'What do you mean?' Marianne's brows contracted. Dona Lavinia's calmness amazed her. It was as if the housekeeper were fully aware of the night's events.

'His highness came in a little while ago and sent urgently for Father Amundi. He is closeted with him now. Matteo Damiani is locked up in the cellars and it appears that lightning must have struck behind the hill at the back of the grotto, for I saw a great light there and heard a sound like falling rocks. For the present, it is best you should go, my lady. When you return —'

'I shall never return!' Marianne declared but the violence of her tone had no effect on Dona Lavinia's composure. She merely smiled.

'Indeed you will. You have pledged your word. As I was saying, when you return, many things will have changed. I – I think there will be nothing more to fear. The Prince —'

'I saw him,' Marianne broke in. 'It was dreadful! I thought it was a ghost. I was terrified – that white face —'

'No,' Dona Lavinia said quietly, 'merely a mask, that is all, a mask made of white leather. You must not blame him. He is more than ever to be pitied. He has suffered cruelly tonight. I will see to the baggage.'

Marianne watched speechlessly as she came and went about the room, folding dresses and underwear, putting away shoes in boxes and stowing everything neatly in the open trunks. When she made a move to include the jewel cases, Marianne intervened.

'No, not those. I do not wish to take them.'

'Indeed you must! They are your highness's property now. Do you wish to cause our master further pain? He would be deeply wounded, believing that your highness held him responsible…' She left the sentence in mid-air. Defeated, Marianne acquiesced. She no longer knew what to think. She was even a little ashamed of the panic which had gripped her but lacked the courage to change her mind and prolong her stay. She must go now.

Once outside the bounds of this uneasy domain, she would be herself again, able to think calmly and clearly and come to some conclusions, but for the present, she had to go away. It was the only way to stop herself from going mad and not until she had put a considerable distance between herself and the Villa Sant'Anna would she be able to look back on that night's events without endangering her reason. She needed to be a long way from the rider of Ilderim.

When, at long last, she was ready, her luggage packed, and the sound of the coach outside at the foot of the broad steps, she turned to Dona Lavinia.

'I promised my godfather that I would wait for him,' she began unhappily, 'yet I am going...'

'Do not fret, Princess. I will explain – or rather I and the Prince together will explain everything.'

Tell him also that I am returning to Paris, that I will write to him here, since I do not know where he will go after this. And tell him that I do not blame him. I know he believed that he was acting for the best.'

'As indeed he was. You will see that one day. Bon voyage, your highness. Never forget that this house is your own, like all our master's houses. You need not doubt that in future he will know how to keep you safe in it and, when you return, do so confidently, without fear.'

Marianne was sorry for the old woman who was clearly doing her best to remove the unpleasant associations from her mind. She knew that later on she would probably regret her unheroic behaviour but she knew also that when she returned, since return she must, she would never do so alone. Either the cardinal or Arcadius, or both together, must come with her. But she kept this thought to herself as she held out both hands affectionately to Dona Lavinia.

'Don't worry, Dona Lavinia. Say good-bye for me to your master. And thank you, thank you for everything! I shall not forget you. When I come back, there will be the child and all will be well. Tell the Prince that.'

When at last she climbed into her coach, the morning mist was already lying over the park, giving to it a strange, dream-like quality. The wind of the previous night had dropped and the air was grey and moist. There would be rain later but, sitting with Agathe in the coach, Marianne felt safe, secured against all the spells, real or imagined, contained within that fair domain. She was going home, back to those she loved. Nothing could touch her now.

The whip cracked. With a chink of harness and a faint creaking of springs, the coach moved off. The wheels crunched on the sanded avenue. The horses broke into a trot. Marianne laid her cheek against the cold leather headpiece and closed her eyes. Her fluttering heart was stilled but all of a sudden she felt tired to death.

