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 in this damned town. As well to keep on eye on them. You never know…'
The militia trailed out of the room in a great clatter of boots and sword belts. Orlandi turned to Marianne who had been waiting quietly, with Gracchus and Agathe peering avidly over her shoulder, for this bizarre scene to end.
'Signorina, excuse please, but I could not let these men attack the Villa Sant'Anna. It would have brought trouble for everyone, for them and for us.'
Curiosity impelled Marianne to find out more about the strange person whom the innkeeper had described.
'Are you really so much afraid of the Prince? Yet you yourself have never seen him?'
Orlandi shrugged and picking up a lighted candle from a side table turned to conduct the travellers upstairs.
'No, I have never seen him, but I have seen the good which is done in his name. The Prince is very generous to the poor and who knows how far his power may extend? I would rather he were left alone. We know his generosity, we do not yet know his anger – and what if he should indeed be in league with the Evil One…' Once again, Orlandi crossed himself three times in quick succession. This way, signorina. Your coachman's lodging shall be seen to and there is a small room for your maid next door to your own.'
In a moment he had thrown open a door and ushered Marianne into a chamber, simple but clean, with bare, whitewashed walls and furnished with a table, a pair of upright chairs and a long, narrow bed, its massive black wooden head so tall that it reminded Marianne uncomfortably of a tomb. There was also a large crucifix and a number of holy pictures. Except for the red, cotton counterpane and window curtains, the room might have been a convent cell. Jug and basin, made of thick green and white pottery, were shut away neatly in a cupboard and the whole room was dimly illuminated by a single oil lamp.
'My best room,' Signor Orlandi remarked with pride. 'I hope the signorina will be comfortable. Should I perhaps inform the Signor Zecchini?'
Marianne gave a little shiver. The story of the invisible Prince had in some degree taken her mind from her own troubles and from this mysterious individual who had been waiting for her since that morning. She thought she might as well find out at once who he was.
'Yes, tell him I am ready to receive him. Then you may bring us some food.'
'Does the signorina wish her baggage brought up?'
Marianne hesitated. She had no idea whether her godfather's plans for her included a lengthy stay at the inn, but she reckoned that her baggage would not suffer from one more night strapped to the coach.
'No, I do not know if I shall be staying. Just send up the big carpet bag from inside.'
When Orlandi had gone, Marianne took the precaution of despatching Agathe, who was practically asleep on her feet, to explore her own small chamber, a cubby-hole reached by a door in the corner of the room. Marianne told her not to come back until she was called.
'But – suppose I fall asleep?' the girl said.
'Then sleep well. I will wake you in time for supper. My poor Agathe, you had no idea this journey would prove such a penance, had you?'
Under her crumpled bonnet, Agathe smiled happily at her mistress. 'Oh it has been tiring, but ever so interesting. And I would go anywhere with mademoiselle. All the same, I can't say I think much of this inn. A nice fire would do no harm. It's that damp in here.'
Marianne's gesture of dismissal silenced her. There had been a light tap on the door.
'Come in,' Marianne called when the girl had gone.
The door opened slowly, so slowly that it seemed as if the person outside were nervous or embarrassed. A lanky figure appeared, dressed in a coat of cinnamon-coloured cloth with knee breeches and white stockings, big, buckled shoes and a round hat set atop a curious kind of cap. The hat was raised, the cap remained in place, after which the visitor clasped both hands and raised his eyes to heaven and sighed deeply.
'God be praised! You have come! I cannot tell you how anxious I have been all day with all these soldiers. But you are here, and that is all that matters.'
During the utterance of this thankful greeting, Marianne had time to get over her initial surprise at the realization that Signor Zecchini was none other than the Abbé Bichette. Even so, she could not help laughing a little at the poor man, he was so obviously ill-at-ease in his unfamiliar garb.
'Why, monsieur l'Abbé, how strange you look! Surely carnival time is long past now?'
'I beg you, do not laugh. I feel sufficiently uncomfortable, I can assure you. If it were not for the most urgent necessity, if His Eminence had not particularly requested it…'
Instantly, Marianne was serious again. 'Where is my godfather? I thought to find him here.'
'In these dreadful days you will understand that a Prince of the Church must be especially careful. We have been staying at the monastery of Monte Oliveto but we considered it wiser to leave there.'
'As indeed it was,' Marianne agreed, rememberi
ng what the angry captain had said not long before.
'Where is His Eminence now?'
'Over there,' the Abbé answered, indicating through the window the campanile of the cathedral opposite. 'He has been waiting for you in the verger's house since this morning.'
Marianne looked at the tiny gold-enamelled watch that she wore round her neck. 'It is late. The church will be closed – perhaps watched…'
'The evening service has only just begun. The Emperor's orders concern religious houses only. Church services are not affected. In any case, the verger was to leave a door open all night in case of need. His Eminence will be waiting for you after the service.'
'But where? The church is very large —'
'Enter by the left-hand door and go straight to the transept. Find the tomb of Ilaria. You will know it by the figure of a young woman lying with a little dog at her feet. The cardinal will meet you there.'
'Will you not come with me?'
'No. My orders from Monseigneur are to leave the inn during the night. He does not wish us to be seen together. My task is done and I have other business.'
'Thank you, monsieur l'Abbé. I will tell my godfather how faithfully you have carried out your trust. And now I must go to him.'
'May God keep you in His holy care. I will pray for you.'
Putting one long finger to his lips to enjoin her to silence and walking on tiptoe in his clumsy shoes, the so-called Signor Zecchini departed as quietly as he had come.
Marianne went quickly to her dressing-table and took off her hat. A swift glance at her hair and she turned to the carpet bag which Orlandi had sent up before the Abbés entrance and extracted from it a big, dark-red cashmere shawl. This she put over her head, wrapping it closely round her in imitation of the local women she had seen. She opened the door that led into Agathe's room. As she had expected, the maid was lying on her bed, fully dressed, and so sound asleep that she did not even hear the door open. Marianne smiled, knowing that Agathe would not wake while she was out.
On her way downstairs she encountered Orlandi carrying a tray loaded with plates, glasses and dishes.
'Bring supper in a little while, if you please,' she said. 'I – I wish to slip across to the church to say a prayer or two, if I may.'
Orlandi's professional smile became touched with a hint of something warmer.
'But of course you may! The evening service has just this moment begun! You run along now, signorina, and I will have supper for you when you return.'
'The soldiers – they will not hinder me?'
'Hinder you going to church?' The worthy landlord was indignant. 'I should think not indeed. We are good Christians here. The town would be up in arms if they tried to close the churches. Would you like me to go with you?'
'Thank you, but only as far as the inn door, I will go alone from there.'
Escorted by Orlandi, his moustaches bristling, Marianne passed through the main room of the inn without interference from the soldiers who seemed, in fact, little disposed to make trouble. The sergeant was playing cards with one of his corporals and the other men were quietly drinking. One or two had produced long clay pipes 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 scrap
ing, 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 Abbé 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.'
Marianne and The Masked Prince Page 25