Left alone, Marianne took two or three restless turns about the room before she flung off her dressing-gown, blew out the candles and threw herself down on her bed. Ever since that morning, the country had been basking in a heat-wave and darkness had brought very little relief. In spite of the cooling effect of the many fountains, the heat, heavy and stifling, had during the day invaded the villa's large rooms and now it clung to the skin until Marianne, stretched out under the gilded hangings of her bed, was drenched with perspiration.
At last she sprang out of bed and drew back the curtains, flinging the windows wide open in the hope of a little relief from the feverish heat. The gardens, bathed in white moonlight, looked magical and unreal, deserted but for the musical rustle of the fountains. The shadows of the great trees stretched deep black over the colourless grass. Beyond the gardens, the countryside lay wrapped in silence, all nature seemed turned to stone. That night, the whole world seemed dead.
Marianne's throat was parched and she was just about to go back to her bed to pour herself a glass of water from the carafe on her night table when she stopped suddenly and turned back to the window. The distant sound of galloping hooves had reached her ears, a soft drumming that came slowly nearer, growing louder and sounding clearer. Something like white lightning flashed out from a grove of trees. In a moment, Marianne's sharp eyes had recognized Ilderim, the finest stallion in the stables and also the most difficult to mount, a snow-white thoroughbred of unbelievable beauty but capricious temper whom, for all her skill, she had not yet dared to try. She could see now the dark shape of a rider on his back but could not recognize him. He seemed tall and well-made but at that distance it was difficult to be sure of anything. One thing was certain: it was not Matteo Damiani or Rinaldi or any of the grooms. A second later, horse and rider had crossed the expanse of turf and were swallowed up once more in the shadow of the trees. The rhythmic hammering of the hooves died away and ceased altogether. But Marianne had had time to marvel at the rider's incomparable horsemanship. The dark, ghostly figure on the white horse had seemed one with his mount. Proud Ilderim recognized his master.
A sudden thought entered Marianne's mind and settled there, tormenting her until, unable to wait until morning for an answer, she strode over to the bell-rope hanging by her bedside and tugged it furiously, as if it were a matter of life and death. Dona Lavinia appeared almost at once, dad in her shift and a nightcap on her head, quite clearly terrified and fearing the worst. Finding Marianne out of bed and to all appearances perfectly cool, she let out a sigh of relief.
'Dear God, you frightened me! I thought your highness must be ill—'
'Do not alarm yourself, Dona Lavinia, I am quite well. I am truly sorry to have woken you but I want you to tell me something, at once, and as clearly as you can.'
The candle in Lavinia's hand trembled so violently that she was obliged to set it down.
'What is it you wish to know, my lady?'
Marianne gestured towards the open window by which she still stood and her eyes fixed themselves imperiously on the housekeeper's face which had turned chalk white in the moonlight.
'You know quite well, Dona Lavinia, what it is I wish to know, or you would not look so pale. Who was the man I saw just now, riding like the wind across the park? The horse he rode was Ilderim, whom I have not so far known anyone to mount. Tell me, who was he?'
'My lady – I —'
The unfortunate woman seemed scarcely able to stand. She clutched at a chair back for support but Marianne advanced on her relentlessly and seized her arm in a painful grip.
Who – was – it?'
'P-prince Corrado.'
Marianne's pent-up breath was released in a long sigh. She felt no surprise. Ever since she had first set eyes on the blurred figure of the rider, she had been prepared for this answer. But Dona Lavinia had dropped into a chair, and was weeping softly, her head in her hands. At the sight of her grief, Marianne was instantly filled with remorse and fell on her knees beside her, trying desperately to calm her.
'Calm yourself, Dona Lavinia. I did not mean to hurt you by questioning you like that, but you must see how dreadful it is for me to find myself in the midst of all this mystery!'
'I know – I do understand,' sobbed Lavinia. 'I knew, of course, that some night you were bound to see him and to ask me, but I hoped – God knows what I hoped.'
