The Rising Storm

by Dennis Wheatley

  In consequence, he decided that the only way in which he could square it with his conscience to remain a few days there was to travel with a speed beyond anything that even a fast courier would normally have accomplished. There were post-houses every five miles along the main roads, so by changing horses every time he reached one a courier could make the journey to Marseilles in about six days, but such hard riding demanded a good night’s sleep at an inn each night. On the other hand a post-chaise could travel nearly as fast as relays of riding horses and, with changes of postilions as well as animals, it could continue on its way both day and night. Such a mode of travel was expensive, for it cost a shilling a mile; it also entailed great discomfort on the occupant of the post-chaise as, after a day or two, its continuous jolting became almost intolerable, quite apart from the fact that it deprived him of all proper sleep. Nevertheless Roger adopted this course without a moment’s hesitation, considering it a small price to pay for a few days in which to do as he would, with a quiet mind, at the other end of his journey.

  He ordered the post-chaise to be at La Belle Étoile at four o’clock next morning, and before dawn on November 4th he was out of Paris. There was hardly a stage on his way south that did not bring him vivid memories of Isabella.

  By mid-morning he was being driven at a swift trot through the eastern edge of the forest of Fontainebleau, and it was in the forest that he had first met her. Many hours passed and the night was nearly gone when he reached the spot where he had come upon her coach being attacked; but dawn was breaking again as he entered Nevers, and he had a meal at the inn to which she had carried him bleeding from his wounds and sweating with pain; and at which, on a Sunday while the Señora Poeblar and the others were at church, Isabella had persuaded him to accompany her to Marseilles instead of going to Florence via Chambery and Turin.

  It was late that afternoon when, just on the far side of St. Pourcain, he traversed the place where some baggage had nearly fallen on his injured foot, and he and Isabella had first called one another by their Christian names; and it was the middle of the second night when the chaise mounted the hill beyond Lampdes where, in the close, warm semi-darkness of the coach, they had first kissed.

  Evening had come again when he pulled up to sup at Orange, where Quetzal had had his encounter with the goat; and it was midnight when the chaise passed through the silent streets of Avignon, recalling to Roger the Senora’s death, her dying plea to him to respect Isabella’s chastity and, two days later, the plighting of their troth.

  At ten o’clock the following morning the chaise was rattling over the cobbles of Marseilles. He was incredibly tired, had a three days’ beard on his chin and was covered with dust, but he had done the journey in three and a quarter days. He had already ordered his leading postilion to take him straight to the Café d’ Acajon, and as they drove up to it he saw that his luck was in; Monsieur Golard was quietly taking his morning repast there.

  Climbing out of the chaise, Roger stretched his aching limbs; then, apologising for his dishevelled appearance, accosted his old acquaintance. The shipowner recalled their previous meeting with pleasure, and at once pressed him to take some refreshment after his journey. To help keep himself awake for a few hours longer Roger ordered black coffee laced with brandy, and while it was being fetched enquired about sailings for Naples. Monsieur Golard said that he knew of no bottoms due to leave under three days; but on being pressed, he added that if speed was a greater consideration than either money or comfort, he thought he could arrange for a felucca to do the trip by private charter at a cost of about twenty-five louis.

  Roger considered the saving of time well worth the money, and by midday he was aboard a low, lateen-sailed craft that had a Corsican captain and a crew of four, all of whom looked like pirates. His main anxiety was that the weather should hold, as he was by no means a good sailor, and feared that if a storm arose such a light barque would receive a most frightful buffeting. On his journey south he had hardly given a thought to the weather, but he realised now that when he left Paris it had been cold, dreary and raining, whereas here in Marseilles it was still as warm as late summer in England, and the midday sun made the low gunnel of the felucca hot to the touch.

