Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  Cecile cannot bring herself to say more. She is stricken.

  ‘There, there, my love. Soon, we shall be away from this place, and you need never think of these things again.’

  At that moment, the door to Lucrezia’s chamber opens, and another enters the room, the sight of whom rouses a stifled cry from Cecile.

  ‘Mio Dio! You look at me as if I were Lucifer himself, risen from Hell!’ remarks Lorenzo, seating himself upon the foot of the bed.

  ‘Do you smell sulphur?’

  ‘Buongiorno, fratello,’ says Lucrezia, fixing him a steadfast eye.

  ‘Buongiorno, sorella, and good morning my Cecile. How is my bride-to-be this morning? I see that you have been sharing confidences, and that my sister is the first to hear our joyful announcement. She will be delighted, I know, to hear of my victory… in claiming your hand.’

  At this, Cecile buries her head upon Lucrezia’s shoulder, stifling her tears.

  ‘One of the maids has been walking in her sleep again, and has given Cecile a fright, as you see,’ counters Lucrezia, with an arch to her brow. ‘Everyone must lock their doors, and we should supervise more closely, do you not think? We cannot have so much wandering in dark corridors, and the rattling of doors that are not our own.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ says Lorenzo. ‘I believe I saw Lady Cecile wandering herself, last night. One never knows who, or what, one might encounter. I’m sure that our young guest has too vivid an imagination. In the half-light, we see what we wish to see, as well as what we fear. Sometimes, of course, the two are the same. Then again, perhaps it was the White Countess, though the castle has many ghosts, and doors are no hindrance to them.’

  With a sniff, Cecile raises her head. She must be braver, she knows.

  ‘I have warned against these night-prowlings,’ continues Lorenzo. ‘Lady Cecile has been reading her novels, I suppose, and her fancies have taken flight. Women’s minds are too impressionable for such stories.’

  At this, Lucrezia comes to her defence.

  ‘I find that life can be just as provocative as fiction. More so! Tales are not summoned from thin air. They are inspired by real events, often filled with more misery than the brain can fathom.’

  Lucrezia spits the words at her brother.

  ‘Men only rile at us reading such stories for fear of us emulating the transgressions within their pages.’

  ‘I, for instance, might suddenly take a notion to be guided by my namesake, she who used her knowledge of chemistry to poison her rivals, and avenge lovers’ deceit or insult, without fear of detection.’

  ‘Quite true, my dear,’ replies her brother. ‘There’s nothing of which we’re incapable, if only we set our minds to it. Yours, I know only too well, is capable of great adaptability.’

  ‘I’m sure that Lucrezia would never commit such an atrocity,’ declares Cecile, an inner force driving her to speak. ‘What do we have if we lack our code of morality, our good name, and the respect of society?’

  ‘We might say we have our freedom,’ adds Lucrezia, with some fierceness.

  ‘No! I refuse to believe it,’ cries Cecile. ‘Your conscience would feel it too heavily. Whatever you feel, you must allow your nobler feelings to rule.’

  ‘Cara mia, you think too highly of me. I am many things, but I’m no saint,’ replies Lucrezia, a little wearily.

  ‘My sister is also clever.’

  Lorenzo reclines further upon the coverlet.

  ‘If she chooses to poison someone, no one shall suspect her but the worms, who may suffer indigestion at second-hand from her efforts. Fortunately, she knows that were any such malady to befall me, Serpico would avenge me with all alacrity.’

  ‘If I do poison you,’ sneers Lucrezia, ‘It will be to save Cecile from becoming your wife.’

  ‘The next Contessa di Cavour will gain not only status and wealth, but a husband able to satisfy her. What more does a woman want?’

  Saying this, the Conte reaches for Cecile’s hand, raising it to his lips.

  It is all she can do to avoid turning in disgust.

  ‘Wives must take their husbands as they find them,’ he muses.

  ‘And why should a woman take a husband at all?’ retorts Lucrezia.

