She nodded. “Sometimes the water comes this high.” She indicated the middle of her thigh. “Usually just over the feet, but one never knows. We must pray hard that God will keep the high water at bay for this special feast day.”

Did God listen to prayers about floods? I wondered. Every year there were news reports of villages swept away, some of them presumably containing good Christians. I couldn’t believe that God actively controlled weather, or then there would be perpetual sunshine over Vatican City and perpetual rain over Communist Russia. I had to smile at this thought.

At dusk my landlady appeared in her best hat and coat, carrying an umbrella “just in case God does not see fit to stop the rain.”

“I’ll walk with you and carry your umbrella,” I said. “You’ll want to carry your candle.”

“If the candle can stay alight in such weather,” she said, disappointment in her voice. “It could be that we don’t light candles until we enter the church. But I am glad for the company, at least to the bridge.”

So we walked together, joining a noisy throng. Some had candles in jars and lanterns, and these threw flickers of light on to the sombre walls of the streets. We passed the churches of San Maurizio and Santa Maria del Giglio and came on to the Calle Larga leading to St Mark’s Square. Then we crossed a small waterway and turned towards the Grand Canal. Now there were hawkers selling balloons and toys, as well as various sweetmeats and even gelato, although I couldn’t imagine who would want an ice cream on such a cold, bleak night. The narrow calle opened up, and there before us was the bridge of boats, and on the other side the Church of Our Lady of Health. Lights were strung across the piazza and in the trees. They danced crazily in the stiff wind from the lagoon. And the crowd was squeezed into a thin procession across the bridge, the candlelight bobbing up and down as they crossed.

My landlady saw some women she knew. I nodded to her and watched them join the line to cross. From inside the church I already heard singing—the voices echoing as from a great space. It was all rather moving, and I was tempted to join them after all, but the thought of being crammed in or of standing for an hour was not appealing. I stood in the shadows and was just about to go when I saw a servant carrying a lantern on a pole. And behind him a well-dressed party. As they passed under a street lamp, I recognized them. First came Count Da Rossi, looking like some Renaissance patriarch in a great cape, and behind him Leo, with Bianca holding a delicate red umbrella over her head with one hand while the other gripped Leo’s arm.