The Rising Storm

by Dennis Wheatley

  She opened the matter by remarking that she thought that Avignon, being in the centre of southern France, should form part of the French King’s dominions instead of belonging to the Popes.

  He replied: “I entirely agree. But since the Roman Church needs revenues to support its dignitaries it would naturally be loath to give up territories such as this from which it derives them.”

  She shook her head. “Through the centuries the Cardinals and other great Prelates have acquired the habit of living in pomp and luxury, but I think it contrary to the true interests of their calling. Priests, whatever their rank, should be humble, clean-living men, and if they were so their simple wants could be amply provided for by donations of the faithful, without their possessing any territories at all.”

  Roger looked at her in some surprise. “Again I agree; but I must confess that I find it somewhat strange to hear such sentiments expressed by a Catholic.”

  “That perhaps is because, not being one yourself, you are ill-informed regarding modern thought in the highest lay circles of the most Catholic countries. Did you not know that it was my father who expelled the Jesuits from Spain?”

  “Indeed I did not.”

  “It was so, and for excellent reasons. The Order of St. Ignatius had become the most glaring example of all that true servants of Christ should not be. In all but lip-service they had long abandoned their religious duties and, instead, devoted themselves to politics and intrigue. Worse still, in our South American Empire they had acquired vast territories which they ruled according to their own will and often in defiance of the King’s commands. Their greed was such that they ground down the natives and treated them with the utmost barbarity to extract the last centimo from them. The tyranny they exercised would have shamed any King, and their arrogance was such that they even kept their own armies; so that my father was compelled to dispossess them of their lands by force of arms.”

  “You amaze me,” murmured Roger. “I knew nothing of all this.”

  Isabella shrugged. “That is not surprising, as it occurred twenty years ago and in a distant land. But there are other Orders that are near as irreligious as the Jesuits, and many of the convents in Spain and Italy are sinks of immorality; so I hope the time will come when they too will be suppressed.“

  “Such views might almost lead one to suppose that you incline to the Reformed Religion,” Roger remarked after a slight hesitation.

  “Then I fear I have misled you; for it stands to reason that all the Protestant Churches are founded on error. They owe their creation to men who have rebelled against Rome, either from pride or, like your Henry the Eighth, for the purpose of giving their own sinful ends a semblance of legality. Our Lord charged St. Peter with the founding of His Church and there has been no divine revelation since to justify any departure from the Apostolic Succession.”

  “Yet certain of the Popes have been far worse men than bluff King Hal of England.”

  “I do not deny it. Have I not just been deploring the type of life which has been led by many high dignitaries of the Church of Rome from mediaeval times onwards?”

  “And how do you support your theory of the Apostolic Succession when we know that at one period the legally elected Pope lived here in Avignon while another in Rome wore the Triple Tiara? Half a century later, too, there were three of them each claiming to be God’s Vicar on Earth, and all three were deposed in order to heal the schism by the elevation of a fourth who owed nothing to any of the others. In that upheaval of the Church the direct line from St. Peter was clearly broken.”

  “Such unfortunate disruptions and the personalities of the Popes themselves have no bearing on the matter. It is the unbroken teaching of the Church which counts. That enshrines the tradition of near two thousand years, and all the interpretations of the sayings of our Lord by the truly pious early Fathers remain unaltered within it.”

  “As a Protestant, I would maintain that the interpretation arrived at by the great Divines, who led the Reformation, have as much right to be considered valid as those made by monks and missionaries living in the third and fourth centuries of our era.”

  Isabella turned to smile at him. “Then ’tis fruitless for us to argue the matter. But this much I will admit. From what I have heard I believe the majority of your pastors do lead holier lives than those of our priests. And I cannot think that the way to Heaven lies only in the slavish observance of ritual; for Christ could not be so unmerciful as to reject any who follow His teaching according to their honest convictions.”

  As they drove back to their hotel Roger wondered what other surprises Isabella might have in store for him. Of the many French Catholics he had met the great majority had either taken their religion lightly and so much as a matter of course as scarcely to think about it, or had been secretly Freethinkers. Isabella’s obvious faith coupled with broadmindedness was an entirely new brand of Catholicism to him, but the basis of it was clearly derived from her strong-minded father’s contempt for a decadent priesthood.

  On reaching the Crillon they found other matters to concern them. In their absence the Señora had become markedly worse. She was now feverish and complained of severe pains in her stomach. A doctor was sent for, who prescribed the almost universal remedy of the times and proceeded to bleed her. He was an elderly man and seemed sensible and competent, so when he was about to depart Roger waylaid him and raised the question of his foot.

  The chirurgeon in Nevers had said that it should be kept in plaster for from two to three weeks, and now that a fortnight had elapsed Roger was anxious to get free of the heavy encumbrance that prevented him from walking. Moreover, he knew that even after the plaster had been removed it would take him a few days to regain the full use of his leg, and they were now only that distance by coach from Marseilles, where he would have to part from Isabella and look after himself on his voyage to Leghorn.

