'After all,' she thought, 'why not stay here for a little while? There is nothing for me to do in Paris. The Emperor is unlikely to return for some time.'

Even Napoleon's honeymoon journey had ceased to trouble her. She was at peace with herself and so thoroughly enjoying the tranquillity of her new home that it even crossed her mind to spend the whole summer there and write to Jolival to join her.

But the end of the week brought the Abbé Bichette, back at last from his mysterious mission, and with him came a change. The cardinal, who had shown himself the most delightful and affectionate of companions, was closeted for hours on end with his secretary. He emerged wearing a deep frown, to inform Marianne that he was called away and must leave her.

'Must you really go?' she said, feeling disappointed. 'I was hoping that we should be able to prolong our stay here. It was so good to be together. But, since you are going, I will pack also.'

'But why? I shall only be away for a few days. Can you not wait for me here? I, too, have enjoyed being with you like this, Marianne. Why should we not make it last a little longer? When I return, I shall certainly be able to give you another week.'

'What shall I do here without you?'

The cardinal laughed. 'Why, just as you have done with me. Don't you think it might be a good idea to grow accustomed to, well, to reigning alone? It seemed to me that you enjoyed yourself here.'

'Yes, indeed, but…'

'Well? Gin you wait a few days for me? Five or six, at most. Is that really too much?'

'No.' Marianne smiled, 'I will wait for you. But next time, when you go, I shall go too.'

On this understanding, the cardinal left the villa that afternoon accompanied by the Abbé Bichette, as busy as ever and still bowed beneath a load of secrets, real or imaginary. But almost as soon as the carriage had rolled out through the gates Marianne was regretting her decision to stay. All the oppressive sensations of the first day returned, as if only the cardinal's presence had been keeping them at bay.

Turning, she saw Agathe standing behind her, her eyes full of tears. When she expressed surprise at this, Agathe clasped her hands together piteously.

'Aren't we going to go away as well?'

'Why should we? Aren't you happy here? I thought that Dona Lavinia was being very kind to you?'

'Oh yes. She is kindness itself. I am not frightened of her.'

'Of whom then?'

Agathe gestured vaguely, taking in the whole house.

'Of all this – this house which gets so sad at night, the silence when the fountains are turned off and the shadows that make you think something is going to jump out at you, and of his highness that no one ever sees – and the steward!'

Marianne frowned, disconcerted to find that her own uneasiness was shared by her maid, but she forced herself to answer lightly to avoid adding to Agathe's fears.

'Matteo? What has he done to you?'

'Nothing – but I feel as if he is stalking me. It's the way he has of looking at me when we meet, brushing against my dress when he passes by. I'm scared of him, my lady! I want to go away.'

Agathe was looking very white-faced and, remembering her own sensations, Marianne tried to laugh away her alarms.

'Come, Agathe, there is nothing so very dreadful in that. You won't tell me this is the first time a man has made up to you? I seem to recall that you were not short of admirers in Paris. What about the butler at the Hôtel de Beauharnais? Or even our own Gracchus? And you did not appear to mind them?'

'In Paris it was different,' Agathe persisted, her eyes downcast. 'Here, it is all so funny, not like other places. And that man scares me,' she added obstinately.

Well, you had better tell Gracchus. He will look after you, and stop you worrying. Would you like me to speak to Dona Lavinia?'

'No – she will only think I am being foolish.'

'And she would be right! A pretty girl should be able to take care of herself. Don't worry, anyway, we shall not be here much longer. His Eminence is coming back in a few days, but only for a short while this time, and when he goes away again so shall we.'

All the same, Agathe's fears had infected Marianne, adding to the uneasiness which she already felt. She did not like the idea of Matteo Damiani hanging round Agathe. He was a fine figure of a man and did not look his age, but the fact remained that he was well past fifty and Agathe not yet twenty. She made up her mind to put a stop to it, discreetly, but with the greatest firmness.

That evening, feeling unequal to dining alone in the huge dining-room, she gave orders that she should be served in her room. She begged Dona Lavinia to keep her company and put her to bed while Agathe took a turn about the park, with Gracchus for protection, on the excuse that the girl was looking peaked. But as soon as Marianne broached the subject which was occupying her mind the housekeeper seemed to retreat into herself like a sensitive plant.