  ‘Women are mortal flesh, just as men,’ he shrugs. ‘And the flesh must be clothed, and housed, and warmed through the long hours of the night. Many, I find, are only too happy to place themselves in the power of another. The rest must endure their shackles, regardless of discomfort.’ He raises his eyes to Lucrezia, ‘… or desire for escape.’

  ‘Now,’ continues the Conte, rising to leave. ‘Cecile should speak to Magdalena about preparing a wedding feast. While the causeway is clear, I shall ride over to the villa, to tell my future brother-in-law of the happy news. I shall let him know that I’m not one to insist upon a virgin bride, and that I found you to be all that you should be, my dear, to the very point of your acquiescence. He will, I’ve no doubt, agree that the marriage should occur without delay. Servants do gossip and I have a feeling that he shall wish to secure the honourable reputation of his sister.’

  ‘Diavolo!’ hisses Lucrezia.

  ‘The devil is always in fashion. Though I’m told one has to have been good in order to appreciate being bad. The devil is a fallen angel after all.’

  He smiles at Cecile as he opens the door.

  ‘I doubt that I shall join you at dinner, my love, for some other business awaits me. An old friend with whom I have an account to settle. I fear it may take some time to reach satisfaction, and I plan to drive a hard bargain.’

  Between Life and Death

  Any man of reason has pondered that, perhaps, there is no Heaven, nor Hell, no eternal bliss nor damnation. In which case, our actions are of no significance, for good or bad, but that we must live with the memory of them.

  What consequences are there for taking a life? For leaving a man with a mortal wound?

  He’d been tempted to shoot them all dead. Three bullets for three heads. There are few practical skills associated with his class but, at least, he’s used to handling a gun. He knows how to take aim, and gently squeeze the trigger. He can thank his father for that, though it’s years since he’s been obliged to put his marksmanship to the test.

  He’s not one for violence, but how should a man behave when the woman he loves is in danger. What scruples can possibly apply?

  His first bullet had passed clean through a shoulder, the next shattered a knee. The third was never fired. His fury burned no less fiercely, but Henry found himself unable to injure a man who’d prostrated himself upon the floor. It was easy enough to tie them with rope.

  He dares not think what Maud endured in those hours before he found her. Placed before him on his horse, his cloak wrapped tight around her bruised and bloodied body, her back leaning into his chest, she was barely conscious, subdued by her injuries and the potency of her sedative.

  The return journey had been perilous, the steep track turned to mud by the rain. His mare lost its footing more than once, sliding its descent, with rolling, panicked eyes. The obscuring mist lay thick along the coast road. Henry had hugged the cliffs, plodding at a steady pace, and avoiding the worst of the rain by keeping close. To do otherwise would have been too treacherous. And all the while, his hand had lain upon Maud’s heart, comforted by its abiding beat.

  Reaching the villa, he’d slid her from the saddle and carried her in, to the warmth of their bed. She’d roused a little at the removal of her wet clothes, her arms rising to defend herself, yet too weak to open her eyes.

  ‘There, my love, you’re safe now,’ he’d whispered. ‘I’m here, and I shall be here always.’

  * * *

  The hours have passed, Henry fearing to leave her side. The fire has been lit, but still she shivers. Too long in the wet, and her body weakened by its ill-treatment, a fever is consuming her.

  Her pulse falls to barely a flicker, and her breathing is shallow. She is waxen-pale, more sculpt
ure than living woman. Her lips are paper-dry, though he wets them, before passing the sponge about her neck.

  He takes her limp fingers and kisses each one. Slowly, so slowly. He pauses before he reaches the smallest. He presses her palm to his cheek, wanting to hold the moment still. Whatever is to come, he won’t let it in.

  He lays his head upon her chest, seeking to hear her heart, but she’s so still, as if already departed. He speaks her name, but she cannot answer.

  His tears come then, a distillation of his rage and sorrow until, face wet with all he cannot say, he falls asleep, the coverlet damp under his cheek and Maud’s chill fingers still clasped in his.

  * * *

  Her scent is his sustenance. Her lips. Her body.

  The sun rises, bringing with it all the vitality of the day. He opens the window, so the sounds of the garden may enter.

