Marianne and the Rebels

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'Yes… American, perhaps… The Emperor has heard that they are known to anchor in the lagoon.'

  This time Marianne had no answer. Surprise had left her speechless. Speechless, but not without the power of thought.

  ***

  Reaching her own apartments, a few minutes later, she made praiseworthy efforts to recover the shreds of her dignity. She was well aware that this had suffered greatly as, oblivious of time, place, and even the most elementary decorum due to her position, it had finally sunk home what was meant by the junction of those three words: Venice and American vessel. She had quite simply flung her arms round the Duke of Padua's august neck and planted two smacking kisses on his clean-shaven cheeks.

  To tell the truth, Arrighi had not shown any undue surprise at this startlingly familiar assault. He had laughed heartily and then as, blushing furiously, she had attempted to stammer some kind of apology, had hugged her back and kissed her in a most fatherly way, saying:

  'The Emperor warned me you would be pleased but I hadn't hoped to find my mission so pleasantly rewarded. All the same, one final word: you must realize the gravity of your mission. It is very real and important. His Majesty is counting on you.'

  'His Majesty is perfectly right, Duke. As always, surely? For my own part, I would rather die than disappoint the Emperor when he not only takes such pains for my welfare but even concerns himself for my future happiness.'

  Sweeping him a final curtsey, she had left Arrighi to enjoy the delightful shades of the Boboli Gardens on his own. She was overflowing with gratitude and sped back towards the palace, her feet in their pink satin slippers barely touching the sanded paths.

  With three words Arrighi had ripped apart the storm clouds, banished her nightmares and opened a great shining passage through the looming mists which hid the future, enabling her to step out confidently towards it. Everything had become wonderfully simple.

  With General Arrighi to protect her, she need have nothing to fear from her strange husband and, more to the point, she could stop worrying about how to get rid of the tiresome Benielli.

  She was to be delivered practically into Jason's arms, and Jason, she knew, would not refuse to help her carry out a mission laid on her by the man to whom they both owed so much. They would have such a wonderful voyage together, on that great ship which she had watched with such an aching heart as it vanished into the mist off the coast of Brittany. But now the Sea Witch would soon be heading for the scented shores of the east, bearing its cargo of lovers lightly over the blue waves, through days of burning sun and nights ablaze with stars. How good it must be to make love underneath the stars!

  Lost in her shining dream, her imagination already slipping its cable, Marianne did not pause to wonder how Napoleon could have come to know of her most secret thoughts, a plan whispered hastily into her ear in that last passionate embrace with her lover.

  She was quite used to his habit of knowing everything without having to be told. He was a man endowed with superhuman powers of reading what lay in men's hearts. And yet…? Was it possible, after all, that this miracle too was the work of François Vidocq? The ex-convict turned policeman seemed possessed of a remarkably acute hearing, when he took the trouble to use it.

  Wholly wrapped up in themselves and in the grief of this fresh separation, neither Jason nor Marianne had thought to notice whether Vidocq had been within earshot. Well, true or not, this betrayal, if betrayal it were, was the source of too much happiness for Marianne to feel anything but heartfelt gratitude.

  She reached the palace still bubbling with happiness and floated up the great stone staircase without paying the slightest attention to the activity going on all around her. Footmen and waiting-women hurried up and down, bearing everything from leather travelling cases and carpet-bags to curtains and articles of furniture. The staircase echoed to the din and clatter of a removal on a princely scale.

  The Grand Duchess would not return to Florence before the winter and in addition to an extensive wardrobe she liked to carry with her all the familiar objects of her everyday life. Only the guards on the doors maintained their accustomed rigidity, in hilarious contrast to the domestic upheaval going on around them.

  Marianne was almost running by the time she came to the three rooms which had been assigned to her on the second floor. She could not wait to find Jolival and tell him of her happiness. She could scarcely breathe for excitement and she had to share it with someone. But she looked for him in vain. Both the Vicomte's own room and the little sitting-room they shared were empty.

