'Why should I? Because he was the master and I the slave? Because he forced on me a life of humiliation, servile and unworthy of me? Can you tell me any good reason why I should not have done away with the puppet? I did not hesitate to kill his father because he slew the woman I loved! Why should I spare him who was the prime cause of that deed? Until I was ready, I let him live, so long as he did not get in my way. Then, a little while ago, he did get in my way.'

A dreadful feeling of horror and revulsion, mingled with a sense of disappointment and, strangely, with pity and grief also, was creeping over Marianne. It was absurd, grotesque and profoundly unfair. The man who had voluntarily offered his name to a stranger pregnant by another man, whether emperor or no, the man who had made her welcome, heaped riches and jewels on her, and even saved her life – he did not deserve to die at the hands of a sadistic madman.

For a moment she saw again, clear in the unfailing record of her memory, the shapes of the great white stallion and his silent rider flying through the shadowy park. Whatever the man's secret shame, at that moment he and the animal had made an extraordinarily beautiful picture, a combination of power and grace which had remained graven in her mind. The thought that this unforgettable picture had been destroyed for ever by a creature so sunk in evil and depravity seemed to her so intolerable that her hand went out instinctively to feel for a weapon with which to deal justice on the murderer then and there. She owed it to one who had perhaps loved her and from whom, she knew now, she had never had anything to fear. Who could tell whether he had not paid with his life for his intervention that night?

But the dainty gold knives that gleamed on the table offered no help. For the present, the Princess Sant'Anna had nothing but words with which to flay the villain, and words could have little power over such as he. Yet a time would come. To that Marianne swore a solemn oath in her heart. She would avenge her husband.

'Murderer!' she spat at him at last, with utter distaste. 'You dared to slay the man who trusted you, one who placed himself so unreservedly in your hands, your own master!'

'I am the only master here now!' Damiani cried in a curiously falsetto voice. 'Justice has come full circle, because I had far more right to the title than that pitiable dreamer! You poor fool, you do not know, let that excuse you,' he added, with a complacency that added the last straw to Marianne's indignation, 'but I too am a Sant'Anna! I am—'

'I know everything! And the fact that my husband's grandfather got a child on a poor, half-mad creature who could not fight for her honour is not enough to make you a Sant'Anna! You need a heart, a soul, class! You, you are a low thing unworthy even of the knife that will kill you, a stinking animal—'

'Enough!'

The word was roared out in a paroxysm of rage and the man's congested face had turned white with evil marks of venom, but the blow had gone home, as Marianne saw with satisfaction.

He was breathing hard, as though he had been running, and when he spoke again it was in a low, muffled tone, like one suffocating.

'Enough,' he repeated. 'Who told you this? How – how do you know?'

'That is my business! It is enough that I know.'

'No! You will tell me – one day, you will have to tell me. I shall make you talk – because you will obey me now. Me, do you hear?'

'You are out of your mind. Why should I obey you?'

An ugly smile slid, like a slick of oil, across the ravaged features. Marianne braced herself for a foul answer. But Matteo Damiani's anger evaporated as suddenly as it had come. His voice resumed its normal tone and sounded neutral to the point of indifference as he went on:

'I beg your pardon. I lost my temper. But there are things I do not care to speak of.'

'I dare say, but that does not tell me what I am doing here. If I have understood you correctly, then it would seem that I am a – a free woman, and I'd be glad if you would conclude this pointless interview and arrange for me to leave this house.'

'By no means. You don't think I took all that trouble to bring you here, which cost me a great deal of money, besides all the business of bribing agents, even among your own friends, simply for the doubtful pleasure of informing you that your husband was no more?'

'Why not? I can't exactly see you writing me a letter telling me you'd murdered the Prince. For that is what you did, isn't it?'

Damiani did not answer. He plucked a rose from the centre vase and began twisting it nervously between his fingers, as though seeking inspiration. Abruptly, he spoke.

'Let us understand one another, Princess,' he said in the dry voice of a lawyer addressing a client. 'You are here to fulfil a contract. The same contract that you made with Corrado Sant'Anna.'

'What contract? If the Prince is dead, then the only contract which existed, that concerning my marriage, is null and void, surely?'