  ‘Be careful when you love something wild,’ she’d said. ‘You may wake one day and find that it has flown, or crept or scampered away, leaving a space which can't be filled by anything tame.’

  ‘Maud, don’t leave me,’ he pleads. ‘You can’t leave.’

  His love for her claws at him, fills him with terror.

  He has spent his life looking for her. How can he bear to lose her, now that she is found?

  * * *

  Maud dreams that she’s climbing a ladder. Something, or someone, is pursuing her. She must reach the top, without knowing where the ladder leads. She dreams that she is on the mortuary slab, dissected. Her organs are removed, one by one. Nothing is hidden. She is laid in the cold earth, in a hole where the worms are waiting for her.

  When she wakes, it’s to the sensation of heaviness on her chest. Her fingers move to push it away but she finds soft curls and the shell of Henry’s ear. His face is rough, stubbled.

  She is thirsty and her body aches, but a feeling of strength is within her too. Her hand has touched the veil which separates us from the next world, and she has lingered long in that dark place. In a slumber deeper than usual sleep, she has tossed between life and death, but she has not surrendered.

  * * *

  When the Conte di Cavour arrives to seek a meeting with Lord McCaulay, he finds the gentleman to be indisposed.

  ‘What a pity,’ Lorenzo remarks to the maid who takes his card. ‘No matter. Give his Lordship my felicitations on his marriage. I have some acquaintance with his charming wife, and will now be delighted to enjoy the same with his sister. I’ll return another day. Perhaps I may join his Lord and Ladyship in taking afternoon tea. Such a civilized custom.’

  The Conte can barely contain his merriment as he mounts his stallion.

  No doubt, he sits in his room and wrings his hands for his abducted darling. Fear not, Lord McCaulay, for she is in my firm custody, and I ride to visit her now. I shall give her every attention, and ensure she remembers the day she spurned the advances of a di Cavour, in favour of the milksop love of an English lord.

  A Foul Plot Thwarted

  ‘Imbecilli! Sciocchi! Li maledica!’

  So many plans carefully laid, conceived over months. And to have them foiled by a mere foppish aristocrat! It’s intolerable!

  Lorenzo’s desire for revenge over the imperious English woman has been long-awaited. No doubt, despite her rescue, she will forever remember her experience as an unpleasant one. However, he has been denied the climax of his own entertainment in the unfolding of this ‘three-act play’. And Lorenzo is accustomed to gaining satisfaction, in all things.

  Damn those peasant imbeciles I engaged to guard her and damn this tunnel!

  Muttering more curses, he tears at a cobweb brushing his neck and returns the lantern to its hook, with a brusqueness that causes the glass on one side to crack.

  Both hands are needed to open the door which leads from this passageway beneath the sands into the dank crypt of the Castello. The tides have fallen particularly inconveniently of late, covering the causeway just at the hours when he needs to move on and off the island. Privacy, like all things, comes at a price, but his bones are not growing any younger. The subterranean damp discomforts him.

  The door has become stuck again, the wood expanding in its frame with the flow of water above. Serpico, walking behind his master, is obliged to put his shoulder to the oak to heave it open.

  ‘I shall block this passageway and have done with it. Better to return to my Siena residence and leave this place altogether. Returning here after so many years travelling has been a mistake,’ grumbles the Conte. ‘Only the contents of the library and my private collection of curios have given me amusement, besides the occasional girl from the village, and such women are to be found anywhere. Serpico, you must arrange transportation. Have them sent on. My artworks too, of course.’

  ‘Sì, maestro,’ nods his manservant.

  He passes by the staircase which would lead him to the chapel, taking instead the third door in the chamber, one hidden in a corner recess.

  ‘Lady Cecile looks fertile enough. Once she is with child, I shall confine her to these walls. As the new Contessa, I may entrust her in watching over what is most inconvenient to me,’ muses Lorenzo, leading the way. ‘It will do very well, and I might visit once or twice a year, to ensure the addition of other di Cavours to the succession.’