  But he was far too tired to take pleasure in the balmy Mediterranean climate at the moment, or even worry very much at the prospect of being sea-sick if they struck one of the storms to which that treacherous sea is liable in all seasons. No sooner had the vessel cast off from the pier than he dropped down her deck-hatch, stumbled to the berth that had been made up for him, lay down on his face to spare his aching backside, and fell into a sleep of exhaustion.

  During the voyage Fortune continued to favour him. No ominous cloud darkened the horizon and a moderate wind enabled the felucca to make good headway. On the second evening out from Marseilles they cleared safely the tricky passage between the islands of Corsica and Sardinia; and later, looking astern, he enjoyed one of the loveliest sunsets he had ever seen. A sky of salmon, orange and gold threw up into sharp relief the dark outline of the two islands, giving their crags and forests an air of enchanted mystery. Yet even this scene of beauty took second place in his mind to that which unfolded before him the following afternoon.

  Soon after midday they raised the island of Ischia, with beyond it the summit of Vesuvius; and an hour later the Neapolitan coastline came into view. As they entered the vast bay the landscape gradually took on colour and detail. By three o’clock Ischia was behind them to the left, then came a channel, the little island of Pracida, another channel, and Cape Gaveta running out towards the two islands. Curving away from the Cape, the isthmus of Posilipo sheltered the city, which faced due south and seemed to run for miles along the shore. A forest of masts rising from the shipping lying in the roads stood out sharply against the white buildings on the waterfront, but the ground rose steeply, and further inland spires and domes towered above them.

  Beyond the centre of the city lay higher slopes of verdant green, dotted with hundreds of villas looking out over it across the bay. Dead ahead, dominating the whole splendid scene, Vesuvius reared its barren upper slopes to the blue sky, a plume of smoke drifting gently from its crater. Further south the land curved again, running out in the long peninsula of Sorrento. To seaward of it, twenty miles away and now behind them on their right, the isle of Capri was just discernible; so that as they tacked in northward towards the harbour the eye was enchanted on every side by the lovely scenery of this enormous lagoon.

  Shortly after four o’clock Roger landed by some steps almost in the shadow of the Castello dell’Ovo. It was Monday, November 9th, and he had received his mission from the Queen only on the proceeding Tuesday, so he had performed his journey in the remarkably short space of five nights and six days. He reckoned that he had made three clear days over a courier by taking post-chaise from Paris to Marseilles; but there his advantage ceased, as the courier would have caught the bottom mentioned by Monsieur Golard as sailing three days after he left, so by chartering the felucca he had actually done little more than maintain his hypothetical lead. But for three days he felt that he could justly consider himself his own master; and if his luck still held he might be detained in Naples for several additional days after he had seen Queen Caroline, while she secured the consent of King Ferdinand to receiving the Dauphin. His three-day voyage had given him ample opportunity to rest his aching bones and sleep his fill; so as he went ashore he was feeling tremendously excited and extremely well.

  During his brief visit to Tuscany he had picked up a few phrases of Italian, but he soon found that the Tuscan tongue differed almost as much from Neapolitan as from Spanish, so he had to fall back on Latin, and accosted a well-dressed passer-by in that language. The stranger told him that all the rich foreign visitors to Naples stayed at Crocielles, and helped him to secure a carozza to take him to this famous hotel.

  He had at first thought of lying low in some quiet lodging till he could find out the lie of the land, but tw
o factors had decided him against it. Firstly, the language difficulty would have proved a perpetual stumbling-block in any arrangements that he wished to make; secondly, he could not bear the thought of wasting a single hour in any place where it was unlikely that he would be unable to obtain news of Isabella. By going to Crocielles it was a certainty that he would find people there who moved in Neapolitan society, so could give him without delay the information he was so anxious to secure.

  The company at Crocielles amply justified his hopes. Half a dozen English milor’s and their families had recently arrived to winter there, a score of French exiles had now made it their headquarters, and there were also a few wealthy Germans. As soon as he had had a meal he got in conversation with several gentlemen who were about to enjoy an evening concert in the music-room, and once more he found that the goddess Fortune was still beaming upon him.