  The doctor agreed to do the job there and then, so a small hammer was sent for and the plaster broken away. It was then found that Roger’s healthy flesh had healed perfectly; but when he put his foot to the ground he could not stand on it, so he had to be assisted as usual to the table for supper.

  As the next day was again a Sunday they had already planned to allow time for church, then to set off at eleven o’clock for Orgon; but before they retired that night Roger gave it as his opinion that the Señora would not be well enough to travel again till the Monday.

  However, on the Sunday morning she seemed much better. She declared that the weakness she still felt was due only to the doctor having bled her the previous evening, and, although they urged her not to, she insisted on getting up to attend Mass.

  Every day during the past week Roger and Isabella had succeeded in snatching a few brief, blissful interludes alone together, but they had been looking forward to a full, uninterrupted hour on this Sunday morning with a longing by no means untinged with disturbing thoughts. Neither had again referred to the all too short duration that an arbitrary Fate seemed to have set upon their love-making, but both were very conscious that the hour of their parting was now imminent, and that the Señora’s attendance at church might provide their last opportunity of any length to give free vent to their feelings for one another.

  Yet, in the circumstances, Isabella felt she could hardly again pretend an indisposition, as she had planned to do; since her duenna was still so obviously not fully recovered it would have been callous in the extreme not to accompany her. Therefore, reluctant as she was to do so, she got ready for church with the others, and after giving Roger a glance conveying her disappointment went off with them, leaving him to practise hobbling about on his game leg.

  It was as well she did so, as half-way through the service the Señora was first overcome by a fainting fit, then, on their getting her outside, was taken with a violent vomiting. As soon as they got her back to the hotel she was put to bed and the doctor sent for again. He said he thought that she was suffering from some form of food poisoning and gav
e her an emetic, after which he bled her again, both of which processes weakened her still further.

  That afternoon she became delirous and when the doctor called in the evening he could only shake his head. He told them that the emetic and bleeding should have purged the ill-humours from her system, so everything now depended on the strength of her constitution. In view of the soundness of her vital organs he thought her condition far from desperate but could give no further opinion until it was seen how she got through the night.

  Isabella was terribly distressed and declared her intention of sitting up all night with her old gouvanante. Both Roger and Maria pressed her to let them take turns at watching by the sick woman, but she would not hear of it and insisted on their going to bed.

  For a long time the delirious mutterings from the far end of the big room kept Roger awake, and even after they had ceased he found himself unable to do more than doze; so when Isabella tiptoed over to him at about two o’clock in the morning he was instantly wide awake. Stooping over him, she whispered:

  “My love; she has just woken and is fully conscious. Her fever seems to have abated and I think she is much better. But she has expressed a wish to speak to you, and alone. I pray you go to her while I wait out on the landing. Restrain her from talking as far as you can, dear one, for ’tis of the utmost importance that she should conserve her strength.”

  With a whispered word of endearment Roger got up, pulled on his robe de chambre, and as Isabella left the room, limped over to the Señora’s bed.

  At the sight of him the old lady’s eyes brightened perceptibly, and she began to speak slowly in Spanish. Knowing how little he as yet understood of that language she used simple phrases, choosing her words with great care, and where she found difficulty in expressing herself simply she here and there substituted a word or two of Church Latin.

  “Señor Rojé” she began. “I am nearly seventy. I am very ill. Perhaps my time has come. Perhaps the Holy Virgin is calling me. Tomorrow I may not be able to speak to you.”

  With a feeble gesture she waved aside his protest and went on: “You love the Señorita Isabella. I know it. She loves you. It is a fire that burns in both. Without me she will be defenceless. She is very headstrong. If you lift your finger she will give all. Then she will wish to remain with you. But soon she will have bitter regret. Her whole life ruined. I beg you not to tempt her. To reject her even. Then her pride will make her leave you and go on to Naples. I beg you save her from herself, and let her go.”

  Roger had failed to grasp a word here and there, but he understood her meaning perfectly. It had not previously even occurred to him that if the Señora died, Isabella, finding herself free from restraint, might refuse to go through with her projected marriage. Staring down at the big, once-handsome face on the rumpled pillows, that now, in the candle-light, appeared a frightening mask, he nodded assent.

  The old duenna gathered her remaining strength and whispered: “You must be strong for both. You will not bring shame and regret upon her. I know you will not. If you are cold towards her the fire she feels for you will in time die down. Promise me… Promise me that you will not make the Señorita Isabella your mistress.”

  Feeling that he could not possibly reject such a plea, Roger said firmly: “I promise.” The Señora smiled at him, took one of his hands in hers for a moment and pressed it gently, then closed her eyes.

  Limping over to the door he beckoned Isabella inside; and on her asking in a low voice what her duenna had wanted with him, he replied: “She is anxious that you should get some rest, so asked me to sit by her for the rest of the night.”

  At seven o’clock the doctor came. He thought the patient slightly better and hoped that the crisis would be passed by midday. But by ten o’clock the Señora had become delirious again, and Isabella, now in tears, decided to send for a priest.