'That I would not remain long enough to see him, perhaps?'
'Perhaps. But it was a childish hope, because sooner or later… You see, my lady, he goes out like this nearly every night. He gallops for hours on Ilderim whom no one but himself can mount. It is his greatest joy – the only one he permits himself.' The housekeeper's voice broke. Marianne took both her hands and held them gently.
'Surely, he is too hard on himself, Dona Lavinia?' she said softly. 'The man I saw is not crippled or an invalid, if he were he could not ride Ilderim. He did not seem to me in any way abnormal. I thought he looked tall and, to all appearances, strong. Why should he hide himself like this, why condemn himself to this dreadful seclusion, why bury himself alive?'
'Because it is impossible for it to be otherwise. Impossible! Believe me, Princess, it is no morbid love of mystery or any wish to be eccentric which makes my poor boy hide himself from the world like this. It is because he cannot help himself.'
'But, the person I caught a glimpse of was in no way repulsive. He looked – he looked perfectly normal.'
'Perhaps it is – otherwise with his face.'
'That could only be an excuse. I have seen men with ghastly faces, disfigured by injuries, men one could hardly bear to look at, yet they still lived openly. I have even known men to wear masks,' she added, remembering Morvan and his scarred face.
'Corrado wears one when he goes out like this. Darkness and the shadow of a hat and cloak he does not think enough to hide him. But in the full light of day, even the mask would not be enough. I beg you, my lady, believe me, and do not try to find out, or to see him. He – he might die of shame!'
'Of shame?'
Dona Lavinia rose, painfully, and drew Marianne to her feet also. She was no longer crying and her face had become very calm. She seemed in some way relieved to have spoken. Looking Marianne straight in the eyes, she continued, with great earnestness: 'You see, Corrado is the victim of a curse which once fell on this house that was formerly so strong and powerful, a curse that bore the face of an angel. Only the child that you will give him can exorcise it, not Corrado himself, for his sufferings there is no cure, but at least the house of Sant'Anna, so that it may shine once more among men. Good night, your highness. Try and forget what you have seen.'
This time, Marianne, defeated, did not insist. She let Dona Lavinia go without a word. She felt wearied to her very soul, and utterly depressed. The mystery of Corrado filled her whole being, obsessed her, like an insoluble torment. Her excited curiosity urged her to commit the wildest follies, such as hiding where she could watch the phantom horseman ride by or throwing herself under Ilderim's hooves so as to force him to stop. But something she could not explain held her back. It might have been Dona Lavinia's words: 'He might die of shame…', words as heavy with sadness as the voice that spoke out of the depth of the mirror.
In an effort to soothe her nerves and cool her burning head, she went into the bathroom and bathed her face and hands and sprinkled her whole body with eau-de-Cologne but when she lay down again sleep still refused to come. The oppressive heat and the thoughts that jangled wildly in her head drove it relentlessly away. Her ear was still tuned to the vague sounds of the night, listening for the distant sound of a horse galloping. But the hours passed and no sound came until at last Marianne sank, exhausted, into a kind of torpid doze that was neither sleep nor waking. Strange images passed through her mind, as in a dream, and yet it seemed to her that she was not asleep. There were vague, cloudy forms and sometimes the characters on the ceiling seemed to have come down to dance around her, grinning and gibbering, or strang
e, unnatural flowers leaned over her and turned into faces, and then it was the wall of her bedchamber that opened suddenly to reveal a head, and the head belonged to Matteo Damiani…
Marianne woke abruptly with a cry. The final impression had been so strong that it had ripped through the mists of sleep and jerked her back into reality, gasping and pouring with sweat. She sat up in bed, tossed back the long, damp strands of hair that had fallen over her face and stared about her. Dawn was breaking, filling her room with a pale, mauve light that was already beginning to be tinged with the rosy colour of sunrise. Away in the countryside, cocks were beginning to crow, their harsh cries taken up from one farm to the next. Cool air was coming in from the garden and Marianne felt suddenly chilled in her damp bed with her nightshirt clinging to her body. She got up to take it off and find a dry one and a dressing-gown, when suddenly her eyes fell on the place where, in her nightmare, she had seen Matteo's head appear and she uttered a cry of amazement. There, just below the gilt edge of one of the mirrors, was a dark line on the wall, a dark line she had never seen before.
