'Tut!' said Dona Lavinia. 'Has the girl lost her wits?'
'No,' Marianne answered calmly, 'she is merely frightened. You must forgive her, Dona Lavinia. I had told her nothing and it has all been such a shock to her. The journey, too, was very trying.'
Between the two of them, they managed to get Agathe to her feet, mumbling desperate apologies.
'Oh mad – madame – your highness – forgive me. I – I don't know what came over me. I – I —'
'Her highness is perfectly right,' Dona Lavinia said briskly, thrusting a handkerchief into her hand. 'You are hysterical, my girl. What you need is a good night's rest. With your permission, madame, I will see her to bed and give her a sedative. She will be better tomorrow.'
'Thank you, Dona Lavinia, if you will.'
'I will be back immediately to help your highness to undress.'
While the housekeeper bore off the still weeping Agathe, Marianne walked over to a big Venetian mirror in front of which was a low, Chinese lacquered table bearing innumerable bottles and toilet articles in crystal and solid gold. She felt horribly tired and all she wanted now was to go to bed. Now that the covers had been drawn back, revealing clean, white linen sheets, the great gilded bed looked much more welcoming. A soft night light was burning below the huge, curtained baldaquin and the big, down-filled pillows were an irresistible invitation to sleep.
She could feel one of her headaches coming on and the diadem seemed to weigh very heavy on her temples. Not without difficulty, for it was firmly anchored with pins, she managed to rid herself of it, laid it on the table without so much as a glance and finished letting down her hair. The dress, too, with its crusted embroidery and long train, was beginning to irk her and Marianne set about getting it off without waiting for Dona Lavinia. With a twist of her slim waist, which gave as yet no hint of her approaching motherhood, she unfastened the hooks, then wriggled it off her shoulders and, with a sigh of relief, allowed the heavy fabric to fall to the floor. She stepped out of it, picked up the dress and threw it over a chair, stripped off stockings and petticoats and then, wearing only her flimsy cambric shift with its trimmings of Valenciennes lace, she stretched like a cat and sighed happily. But the sigh was choked off in a scream of terror. There, in the mirror opposite, was a man, his eyes devouring her greedily.
She swung round but saw only the other mirrors on the wall reflecting nothing but the quiet candlelight. There was no one in the room. Yet Marianne could have sworn that it was Matteo Damiani who had been there, watching her with lustful eyes as she undressed. But there was nothing there. The silence was absolute. Not a sound, not a breath.
Her legs felt weak and she subsided on to the brocade-covered stool that stood before the dressing-table and passed a trembling hand across her face. Had it been an hallucination? Had the steward made such an impression on her that she was beginning to see him everywhere? Or was it simply fatigue? She could no longer be quite sure that she had really seen him. She had heard that nerves strained to breaking point could conjure up phantoms, bring forms and faces into being where none existed.
Dona Lavinia returned to find her lying on the stool, half-naked and white as a sheet. She wrung her hands agitatedly.
'Your highness should not have done it,' she exclaimed reproachfully. 'Why did you not wait for me? See, you are trembling all over. You are not ill?'
'No, just exhausted, Dona Lavinia. I can't wait to get into bed, and sleep. Won't you give me some of whatever it was you gave to Agathe? I want to be sure to sleep well.'
'It's only natural after such a day.'
In a very few moments, Marianne was lying in bed while Dona Lavinia brought her a warm tisane, its pleasant scent already beginning to relax her tired nerves. She drank it gratefully, longing to escape from her wild imaginings. She was sure that, without some outside aid, she would never manage to get to sleep, however tired she was, while she could still see that face. As though guessing something of her trouble, Dona Lavinia sat down on a chair near the bed.
'I will stay here until your highness is asleep,' she promised, 'and be sure that nothing disturbs you.'
Relieved, although she would not admit it, of a weight on her mind, Marianne closed her eyes and let the tisane take its soothing effect. Within minutes, she was fast asleep.
Dona Lavinia sat still in her chair. She had taken a set of ivory beads from her pocket and was quietly saying her prayers. Quite suddenly, there came a sound of horses' hooves galloping in the darkness, softly at first, then growing louder. The housekeeper rose noiselessly and went to the window, pulling one of the curtains a little aside. Outside, in the thick darkness, a white shape appeared, moved swiftly across the grass and vanished as fast as it had come: a white horse going at full gallop, bearing a dark figure on its back.
Dona Lavinia let fall the curtain with a sigh and returned to her place at Marianne's bedside. She felt no desire for sleep. On this night, more than any other, she felt the need to pray, both for the sleeper in the room and for that other whom she loved like her own child; if happiness were impossible, she prayed that heaven would grant them at least the gentle numbness of peace.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Night of Enchantment
When Marianne awoke after a night's uninterrupted slumber to a room flooded with brilliant sunshine, she was fully herself again. The previous night's storm had washed everything clean and such debris of broken branches and wind-tossed leaves as it had left about the park had been already swept up by the gardeners of the villa. Grass and trees put forth their brightest green and all the sweet fresh smells of the warm countryside were wafted in at the open windows, bringing the mingled scents of hay and honey-suckle, cypress and rosemary.
Just as when she closed her eyes, she opened them to find Dona Lavinia standing by her bedside, smilingly arranging a huge armful of roses in a pair of tall vases.
'His highness desired that the first thing you saw this morning should be the loveliest of all flowers.' She hesitated. There is this, also.'
'This' was a sandalwood box and a number of black leather cases stamped with the arms of Sant'Anna but all bearing the unmistakable signs of wear inseparable from old things.
'What are they?' Marianne asked.
The jewels of the princesses of Sant'Anna, my lady. Those which belonged to Dona Adriana, our Prince's mother, and – and those of the other princesses. Some of them are very old.'
There was, in fact, jewellery of every description, from ancient and very lovely cameos to an assortment of curious oriental objects, but the greater part was made up of heavy renaissance ornaments, huge baroque pearls made to look like sirens and centaurs in settings of multicoloured gems. There was jewellery of more modern workmanship also; ropes of diamonds to adorn a décolletage, dusters of brilliants, collars and necklaces of gold and precious stones. There was also a number of unset stones and when Marianne had examined everything, Dona Lavinia produced a small silver casket lined with black velvet on which reposed twelve incomparable emeralds. They were huge, rough-cut stones of a deep, translucent green and intense luminosity, certainly the finest Marianne had ever seen. Even those which Napoleon had given her could not begin to match their beauty. And suddenly, the housekeeper echoed the Emperor's words.