  To begin with the King and Queen were not in Naples. They had gone on a State visit to Sicily and were at present in Palermo; but they were expected back at the end of the week. Nothing could have suited him better as, had they been staying in Sicily longer, it would clearly have been his duty to follow them there; but if he did so now the probability was that he would pass them on their way home, and thus lose several days before he could catch up with them again. By remaining in Naples to await their return he would be acting in the best interests of his mission, and at the same time reap a bonus of an extra day or two for his own affairs.

  While the conversation was on the subject of the Court, he adroitly turned it to the personages about the King and Queen, then asked casually if any of the gentlemen present were acquainted with the Conde and Condesa Sidonia y Ulloa.

  A young wit who was in the party took snuff and said with a snigger: “Who, having once seen the lady with black caterpillars for eyebrows, could ever forget her?”

  Roger could have slain him, but dared show no umbrage, so veiled his eyes and prayed that the red flush he felt mounting to his cheeks would pass unnoticed. Next moment the reflection on his beloved’s beauty was driven from his mind by an older man remarking:

  “If you carry a letter of introduction to Don Diego I fear that you will have no chance of presenting it as yet. He is one of the Court Chamberlains, so from home at the moment, attending Their Majesties in Palermo.”

  Instantly Roger’s spirits soared up like a rocket. The statement surely implied that, of all the times in the year that he might have come to Naples, on just these few days he had earned so hardly he would find Isabella alone, unhampered by a jealous husband. Next second, his spirits fell like lead to his boots. It might equally well, or even better, be implied that she had accompanied her husband to Palermo; in which case those desperately won days would be utterly wasted, and from lack of even a sight of her become as gall and wormwood in his mouth.

  From fear of compromising her, he could not possibly ask the all-important question that itched upon the tip of his tongue; so as soon as he could he excused himself, and next had a word with the hall porter.

  A straight question elicited the fact that the Sidonia y Ulloas lived in a big villa half a mile further up the hill, and the man described its situation so clearly that it would have been difficult for a stranger to fail to find it, even at night. Then he added as an afterthought: “The Conde Diego is at present in Sicily with Their Majesties; but I saw the Condesa drive past in her carriage this morning.”

  Just as Roger could have slain the wit a few minutes earlier, he could now have kissed the porter. Fortune seemed to be wafting him on a magic carpet towards his dearest desires. Yet he did his utmost to conceal his elation, and remarked that, in that case, he must postpone his call.

  Exercising an iron control over feet that itched to run, he sauntered slowly across the hall and upstairs to his room. Having collected his cloak he slipped quickly down a flight of back stairs to a side entrance, and so out into the garden. Darkness had come, and despite the warmth of the day the November night was chilly. Drawing his cloak about him, he slid like a shadow between the oleanders along a path to the road, then turning, he set off in yard-long strides up the hill.

  Within a quarter of an hour he found the villa. It was a big house standing in about three acres of its own grounds. Its front façade was in complete darkness, except for a lantern above the porch. He walked some way round the wall that encircled the garden, hoping to get a full view of the back of the house; but that proved impossible, owing to intervening trees. As far as he could see there were no lights in the upper windows. A sudden depression descended on his mind like a damp, cold hand, as it occurred to him that Isabella might be out at some party and not be returning until the small hours of the morning.

  To find out if she was or was not there now seemed more than ever a matter of desperate urgency. Feverishly he began to hunt for a foothold in the wall. After a few minutes’ search he found one, stuck the toe of his boot in it, kicked off hard with his other foot, grabbed the top of the wall and hauled himself up till he was astride its coping.

  He could see better now. There were lights in three of the downstairs windows. Instantly his depression lifted. Dropping down on the far side of the wall, he thrust his way through a screen of bushes and emerged on to a path. Treading gently now he advanced towards the house. The path ran round a fish-pond, and as he skirted it he could see the lighted windows only from an oblique angle. It was not until the path turned inward again, quite near the house, that he could see into the room on to which the three tall windows gave.