As the cumbersome berline ploughed through the early morning mist on the first stage of the long, long journey back to Paris, she pondered on the absurdity of fate, and its cruelty in condemning her to this eternal wandering in pursuit of an impossible happiness. She had come here fleeing from an evil and unworthy spouse, she had come in order that the child conceived in the likeness of an emperor might hold his head up in life, she had come, last of all, in the secret hope of exorcizing for ever the fate that seemed bent on destroying her. She was leaving rich, bearing a princely title, a great name, an unassailable position, but with her heart stripped more than ever of illusions and affections. She was going back – to what? To the leavings of love which Marie-Louise's husband could offer her, to the sadness of a solitary life because in future she must not lose face, and because Jason could not, or would not come. In the end, all that awaited her at her journey's end was an old house, inhabited only by a portrait and by one faithful friend. The unborn child, the future, was without shape or colour as yet. She was going, once again, into the unknown.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Fontainebleau Gate

The coach swept through the Porte d'Aix and clattered down the narrow, dark streets of ancient Avignon. The sun was still high enough to gild the ramparts, picking out the sharp edges of towers and battlements and glancing off the yellow waters of the indifferent river flowing idly under the wide-spaced arches of the old, half-ruined Pont Saint-Benezet The statue of the Virgin on the topmost turret of the formidable papal palace shone like a star. Marianne had let down the dusty window for a better view and was revelling in the scents of the warm air, laden with the spicy fragrance of Provence, of sun-warmed olives, thyme and rosemary.

It was fifteen days since she had left Lucca. They had travelled by the coast road and then up the valley of the Rhone, making easy stages, partly in order to spare Marianne herself, since she was now in her fourth month of pregnancy and obliged to exercise prudence, and partly to avoid overtaxing the horses. These were no longer the common post horses which had drawn the berline on the outward journey but four splendid animals out of the Sant'Anna stables. They proceeded on average some forty miles a day, stopping each night at one of the posting houses with which the route was provided.

The journey had given Marianne an opportunity to measure just how great was the change in her status. The magnificence of her team, the crest and the crown surmounting it on the berline's panel assured her everywhere of prompt and deferential service. She had discovered that there was something to be said for being a very great lady. As for Gracchus and Agathe, they were clearly bursting with pride at serving a Princess and allowed no one to forget it. One had only to see Gracchus stalking into the inn where they had stayed each morning and announcing grandly that her serene highness's carriage awaited. The one-time errand boy of the rue Montorgueil was developing all the airs and graces of an imperial coachman.

Marianne, for her part, was rather enjoying the leisurely journey. She was not looking forward greatly to returning to Paris where, apart from the pleasant prospect of seeing her dear Arcadius again, she expected little but trouble. The threatening shadow of Francis Cranmere loomed large in her thoughts but she had some anxiety to spare also for the welcome that awaited her from the Emperor. While she was still on the road, her perils were confined to the possibility of an encounter with brigands but so far no alarming figures had appeared to bar the passage of the coach. At least the rural scene had succeeded in washing her mind clear of the mists and fantasies of the Villa Sant'Anna, although it had taken all her willpower to keep her thoughts from dwelling on the evil face of Matteo Damiani and the fantastic figure of the rider in the white mask. Later, she would think about them, later, when she had come to terms with the new life that lay ahead for her. For the present, she had no idea what this would be. She was in Napoleon's hands. It was he who had mapped out the career of the singer, Maria Stella, but what would he make of the Princess Sant'Anna? Certainly the Princess herself was none too sure what to make of her. Here she was, married again, married but without a husband.

Marianne was enchanted by Avignon. It might have been the sun or the broad, lazy river, the warm colour of the old stones or the geraniums that clung to every iron balcony. Perhaps the silky murmuring in the silvery-olive trees had something to do with it, or the musical voices of the women in their striped petticoats gossiping and commenting on the passage of the coach. Whatever it was, it made her want to stay there for a few days before finishing her journey to Paris. She leaned out of the window.

'Gracchus, see if there is a good hostelry here. I should like to stay for a day or two.'