The Rising Storm

by Dennis Wheatley

  “The Lady Livia say verri much pleasure you come, sir. But she no speek Inglish. She have only Italian an’ German. You speek some per’aps?”

  Roger was much relieved, as he spoke fairly fluent German; and, having kissed the plump hand that Donna Livia extended to him, he thanked her in that language for receiving him.

  She then introduced the two ladies, whom he gathered were both Marchesas, although he did not catch their names, and the plump man as Signor Babaroni, master of the Grand Duke’s ballet. The old woman she ignored. Having made his bows, Roger was given a chair and, as he had feared would be the case if he found Donna Livia with company, the conversation at once turned to opera.

  Fortunately for him, Signor Babaroni spoke no German and only one of the ladies understood it; the other spoke some English, and asked him if he talked French; but he promptly denied all knowledge of it, so was able to confine himself to two languages and thus be open to his remarks being challenged by no more than two of them at one time.

  On Donna Livia asking him what operas were now being performed in London, he said that at the time of his leaving they were giving Bianchi’s La Villanella Rapita; as it so happened that he had taken Isabella to see that piece while they were in Marseilles.

  She then enquired his opinion of Bianchi and he replied that he considered La Villanella Rapita by no means that composer’s best work.

  It was a shot in the dark and, apparently, not a very good one, as Donna Livia gave him a slightly surprised look. Moreover, it immediately produced the question: “Then to which of his operas, Miester Courtnay, would you give the palm?”

  This completely bowled him out, as before his visit to Marseilles he had never heard of the composer. But for the moment he saved himself from exposure by his wits; although he flushed to the eyebrows as he said: “To whichever one you might lift from the rut by singing in it, gracious lady.…”

  Pleased by the compliment she smilingly repeated it to her friends in Italian. Then she asked him where he had heard her sing, and in what part.

  This was infinitely worse than anything he had expected, and he had all he could do to hide his dismay; but he punted for Milan, that being the safest bet he could think of, and for Scarlatti’s Telemaco as a classic in which she must have played on many occasions.

  Again he seemed to have saved his bacon, as she did not declare that he could never have done so; but remarked that he must have travelled in Italy when he was scarcely more than a boy, as His Highness had not allowed her to leave Tuscany since her first season in Florence.

  To that he promptly replied: “My lady; people are often deceived at a first meeting by my youthful appearance; but I vow that I could give you two years for every year you are over twenty.”

  As it seemed impossible that he could be anywhere near thirty the remark inferred that she could hardly be more than twenty-four, and as in fact she was twenty-eight, he had succeeded in paying her another pretty compliment.

  Acutely anxious now to avoid further questions on the subject of music, he hardly gave her time to smile before rushing into a panegyric on the beauties of Florence and its art treasures.

  Here he was on safer ground, but after he had been speaking with glowing enthusiasm for a few moments on the masterpieces in the Pitti, she said:

  “But I thought, Miester Courtnay, that you were only passing through Florence? You speak as though you had been here several days, and if that is so, I take it ill of you that you should have waited almost till the moment of your departure before coming to see me.”

  Hastily he bridged the pitfall he had inadvertently dug for himself, by assuring her that his sight-seeing had been limited to a few hours during that afternoon. But the statement cut the safe ground from under his feet; as, after it, he dared not develop the conversation as he had intended, by talking of the Duomo, the Badia, the house in which Bianca Capella had lived, and other places of interest in the city.

  Signor Babaroni seized Roger’s pause to say in his halting English that as a young man he had visited London and heard the great Françesea de l’Epine sing at Drury Lane.

  Roger showed suitable awe although he had never heard of this long-dead prima donna. The ballet master then revealed that his father had done much to ease the last years of her equally famous English rival, Mrs. Katherine Tofts, who had eventually gone mad and died in Venice. As he translated his remarks for the benefit of the ladies the conversation was soon back to opera and the individual triumphs of great artists past and present.

  Gamely Roger strove to keep his end up, by putting in a remark here and there that he could only hope was suitable. He was now heartily cursing himself for his folly in having adopted his new role; but as one of the Marchesas spoke German he dared not tell Donna Livia that he had got in to her on false pretences and was anxious to talk to her on a private matter. Yet every moment he feared that he would make some hopeless gaffe that would reveal him beyond all question as an impostor.

  At length his hostess provided him with a welcome respite, by saying: “No doubt, Miester Courtnay, like so many Englishmen you are interested in gardens. Would you care to see mine?”

  With almost indecent haste, he jumped at the proposal; so, languidly rising from her couch, she signed to the others to remain where they were, and led him to the far end of the room.

  It gave on to a verandah of beautifully scrolled ironwork from which sprouted gilded lilies, the outer edge of its roof being supported by a row of slender rose-coloured pillars of Verona marble, crowned with arcanthus-leaf capitols carved in white stone. Beyond it lay the garden, which was actually no more than a big yard enclosed by high walls; but it contained a lovely fountain surrounded by small Cyprus trees, an arbour, stone seats of delicate design, camellia and magnolia bushes, and many delightful rock plants in the interstices of its stone paving.

