Marianne and the Lords of the East

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  Marianne bit back a sigh of disappointment. Obviously, it was impossible to persuade the old lady to divulge what she evidently regarded as another person's secret. And yet the more that she discovered about the strange man she had married, the more she wanted to know.

  "Madame," she said at last, "I must beg you to say no more—or else to tell me everything. I can't bear to be obsessed by so many questions which no one will ever answer for me."

  Princess Morousi placed both hands on the knob of her stick and got to her feet with a visible effort. At the same time she favored the younger woman with an utterly unexpected smile: unexpected because it was so wholly young and mischievous.

  "No one? Not a bit of it! Someone is coming in a moment who will answer all your questions. And I mean all—every single one!"

  "Someone? But who?"

  "Why, your husband! What happened last night has forced him out of his silence at last. Besides, he wants to enlighten you a little and do away with some of the misapprehensions under which you have been laboring."

  Marianne felt as if she had received an electric shock. She sat bolt upright in her unfamiliar bed and made as if to throw back the covers, which were, in any case, very much too hot.

  "He is here?" she asked, lowering her voice instinctively.

  "No. But he will be coming very soon, in an hour I expect. You will have time to prepare yourself to meet him. I will send a woman to you."

  The old princess turned toward the door, walking with a step that was slow, almost pathetic, so earnestly did she strive to overcome her lameness. She grasped the long bellpull of lilac silk which hung on the wall and rang twice. She was already in the doorway when she swung around suddenly and Marianne, who was already half out of bed, stopped short, startled by the pain and grief imprinted on that face which, lined as it was, had not lost all its beauty.

  "There is one more thing I should like to say." The old woman spoke in a hesitant tone which clearly did not come easily to her.

  "Of course. What is it?"

  "When you meet Corrado face to face, it will be something of a shock. You may feel some horror or revulsion. Oh, don't be afraid," she added quickly, seeing her involuntary guest's green eyes widen, "he is not a monster. But I do not know you well enough, indeed, I do not know you at all, and so I cannot tell how you may react to the sight of his face. I would beg you only to remember that he is first and foremost a victim, who has suffered long and deeply—and that you have the dangerous power to hurt him much more in the space of a few minutes than life, with its cruel ironies, has done already. Remember also that the outward form which you will see, although unusual for an Italian prince, conceals a heart which is noble and deeply generous and as free from all meanness as it is from malice. Remember, finally, that he gave you his name at a time when others might have scorned to do so."

  "Madame!" protested Marianne, stung by this last reminder and the tone in which it was uttered. "Do you think it is wise to insult me when you seem to be anxious above all that I should do nothing to upset the prince?"

  "I am not insulting you. The truth is never an insult and there are times when it should be spoken in full even though it may not be pleasant to hear. Don't you agree? I should be disappointed if you did not."

  "Yes, I do," Marianne said, unpleasantly conscious of having lost once more. "But, please, won't you answer one more question, only one, and which concerns no one but yourself?"

  "What is it?"

  "You love the Prince Sant'Anna very much, don't you?"

  The old woman stiffened and her free hand went to the great golden cross which she wore on her breast, as though to bear witness to the truth of her words.

  "Yes," she said. "I love him very much. I love him—as I might have loved the son I never had. That is why I do not want you to hurt him."

  She went out quickly, shutting the door sharply behind her.

  Chapter 3

  Turhan Bey

  AN hour later Marianne was pacing up and down a vast room on the ground floor with a roof like a cathedral and big, arched windows opening on to a garden planted with cypress trees and huge banks of roses whose dying flowers made a brave pretense of spring.

  Dominating this austere apartment and the stiff, thronelike ebony chairs with which it was furnished was a huge portrait of a splendidly mustachioed gentleman in a frogged hussar's jacket and a shako with an enormous plume like a firework display, with a jeweled dagger stuck in his silken sash. This was the late Hospodar Morousi, the princess's husband. But Marianne had barely glanced at him as she entered. The room seemed much too large for a private interview and she felt nervous and ill at ease.

