The Rising Storm

by Dennis Wheatley

  The following morning it was with something of a shock that Roger realised that it was Monday, and that he had been a week in Naples. It had been a marvellous week, unforgettable as one of unalloyed enjoyment. He had spent every night of it in Isabella’s arms and the greater part of each day with her beside him.

  Every afternoon had brought a renewal of this lovely carefree existence, where with a little group of charming, laughing companions they had eaten of all the delicacies that sea and land provided, then wandered hand in hand through enchanted gardens.

  None of the country villas compared with most of the châteaux he had seen in France. Their furnishings were usually either very old or else tawdry; grass grew between the paving-stones of the terraces and moss upon their steps. The liveries of the footmen were often worn and shabby; but they showed no servility, and seemed as happy to serve a meal as their masters and mistresses were to eat it. Everyone laughed at the most stupid things, and the servants joined in the jokes that were made at table. They gathered round too afterwards, when to a highly appreciative audience the cavaliers read aloud to the assembled company poems that they had written in praise of the charms of their respective ladies.

  Sometimes there had been older people in the parties, but never by a word or look had they suggested that there was anything improper in their juniors pairing off to spend the latter part of the afternoons in amorous dalliance. They had remained, dozing or playing a quiet game of cards up in a sunny, sheltered angle of the house, while the younger people wandered down on to the lower terraces until the colours of the gay silks and satins that they wore disappeared among the greenery of the gardens.

  And what wonderful gardens they were! Roger knew that he would never forget their flights of old stone steps, tall candle-like cypresses, ilexes gently whispering in the breeze, miniature cascades, fountains with naiads, tritons and dolphins whose jets of water softly plashed into marble basins; their busts of long-dead Roman Emperors posed on pedestals in bays of clipped yew; their temples to Flora, Diana and Apollo; arbours, rockeries and grottos; their little pavilions, belvederes and semi-circular balustraded view-points, from which lovely vistas opened on to the tranquil bay.

  In each there had been a hundred places in which to steal a kiss, or more; and about the light, ethereal loves of these friends of Isabella there had seemed not the least suggestion of sordidness. They gave the impression that they were living again the pastoral loves of shepherds and shepherdesses from the writings of the ancient Greeks; and had created here a new Olympus.

  Roger recalled a morning, now over two years ago, when he had gone to call on his clever friend Monsieur de Talleyrand-Périgord. The Abbé, as he was then, had just returned from dinner, followed by an all-night entertainment, given by Madame du Barri at her château at Luciens, where, in her retirement, she lived in almost fabulous luxury. De Périgord had that day predicted the upheavals that had since occurred in France, and were now sweeping all culture, beauty and light-heartedness away; and, with a sad shake of his handsome head, he had remarked: “Mon ami. Those who have not had the good fortune to have lived in Paris before the Revolution will never know what it is like to have lived at all.” Yet Roger felt that could the cynical Bishop have spent a week in Naples he would have been compelled to alter his opinion.

  But his own week was up. It had gone with incredible rapidity. Tomorrow Their Majesties would be back in Naples. Then, within a few hours, he would be forced to leave this earthly paradise.

  Chapter XVIII

  Desperate Measures

  Now that Roger faced the issue, he knew that it would be futile to buoy himself up with false hopes of further delays. His mission was an urgent one, so it would receive prompt consideration; and immediately a decision upon it was taken he must return to France. Even should circumstances postpone his actual departure for a day or two, the gates of paradise were now closing against him with a terrifying rapidity. When Their Majesties landed tomorrow Don Diego would land with them. Tonight was the last he would be able to spend with Isabella.

  In the morning he must give her back the key she had lent him to the garden gate, to save him having to climb over the wall. Don Diego used that key and gate. He was in the habit of coming in at all hours of the night by it; and Isabella had said that after his return nothing would induce her to receive her lover in the house, from fear that they might meet going or coming in the garden.

  The more Roger thought of his approaching departure the deeper his gloom became. Now that he had lived with Isabella she meant even more to him than she had before. To give her up would be worse than tearing off one of his own limbs. He felt that he positively could not bring himself to do it. Yet there seemed no other alternative.

  The gods, too, seemed suddenly to have deserted him. He had been blessed with a week of marvellous sunshine, but at last the weather had broken, and it had turned to rain. They had for that day accepted an invitation from the Prince and Princess Siglio to join a party going out to Lake Agnano. The Princess’s younger sister had recently entered a convent in that neighbourhood, so they were to lunch at the Convent, then spend the afternoon in the gardens of the Prince’s villa, which stood perched on the cliff that separated the lake from the sea.

  Now that it was raining Roger feared that the party might be put off or, almost as bad from his point of view, they would have to spend the afternoon indoors. To his great relief, a messenger arrived in the middle of the morning with a note from the Princess to let him know that as lunch had been arranged for them at the Convent they would go there in any case; and they could then see if an improvement in the weather made it worth while to go on to the villa.