  She was both irritated and downcast when a servant informed her that 'Monsieur le Vicomte was at the museum'. She knew what that meant. In all probability, Arcadius would not be back until very late and she would have to keep her glad news to herself for hours.

  Ever since their arrival in Florence, Jolival had been spending a great deal of his time officially visiting the Uffizi Palace and, unofficially, frequently a certain house in the via Tornabuoni where the play was high and the company exclusive. The Vicomte had been introduced into this circle by a friend on a previous visit and had retained nostalgic memories, stimulated to some extent by the intermittent smiles of Fortune, but rather more by recollections of the languishing and extremely romantic charms of the hostess, a violet-eyed countess with a claim to Medici blood in her veins.

  All in all, Marianne could not in justice blame her old friend for paying a final visit to his enchantress. After all, he was to leave Florence with Marianne in the morning.

  Postponing her confidences, therefore, until later, Marianne went into her own room, where she found her maid, Agathe, up to her neck in a sea of satins, laces, gauzes, lawns, taffetas and fripperies of all kinds which she was stowing away methodically in big trunks lined with pink toile de Jouy.

  Flushed with exertion, her cap askew, Agathe nevertheless put down the pile of linen she was carrying to hand her mistress the two letters which were waiting. One was a formidable, official-looking document sealed with the Emperor's personal cipher, the other a much smaller affair, artistically folded and adorned with a frivolous seal of green wax impressed with a dove. Since she had a very good idea of what to expect from the big letter, Marianne turned first to the little one.

  'Do you know who brought this?' she asked her maid.

  'A footman belonging to Baroness Cenami. He came soon after your highness went out. He made a great thing of its being urgent.'

  Marianne nodded and went to the window to peruse her new friend's letter. Zoe Cenami was, in fact, the only friend she had made since coming into Italy. She had been given a letter of introduction to her by Fortunée Hamelin before leaving Paris.

  The young Baroness was a fellow-Creole and before entering the Princess Elisa's household, where she met her future husband, had been a frequent visitor at the house of Madame Campan, where Fortunée's daughter Leontine was receiving her education. A common origin had created a bond of friendship between Madame Hamelin and Mademoiselle Guilbaud, a friendship continued by letter after Zoe's departure for Italy. Not long after her arrival there, she had married the charming Baron Cenami, brother of the Princess's favourite chamberlain and one of the best placed men at court by virtue of his elder's attractions. Zoe's own wit and elegance had soon won her Elisa's regard and she had been entrusted with the upbringing of the Princess's daughter, the boisterous Napoléone-Elisa, whose tomboyish ways put a severe strain on the young Creole's patience.

  Marianne, aided by her friend's good offices, had found herself naturally drawn to the charming woman who became her guide through Florence and had introduced her to the pleasant circle of friends who met most afternoons in the pretty drawing-room in the Lungarno Accaiuoli.

  There the Princess Sant'Anna had been welcomed in a simple and comfortable way which, little by little, made her feel at home there. It was strange that Zoe should have bothered to write, since she was expecting her as usual that evening.

  The note was short but disturbing. Zoe
seemed a prey to some strong anxiety.

  'My dear Princess,' she had written in a scratchy, nervous hand, 'I must see you, but not at my house. For the sake of my own peace of mind and perhaps of the life of one dear to me. I shall be in the church of Or San Michele at five o'clock, in the right aisle, which is the one with the Gothic tabernacle. Wear a veil so that you will not be recognized. You are the only person who can save your unhappy Z.'

  Marianne re-read the letter carefully in a good deal of bewilderment. Then, crossing to the hearth where owing to the prevailing dampness of the palace a fire still burned even at that late season, she tossed Zoe's missive into the flames. It was gone in a moment but Marianne continued to watch it until the last white ashes had fallen apart. She was thinking hard.

