With Dona Lavinia it was quite otherwise. Her serene face held, in spite of the marks of past sufferings, nothing but gentle kindness and her brown eyes expressed complete admiration. Rising from her curtsey, she kissed Marianne's hand and murmured: 'Blessed be God for bringing us so lovely a princess.'

As for Father Amundi, he might carry himself nobly enough, but he did not appear to be in possession of all his faculties. Marianne was quick to notice his habit of mumbling to himself, a rapid, low-pitched gabble that was perfectly incomprehensible and very irritating to listen to. But the smile he bestowed on her was so beaming, so innocent, and he was so clearly pleased to see her that she found herself wondering if he were not by any chance some old friend whom she had forgotten.

'I will take you to your room, Excellenza,' the housekeeper told her warmly. 'Matteo will take care of His Grace.'

Marianne smiled and her eyes went to her godfather.

'Go, my child,' he told her, 'and rest. I will send for you this evening, before the ceremony, so that the Prince may see you.'

Marianne followed Dona Lavinia in silence, repressing the question that sprang instinctively to her lips. She was consumed with a curiosity greater than anything she had ever known, she felt a devouring urge to 'see' this unknown Prince herself, this master of a fairytale domain who kept such wonderful creatures in it. The Prince was to see her. Then why should she not see the Prince? Was the malady with which he was afflicted, as she now suspected, so terrible that she could not approach him? Her eyes rested suddenly on the housekeeper's straight back as she led the way, her keys chinking softly. What was it Gauthier de Chazay had said? It was she who had brought up Corrado Sant'Anna? Surely none could know him better than she – and she had seemed so glad to see Marianne…

'I will make her talk,' she told herself. 'She must be made to talk!'

The interior of the villa was no less magnificent than the gardens. Leaving the loggia, which was decorated in baroque plaster-work with gilded lanterns of wrought iron, Dona Lavinia led her new mistress through a vast ballroom that shimmered with the dull gleam of gold, then through a series of apartments, one of which was especially sumptuous, with delicate red and gold carvings setting off the dark shine of black lacquer panels. This, however, was the exception. The general colours of the house were white and gold, with floors of a black and white marble mosaic on which their feet slid silently.

The bedchamber assigned to Marianne, which was situated in the left-hand wing of the house, was decorated in a similar style. Even so, she found it startling. Here, too, all was white and gold except for a pair of red lacquer cabinets which added a warmer note to the room. The ceiling, however, was painted with trompe-l'œil figures, who appeared to be leaning over the cornice, as though from a balcony, observing the movement of whoever was in the room below. The walls were covered in a profusion of mirrors. On every side, the two dark forms of Marianne and Dona Lavinia were reflected over and over again into infinity, along with the great Venetian bed hung with rich brocades. The bed was raised up on three steps like a throne and flanked by a pair of torchères in the shape of two Negroes dressed in oriental style, bearing clusters of tall red candles on their heads.

Marianne gazed at this magnificence with a kind of appalled wonder, while the servants carried in her trunks.

'Is – is this my room?'

Dona Lavinia threw open a window and applied a deft touch to the massive spray of orange blossoms dripping from an alabaster vase.

'It has belonged to every Princess Sant'Anna for two hundred years. Do you like it?'

To avoid the necessity of answering, Marianne asked another question.

'Why all these mirrors?'

At once, she had the feeling that the question was an unwelcome one. The housekeeper's worn features tensed a little, and she turned away to open a door leading into a small room apparently hollowed out of a block of white marble. A bathroom.

'Our Prince's grandmother,' she said at last, 'was a woman of such remarkable beauty that – that she desired to contemplate herself continually. It was she who ordered the mirrors put in here. They have been allowed to remain —'

Her tone intrigued Marianne who found her curiosity about this family increasing all the time.

There is no doubt a portrait of her somewhere in the house,' she said with a smile. 'I should like to see her.'

'There was one – but it was destroyed in the fire. Would your ladyship care to rest, a bath, perhaps, or a little refreshment?'

'All three, if you please. But first, a bath. Where have you put my maid? I should like to have her near me.' This was to the obvious relief of Agathe who, ever since entering the villa, had been walking on tiptoe as though in a church or a museum.