  The prospect of this meeting, coming so suddenly and unexpectedly after she had looked forward to it for so long and then put it out of her mind as a thing impossible, had left her thoughts in a turmoil.

  From the day of their marriage she had regarded Corrado Sant'Anna as an enigma, half-irritating, half to be pitied. It had wounded her that he should not trust her enough to show her his face. At the same time, she had longed with all her generous heart to help him, to bring some comfort into what she guessed was a cruel lot, endured by a man of outstanding nobility and generosity of spirit, one who gave so much and asked so little.

  She had been genuinely distressed to learn, as she thought, of his tragic death at the hands of a murderer in whom he had trusted too much. She had wanted to see the guilty man punished, and when Matteo Damiani had boasted of his crime before her face she had felt herself Princess Sant'Anna indeed and as much his wife as if they had lived together for many years.

  And now, suddenly, here she was faced with one fantastic piece of news after another: the mysterious prince was not dead, he was coming to her here, and she was going to see, perhaps even to touch him, here within the four walls of this very room which, suddenly, for all its size, now seemed to her too small for such an event. The phantom horseman, the rider of Ilderim the Magnificent, the man who went out only at night and in a mask of white leather, was coming here… It was almost unbelievable.

  Would he still be wearing the mask that she had glimpsed that one eventful night? Marianne wished that she had thought to ask her hostess. But it was too late now. Princess Morousi had vanished.

  A little while before, as Marianne had dressed herself with the help of a skillful abigail, a servant with a flowing beard had come to her with a request that she go downstairs. She had expected to see her hostess again, but the manservant had shown her into the drawing room and then retired, closing the door behind him. Marianne had realized that she must face what might well prove to be the most momentous encounter of her life alone.

  The sleep which had begun in the house of Rebecca the Jewess must have lasted for a long time because the sun, which she had taken for morning when she woke, was setting now behind the long, black spindles of the cypress trees. Its light reddened the stone walls of the ancient building whose foundations must have gone back to the ill-judged crusade of the blind doge, Enrico Dandolo, and set the tiny motes of dust dancing before the gloved hands of the late hospodar.

  The sounds from the garden were growing muted, while those of the great city scarcely penetrated the walls of this ancient palace. In a little while they would cease altogether, as the voices of the muezzins called the faithful to their evening prayers.

  Marianne gripped her hands together and gnawed her lip. Her nerves were at full stretch. Her visitor, more feared than longed for, was late. She had paused in front of the portrait and was regarding it with unconscious severity when, before she could resume her fevered pacing, the door opened again to admit the bearded servant who stood aside, bowing deeply, as a tall white figure appeared in the doorway. Marianne's heart missed a beat.

  Her eyes widened and her lips parted soundlessly as the newcomer stepped into the sunlight and bowed in his turn, without speaking. But even while she was stunned into silence, Marianne knew that she was not dreaming. She was looking, between the pale
caftan and white muslin turban, straight into the dark face and bright blue eyes of Caleb!

  Time seemed to stand still. The silence stretched out between these two united by the bonds of matrimony and yet divided by so much else. Conscious of the rudeness of her stare, Marianne pulled herself together while an odd sense of relief overwhelmed her.

  Despite everything her godfather and Donna Lavinia had said to her, she had been expecting the worst. Prepared for a being so hideously deformed that she could scarcely bear to look at him, she found that the reality, however strange, was anything but frightening. Recalling her first meeting with Caleb on the deck of the Sea Witch, Marianne was again struck almost with pleasure at the sight of that strong and splendid face. By whatever name, this man was beyond doubt the handsomest she had ever set eyes on.