  To Roger the lunch party was a strange experience. On arriving at the Convent he and his friends were conducted to a big room which was divided in two by a partition wall; but in the centre of the wall there was a fifteen-foot-wide archway, from the top of which a grille of iron bars, about ten inches apart, ran right down to the floor. In both halves of the room tables had been laid for a dozen people, and one end of each was separated from the other only by the grille, so that the two tables had the effect of one long one. The visitors sat on one side and on the other the Mother Superior, several pretty young nuns, and three jolly-looking priests. Both parties were served with the same rich food and wines, made merry with the same zest, and unblushingly exchanged the latest scandals and risqué stories.

  Isabella told Roger afterwards that many young women preferred going into a nunnery to marriage, as it relieved them of all responsibility; and in the Kingdom of Naples these girls still enjoyed the great degree of freedom which, until comparatively recently, had for many centuries been customary in all Catholic countries. They had their love affairs with their confessors, and sometimes even secret ones with laymen, who managed to smuggle themselves into the convents disguised as gardeners, friars and workmen. But they were never burdened with the cares of rearing children, as their infants were taken from them at birth. If the mother was rich her child was put out to nurse; if not it was quietly strangled and buried in the garden. Roger considered himself broadminded but, for once, he found himself shocked.

  By three o’clock the weather had cleared a little, so it was decided to go on to the villa. From it the views both to seaward and inland were beautiful beyond expression. In the clear water of the lake deer were drinking, and bright kingfishers skimmed through the reeds on its shore. But to Roger’s intense annoyance it came on to rain again, so love-making in the garden was out of the question; a card party was made up, and he and Isabella had no option but to join it.

  That night, for the first hour or two, they said little, but their embraces took on an almost desperate fervour. Then, towards morning, Roger suddenly made up his mind to commit himself to a course of action with which he had been toying, on and off, all day.

  “Isabella!” he cried at last, in an agony of passion. “I cannot give you up! I cannot! Not for good! ’Tis too much to be required of any h
uman being. I must return to France, I know. But as soon as I have concluded my mission I mean to come back to Naples and settle here.”

  He knew that to do so meant the end of his career, and that his private means were far from adequate to support the expensive tastes he had acquired in the past few years; but he felt sure that he could count on Sir William to find him some sort of post in Naples, and he was prepared to tackle any job provided it enabled him to remain near Isabella.

  For a moment she remained silent, then she said sadly: “Nay, Rojé. You must not do that. My heart is aching as much as yours; but at least we have been blessed with this wonderful week to look back upon; and now we must face our cruel separation bravely. I forbid you to return. Your doing so would create a situation that I shudder to think of.”

  “Why should it?” he burst out. “Every woman here has her lover; more, most of them give themselves to one man after another as they list, yet none of their husbands takes serious notice of their infidelities.”

  She shook her head. “My husband is not like the rest. If he found out that you were my lover, he would kill you.”

  “Nay, sweet. You are allowing your fears to run away with your imagination.”

  “I am not, Rojé! I am not! Remember he is a Spaniard; and not even one who was brought up here. True Spaniards hold the honour of their wives more precious than their own lives. Don Diego despises the Neapolitan gentlemen for their laxness. I have heard him voice that opinion. If he found us out I swear that he would kill you.”

  Isabella’s unexpected opposition had only the effect of making Roger more set than ever in his resolve to make her the be-all and end-all of his future. In the past week a score of people had told him how lovely Naples was in the spring, with its almond and peach blossom, its fields gay with crocuses, its gardens scented with magnolias and stephanotis; and how joyous the nights could be during the heat of summer, with dancing in the open under the stars, moonlight bathing parties, and trips across the phosphorescent water to Ischia and Capri. It seemed to him at the moment that only a fool would wear himself out intriguing to obtain information in cold northern Courts if, instead, he was capable of earning the modest competence which would enable him to live as Isabella’s lover in this lotus land. Turning towards her, he said earnestly:

  “Listen, my love. Even though I think your fears to be exaggerated, I will take your word for it that should Don Diego believe his honour touched upon he will prove dangerous. We will, then, deny him all chance of proving that we have given him a pair of horns. I promise you that I will make no attempt to come to you in secret here. Quetzal can act as our confidential messenger, and I will content myself with such opportunities as are bound to offer from our meeting several times a week at the houses of our friends. To that your husband can raise no objection.”

  “Oh, Rojé! Rojé!” Isabella sighed. “How can you be so blind to the inevitable result of this course that you propose? ’Tis an old saying that there is safety in numbers; and that is the protection of most of these Neapolitan ladies. They change their beaux so lightheartedly that no one is ever certain if any one of their affairs has ever reached its logical conclusion. On that account ’tis near impossible for even a jealous husband actually to pin anything upon them. But I could not bring myself to flirt with other men, neither could I support the thought of your making love to other women, even as a cover. In a few weeks our fidelity would become conspicuous, and my husband would have only to watch us for a little when together to realise our love, and be certain that we were deceiving him. His Spanish pride would never stomach the thought that other men might be laughing at him, and in the end your life would prove the forfeit for your attachment to me.”

  “Be not too certain of that,” Roger murmured truculently. “I am accounted no bad swordsman, and did he challenge me I would be most happy to meet him. Such a conversation might well prove a swift way out of all our difficulties.”