  As for this marriage, I shall need to act quickly. If Lady McCaulay realizes my part in her abduction, and confides in her gallant knight, he’ll not only remove Cecile from under my roof, but may call me out in a duel.

  He smiles. The more he ponders on the plan, the greater its attractiveness. He has no desire to have his habits hindered by the presence of a wife and, once he has enjoyed the novelty of her body, he knows well enough that his interest will wane. Her intellect is insufficient to engage him, and her conversation too lacking in sophistication. On state occasions, perhaps, he might have her brought to him, to appear before the royal court. She would do well enough.

  Lucrezia is another matter, he thinks, climbing narrow steps.

  She, I cannot spare. Where I go, she must accompany me. Her defiant outbursts of invective are most appealing. She’ll make a satisfying mistress. Her acquiescence is inconsequential. If offspring are the result, they may be raised alongside my legitimate heirs, here, at Castello di Scogliera.

  ‘Some housekeeping is in order, Serpico,’ says the Conte, stepping over to pour himself a restorative from the decanter. ‘Our guest in the tower has been making herself increasingly meddlesome, and Vittoria is too often careless in securing the bolts. I take no pleasure in the decision, but we must change her accommodation.’

  Sitting in an armchair, he eases off his riding boots.

  ‘Fetch her, Serpico, and secure her in the crypt. The key to the manacles you may place upon the hook at the foot of the stair, alongside those for the other doors. Bring down her bed and other comforts. I fear I cannot trust her with a candle, but you may fix a small lantern high from the ceiling, to be kept lit only during the day. Her mind, I fear, has fallen to such chaos that no recreation may alleviate its suffering. She has no solace in reading or other pastimes, so the lack of greater light may be of little consequence.’

  ‘Naturalmente, maestro,’ replies Serpico.

  ‘I’ve been too soft of heart, and I see it is a failing. I’d hoped to return her to some civilized version of herself, to make amends for the abuses of my father, and calm her troubled spirit. I see that my hopes were in vain. Some wounds cannot be undone, the scars running too deep. A woman’s mind, as well as her body, lacks the strength of a man’s. It is one of life’s truths, is it not Serpico?’

  With a concurring bow, his vassal departs.

  Lorenzo’s eyes alight on the pair of ancestral pistols mounted above the fireplace.

  In the event of a duel, my aim is true enough, but I dislike uncertain outcomes. Better to settle all, with my bride’s signature upon the register, and oblige the English milksop to call me ‘brother’.

  Pouring another large brandy, t
he Conte finds his spirits lifting. How satisfying it is to see events turned so amusingly to his advantage.

  Entrapment

  Cecile wakes to the shutter banging and finds the window ajar.

  Fresh air is what she needs, and she gives the window a great push, leaning out to let the breeze catch her hair. The open sea is below, glinting with the reflection of a thousand scattered stars. Her eyes traverse the wall, which drops straight onto the rocks, forming part of the sheer cliff. If she were to be locked in this room, there would be no escape.

  She has an image, suddenly, of Lorenzo scaling the side, like a creature of the night, unnaturally, as in that story by Mr. Stoker, of wolves and devilry and eternal damnation.

  Perhaps she does read too many novels, or novels of the wrong sort.

  But I’m sure that those who write such things draw not only from their imagination. The wickedness of those supernatural characters must be inspired by the true, baser nature of man.

  The sea is rough, carrying a salted mist even as far as her window. The gulls have tucked themselves in the nooks of the granite, out of the way of the wind’s whims.

  She breathes deeply, then reaches to pull the window in. Her arm being not quite long enough, she’s obliged to fetch her dressing table stool and, with one hand holding the frame, stretches for the handle. In doing so, she catches sight of the terrace below, where two stand together.

  The hands of one are about the other, pushing away then pulling close, voices raised and then quiet. She cannot make them out, but one is a man and one a woman.

  A midnight tryst? wonders Cecile. Raphael and Vittoria are courting, Lucrezia tells her. Perhaps they’ve stolen out to share a kiss.

  Not wishing to intrude, Cecile reaches once more to tug the window handle, but the wind carries those voices upward, and she recognizes the tones of brother and sister.