'In that case, there is a small room at the end of this passage.' As she spoke, Dona Lavinia pressed a knob on one of the carved panels. The join was so fine that the door was wholly invisible. 'A bed shall be set up there. I will prepare the bath.' She was about to leave the room when Marianne stopped her.

'Dona Lavinia —'

'Excellenza?'

Her green eyes gazing directly into those of the housekeeper, Marianne asked quietly: 'Whereabouts in the palace are the Prince's apartments?'

The question was a perfectly natural one but clearly Dona Lavinia was not expecting it. Marianne could have sworn that her face paled.

'When he is here,' she said with an effort, 'his highness resides in the right wing – the room equivalent to this.'

'Very well. Thank you.'

Dona Lavinia curtsied and went away, leaving Marianne and Agathe alone. They looked at each other. The maid's pretty face was crumpled with fright and all her pert, Parisian assurance had deserted her. She clasped her hands together in a gesture of childish entreaty.

'Oh, mademoiselle – are we going to stay here long?'

'No, Agathe, not very long, I hope. Don't you like it?'

'It's very beautiful…' She cast a doubtful glance around her. 'But – no, I don't like it. I don't know why. I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but I don't think I could ever feel at home here. It's all so different…' Marianne smiled.

'Well, go and unpack my things,' she told her kindly, 'and don't be afraid to apply to Dona Lavinia, she is the housekeeper, you know, for anything you might need. She will be kind to you, I think. Now, be a brave girl, Agathe. There is nothing to be afraid of here. It is just the fatigue of the journey, and being in strange surroundings…' As she spoke, Marianne became aware that in trying to comfort Agathe it was to herself that she was really talking. She, too, had been conscious, ever since entering the gates of this strange and splendid mansion, of an indefinable sense of oppression, all the more strange in that she could perceive no tangible signs of danger. It was something more subtle, like a bodiless presence, the presence, perhaps, of this man who kept himself so closely guarded. But there was something else besides and that, Marianne could have sworn, emanated from this very room, rather as if the ghost of the woman who had hung these mirrors still roamed here, intangible but supreme, as though in a shrine of which the great, gilded bed was the altar and the fantastically dressed figures on the ceiling a host of attentive worshippers.

Marianne moved slowly to a window. Perhaps it was her English blood that made her believe in ghosts. She could feel something now, here in this room.

The opposite wing of the house was hidden from view behind the jutting central block, but the windows commanded the whole extent of the peacock lawn, which ended in an immense cascade down which the water foamed and tumbled from pool to pool to fill a wide basin framed by two groups of plunging horses. It seemed to Marianne that these churning waters, in such strong contrast to the green and peaceful gardens, were a symbol of some powerful, hidden force penned beneath a surface of deceptive calm. But then, after all, those boiling waves, the restless plunging of the horses, these things were life itself, the passion to be and to act which Marianne had always felt fretting within herself. It may have been that which made this place, with its uncanny silence, strike her like a tomb.


***

Dusk found Marianne standing in the same place. The green park had melted into indistinct shades of grey, the cascade and the statues were pale blurs and the regal birds had gone. Marianne had bathed and nibbled half-heartedly at a light collation but she had found it impossible to sleep for an instant. The blame for this could probably be assigned to the preposterous bed, which made her feel like a victim offered up to the sacrificial knife.

Now she was dressed in a gown of heavy, creamy-white brocade, stiff with gold embroidery, which Dona Lavinia had brought to her, spread out in both arms as solemnly as if it had been some precious relic. Her head was crowned for the first time with a weighty diadem of gold set with outsize pearls, the fellows of the ones that made up the collar and bracelets of almost barbaric splendour which adorned her neck and arms. She stared out into the darkening garden, trying to quell the nervous fears that mounted in her as the hour drew near.

She saw herself, so short a time before, standing in another place, looking out at a different park, on the brink of another marriage. That was at Selton, on the eve of her wedding to Francis. Good God, was it possible that it was scarcely nine months ago? It felt like several centuries! She had stood at the windows of the marriage chamber, dad in a flimsy wisp of cambric, her girlish body quivering with mingled fear and anticipation, staring out as darkness shrouded the familiar landscape. How happy she had been that night! It was all so simple and beautiful. She loved Francis with all her youthful being and hoped to be loved by him, and she waited with passionate intensity for the moment when, in his arms, she would learn the overwhelming joys of love.