  Half an hour later the tinkling of the mournful little bell, that announces the passing of the Host through the street, was wafted to them on the hot air coming through a window that Roger, in defiance of French medical practice, had insisted on opening.

  For a while the priest sat with them. Then, as the sick woman seemed to be getting weaker and showed no sign of returning consciousness, he administered extreme unction. At a quarter past twelve the Señora Poeblar was dead.

  Isabella was utterly distraught, so Roger took charge of all arrangements. The muscles of his foot were getting back their life, so with the aid of a stick he was now able to hobble about fairly rapidly. He had Maria put her mistress to bed in another room and move all their things there; and had his own moved by Pedro to a separate apartment. Quetzal he sent out to go fishing in the river with Hernando. Then he saw an undertaker, had the Señora laid out surrounded by tall candles, gave the priest money to send people to pray by her body, and settled the hour at which the funeral should take place on the following day.

  He did not see Isabella again until the funeral. At it she wore a mantilla of black lace so heavy that it was impossible to see the expression on her face, but it seemed that her calm was restored as she did not break down during the ordeal. As Roger gave her his arm to lead her to the coach she pressed it slightly, but she addressed no word to him, except to thank him formally in a low tone for the trouble he had been to on her behalf. On their return he escorted her up to her room, but as she did not invite him inside he left her at the door. He thought that she would probably send for him that evening, but she did not, so he supped on his own again and wondered with some anxiety what developments the next day would bring.

  On the Tuesday at ten o’clock she sent Quetzal to him with a note, which simply said that she would like him to take her for a drive, so would he order a fiacre and fetch her in half an hour’s time.

  When he went to her room he found her ready dressed to go out, but much to his surprise her costume displayed no trace of mourning. Catching his thought she said with a smile:

  “I have decided that from today I will start a new life, so with the old one I have put off my mourning.”

  Her declaration filled him with instant perturbation, but he tried to hide it by replying, somewhat inadequately: “I too have always felt that the dead would prefer us to think of them as happy, rather than have us wear the trappings of gloom to symbolise their memory.” Then he offered her his arm to take her downstairs.

  As she left the room she remarked: “I am taking neither Maria nor Quetzal with me, since ’tis as well that they should recognise from the beginning my new freedom to be alone with you when I wish.”

  Such an indication of the form she meant her new life to take redoubled his uneasiness, and with his promise to the Señora Poeblar only too present in his mind, he said seriously: “All the same, my dear one, I am very anxious not to compromise you.”

  “I know you too well to believe otherwise,” she smiled. “But a carriage drive at midday will hardly do that; and soon there will be no need for us to worry ourselves about such matters.”

  At her words he felt at once both reassured and miserable. Evidently the Señora had overestimated Isabella’s passion for him, or her sense of duty was so strong that she had no intention of allowing herself to be led into betraying Don Diego before their marriage. He had feared that to keep his promise he would be called on to exert his utmost strength of will, but it seemed clear now that while she meant to make the most of her last few days with him she had no thought of using her freedom to allow him to become her lover. Yet his relief at escaping the ordeal of having to refuse such a delectable temptation was now more than offset by his unhappiness at the thought that in a few days she would be on a ship bound for Naples, and lost to him for ever.

  They drove out of the city by the Port Crillon and, turning left, along under the great castellated wall, until they reached the river. Some way along its bank they came to a low eminence from which there was a fine view of the broad, eddying torrent, and here Isabella called on the driver to stop.

  It was again a
gloriously sunny day, and neither of them spoke for a few moments while they admired the view across the rippling water to the further shore.

  Then Roger stole a glance at Isabella. The thought that he was so soon to lose her now caused him an actual physical pain in the region of his solar plexus. Here in the strong sunshine of the south her skin no longer had even a suggestion of sallowness but appeared a lovely golden brown. Her dark eyebrows seemed to blend naturally into it, her black ringlets shimmered with light where they caught the sun, her lips were a full, rich red and her profile delicate. And he knew her to be the most gentle, honest and lovable of companions.

  Turning, she caught his glance and said: “Well, you have not yet asked me what my new mode of life is to be.”

  “Tell me,” he smiled. “My only wish is that it will bring you happiness.”

  “Then your wish is granted,” she smiled back. “For it lies solely with you to ensure it. I have made up my mind not to go to Naples. Instead I intend to make you a most devoted wife.”

  Chapter IX

  Mediterranean Idyll

  Had the bottom fallen out of the carriage Roger could not have been more shaken. From the beginning the possibility of marrying Isabella had appeared so fantastically remote that he had never given it a second thought. That she should secretly become his mistress for a brief season had always been by no means improbable, as, provided they were circumspect, she could have done so without sacrificing anything except, possibly, her virginity. But by marrying him she would at once lose her status as a great lady and the obvious highroad to a brilliant future, besides being repudiated by her family and excommunicated by her Church.

  Quite unsuccessfully he strove to hide his amazement and confusion; but as it had not even entered her mind that he might be unwilling to marry her, she took them as a charming compliment and was simply joking when she said: “Will you have me for a wife, Monsieur, or must I cast myself into the river and die a virgin?”