  On the other hand, the fact of his being who he was raised a whole new set of problems just as difficult as the last, and chief of them: what was Prince Sant'Anna, not to mention Turhan Bey, doing on the forecastle of Jason's ship masquerading as an Ethiopian slave? Moreover, now that she saw him again, she realized that she had always wondered a little about that claim to be Ethiopian, for although the man called Caleb was certainly dark-skinned, he was nothing like as dark as the deep black common to the inhabitants of that country.

  Seeing that she was too busy gazing at him to speak first, Corrado Sant'Anna nerved himself to break the silence. He did it very gently, speaking as softly as though he feared to shatter something precious, for the look on the young woman's face was not the one he had feared to see there. No, the great green eyes regarding him held neither fear nor revulsion but only an infinite astonishment.

  "Do you understand now?" he asked.

  Without taking her eyes from his, Marianne shook her head.

  "No. Less than ever, I think. There is nothing repulsive about you—far from it. I'd say, even, that you—you are very handsome. But you must surely know that. So why the mask? Why the seclusion? Why all this mystery?"

  The bronze lips smiled bleakly, showing a flash of white teeth.

  "I thought a woman of your quality would have understood the reasons. I carry the burden of a sin not my own, nor my mother's, either, although it cost her her life. You know, do you not, that my father strangled my mother at my birth, never dreaming for an instant that he and he alone had passed on the black blood which darkened my skin."

  "How can that be?"

  "Do you know anything about the laws of heredity? I thought not. I made a study of them when I was old enough to understand. A learned Cantonese physician explained to me one day how it is that the offspring of a black person and a white may exhibit no negroid characteristics at all and yet may, in his turn, produce a black child. But how was my father to guess that his mother, the she-devil who brought disgrace to our family, had conceived him of her black slave, Hassan, and not her husband, Prince Sebastiano? Obsessed by Lucinda and her satanic legend, he believed that my poor mother, too, was sunk in dishonor—and he killed her."

  "I know that dreadful story," Marianne said quickly. "Léonora Franchi—Mrs. Crawfurd, I mean—told it to me. How cruel, and how stupid!"

  The prince shrugged. "Any man might have done the same. Your own father, perhaps, if such a thing had happened to him. I have no right to blame mine—especially since he spared my life. Not that it has been much of a blessing to me. I'd rather he had let my mother live and done away with me—the blot on his escutcheon."

  There was so much bitterness in the deep serious voice of the last of the Sant'Annas that Marianne felt strangely stirred. It occurred to her suddenly that there was something ridiculous in the two of them confronting one another like that, in the middle of the vast, empty room, and she pointed to a pair of cushioned stone seats set in one of the window embrasures, at the same time managing a smile.

  "Wouldn't you rather sit down, Prince? We could talk more easily—and we have so much to say. It might take a long time."

  "You think so? I do not mean to inflict my presence on you for longer than necessary. Believe me when I say that if matters had stood otherwise I should never have dreamed of revealing myself to you. You thought me dead and it was probably better so, for you have suffered much through me, although I never willed it. God knows that when I married you I hoped with all my heart that you would find, if not happiness, at least tranquillity and peace of mind."

  This time Marianne's smile was without constraint, and as the prince had not moved she took a step toward him.

  "I know that," she said quietly. "But do please come and sit down! As you have just said—we are married."

  "Barely!"

  "Do you believe that? God, who joined us together, counts for something. We might be friends, at least. Didn't you save my life that night by the little ruined temple, when Matteo Damiani was going to kill me? Didn't you kill him in Venice and set me free?"

  "Didn't you repay me by saving me from being flogged to death by John Leighton?" he retorted. But he abandoned his resistance and let her lead him to the window bay, which was still flooded with evening sunshine.

  Now that she was closer to him, Marianne recognized the smell of lavender and latakia that she remembered from the previous night and it was enough to recall the strange events of that night, pushed to the back of her mind by the surprise she had just had. Before she could stop herself she had asked the question which sprang to her lips.

