Marianne ran quickly up the stairs and stepped through the open panel but before she closed it again she took careful note of its inner and outer workings. It was, in fact, possible to open it from either side, by means of a handle on the stair or by pressing a boss on the gilded moulding within the room. Then, seeing that it was nearly time for Agathe to bring her morning tea, she slipped hurriedly out of her dress and sandals and got into bed. The last thing Marianne wanted was for Agathe to find out about this morning's expedition.
Snuggling down among the pillows, she tried to think calmly but this was not easy. The discovery in quick succession of the secret panel in the wall and then of the temple in the dell, the statue and Matteo's madness was enough to overcome a far more robust nervous system than Marianne's. In addition, there was that curious and highly ominous assignation he had made with his marble mistress. What was the meaning of his strange words? What was it he had not forgotten? What did he mean to do that night in the ruins? Most of all, what was that monument, gutted by fire, on whose ruins the statue stood? A villa? A temple? To what cult had it been dedicated, and was perhaps dedicated still? To what dark ritual of madness did Matteo Damiani mean to offer sacrifice that night?
Marianne turned all these questions over in her mind without finding the slightest answer. At one moment, she thought of questioning Dona Lavinia again, but she knew that her questions caused the poor woman pain and she would hardly have recovered from the previous night's ordeal. Besides, it was quite possible that she knew nothing, either of the steward's insanity or of the strange goddess to whom he meant to make his secret sacrifice. She wondered whether even the Prince knew how his steward and secretary passed his nights and, if he did, whether he would answer her questions, even supposing that she were able to ask them. Perhaps the best way was still to question Matteo himself, although this would naturally have to be done cautiously. In any case, she had ordered Dona Lavinia the night before to send him to her first thing in the morning.
'Well, we shall see,' she muttered under her breath.
Her mind made up, Marianne swallowed the scalding tea which Agathe brought in at that moment, then got up and dressed. The day promised to be as hot as yesterday and she selected a morning dress of sulphur-yellow jaconet embroidered with a design of big, white daisies and a pair of matching slippers. Dressing in light, gay colours seemed to her a good way of combating the unpleasant memories of the night. Then, when Dona Lavinia came in to tell her that the steward was awaiting her pleasure, she made her way to the small sitting room adjoining her bedchamber and rang for him to be admitted.
She sat at a small desk and watched him enter, doing her best to conceal her dislike of him. The scene in the dell was still too fresh in her mind for her to feel anything but distaste but if she wanted to find out anything it was necessary to control herself. He appeared in no way disconcerted at her summons and anyone seeing him, standing before her in a deferential attitude, would have sworn that he was a model servant and not a man so base that he could steal, like a thief, into the very same woman's bedchamber while she lay helplessly asleep.
To keep her fingers from trembling, Marianne had picked up a long goose quill from the desk and was fiddling with it absent-mindedly. When she said nothing, Matteo took it on himself to open the conversation.
'Your highness sent for me?'
She glanced up indifferently.
'Yes, Signor Damiani, I sent for you. You are the steward of this estate and I imagine there is very little you do not know about it?'
He smiled faintly. 'I think I may claim to know it, yes.'
'Then you will be able to tell me. Yesterday afternoon was so hot that even the gardens were stifling. I sought refuge, and coolness, in the grotto…' She paused, her eyes never wavering from the steward, and thought that she saw his thick lips tighten a little. With a pretence at carelessness, but measuring every word, she went on: 'I noticed that one of the hangings was a little awry and that a draught was coming through. I found that there was an opening behind it. I should not be a woman if I were not inquisitive and I entered the passage, and found the remains of some burnt-out monument.'
She had deliberately refrained from mentioning the statue but this time she was sure that Matteo had paled under his tan. There was a darkling look in his eyes as he answered:
'I see. Permit me to tell your highness that the Prince would not be pleased to know that you had discovered the little temple. For him, it is a forbidden subject, and it would be best for your highness —'
'I am the only judge of what is best for me, Signor Damiani. Naturally, the reason that I have spoken of this to you is because I do not intend to ask – to ask my husband about it, and with all the more reason if the subject is a disagreeable one to him. But you will answer me.'
'Why should I?' the steward retorted, more insolently than he may have meant.
'Because I am the Princess Sant'Anna, whether you like it or not.'
'I did not say —'
'Have the goodness not to interrupt me. When I ask a question, let me tell you, I expect an answer. All my servants,' she leaned a little on the word, 'know this. You have yet to learn it. Moreover, I fail to see why you should not give me an answer. If the place were not meant to be seen, if its associations for your master are unpleasant, why has the passage not been walled up?'
'His highness has not ordered —'
'And you never act without precise instruction, is that it?' Marianne spoke with heavy irony.
He stiffened but appeared to accept defeat. His eyes met hers, coldly.
'Very well. I am at your highness's service.'
Recognizing that she had won, she permitted herself the luxury of a smile.
'Thank you. Then just tell me about this "little temple" and, more particularly, about the woman whose statue stands among the ruins. It is an astonishing and magnificent piece of work. And do not tell me that it is antique because I shall not believe you.'
'Why should I not tell the truth? The statue, my lady, is that of Dona Lucinda, our Prince's grandmother.'
'Surely she is somewhat, er, scantily clothed for a grandmother. They are not commonly found so in France.'
'No, but the Emperor's sisters are,' he said forcefully. 'Did not the Princess Borghese commission Canova to immortalize her beauty in stone? Dona Lucinda did likewise. You cannot conceive how beautiful she was! It was terrible, beyond bearing. And she knew how to use it, like a devil she knew. I have seen men at her feet, I have seen men go mad and kill themselves for her – even when she was forty-five years old and more! But she was possessed of the devil!'
Matteo was talking now, the words pouring out of him like a pent-up flood released and Marianne listened, fascinated, her loathing and resentment temporarily forgotten.
'You knew her?' she murmured softly.
He nodded and his eyes shifted slightly, as if her intent gaze irked him. Then he went on in a voice thick with anger.
'I was eighteen when she died – died by fire, burned to death in that temple which, in her folly, she had erected to her own glory. There, she used to entertain her lovers, most of them taken from among the peasantry, or sailors, for her worship of her own beauty was only equalled by her lusts.'