Making no more sound than a cat in her bare feet, Marianne crept up to it with a pounding heart, and felt a faint draught. The panel yielded quietly to her hand, revealing the black opening of a narrow spiral stair, cut in the thickness of the wall.
At once, everything fell into place in her mind. So she had not been dreaming! As she lay there half-asleep, she really had seen Matteo Damiani's face look through that opening. But why? What did he want? How many times already had he dared to come into her room like this while she slept? At that moment, she recalled the face which she had caught sight of in the mirror on the night of her wedding, while she was undressing. So that, too, had not been a dream! He had indeed been there, and at the recollection of the naked lust in his face, Marianne's own cheeks flushed scarlet, with anger as much as injured modesty. She was seized with a furious rage. So, not content with persecuting Agathe, that vile creature had actually dared to enter her room, the room of his own master's wife, and pry into her most private moments! What was his object in creeping in like a thief in the night? What mad act might he not have committed one day, this very morning perhaps, if she had not discovered the panel which, in his hurried retreat, no doubt, he had forgotten to close properly.
'I'll make sure he never wants to try it again,' she muttered furiously. Without stopping to think, she slipped on a dress at random, pushed her feet into a pair of light sandals and quickly tied the strings, then went to her portmanteau and fetched one of the pistols which Napoleon had given her and which she had brought with her from Paris. One swift check to make sure of the priming and she slid it into her belt and lighted a candle. Thus armed, she marched determinedly to the still-open panel and began to descend.
The draught made the candle flame waver but did not extinguish it. Carefully, without making the smallest sound, she descended the worn steps, protecting the candle flame with her free hand. The stairway was quite short, no more than a single storey. It came out at the back of the house, the exit masked by thick, leafy bushes. Peering through the branches, Marianne was suddenly aware of the calm waters of the grotto stretching before her, rosy in the dawn. She also saw Matteo just disappearing into the cavern, the entrance to which lay within the central colonnade. She determined to follow him. Quickly blowing out the candle, she set it down under the bushes ready to pick up on her return.
Her anger was touched now with the excitement of the chase, and a certain feeling of triumph. She did not know what the steward was about, but she knew that he would be caught there in a trap and could not escape her now. She was familiar with the grotto for she had explored it with her godfather. It was a pleasant place in hot weather. The lake continued inside the grotto, making a kind of room with a pool in the centre. The rock walls of the cavern had been hung with silk and carpets and cushions set out around the pool in oriental profusion.
Marianne sprang lightly in pursuit of the steward. She ran along the colonnade, pausing for a moment at the entrance to the cave to flatten herself against the rocky wall and draw her pistol from her belt. Slowly, with infinite caution, she crept forward and turned the corner. Then she gave a gasp of astonishment. Not only was there no one in the cave, but one of the silken panels that covered the walls had been lifted up to reveal the entrance to a tunnel which seemed to pass right through the hill, for there was a glimpse of daylight at the end.
Not hesitating for an instant, only tightening her grip a little on the weapon in her hand, Marianne stepped into the tunnel. It was quite wide and the floor was covered with a fine sand, pleasant to walk on and absolutely silent underfoot. Little by little, some of her anger had faded, giving way to excitement, the kind of excitement she had felt out with the hounds at Selton, but here she was dealing with something more dangerous than any fox and the nearness of danger filled her with exaltation. There was also the thought that she had, in so short a time, begun to penetrate some of the secrets of the Sant'Annas. But when she reached the end of the passage, she stood, pressed close to the rock in the shadow of the opening, staring at the spectacle which met her eyes.