  Zoe must be in dire trouble to have called on her for help like this, for she was noted for her shyness and discreet behaviour, as well as for her talent for making friends. There were many of these of far longer standing than Marianne, so why call on her? Because she inspired more confidence? Because they were both French? Because she was a friend of that indefatigable help in trouble, Fortunée Hamelin…?

  Whatever the answer, Marianne, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, saw that it was not far off five already and called to Agathe to come and dress her.

  'Give me my olive-green dress with the black velvet trimmings, my black straw hat and a Chantilly-lace veil to go with it.'

  Agathe's top half emerged slowly backwards out of the trunk which had all but swallowed her and she stared at her mistress blankly.

  'Wherever is your highness going in that gloomy get-up? Not to Madame Cenami's, surely?'

  Agathe enjoyed all the devoted servant's freedom of speech, and normally Marianne was ready to indulge her. Today, however, was an exception. Marianne's temper was sharpened by her anxiety for Zoe.

  'Since when has it been any business of yours where I go?' she snapped. 'Do as I ask, that is all.'

  'But if Monsieur le Vicomte should return and ask for you?'

  'Then you will tell him all you know: that I have gone out. And ask him to wait for me. I don't know when I shall be back.'

  Agathe said no more but went in search of the required garments, leaving Marianne to slip hastily out of the rose-pink lawn which she felt was rather too conspicuous for a discreet assignation in a church, especially since Zoe had asked her to come veiled.

  Helping her mistress on with the plain dress, Agathe, still bridling from her set-down, inquired through pursed lips whether she was to order Gracchus to bring the carriage.

  'No. I'll walk. The exercise will do me good and it is only on foot that Florence is to be seen to the best advantage.'

  'Very well, my lady, if you don't mind going up to your ankles in mud…'

  'Never mind. It will be worth it.'

  A few minutes later, Marianne was dressed and making her way out of the palace. The full lace veil placed a delicate screen of leaves and flowers between her and the sparkling daylight as, walking quickly, with her skirts lifted a little to keep them from the dirt of the streets, where patches of wet mud still lingered here and there in the shade, left over from the last shower of rain, Marianne made her way in the direction of the Ponte Vecchio. She crossed it without a glance at the jewellers' shops ranged in picturesque clusters on either hand.

  In her gloved hands she held a fat morocco-bound missal with gilt corners. Agathe had seen her take it, eyes bulging with curiosity but her lips discreetly sealed. Thus armed, Marianne had the perfect air of a well-bred lady going to evening service. It had the added advantage of preserving her from the unwanted gallantries which every Italian male worth the name felt in honour bound to address to any personable woman: and the streets, at that hour, were always full of men.

  A few minutes' brisk walk brought Marianne within sight of the old church of Or San Michele, formerly the property of the rich Florentine guilds, which had adorned it with the priceless statuary standing in its Gothic niches. She was hot in her enveloping black lace and heavy cloth. There was sweat on her forehead and trickling down her spine. It seemed a sin to be muffled up like this when the weather was so warm and the sky a canopy of exquisite and ever-changing hues. Florence seemed to be floating in a huge and iridescent soap-bubble lifting to the whim of the setting sun.

  The city, so shuttered and secretive in the heat of the day, opened its doors and spilled out into the streets and squares a throng of chattering humanity, while the thin sound of convent bells called to prayer those men and women whose conversation was henceforth dedicated to God.

  The church struck surprisingly chill, but its coolness did her good: it was a reviving coolness. It was so dark inside, with only the dim light that filtered through the windows, that Marianne had to pause for a moment by the holy-water stoup until her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom.

  Soon, however, she was able to make out the double nave and, in the right-hand aisle, Orcagna's masterpiece, the splendid medieval tabernacle aglow with soft dull gold in the trembling flames of three altar candles. But no figure, male or female, prayed before it. The church appeared empty and the only sound which echoed beneath its great roof was the shuffling footsteps of the verger making his way back to his sacristy.