  His view was partially obscured by muslin drapes, but the heavy brocade curtains behind them had not been drawn, so between the drapes three diamond-shaped sections of the interior were visible. The room was long but of only medium height; the windows ran almost up to its ceiling, and Roger now saw that the centre one was really a pair of narrow double-doors that opened on to the garden. He took another few paces forward to get a more direct view of the room. As he did so a section of a woman’s skirt, beyond the nearest muslin drape, came into his line of vision. Next moment he could see the whole figure. It was Isabella.

  She was sitting in a low chair reading a book, and as she read she occasionally took a puff at a long cheroot. Roger knew that many Spanish ladies smoked. He had never seen Isabella do so before, but it occurred to him that perhaps she had been unable to obtain tobacco in that form in France.

  His heart was pounding like a sledge-hammer in his chest. Had he, six nights before in Paris, been presented with a djinn out of the Arabian Nights to do his bidding, it could not have served him better than his own endurance and luck. He could hardly believe it to be true that he had really found his adorable Isabella again—and found her alone. But there she was, within a dozen yards of him. He had only to open the french window and walk through it to hold her in his arms.

  It remained only to let her know of his presence without frightening her and causing her to alarm her household. Stooping, he picked up a few little pieces of lava, from which the path he was standing on was made; then he threw one gently at the window.

  At the faint tap it made she looked up, but after a second reverted to her reading. He threw two more in quick succession. She looked up again, staring straight towards him now, yet not seeing him outside in the dark. He threw another. She closed her book, put down her cheroot, stood up, came over to the window, and opening it a little, called in Spanish: “Who is there?”

  Roger’s voice came in a whisper: “ ’Tis I, dear heart.”

  Isabella stiffened as though she had been struck with a whip; then her hands began to tremble violently, and she almost whimpered: “Rojé! It cannot be true! It cannot be true!”

  He too was quivering as he stepped out of the shadows. She swayed towards him, her arms outstretched. He sprang to meet her, and drew her into an embrace so fierce that it threatened to crush the very bones of her body. Her mouth found his, and melted under it in a delirious, half-swooning kiss.

  Nine hours later, just as dawn was b
reaking, she let him out of the french window, and he stole across the silent garden to the place where he had entered it over the wall. As he straddled it and dropped down on the far side he could well have exclaimed with joy—as did Henry VIII on greeting his courtiers the morning after he had been married to Catherine of Aragon—“Gentlemen, this night I have been in the midst of Spain.”

  Chapter XVII

  The Earthly Paradise

  Those nine hours that Roger spent with Isabella in her great canopied bed passed for the reunited lovers as though they had been no more than ninety minutes. Neither closed an eye except momentarily to savour better the cup of pleasure, and they were not even called upon to control their transports from fear of being overheard. Isabella’s bedroom lay above the garden-room where Roger had found her, and the previous owner of the villa—a beautiful Neapolitan who had been notorious for her amours—had had a narrow staircase connecting the two cut in the end wall of the house, so that whenever she wished she could receive her lovers in secrecy.

  The only other entrance to the bedroom lay through an antechamber in which Maria slept at night. She was in Isabella’s confidence and entirely to be trusted. When Isabella had called her in, and she saw Roger, her fat, honest face had glowed with delight, and she ran to kiss his hand. Now that her mistress was married she would have thought her mind unhinged by shock had she failed to reward her lover for his faithfulness and restraint while she was still unwed. She had gone downstairs and smuggled them up a supper of oysters, cold truffled pheasant pie, tartlets, fruit and wine; then left them to take their joy of one another. So, at long last, when the gods had decided to be kind to these two young people they had grudged them nothing.

  Although the lovers had so much to say to one another, the golden hours sped by so swiftly that when they exchanged their parting kiss it seemed they had said almost nothing. Yet, as Roger made his way, feeling as though he walked on air, back to his hotel, he realised that they had talked of many things.