Venetian Masque

'Oh, no, madame.' He came forward. He took her hand, which in spite of her angry fear she relinquished to him, for there was something compellingly gentle in his manner and pitiful in his eyes, as if to express regret and ask forgiveness for what he did. 'What proves it is that if he had married anyone half so charming, it is impossible that he could have forgotten it. And I can positively assure you that he has no recollection of the marriage. Can it be that, like you, he suffers from a bad memory? For you appear completely to have forgotten what he looks like.'

She drew her hand out of his clasp. Her lip trembled. His words, without meaning to her, gave her the sense of being in a trap. She was bewildered. She looked round and met a curious smile from each of her three observers. The only one who did not smile, whose glance reflected something of the gentle wistfulness in Marc-Antoine's, was Isotta: an Isotta who in these last moments had lost her listlessness, whose eyes, that lately had been so dull, were shining now as with an inner light.

Then the poor, dazed Vicomtesse found that Marc-Antoine had recaptured her hand. Very straight, his chin high, he seemed suddenly to have become protective. So much was she conscious of this that her impulse was to bury her face upon his breast and in the shelter of it yield to the weakness of a woman who is lonely and frightened.

He spoke to the others, quietly firm. 'She shall not be further harassed, further humiliated. It is a poor return for what I owe her.'

The Count and Domenico both bowed as if in understanding and acknowledgment.

'Come, madame. Let me reconduct you.'

Still bewildered, faltering a little in her step, she obeyed the suasion of his hand. Glad to obey it; glad to escape, although she did not know from what. All that she gathered was that sense of his protection, and in that she readily went out with him and down the stairs.

In the vestibule he addressed the liveried porter.

'The gondola of Madame the Vicomtesse de Saulx.'

She looked up at him appealingly as she stood waiting at his side.

'Marc, what is it? You know that I do not understand.'

'Understand this, that in me you have a friend who will always treasure the memory of the debt in which today you have placed him. We part here, Anne, and we may never meet again. But if ever I can serve you, send me word to Avonford in Wiltshire. I will write it for you.'

He stepped into the porter's lodge, and on a sheet of paper supplied by the under-porter, he wrote rapidly in pencil. He handed her the sheet. At the sight of what he had written her face turned bloodless. She looked up at him with an expression that was akin to terror.

'This is impossible. You are mocking me. Why?'

'To what end should I mock you? That is less impossible than it may seem when you consider how Fate links us through Lebel. Oh, yes, I am Marc-Antoine de Saulx, my dear. I was not guillotined, and I never married. Now you understand.'

'And in all these months . . .'

'It has been my privilege to observe my widow. A unique experience. Come, child, your gondola waits.' He led her out to the marble steps. 'Let us at least part friends, my vicomtesse.' He bowed and kissed her hand, then steadied her as she stepped down into the boat.

As the gondola glided away, he stood a moment looking after that little crumpled heap of silks and laces, upon the cushions of the felza.

Then it occurred to him that even now he did not know her name.

CHAPTER XXXIX DEPARTURE

When he came back to the salon, Isotta, warned of his approach by his brisk step, was standing near the door.

With a laugh that was almost a sob she stepped straight into his arms, and frankly and openly before them all she kissed him on the lips.

'That is for the mercy that you practised, Marc.'

He kissed her in his turn. 'And this is for the love I bear you. Each an earnest to the other of what must follow.'

The Count advanced, smiling through a natural impatience.

'Let it suffice for today if you are to make sure of the sequel,' he said. 'You have no time to lose, Marc.'

'And I will lose none. Life has just become of great importance. I must preserve it, so as to enjoy the fruits of a Venetian year that yesterday I deemed so barren.'

The Count signed. 'Fruits gathered in the twilight of our Venice.'

'But from a tree that flourished whilst the sun was high, and rich with the fragrance and sustenance that Venice sheds upon her fruits. That will remain, Lord Count, as long as memory survives in man.'

Rapid steps approached the door. A lackey opened it, and Philibert precipitated himself, plump and breathless, into the room.

'Monsieur! Monsieur!' He ran to Marc-Antoine. 'Save yourself, monsieur. Monsieur the Major Sanfermo is at the Inn of the Swords with six men, waiting to arrest you.'

'Then, how did you get away?'

'He sent me, monsieur.'

'Sent you?'

'To tell you that his orders are to seek you at the Inn of the Swords and that if you should not be there he is to await your return. Faithful to those orders he awaits your return. Wherefore he begs you not to return; but to depart at once from Venice; because in the nature of things he will be unable to wait at the inn for ever. Those are the Major's exact words. So save yourself, monsieur, while there is time. I've brought a valise with some clothes for you.'

'Oh, most thoughtful of valets. You see, Domenico. We had best be going.'

'Where do we go, monsieur?' Philibert inquired.

'We? Do you come with me, then, Philibert?'

'Certainly, monsieur. Anywhere, if only you will abandon this habit of disappearing.'

'Very well, my lad. It will be England, I think.' He turned to Domenico. 'I am in your hands now. You will have to be my sponsor to your friend the Admiral. After that, if he will send us in a galley to this British squadron at Pola, I'll be your sponsor there, and carry you back with me to Avonford.'

'It is more alluring than Vienna, if you can suffer me.'

With a hand on Domenico's shoulder, he put an arm round Isotta's waist, and drew her to him.

'Suffer you! You are a hostage: to be redeemed by your parents when they come to exchange you for their daughter.'

Domenico looked at his father. 'I warned you, sir, that he might take you at your word when you told him that you possessed nothing that was not his for the asking.'

In the breathless moments of farewell, Isotta appeared utterly to have forgotten that once she had harboured a notion of taking the veil.

THE END