficulty keeping up. The man was broad-shouldered and blue-eyed, with a proud face and unruly black hair.
'Jason!' Marianne breathed, suddenly wild with joy. 'At last!'
In an instant, her heart had made its choice between fear and happiness. Everything but the glow of love had been swept away. Her whole being was irradiated.
As Jason, down below, vanished inside the palace, Marianne picked up her skirts with both hands and ran to the door. Speeding through the rooms like lightning, she flung herself down the stairs just as her lover was starting up them two at a time. With a shriek of joy that was almost a sob, she cast herself on his chest, laughing and crying at once.
He, too, cried out as he saw her. He roared out her name so loudly that the vaulted ceilings of the ancient palace rang again, making up for the many months of silence during which he had only been able to murmur it in his dreams. Then, his arms were round her, and he swung her off the ground, covering her with frantic kisses, devouring her face and neck like a starving man, regardless of the servants who, drawn by the noise, were hanging over the banisters to watch.
Jolival and Dal Niel stood, side by side, at the foot of the stairs and gazed upwards with approval.
'E meraviglioso! Que belle amore!' the Venetian sighed, clasping his hands.
'Yes,' agreed the Frenchman modestly. 'It's well enough.'
Marianne, her eyes closed, saw and heard none of this. She and Jason were alone together in a storm of passion, cut off as though by some strong enchantment from the world around them. They scarcely even noticed when their audience, good Italians for whom love is no light matter, was moved to express a connoisseur's appreciation of the scene. The applause rose to a climax when the privateer picked Marianne up bodily and, still without taking his lips from hers, bore her up the stairs. The door, kicked back by an impatient boot, slammed shut behind them to the cheers of the delighted onlookers.
'Will you do me the honour to drink a glass of grappa with me to the health of the lovers?' Dal Niel said, smiling broadly. 'Something tells me they will do quite well without you… and such happiness deserves a little celebration.'
'I should be delighted to drink with you. But, at the risk of disappointing you, I shall be obliged to interrupt the lovers' meeting before long, because we have important matters to decide.'
'Important matters? What matters can a pretty woman like that have to decide beyond the choice of her clothes?'
Jolival laughed.
'You'd be surprised, my friend, but her toilette plays only a very small part in the Princess's life. I spoke of decisions and here, I see, is one coming upon us now.'
Lieutenant Benielli, very smart in uniform, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, had just marched into the hall. His entry, although somewhat less tumultuous than Jason's, nevertheless had the effect of bringing about the instant dispersal of the inquisitive servants.
He approached the two men and clicked his heels.
'The American vessel has returned,' he announced. 'I must see the Princess at once. I may say that it is of the utmost urgency. We have already wasted too much time.'
Jolival sighed. 'I see. You will have to excuse me, Signor Dal Niel, but I am afraid we must postpone the grappa. I shall have to take this impulsive military gentleman upstairs.'
'Peccato! What a pity!' was the understanding answer. 'Do not be in too great a hurry to disturb them. Leave them a moment longer. I will keep the lieutenant company.'
'A moment? Upon my soul, a moment to them could well mean hours! They have not seen each other for six months.'
However, Arcadius was mistaken. No sooner had Marianne allowed her love to overcome her fears than she was regretting it. She had not been able to resist the impulse which had made her fly into the arms of the man she loved, as soon as she set eyes on him, an impulse to which he had responded with equal passion. Too much so, perhaps. But even as he was carrying her upstairs two at a time and slamming the door behind them in his haste to be alone with her, Marianne was suffe
ring a return of all the clearheadedness which had flown so deliciously to the winds a moment before.
She knew what would happen next: another moment and Jason, in an ecstasy of love, would cast her on to her bed; in five minutes, or even less, he would have undressed her and in a very short time after that, he would have made her his own, giving her no chance to stop the tender hurricane in which she was caught up.
Yet there was something inside her which refused, something she had not been aware of until now, and that something was the depth of her love for Jason. She loved him enough to crush down her own, fiercely urgent desire for him. In a lightning flash of understanding, she knew that she could not, must not be his while that doubt still hung over her unresolved, while her body was still horribly mortgaged to Damiani.
Of course, if some germ of life was beginning to grow inside her, it would be undeniably convenient, and even easy to throw the responsibility for fathering it on to her lover. Given a man of his passionate nature and so deeply in love, any goose could do it! But although Marianne might not be prepared to tell the truth about her six weeks' disappearance, she was even more determined not to make him her dupe – and in that worst way of all! No, until she was absolutely certain, she could not let him make love to her. On no account. It could lead them both into a morass of lies from which she would never escape. But, heavens, it was going to be difficult!
As he paused for a second in the middle of the room and stopped kissing her for long enough to get his bearing and find out the door of her bedchamber, she uncoiled herself smoothly from his arms and stood up.
'My God, Jason! You are quite mad! And I think I must be as mad as you.'
She walked across to a mirror and began putting up her hair which was falling down her back but he came after her at once, enveloping her once more in his warm embrace. Laughing, his mouth in her hair, he murmured:
[Marianne 4] - Marianne and the Rebels Page 14