  As they were descending the steps from the verandah she said softly: “For the director of a Royal Opera Company you know singularly little about music, Miester Courtnay; and I thought it best to take you away from them before you made some fatal slip.”

  Her friendly, conspiratorial air made him sigh with relief, and he replied with a smile: “I will confess, my lady, that I was on tenterhooks, as I did not seek admittance to your presence to talk of opera, but of a very different subject.”

  In a glance her magnificent green eyes swept him from head to foot, then came to rest upon his deep-blue ones. She did not seek to conceal her appreciation of his handsome looks and fine bearing; and with a wicked little smile, she said:

  “Few women could fail to be flattered by the attentions of such a beau as yourself; but you are a very rash young man. None of my Florentine admirers would dare to practise such an imposture. They would be much too frightened that discovery of it would land them in prison, as the victims of His Highness’s wrath.”

  Instantly Roger was seized with a new apprehension. He saw that he had jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire. Clearly the beautiful Donna Livia now thought that he was so desperately in love with her that he had risked imprisonment for the chance of pouring out his passion at her feet. How was she going to take it when he confessed that he had come to see her only on a matter of business? But without waiting for a reply, she turned back towards the house, and said:

  “Such audacious gallantry reminds one of an old romance, and is worthy of at least some reward. I am inclined to give it to you, so I will get rid of these people and you shall tell me about your real self.”

  More worried than ever by the turn matters had taken, Roger followed her inside. There she spoke to her other guests in Italian, and as they took their leave Signor Babaroni said to him:

  “I doubts verri much eef ’is ’ighness consent to a London season for ’is company. But I much like to veesit London again; so I wish you most well.”

  Quick to realise the excuse Donna Livia had made to talk with him alone, Roger thanked the ballet master politely and said that he had good hopes of
arranging matters, but had naturally felt it proper to ascertain the inclinations of the prima donna before proceeding further.

  When they had gone the beautiful Tuscan resumed her indolent pose on the day-bed and beckoned Roger to a seat beside her. Knowing that, sooner or later, he must show himself in his true colours, he decided that he had better do so before she had any further opportunity to give proof of the favour with which she evidently regarded him, and so spare her an increased embarrassment when he disclosed that he was not in love with her. Approaching the thorny subject as tactfully as possible, he said:

  “Gracious lady; first I must tell you that my real name is Roger Brook, and that I come not from England but from France. While there I had the honour to be entrusted with a commission by Queen Marie Antoinette, and it is that which has brought me to Florence. I bear a secret despatch from Her Majesty to His Highness, and certain of Her Majesty’s enemies have resorted to most desperate measures in the hope of preventing its delivery. I beg that you will not think too hardly of me when I admit that it was to seek your aid in completing my mission that I resorted to my recent imposture.”

  For a moment her green eyes narrowed and her arched brows drew together; then she laughed.

  “After such a blow to my pride I suppose I ought to show a sad confusion, or by a cold detachment endeavour to pretend that the thoughts to which I so recently gave expression had never entered my head. But having admitted that your looks pleased me, why should I now deny it? Call me a bold, forward creature if you will; but whatever the reason for your coming, I am glad you came.”

  On such a handsome admission Roger could do no less than his best to restore her amour propre, so he smiled at her and murmured: “I count it my misfortune now that my entry here was not inspired by sentiments more delicate than the delivering of a letter to another. For I have never seen a lady to gain whose favours I would more willingly risk a prison.”

  “I thank you, Miester Brook. Your manners match your looks. But a truce to compliments. In what way can I serve you?”

  “ ’Tis said that His Highness sups here several times a week. If he proposes to do so tonight, and you would do me the great kindness to present me to him on his coming, I could then deliver this letter to him personally.”

  She nodded. “That I will do with pleasure, but he will not arrive before ten o’clock, and ’tis as yet not seven.”

  “I am indeed grateful, Donna Livia. May I take it then that I have your permission to return at ten?”

  For a moment she considered the matter, then her eyes became mischievous. “Why should you not remain here till he comes? You can have no idea what a pleasant change it is for me to talk with a personable man alone.”

  “Is His Highness so jealous, then?” Roger asked with a smile.

  “Jealous!” She threw up her hands, and the draperies of her robe fell away from her beautifully rounded arms. “He treats me like a nun. Whenever I appear in Opera I am escorted to the theatre and back by a posse of his servants who spy upon my every movement. At my conversazioni no man under fifty dare talk with me for more than two minutes together without incurring the royal displeasure. And even when in the company of ladies, as you found me tonight, I am allowed to receive only elderly pussy-cats like Babaroni. Had they not been here, and your excuse for asking an interview been both so good and so pressing, I would never have risked permitting you to enter.”

  “Then, will not His Highness be much annoyed at finding me here?”

  “This secret letter that you carry should prove your passport to immunity from that. Moreover, as you have never before seen me and are leaving Florence at once he will have no grounds for suspecting that our being together is the result of an assignation. But at times he is unpredictable; so I guarantee nothing. The choice is yours, and you are free to go if you prefer not to risk it.”

