She was conscious of faint surprise at the readiness with which her lover's name came to her mind, with no touch of fear or foreboding. It was the first time, since awakening from her long-drawn nightmare, that she had thought of the prearranged meeting in Venice. After her rape by Damiani she had experienced a dreadful sense of something irrevocable having occurred, and such a revulsion from her own body that death had seemed to her the only proper end. But now that she had her freedom so unexpectedly restored to her, her own spirit reawakened and with it her passionate love of life and the accompanying instinct to fight.
She remembered now that somewhere in the world there was a ship and a sailor on whom all her hopes were concentrated, and that she wanted to see them again, the ship and the sailor, whatever else might come of it. Unfortunately, in this house of madness, the combination of drugs and despair had made her lose all count of time. The time for their meeting might have come or gone, or it might be still some days ahead: Marianne had no means of knowing. The first step towards finding out was to get out, but that was easier said than done.
Not knowing what to do next, Marianne huddled in the midst of a large flowering shrub and tried to think of a way out of the garden which, for all its scents of orange blossom and honeysuckle, was still a trap. The walls were high and smooth and in a little while the trap would surely be sprung.
Back towards the house, lanterns had been brought and flitted about in the darkness. What looked like a crowd of people poured into the courtyard, led by the two soldiers. From her hiding place, Marianne saw them bend over the body of Ishtar, lying near the well, uttering exclamations of horror. Then one of the soldiers went up the steps and disappeared into the house, followed by a train of interested spectators, only too glad of the chance to see inside the grand house and, maybe, pop something into their pockets on the sly.
It dawned on Marianne then that if she did not want to be discovered, she had very little time left. She crept out of her precarious shelter and stepped out into the garden, searching the wall for some other door, if any existed. It was as dark as the pit. The trees met in a thick roof overhead, making the night blacker than ever underneath.
Holding her hands stretched out in front of her, like a blind woman, she at last encountered warm brick and began following the wall with the intention of making a circuit of the garden. Then, if she did not find a way out, she would climb up into a tree and wait, though goodness knew how long, until the way was clear.
She traversed some thirty yards in this way before the wall turned a corner. A few more steps and the wall ended abruptly, giving way to emptiness and curved ironwork. By this time, her eyes were growing much more accustomed to the darkness and she was able to make out that she was looking at a small opening barred with scrollwork in wrought iron, which made a lighter patch in the surrounding black.
On the other side, contrary to what she had feared, was no canal but an alleyway lit faintly by a distant lantern. Here at last was her way of escape.
As ill-luck would have it, Marianne found herself no better off. The bars were strong and the gate fastened with a padlock and chain. It refused to open. Yet the breath of free air in her lungs was enough for Marianne. She would not despair. Besides, the noises from the house seemed to be coming nearer.
Stepping back a pace, she measured the height of the surrounding wall with her eye. What she saw satisfied her. The gate might not open but it looked a comparatively simple matter to climb: the ironwork offered plenty of footholds, not too far apart, while the piece of wall directly above was not more than eighteen inches high and the brickwork sufficiently ancient to provide a good grip. She thought she could get over it without difficulty.
The sounds were getting more distinct. Voices and footsteps. A light flashed under the trees at the entrance to the garden. However, climbing was out of the question encumbered by a long, thick skirt.
In spite of her haste and her alarm, she made herself take time to take it off and stuff it through the gate into the alley. Then, dressed only in her chemise and cotton drawers, she turned her attention to the climb.
It was, as she had foreseen, a fairly simple matter. This was just as well because her muscles, weakened by her long incarceration and inactivity, had lost much of their old elastic strength.
By the time Marianne reached the top of the wall, she was sweating and gasping for breath. Her head was swimming and she felt so dizzy that she was obliged to sit on the ridge for a moment to recover from the pounding in her chest. She could never have believed that she was so weak. Her whole body was trembling and she had the alarming feeling that her sinews might give way at any moment. Yet there was no choice but to go down.
Marianne shut her eyes and, holding tight to the top of the wall, swung her legs over and groped for a foothold. She managed to move one foot, then the other, one hand, then the other, but as she tried to take the next step downwards her muscles gave way suddenly, she felt the bricks burn her clutching hands and then she fell.
Luckily it was not very far and she landed on the clothes she had pushed through the gate. The thick velvet-trimmed fabric broke her fall, so that she was able to get up at once, rubbing her bruised seat, and cast a swift glance up and down. As she had guessed, she was in a narrow passage, and at either end was a small hump-backed bridge. On one side, the left, there was a faint glimmer of light. In both directions the alley was completely deserted.
Marianne slipped her dress on again hurriedly, taking care to keep in the shelter of the wall, and then hesitated for a moment. As she did so, there came a distant roll of thunder and a gust of wind blew down the passage, lifting her unbound hair. The effect on her was electric. She flung both arms wide, as though to grasp the wind, and took a deep intoxicating breath. The breeze held more dust than it did sea air, but she was free! Free at last! Even if it was at the cost of four killings by a mysterious unknown hand, she was still free, and the dead who lay in the ancient splendours of their stolen palace were not worth a thought. To the newly-escaped prisoner it seemed a veritable judgement of God.
She paused for a moment, undecided which way to go, then, feeling suddenly lighthearted, she turned to the left and made her way towards the gleam of yellow light.
At the same instant, big, heavy drops of rain began to fall, making little coin-sized craters in the dust. The storm was reaching Venice.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Sail on the Giudecca
Before Marianne had crossed the little bridge, she was caught in a torrential downpour. She saw people running for the doorway of the Soranzo palace and a cluster of gondolas nosing up to a small landing stage. Then, in a few seconds, everything was blotted out. Venice was drowned in a world of water, only pierced now and then by streaks of white lightning which brought the street into sudden sharp focus. The light for which Marianne had been making, probably an oil lamp burning before some holy statue, had vanished.
Drenched to the skin in no time, Marianne dashed on, without slackening her pace. The joy of being able to run, to forge straight ahead without thought for where her path might lead! So she simply put down her head and bowed her shoulders against the downpour.