  The emptiness and silence made Marianne uneasy. She had come with a strange reluctance, torn between her real wish to help her charming friend in her trouble and a vague foreboding. Moreover she knew that she was on time and Zoe was the soul of punctuality. It was odd and disquieting: so much so that Marianne had half a mind to turn round and go home. It was thoroughly unnatural, this meeting in a dimly-lighted church…

  Without thinking, almost, she took a step or two towards the door but then the words of the letter recurred to her:

  '… for the sake of my own peace of mind and perhaps the safety of one dear to me…'

  No, she could not leave that call for help unanswered. Zoe, who had given her this extraordinary proof of confidence, would never understand, and Marianne would blame herself for the rest of her life if a tragedy occurred which she had not done everything in her power to prevent.

  Fortunée Hamelin would never have known that impulse to retreat, that moment of distrust: she was always ready to leap into the fire for a friend, or throw herself into the water to save a cat. The church was empty. Very well. All that meant was that something had happened to delay Zoe…

  Thinking that the least she could do was to wait for a few minutes, Marianne advanced slowly towards the appointed meeting place. She gazed at the tabernacle for a moment before sinking to her knees in fervent prayer. She had too much to thank heaven for to neglect so excellent an opportunity. It was, in any case, the best way of passing the time.

  Deep in her prayers, she failed to notice the approach of a man draped from chin to calves in a black cloak with triple shoulder-capes, and she started suddenly when a hand was laid on her shoulder and an urgent voice whispered in her ear.

  'Come, madame, come quickly! Your friend has sent me to find you. She implores you to come to her…'

  Marianne had risen swiftly and was studying the man before her. His face was strange to her. It was the kind of face, moreover, which gives nothing away, broad, placid and unremarkable, but imprinted now with desperate anxiety.

  'What's happened? Why does she not come herself?'

  'Something terrible. Only come with me, madame, I beg of you! Every moment counts…'

  But Marianne stayed where she was, struggling to understand first this strange meeting and now this stranger… It was all so unlike the tranquil Zoe.

  'Who are you?' she asked.

  The man bowed with all the marks of respect.

  'A servant, Excellenza, that's all… but my family have always served the Baron's and my lady honours me with her confidence. Must I tell her that your highness will not come?'

  Quickly, Marianne put out her hand and detained the messenger, who seemed on the point of withdrawal.

  'No, please don
't go! I'm coming.'

  The man bowed again but in silence and followed her through the shadowy church to the door.

  'I have a carriage close by,' he said when they had emerged into the light and air again. 'It will be quicker.'

  'Have we far to go? The palace is very near.'

  'To the villa at Settignano. Now, if you will forgive me, that is all I am allowed to tell you. I'm only a servant, you understand…'

  'A devoted servant, I'm sure. Very well. Let us go.'

  The carriage which was waiting a little farther on proved to be an elegant brougham with no crest visible on the panels. It was standing underneath the archway connecting the church with the half-ruined Palazzo dell'Arte della Lana. The steps were already down and a man dressed in black stood by the door. The driver, on his box, seemed to be dozing, but Marianne was no sooner inside than he cracked his whip and the horses moved off at a brisk trot.

  The devoted servant had taken the seat beside Marianne. She frowned a little at this familiarity but said nothing, attributing the solecism to his evident distress.

  They left Florence by the Porte San Francesco. Marianne had not spoken since leaving Or San Michele, but cast about anxiously in her mind for the explanation of this sudden disaster which had befallen Zoe Cenami. She could hit on only one. Zoe was attractive and she was courted ardently by many men, some of them of great charm. Was it possible that one of them had succeeded in winning her favours and that some indiscretion, or malice, had made Cenami aware of his misfortune? If that were so, then Marianne did not see what help she could give her friend, except perhaps in calming the outraged husband. Certainly, Cenami had a high opinion of the Princess Sant'Anna. It was not a theory very flattering to Zoe's virtue, but what else could justify a cry for help so urgent and so fraught with extraordinary precautions?

  It was as hot as an oven inside the closed carriage and Marianne was driven to lift her veil. She leaned forward to lower the window, but her companion held her back.