'Can you see me?' she asked softly.
'As clearly as if there were no obstacle between us. Let us say, I am the mirror in which you see yourself reflected. Have you ever seen a mirror happy?'
'I wish I could be sure of that – your voice is so sad.'
'That is because it is little used. A voice that has nothing to say comes to forget that it could sing. In the end, it is crushed by silence. But your voice is pure music.'
It was strange, talking to someone who remained invisible, but little by little Marianne acquired confidence. She decided it was time she took her own fate in hand. The voice was that of one who had known suffering, or was suffering still. She determined to play this game for herself. She turned to the cardinal.
'Godfather, would you leave me for a moment? I should like to talk to the Prince, and I should find it easier alone.'
'It is natural. I will wait in the library.'
No sooner had the door closed behind him than Marianne rose but instead of moving closer to the mirror she turned away towards one of the windows. It unnerved her to sit face to face with herself, hearing the bodiless voice speaking, as it was speaking now, with a shade of hesitation.
'Why did you send the cardinal away?'
'Because I must speak to you. There are some things, which must, I think, be said.'
'What things? I understood that my eminent friend had explained the precise nature of our agreement?'
'And so he has. It is all perfectly cut and dried; at least, I think so.'
'He told you that I shall not interfere in your life? The only thing he may not have said – but which I will ask…'
He paused and Marianne was aware of a slight break in his voice, but he recovered himself almost at once and continued: 'I will ask you, when the child is born, to bring him here sometimes. I should like him to learn to love this land, in my place, to love this house and its people, for whom he will be a real person – not a furtive shadow.' Again there was the slight, almost imperceptible break and Marianne felt her heart swell suddenly with a rush of pity. At the same time, another part of her mind was saying that all this was absurd, fantastic, and most of all this desperate veil of secrecy in which he wrapped himself. Her voice, when she spoke, was imploring.
'Prince – pardon me, I beseech you, if my words give you pain, but I do not understand and I want to so much. Why all this mystery? Why may I not see you? Surely I have the right to know my husband's face?'
There was a silence, so long and heavy that for a moment she was afraid that she had driven her strange interlocutor away. She was afraid that her impulsiveness had made her go too far, and too soon. But at last the answer came, slow and final as a judgement.
'No. That cannot be. In a little while, we shall be together in the chapel and my hand will touch yours – but we shall never be as close again.'
'But why, why?' she persisted. 'My birth is as good as your own and I fear nothing – however terrible – if that is what restrains you.'
There was a brief, low, mirthless laugh.
'You have been here so short a time and already you have heard men talk, have you not? I know – they have all sorts of theories about me, of which the most agreeable is that I am the victim of a hideous disease, leprosy or something of that kind. I am not a leper, madame, or anything of the kind. Nevertheless, it is impossible for us to meet face to face.'
'But in the name of God, why?'
This time it was her voice that broke.
'Because I would not risk becoming an object of horror to you.'
The voice was silent, and this time the mirror did not speak for so long that Marianne realized she was truly alone. Her hands, which had been gripping the thick, shiny leaves of some unknown plant in a Chinese vase, relaxed and she let out her breath in one long sigh. The disturbing presence had gone, to Marianne's great relief, for now she thought she knew what she was dealing with. The man must be a monster, some wretched semblance of humanity, doomed to darkness by repulsive disfigurement, too hideous to be endured by any eyes but those which had known him from birth. That would explain Matteo Damiani's stony countenance, the pain in Dona Lavinia's and perhaps also the childishness of Father Amundi's old features. It would explain, too, why he had broken off their interview when so many things were still to be said.
'I was clumsy,' Marianne reproached herself. 'I was in too much of a hurry. I should have approached the subject more cautiously, not rushed in at once with the question I wished to ask. I should have tried to penetrate the mystery little by little, by careful hints. And now I daresay I have frightened him.'
One other thing which surprised her was that the Prince had asked her nothing about herself, her life, her tastes. He had merely praised her beauty, as if that were the only thing that mattered in his eyes. Marianne reflected a little bitterly that he could scarcely have shown less curiosity if she had been a handsome filly destined for his precious stables. Indeed, it was more than likely that Corrado Sant'Anna would have made inquiries into the health and habits of such an animal. But, after all, for a man whose sole object in life was the possession of an heir to carry on his ancient name, the physical characteristics of the mother were bound to be of paramount importance. Why should Prince Sant'Anna concern himself with the affections, feelings and habits of Marianne d'Asselnat?
The door of the red salon opened to admit the cardinal once more, but this time he was not alone. Three men were with him. One was a little, dark fellow with a face that seemed entirely made up of nose and whiskers. The cut of his coat and the big, leather folder which he carried under his arm proclaimed the notary. The other two might have stepped straight down from a gallery of ancestral portraits: two venerable gentlemen in velvet suits dating from the time of Louis XV, and bob wigs. One leaned on a stick, the other on the cardinal's arm and both their faces were expressive of extreme old age.
They bowed with an exquisite, old-fashioned courtesy to Marianne who curtsied deeply in return. They were presented to her as the Marquis del Carreto and Count Gherardesca, kinsmen of the Prince, and they were there to witness the marriage. The last-named, the one who walked with a stick, was also, in his capacity as the Grand Duchess's chamberlain, to register the marriage officially.
The lawyer seated himself at a small table and opened his brief-case. Everyone else sat down. At the far end of the room were Dona Lavinia and Matteo Damiani, who had come in after the witnesses.
Marianne was so nervous and distraught that she hardly listened to the long, pedantic reading of the marriage contract. The endless convolutions of legal terminology were irritating. All she wanted now was to get it over, quickly. She was not in the least interested in the enumeration of the possessions which Prince Sant'Anna was to settle on his wife, any more than in the truly royal sum of her allowance. Her attention was divided between the silent mirror facing her, behind which the Prince might once more be watching, and the unpleasant sensation that she herself was the focus of an insistent gaze.
She could feel that gaze between her bare shoulders and on the back of her neck where her hair was piled up into a heavy chignon to support the diadem. It slid over her skin, dwelling on the soft curve of her neck with an almost magnetic force, as if someone were trying, by sheer force of will, to attract her attention. At last, her overwrought nerves could bear it no longer. She turned quickly but met nothing but Matteo's frozen stare. He seemed so indifferent that she thought she must have been mistaken but no sooner had she turned back than the sensation was renewed, more distinctly than ever.
Her discomfort increased until she welcomed with relief the end of this obligatory ceremony. She signed, without so much as glancing at it, the act of settlement which the lawyer presented to her with a low bow, then her eyes went to her godfather's and he smiled at her.