  Isabella flung her arms about his neck, and began to sob. “My own! My loved one! ’Tis clear you have not the understanding of a child upon such matters. In Spain, a husband who believes he has been wronged does not consider himself called upon to expose himself to the blade of his wife’s lover. He hires others to do his business. To return here as you suggest would be to expose yourself to the dagger of an assassin.”

  Roger was no coward; but her tearful words shook him badly, and conjured up the most horrid visions. For weeks, and perhaps months, all might go well; he would lead that carefree sybaritic life he had visualised and discreetly enjoy Isabella’s favours; then one dark night when he least expected it he would be caught off his guard, and die in the gutter with a bravo’s stiletto plunged to its hilt between his shoulderblades.

  Yet his pride would not let him give way altogether, and they parted in the dawn, knowing that they would meet the following afternoon, but with nothing settled.

  On the Tuesday it rained again; but not sufficiently heavily for King Ferdinand to forgo the public welcome that it had been arranged for him to receive on his return; and by eleven o’clock the clouds dispersed to let the sun come through. The streets were decked with flags; carpets, tapestries and gaily coloured rugs were hung over balconies and from windows. Just before midday Roger and Isabella met at the Francavilla mansion, to which a party had been invited to witness the procession.

  Both the Neapolitans and their King loved a show, so half the army had been turned out to line the route; and, to keep the populace amused while they waited for the Sovereigns, a score or more of triumphal cars had been decorated and manned to drive up and down the main thoroughfares. These cars were a feature of Neapolitan public holidays and were always brought out in different guises for the great pre-Lenten Carnival, the summer Battle of Flowers, and other festivities. Most of them were huge vehicles drawn by as many as twenty oxen, and they now moved up and down with their loads of bacchantes, mermaids and acrobats escorted by groups of absurd masked figures on enormous stilts. Meanwhile, bands played, cannon thundered and salvoes of musketry crashed out from the port.

  At length the cavalcade came in view; trumpeters, outriders, cavalry; the King’s favourite regiment, the Volontari della Marina, in their uniforms of green with scarlet facings and yellow buttons; then the great gilded coach of the Sovereigns, surrounded by the Guardia del Corpo.

  As soon as Roger saw it in the distance he drew Isabella back from the balcony into the room. He had been waiting impatiently for that moment, knowing that his one chance to get a few words alone with her would be while the attention of the rest of the party was held by the high-light of the procession. Without wasting an instant, he said:

  “If you are still unshakable in your refusal to allow me to return to Naples, will you, instead, elope with me?”

  She drew in a sharp breath; then exclaimed: “No, Rojé! No! What you ask is impossible!”

  He had gone very white, but he tried to control his voice, as he hurried on: “I know that it is much to ask; but there is nothing impossible about it. You know that you can trust yourself to me, and that I would never desert you. When we reached England we could say that we had been married abroad. I swear that in all things I would treat you as my wife; and no one would ever know that we had not been joined in wedlock.”

  “In time it would leak out,” she quavered. “The Spanish and Neapolitan Ambassadors at the Court of St. James would be certain to hear the story of our elopement. I love you, Rojé! Oh, I love you dearly! But to do as you wish would bring public shame on me, and mar your own future. We could not be received anywhere together once it became known that I was living with you as your mistress.”

  “We would live very quietly in the country for a time, until …”

  The cheers on the balcony had died away, and the guests were beginning to drift in to the refreshment buffet. Roger’s last sentence was cut short by a fat, garrulous Abbé coming up to them and interrupting their conversation with platitudes about how fortunate it was that the rai
n had cleared off for the procession. Two ladies joined their group, and in the half-hour that followed it proved impossible to resume their conversation. It was not until just as Isabella was leaving that Roger managed to get another few swift words alone with her.

  “When shall I see you again?” he whispered.

  “Tonight at the Opera. There is a gala performance. Everyone is going.”

  “There will be no chance for us to talk in private. I beg you to come here again, later this afternoon.”

  “I cannot. I have not seen my husband yet. He will expect me to be at home, so that he can tell me all that occurred during the royal visit to Sicily.”

  “Tomorrow morning, then?”

  “Yes, at twelve o’clock.”

  “Can you not make it earlier? I may have to attend upon Their Majesties.”

  “Nay! I dare not. There is no possible excuse that I could give for leaving the house appreciably in advance of my usual hour.”

  There was not time to argue, as neighbours of Isabella, who had brought her and were carrying her home in their coach, were already waiting for her on the stairs. So he could only kiss her hand and murmur: “So be it, then. Here, at midday tomorrow.”

  That evening he accompanied Sir William Hamilton to the fine new San Carlo Theatre, for the gala performance. The diplomat had his own box and he remarked to Roger that, much as he enjoyed his rolls in the Mediterranean and climbs up Vesuvius in summer, it made a pleasant change of diversion to come there any night he felt inclined when the real winter had set in, and there was ice in the streets of Naples. Roger found it difficult to imagine Naples under snow, but gave the matter little thought as he was anxiously scanning the other boxes for Isabella and her husband.