'Your Highness must forgive me,' she said, with evident embarrassment, 'but I cannot undertake to say anything to Matteo Damiani.'

'Why ever not? Surely you are the person who has always had charge of the household, the servants and the running of the house?'

'That is so – but Matteo's position here is a special one and it is not for me to interfere in his concerns. For one thing, he is not a man to take kindly to criticism and, for another, he is deep in his highness's confidence, for he too served the Prince's parents. If I were to venture to offer the smallest hint, I should get nothing but a scornful laugh and a recommendation to mind my own business.'

'Indeed?' Marianne gave a tiny laugh. 'I imagine that I need have no such fears, however privileged the fellow may be.'

'Oh, your highness —!'

'Well, go and fetch him to me. We shall see who will have the last word. Agathe is my personal maid, she came with me from France and I will not have her life made a misery. Go, Dona Lavinia, and bring the steward to me at once.'

The housekeeper sank into a deep curtsey and departed, to return a few minutes later, but alone. She said that Matteo was nowhere to be found. He was not with the Prince or anywhere else in the house. It might be that he had been detained in Lucca, where he often had occasion to go, or at one of the farms…

Dona Lavinia spoke very fast, her words falling over one another, like a woman trying to sound convincing, but the more good reasons she produced for the steward's absence, the less Marianne believed her. Something told her that Matteo was not far away but that he did not wish to come.

'Very well,' she said at last. We will forget it for tonight, since he is not to be found, but tomorrow morning we shall see. Let him know that I shall expect him here first thing, or I shall ask the Prince – my husband to listen to me.'

Dona Lavinia said nothing but looked increasingly unhappy. While she performed Agathe's task of unpinning her mistress's black hair and brushing it for the night, Marianne could feel that her hands, usually so deft, were trembling. But she did not take pity on her. On the contrary, in an effort to shed some light on the mystery surrounding this unassailable steward, she did her best to press Dona Lavinia, almost cruelly, questioning her closely about Damiani's family and his connection with the Prince's parents. Dona Lavinia twisted and turned, returning such evasive answers that in the end Marianne was goaded into begging the housekeeper to go away and leave her to put herself to bed. Dona Lavinia made no secret of her relief and hurried from the room without waiting to be asked twice.

Left alone, Marianne took two or three restless turns about the room before she flung off her dressing-gown, blew out the candles and threw herself down on her bed. Ever since that morning, the country had been basking in a heat-wave and darkness had brought very little relief. In spite of the cooling effect of the many fountains, the heat, heavy and stifling, had during the day invaded the villa's large rooms and now it clung to the skin until Marianne, stretched out under the gilded hangings of her bed, was drenched with perspiration.

At last she sprang out of bed and drew back the curtains, flinging the windows wide open in the hope of a little relief from the feverish heat. The gardens, bathed in white moonlight, looked magical and unreal, deserted but for the musical rustle of the fountains. The shadows of the great trees stretched deep black over the colourless grass. Beyond the gardens, the countryside lay wrapped in silence, all nature seemed turned to stone. That night, the whole world seemed dead.

Marianne's throat was parched and she was just about to go back to her bed to pour herself a glass of water from the carafe on her night table when she stopped suddenly and turned back to the window. The distant sound of galloping hooves had reached her ears, a soft drumming that came slowly nearer, growing louder and sounding clearer. Something like white lightning flashed out from a grove of trees. In a moment, Marianne's sharp eyes had recognized Ilderim, the finest stallion in the stables and also the most difficult to mount, a snow-white thoroughbred of unbelievable beauty but capricious temper whom, for all her skill, she had not yet dared to try. She could see now the dark shape of a rider on his back but could not recognize him. He seemed tall and well-made but at that distance it was difficult to be sure of anything. One thing was certain: it was not Matteo Damiani or Rinaldi or any of the grooms. A second later, horse and rider had crossed the expanse of turf and were swallowed up once more in the shadow of the trees. The rhythmic hammering of the hooves died away and ceased altogether. But Marianne had had time to marvel at the rider's incomparable horsemanship. The dark, ghostly figure on the white horse had seemed one with his mount. Proud Ilderim recognized his master.