The tunnel opened into a narrow clearing, no more than a steep cleft in the rocks, closed in at the top on both sides by a tangled mass of trees and undergrowth. Down below, leaning at crazy angles in niches cut in the rock walls, was a weird population of statuary, clothed in brambles and rampant bines, their limbs frozen in attitudes of frantic gesticulation which gave a tragic emphasis to the burnt-out ruins of a building that occupied the centre of the dell.
Nothing was left but a confused heap made up of stumps of charred and broken columns, tumbled stones and shattered carvings, all overgrown with matted brambles and bitter-smelling ground ivy. The fire which had destroyed it must have been uncommonly fierce, for rubble and rock walls alike showed the long, blackened streaks caused by the flames. Yet, standing among the ruins, as though preserved by a miracle, was a single, gleaming statue of pure white marble. Marianne caught her breath in wonder at the scene.
A few steps had been roughly hacked out of the pile of ruins and on the top step, kneeling with both arms clasped about the knees of the statue, was Matteo Damiani.
The statue itself was the strangest and most beautiful that Marianne had ever seen. It was the life-sized figure of a naked woman, shaped with such sheer, sensual perfection as to be almost demoniacal in its beauty. The woman was standing with her arms spread backwards, away from her body; her head was flung back, as if drawn by the weight of her unbound hair and she seemed, with her closed eyes and parted lips, as if on the point of giving herself to some unseen lover. The sculptor had rendered every detail of the female form with an uncanny accuracy and the skill with which he had delineated the features, the narrowed eyes and voluptuously swollen lips, an ecstasy of pleasure so agonizing that it was almost pain, was close to genius. Disturbed by that breathing image of desire, Marianne thought that the artist must have loved his model with a torturing intensity.
The sun was rising and one golden beam slipped over the cliff and lighted on the statue. At once the cold marble glowed and came to life. The polished grain of the unfeeling stone took on a golden sheen, softer than any human skin, and for a moment it seemed to Marianne that the statue was truly living. Matteo had risen to his feet and was standing on the pedestal, clasping the marble woman in his arms. He was kissing the lips that offered themselves in a frenzy of passion, as if he were trying to infuse his own warmth into them, and murmuring an incoherent stream of words, words in which insults and endearments were strangely mixed, a curious litany of love and rage and the crudest expressions of lust. At the same time his hands roved feverishly over the marble body which seemed, in the warm light of morning, to be quivering in response to his caresses.
There was something so unnerving about this love scene with a statue that Marianne stepped back with an instinctive revulsion into the tunnel, forgetting that she had come there to confront the man and cow him. The p
istol hung uselessly from her shaking hand and she restored it to her belt. The man was mad, there could be no other explanation of his insane behaviour, and Marianne was suddenly afraid. She was alone with a madman in a secret place which might well be unknown to most of the inhabitants of the villa. Even the weapon she carried seemed a puny defence. Matteo's strength was certainly prodigious. If he once realized her presence, he could overpower her before she had a chance to defend herself. Or else she would be compelled to shoot, and she did not wish to kill him. She had suffered enough, and suffered even now, from having involuntarily caused the death of Ivy St Albans.
She could hear the man making delirious promises to return that night to his insensate mistress.
'The moon will be full, my she-devil, and you shall see that I have not forgotten.'
Marianne's heart leaped. He was coming away, he would find her. Without waiting for more, she fled back along the tunnel and out through the cavern and the grotto with the speed of a hunted hare. She darted in amongst the bushes but turned, before plunging into the staircase passage, to take one last look through the leaves. She was only just in time. Matteo was coming out of the grotto and once again Marianne asked herself if she had not been dreaming. The man who a moment before she had surprised in a state of total erotic frenzy was now strolling quietly along the path that lay between the colonnade and the water, his hands clasped behind his back and his coarse features seemingly lifted to enjoy the light breeze that ruffled his grey hair. He might have been anyone taking an early morning walk in the cool, dew-fresh gardens before starting the day's work.
Marianne and The Masked Prince Page 31