  "It was you, wasn't it, who carried me off from Rebecca's house last night? Princess Morousi told me—"

  "It's no secret. Yes, it was I."

  "Why?"

  "That is one of the matters I was alluding to a moment ago, but for which you might have continued to believe me dead. In a word—the child."

  "The child!"

  He smiled again, the same bleak smile that lent such charm to his almost too perfect features. Now that she was able to see him close to and in full sunlight Marianne was surprised to feel again exactly the same jolt of spontaneous admiration that she had felt seeing him on board the Sea Witch. A bronze god, she had thought then, a splendid animal. But the god had feet of clay and the wild animal was wounded.

  "Have you forgotten the reason for our marriage? When my old friend Gauthier de Chazay spoke to me of his goddaughter she was with child by Napoleon. In making her my wife I was gaining an heir worthy to continue our ancient line, the child I had ceased to hope for and had always refused to beget for fear of handing on the curse that lay on us. That child you lost as a result of the fire at the Austrian embassy a little over a year ago. But now you are carrying another."

  Marianne's face flushed and she sprang up as if she had been stung. She saw it all now, she saw a great deal too much, things it frightened her to see.

  "You don't mean that you want—"

  "Yes. I want you to keep this child. I have had a watch kept on the Jewess's house from the moment I arrived here. There is no one else you could have gone to for a service of that kind without grave risk to your life. And I was not going to have it. You see, as soon as I realized that you were going to have a child again, I saw fresh hope—"

  Marianne stiffened angrily. "Hope? You can call it that? But surely you know—when you seem to know so much—who fathered it?"

  Prince Sant'Anna merely bowed his head in answer but showed no other hint of emotion. In the face of that impassive countenance, Marianne's anger blazed up uncontrollably.

  "You know!" she cried. "You know that that—that lackey Damiani raped me, that he forced himself on me—on me, your wife—again and again, week after week until I thought I should go mad, and you dare to tell me that my ordeal gave you hope? Don't you see that it's out of the question?"

  "No," came the cold retort, "I don't. Damiani has paid for what he did to you. For what he did to you, I killed him and I killed his three witches also—"

  "For what he did to me or for what he did to you? Was it my shame you were avenging, or the death of poor Donna Lavinia?"

  "For you and you
alone, and that you may believe since for my part I am still very much alive and so, for that matter, is dear old Lavinia. She had the good sense to feign death when Damiani attacked her and he thought in good faith that he had killed her. But she is still alive and so far as I know is at this moment governing our house at Lucca. But to return to Matteo. It is still a fact that, criminal wretch though he was, he comes of the same blood as I myself. A bastard maybe, but far more of a Sant'Anna than Napoleon's son could ever have been."

  Marianne's anger had given way for a moment at the good news that Donna Lavinia was still alive but it flared up again at the injury contained in this last remark.

  "Well, I loathe even the memory of the man!" she cried. "And it sickens me, this thing inside me that I will not even call a child! I do not want it, do you hear? I won't have it! Not for anything in the world!"

  "Be sensible! Whether you like it or not, this thing, as you call it, is still a human being, already there, at this moment, and it is your own flesh and blood that is going to the making of him. He is a part of you, made of the same substance—"

  "No! No!" Marianne was protesting like a child arguing in the face of all the evidence. " It's not possible! It can't be! I won't have it—"

  "Come now. You know that isn't true. You wouldn't be fighting it so desperately if your heart were not engaged, if—if Jason Beaufort had never entered your life. It's because of him, and him alone, that you want to be rid of this child."

  It was not said as a reproach, simply as a quiet statement of fact, but in the eyes that were fixed on hers Marianne could read such sadness and resignation that, on the point of proclaiming aloud the power of her love and her right to live it, she remembered just in time that Jason had once condemned this man, whose name she bore, to die under the lash. A little ashamed, she let her eyes fall.

  "How did you know?"

  He made a vague movement with one hand and shrugged again.