During the course of this speech, the vicomte's voice had taken on a depth of seriousness which went straight to Marianne's heart.
"You think I'm wrong, don't you? You think I ought to have agreed to have this child?"
"It is not for me to think one way or the other, my dear. Nor have I the right to judge you. You are entirely your own mistress, as regards both your future and your person. You have bought that right dearly enough."
She gazed at him intently but was unable to discover the least hint of blame or disappointment in that friendly face, and yet she sensed that had he loved her less her old friend might perhaps have judged her more severely.
"I can admit it to you, Jolival. I am ashamed of myself. He has never been anything but good to me. He risked everything for my sake, to protect me—and his care has even extended to Jason, whom he has no cause to love. I am sure it gives him no pleasure to know that that vile Damiani was the father of this child, and yet he longs for it as the greatest blessing heaven has to offer. That, too, I find hard to understand."
"Hasn't it occurred to you that he could have wiped Damiani out of his mind and be thinking of this child simply as yours, Marianne?"
Marianne gave a tiny shrug.
"That would suggest he feels a great deal more strongly than I can believe possible. No, Jolival, the prince sees this child simply as a Sant'Anna. On the wrong side of the blanket, maybe, but a Sant'Anna for all that."
"What does it matter to you what Prince Corrado's feelings are, seeing that you will not do it. Because your answer is still the same… isn't it, Marianne?"
Marianne did not answer. She moved a few steps away, as though trying to lose herself in the shadows of the darkened garden. She wanted to shut out every influence but those of her own inner voices. The inward struggle was almost won, but she needed time to acknowledge it. She knew already that she was beaten but the thought brought no bitterness. It was almost a relief and mingled with it was a kind of joyful pride, for the thing that she was about to give was something that no one else could. Moreover, the joy it would bring to that self-condemned recluse would be bound up with and somehow magnified by the revulsion she had overcome and by the physical ordeal that she was facing for him. It might even have some power to influence fate and constitute the first step to a happiness which was forever out of reach as long as it was founded on another's pain.
A seabird's cry came from somewhere close by. A gull, surely, like the many that had swooped and dived so often in the Sea Witch's wake. It brought with it the call of the open sea, of the wide open spaces beyond which the sun set on Europe and rose again on other lands unknown. She had to make herself worthy of all that…
Marianne turned suddenly. By the stone seat, Jolival's black figure had not moved but was standing quite still, as though waiting for something. She walked back slowly and, when she was close beside him, she spoke, very softly.
"Jolival? I suppose you know where Prince Sant'Anna lives?"
He nodded and she saw his eyes gleam in the darkness.
"Will you send word to him that I agree? I will give him the child he wants…"
PART II
Sebastiano
Chapter 4
Pitt's Niece
TOWED by four caïques, each with its full complement of rowers whose colorful rags added a cheerful note to the cold, almost wintry morning, the Sea Witch moved out of the graving docks of Kassim Pasha, rounded the towers of the Arsenal and, crossing the Golden Horn, bore down majestically on the moorings reserved for her on the waterfront of Phanar.
The Turkish shipwrights, working under the direction of a dour Scots foreman, had done a good job and the vessel, with her gleaming brasswork and satin-smooth mahogany and her brand-new sails neatly furled, shone like a new toy in the hazy brightness of the sun which floated like a flat white disc behind light, swirling veils of mist. And Marianne, standing on the quay with Jolival beside her, watched with joy and pride the approach of Jason's ship made new.
The oarsmen knew their work and in a few more minutes would have covered the mile or so from Kassim Pasha to Phanar. The American brig, by the Valideh's command, flying not her own colors but the arms of Sant'Anna so as to forestall any possible international complications, would come to rest among the forest of spars along the quayside, slipping in between a pair of squat, round-bellied Greek polaccas whose nearness served to emphasize her slim, rakish lines, to wait there quietly until her rightful master should come discreetly to claim her.
Discretion was necessary since relations between England and the youthful states of America were worsening rapidly. The conflict which was to go down in history as the Second War of Independence was already in the air and Nakshidil, knowing the vigilance and energy of the British ambassador, Mr. Canning, had no wish to see the vessel she had presented to her kinswoman made the subject of an embargo that could not well be denied.
The rather tricky piece of maneuvering needed to bring the brig's side up against the quay was accomplished to a chorus of encouraging shouts. Marianne and her companion were surrounded by a small crowd of people drawn by the unusual spectacle of a western ship among the Greek and Turkish vessels for whom the Stamboul waterfront was generally reserved, European shipping being confined to the moorings of Galata opposite.
It was a noisy, colorful crowd, made up of seamen and all the various street traders who daily thronged the waterside in the Greek quarter of the city: sellers of fruit and of little cakes dripping with honey, sellers of fried foods with their black caldrons, sellers of raki and rosolio, the rose liqueur so popular with the natives, open-air sweet vendors and itinerant cooked meat vendors, mingling with the weirdly assorted population which haunted the harbor bars by day and night. A fine smell of roast mutton and caramel floated on the morning air and once again Marianne was conscious that she was hungry.
It was almost two months since she had agreed to perform what she had come to think of as her duty to her husband. And ever since that day, as though heaven had only wanted that sign of goodwill to grant her a respite, the painful sickness which had troubled her from the start of her pregnancy had completely disappeared. Instead, she had begun to eat with an appetite which was causing her some alarm about the size of her waistline once the child was born.
"I can't get into any of my dresses," she would wail practically every morning after she was dressed, and generally added in a tragic tone: "I'm going to look like la Visconti!" For Marshal Berthier's stout mistress was famous for the peculiar collection of corsetry with which she endeavored to contain the ebullience of her person.
Whereupon Jolival would assure her that she had never looked so well, that the cosseted life she led had given her a bloom like a camellia, which was true, and that in any case any man worthy of the name much preferred a cozy armful of plump flesh to the collection of bones which fashion all too often demanded.
"Besides," he added, "if we do set sail for America at last, you'll have several weeks of ship's diet to make you as thin as a starved cat if that's what you want."
So Marianne smiled and sighed and, abandoning Monsieur Leroy's elegant creations, fell back on the local style of dress which was a great deal fuller and more comfortable for a mother-to-be.