  It was the sort of dare that Roger had never been able to resist, and he replied without hesitation: “Provided my remaining brings no trouble to yourself the prospect of angering all the crowned heads in Europe would not drive me from you.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched. “For that I like you better than ever, Miester Brook. And now I will set your mind at rest. Some little time before His Highness is due to arrive here I shall put you to wait in a room apart. So you need be in no apprehension that he will think naughty thoughts about us.”

  “He is said to be an intelligent man,” Roger remarked. “If so, no doubt you find his company a compensation for his monopoly of you.”

  She pouted. “He is well enough, and would be a pleasant companion were he not so atrociously suspicious that everyone is for ever hiding something from him. Even his own brother, the Emperor Joseph, once wrote to him: ’Let people deceive you sometimes rather than torment yourself constantly and vainly.’ Yet he will not take such advice, and undoes the effects of his natural kindness by his unremitting itch to pry into everything.”

  “Far from putting a check upon deception, contact with such a nature usually irritates others into practising it.”

  No sooner had Roger uttered the truism than he regretted having done so; as Donna Livia gave him a swift glance, and replied: “I can imagine circumstances in which I might well be tempted to amuse myself at his expense.”

  Roger found her glance perturbing, but before he could turn the conversation she went on smoothly: “At one time or another he has suspected me of wanting to have an affaire with practically every presentable man in Florence; but there is not one of them who could keep a still tongue in his head afterwards, and I am not quite such a fool as to wish to be deprived of my jewels, and a secure old age on a handsome pension, for the sake of a few hours’ pleasure. Yet were there a man I liked enough—and one whom I might regard as gone out of my life for good, tomorrow—then, the very fact of deceiving my royal lover under his nose would lend zest to such an adventure.”

  “I can well understand your feeling,” Roger nodded; but he hastily continued: “I wonder if he ever suspects his Grand Duchess; though from what I hear the poor creature is so plain that he can have little cause to do so.”

  “You are right in that,” Donna Livia smiled. “And she is a model wife. She has had sixteen children by him—the same number as the brood of which he was one himself—and despite his infidelities she still dotes upon him. But even she and I in combination are not sufficient to hold his entire interest. He often lies to me about it, but I know quite well that whenever he fails to come here, apart from Fridays and Sundays, it is because he is supping with some young thing who has caught his eye.”

  For the best part of an hour they talked on in the same intimate vein. Donna Livia was making the most of this unforeseen opportunity to unburden herself to a sympathetic and attractive stranger; and Roger, both intrigued by the extraordinary situation in which he found himself and fascinated by her beauty, had not given a single thought to Isabella. Neither of them sought to disguise from themselves that they were physically attracted to the other.

  Several times they got on to dangerous ground when one word too much would have proved the spark to ignite them; but somehow, one or the other always turned the conversation just in time, and the electric current that threatened to flash between them was checked by a transfer of the subject from the personal to the general.

  At length she asked him if he would like a glass of wine. On his accepting she stood up, and he followed her to a low, curtained doorway at one side of the room. The old woman who had been there when he arrived was still dozing in her corner. With a casual glance in her direction Donna Livia said:

  “Do not concern yourself about old Pippa. She was His Highness’s nurse, and is the one person he trusts; but I have long since bought her. Besides, she was once young herself, and knows that occasionally I must have a little recreation.”

  As Roger passed through the curtains, he swallowed hard, for he saw that she had brought him into a small room that he presumed few people except the Grand Duke wer
e permitted to enter. It was obviously a chambre d’ amour. The whole of its ceiling was made of mirrors; the walls were decorated with frescoes depicting the metamorphosis of Jupiter into a Bull, a Swan, and a Shower of Gold, while in the act of seducing various ladies in these disguises. The only furniture in the room consisted of a huge divan with a small table to either side of it, and one cabinet having a bookcase for its upper part and a cupboard below.

  From the cupboard Donna Livia produced a bottle of champagne and glasses. While Roger opened the bottle and poured the wine, she took a thin folio volume from one of the shelves and began idly to turn its pages.

  “What have you there?” he asked, his voice coming a little unsteadily.

  “ ’Tis one of His Highness’s favourites,” she replied quietly. “This folio contains a set of beautifully executed paintings to illustrate the works of Pietro Aretino the Divine. Since this is His Highness’s room and you are in it, perhaps it would amuse you to look through them with me.”

  Roger was already conversant with the writings of that extraordinary man who had been the boon companion of Titian and Sansovino three centuries earlier in Venice. With his heart pounding in his chest he took a pace forward and looked over her shoulder. The book was at that date the greatest treatise on the art of love that had ever been written, and the illustrations of the height of human rapture were the work of a great artist. Yet none of the women portrayed in them were more beautiful than Donna Livia.

  Roger’s arm slid round her waist. Beneath her flowing robe she wore no corsets. She turned and her big green eyes, now languorous with desire, met his. Suddenly she dropped the book, pressed her warm body against him and whispered:

  “I would that I could prolong this moment. But we have little enough time. Let us make the most of it.”