'No. You were married in exchange for a child, an heir to the name and fortunes of the Sant'Annas.'

'I lost the child, accidentally!' Marianne cried, with a sharp pang of anxiety beyond her control, for the subject was still a painful one.

'I am not disputing the accident and I am sure it was no fault of yours. All Europe knows of the tragedy of the Austrian ambassador's ball, but as regards the Sant'Anna heir, your obligations remain. You must give birth to a child who may, officially, carry on the line.'

'You might have thought of that before you killed the Prince.'

'Why? He was useless in that line; your own marriage is the best proof of that. Unfortunately I am not myself in a position to assume publicly the name which is mine by right. Therefore, I need a Sant'Anna, an heir…'

Marianne seethed with anger, hearing him speak with such cynical detachment of the master he had killed, while at the same time she was becoming aware of an indefinable fear. Perhaps because she was afraid to let herself understand, she fell back on sarcasm.

'There is only one thing you have forgotten. The child was the Emperor's. I don't suppose you'd go so far as to kidnap his majesty and bring him to me, bound hand and foot…'

Damiani shook his head and began to move towards her. Marianne stepped back.

'No. We must do without the imperial blood which meant so much to the Prince. We'll make do with the family blood for this child – a child I'll bring up as I please and whose lands I'll administer gladly for many long years – a child who will be all the more dear to me because he'll be my own!'

'What!'

'Don't look so surprised. You understand well enough. You called me a low thing just now, madame, but no insults can wipe out, or even humble such blood as mine. Like it or not, I am the old Prince's son, and uncle to the poor fool you married. And so, Princess, it is I, your steward, who will give you a child.'

Choked by such effrontery, it was a moment or two before Marianne was able to speak. She had been wrong in her first estimate. This man was nothing but a dangerous lunatic. It was enough to see his fat fingers working, and the way he licked his lips with the tip of his tongue, like a cat. He was a madman, ready to commit any crime to slake his overweening pride and ambition, and to satisfy his baser instincts!

She was suddenly very conscious that she was alone with this man. He was stronger than she and must no doubt have accomplices hidden somewhere about this too-silent house, if only the loathsome Giuseppe. She was in his power. He could force her. Her one chance might be to frighten him.

'If you think for a moment, you will see that you could never carry out this insane plan. I have come back to Italy under the Emperor's especial protection for a purpose which I may not disclose to you. But you may be quite sure that there are people looking for me, concerned about me at this very moment. Soon the Emperor will be told. Do you think you can fool him if I vanish for several months and then turn up with an unaccountable baby? It is plain you do not know him, and if I were you I should think twice before making such an enemy.'

'Far be it from me to underestimate the power of Napoleon. But it will all be very much simpler than you seem to think. In a little while the Emperor will receive a letter from the Prince Sant'Anna thanking him warmly for restoring to him a wife who is now infinitely dear to his heart and announcing their imminent departure together to spend a delightful and long-deferred honeymoon on distant estates of his.'

'And you expect him to swallow that? He knows all about the strange circumstances attending my marriage. Be sure he will have inquiries made, and, however remote our supposed destination, the Emperor will get at the truth. He had his suspicions about what awaited me here—'

'Maybe, but he will be obliged to rest content with what he is told, especially as there will be a note, expressed, naturally, in glowing terms, assuring him of your happiness and begging forgiveness. I have paid, among other things, for the services of a very competent forger. Venice is seething with artists, most of them starving. Believe me, the Emperor will understand. You are lovely enough to explain away any folly, even my own at this moment. The simplest thing, of course, would be simply to kill you and then, in a few months' time, produce a new-born infant, claiming that the mother died in childbed. With a little care, that should go off without a hitch. But I have desired you, ever since the day that old dodderer of a cardinal brought you to the villa, desired you as I have never desired anyone before. That night, you may recall, I concealed myself in your closet while you undressed… your body holds no secrets from my eyes, but my hands are still strangers to its curves. Ever since you went away I have lived in expectation of the moment which would bring you here—at my mercy. I shall get the child I want on your fair flesh… It will be worth a little risk, eh? Even the risk of displeasing your Emperor. Before he finds you, if he ever does find you, I shall have known you tens of times and shall see my child growing in you!… Then shall I be happy indeed!'