She shrank a little at the unexpected contact but managed to bite back the exclamation of annoyance that rose to her lips. Jason was looking at her, studying her reaction. So she sat up cautiously and turned a little on her side. But when her eyes rested for the first time on her son, the shock was not what she had expected.
Not only was there nothing in the baby to recall his horrible sire, but he was truly such a perfect little cherub that in spite of herself her heart missed a beat.
Swaddled in his absurdly complicated assortment of garments, the little prince was sleeping with total concentration. His tiny fingers lay spread like a starfish against the woolen shawl. A cloud of fine black hair showed faintly under his cap of Valenciennes lace, curling lightly above a small round face which had the downy softness of a peach. He seemed to be having pleasant dreams because the corners of his tiny mouth quivered slightly as if he were already trying to smile.
Marianne stared at him, fascinated. The look of the Marquis d'Asselnat was unmistakable. It came chiefly from the shape of the mouth, the determination about the tiny chin and the promise of intelligence in the high, sculptured brow.
Looking at the small person she had feared so greatly, Marianne felt as if something inside her were struggling to spread its wings and be free. It was as though somewhere, in the secret depths of her being, there was another birth about to take place, unknown to her. A strange force, formed of a conspiracy between mind and heart, was welling up in her whether she would or no.
Almost fearfully, she put out a cautious finger and touched one of the little hands as softly as a butterfly. The movement was too shy to be called a caress. But the tiny fist stirred suddenly. The miniature fingers uncurled and then closed firmly around their mother's with a tenacity unexpected in a newborn baby.
At that something broke in Marianne. As though a window had been violently flung open by a gale of wind, the thing that had been struggling inside her took flight and soared heavenward, flooding her with a joy that was almost painful in its intensity. Tears sprang to her eyes and poured down her cheeks in a refreshing stream, washing away the bitterness and disgust, all the mire which had clogged Marianne's soul for so long and stifled it. What did it matter now how the child had come into her life and, like a tiny, indomitable tyrant, had demanded her very flesh and blood. She discovered with a wondering amazement that he was hers, flesh of her flesh, breath of her breath, and that she acknowledged him for what he was.
The two men standing on either side of the bed held their breath and dared not move a muscle as they watched the miracle taking place before their eyes, the miracle of the awakening of mother love. But when, still held prisoner by her son, she began to cry, Jason bent again and lifted the baby gently to place him in his mother's arms. This time they closed and held him.
The little silky head settled of its own accord against the warm breast in a gesture so instinctively caressing that it took Marianne's breath away. Then she looked up at Arcadius, who was weeping unashamedly, and at Jason, who was smiling with eyes she saw sparkling through her tears like diamonds in the sun.
"You need not look like that," she said softly. "Your little plot has succeeded. You have won."
"It was no plot," Jason said. "We merely wanted you to agree that your son is the most beautiful baby in the world."
"Well, you've done it. I do agree."
Meanwhile, Jolival, who had not shed so many tears since he could remember, was sniffing and fumbling in his pockets from which he extracted, first, a handkerchief, into which he blew with a noise like the last trumpet, and secondly, his watch, which he consulted uneasily. Then he glanced with an anxious expression at Marianne. But Jason, who had observed this proceeding, spared him the role of spoilsport.
"I know," he said quietly. "It is more than time and O'Flaherty must be at the beach already."
The delicate veil of Marianne's brand-new happiness was rent in an instant. Lost in her discovery, she had temporarily forgotten what loomed ahead.
"Oh, no!" she cried out. "Not so soon!"
Feverishly, as though feeling herself suddenly a prisoner, she thrust the baby at Jolival and threw back the covers as if to get up. But she had overestimated her strength and almost before her feet had touched the ground she felt her head swimming and she fell forward with a little cry into Jason's arms as he hurried around the bed to catch her.
He lifted her and held her briefly in his arms, alarmed to find her so light. He was suddenly torn by a parting he had not known would be so painful, and he covered her face with kisses before laying her back with infinite gentleness in her silky nest and drawing the covers tenderly over her trembling body.
"I love you, Marianne… Never forget that I love you. But for God's sake be reasonable! We shall meet again soon, I know… A few weeks, only a few weeks, and we shall be together again and you will have your strength and health again… and then nothing shall ever part us."
He was so obviously overcome that Marianne smiled tremulously at him, but still with a flicker of irony that showed a little of her old fighting spirit.
"Nothing? Not even the war?"
He kissed her again, her nose, her forehead, her lips and both her hands.
"You know very well that no power on earth can divide us forever. Certainly no paltry war is going to do it."
Then, almost as if he were afraid of a tenderness that might sap his courage, he tore himself from her arms and fled from the room, striding straight past Jolival, who stood staring after him, the child in his arms.
Jolival's eyes turned uncertainly to Marianne. He wondered if he ought to give her back the baby. But all her newfound bravery had abandoned her and she was lying face down, with her head buried in her pillows, weeping as if her heart would break. At that moment there was nothing the vicomte could say to comfort her and besides, he wanted to go after Jason and see with his own eyes the success or failure of his rash enterprise.
He left the room on tiptoe and went to restore baby Sebastiano to Donna Lavinia.
The big bedchamber was quiet except for the soft purring of the stove and the sound of sobbing. But outside in the cold night the wind was rising.
Chapter 7
A Night for the Devil
BY the time that Jason, Gracchus and Jolival reached the rendezvous, which was that same unfrequented stretch of shore behind the mosque of Kilij Ali Pasha where the Klepht, Theodoros, had borne Marianne unconscious from the sea, it was so dark, in spite of the obligatory lanterns, that at first they did not see Craig O'Flaherty and his men at all.
A strong wind was sweeping along the beach, tossing up the sand and whipping the sea into heavy, grinding breakers that spattered the darkness with white foam.
The time was that moment just before the dawn when the night is at its darkest and thickest, as if all the forces of darkness were gathering to help it keep possession of the earth and fight off the onslaught of the light. The three were more than fifteen minutes late. Preparations for departure had taken longer than anticipated because Gracchus had been temporarily mislaid, having been locked in a cellar through an oversight of the butler. In addition, the party had been stopped more than once in the two leagues between Bebek and Galata by patrols of janissaries out hunting for a miscreant who had caused sacrilegious disturbances in no less than three separate mosques.
The beach was so dark and empty that for a moment the three men believed themselves alone. Jason swore furiously into the wind, regardless of who might overhear him.