Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

Cecile smiles. It’s the sort of romance she’s always dreamt of for herself.

  ‘We can have anything our heart desires. The tricky thing is determining what that is exactly. Are you having trouble deciding, Cecile?’

  She does not trust herself to speak, but Agatha seems to sense, at least in part, the anxieties of love.

  ‘I knew Lorenzo’s father well. What poor Isabella endured! He was a reprobate and a gambler, and a seducer of women. Look at our young Lucrezia, born of his affair with that Milanese singer.’

  Agatha gives a sniff of disapproval.

  ‘Talented she may have been, but no good sense at all, abandoning her baby and throwing herself from the roof of the opera house! It’s the stuff of those Penny Dreadfuls!’

  Cecile wonders, faced with the same situation, how she would behave. The thought of such a thing brings a flux of bile to her throat.

  ‘The old Conte paid to house Lucrezia in a place for… unwanted children, and she was conveniently kept away from polite society,’ continues Agatha.

  Cecile shifts in her seat, uncomfortable in discussing the details of Lucrezia’s upbringing. Though, she knows that her new friend would care not a jot. It’s one of the things Cecile most admires about Lucrezia: that she rises above the commonplace need for approbation.

  ‘I must warn you,’ Agatha adds, ‘Lorenzo has followed the same path of riotousness as his father before him. He’s charming, of course, when he chooses to be. Enough women have fallen at his feet. Some even fool themselves into thinking him besotted.’

  Cecile picks at the embroidery on a cushion.

  ‘Still, we must give credit where it’s due,’ concedes Agatha. ‘Lorenzo took up Lucrezia’s guardianship on his father’s death, and has kept her close ever since. She’s become quite a lady. One would never guess…’

  She gives Cecile’s hand an affectionate squeeze.

  ‘It’s best to know something of the world, my dear, and navigate it wisely. Young women are too often brought up with their heads in the clouds.’

  ‘Are all men like this?’ asks Cecile.

  Agatha hesitates to answer.

  ‘Not all,’ she replies. ‘Maud tells me that Henry worships her. A true love match, it seems.’

  ‘Yes,’ agrees Cecile, remembering her many hours alone on their travels through Europe. ‘Maud understands Henry, better than me, I sometimes think. She makes him happy, at least.’

  Agatha is right, that she has much to learn. Cecile shall begin by taking up Kipling’s Indian Tales.

  They’re written by a man so they must have some wisdom to impart, she decides.

  Moreover, they appeal to her desire to know of foreign places. Above all, she has set her heart on understanding more, feeling she knows so little.

  * * *

  Today, Lucrezia has decided they are to have a breakfast picnic. She sends a note to Cecile’s room, instructing her to come to the second terrace, where a table has been set. ‘No corset!’ she has written in her large, looping hand.

  ‘How comfortable you look,’ says Lucrezia, when Cecile appears in her muslin dress, descending the steps with evident ease. ‘Now, you may eat as many pancakes as you like, warm from the griddle. Nothing to hinder you!’

  She passes the honey, having poured it liberally onto her own plate.

  In the bold sunshine, the events of the night seem but phantasms. Cecile determines to put her schoolgirl silliness behind her. Her imagination has been unruly, and she has invented absurdities.

  Still, she cannot help but probe a little. Lucrezia will know, surely, who it is that so startled Cecile. The servants cannot all be in the habit of midnight-wandering, scratching at doors.

  ‘Ah yes,’ replies Lucrezia, spooning the last of the fig compote from the jar, directly into her mouth. ‘There is nothing to worry over, my Cecile. It is only Vittoria. She sleepwalks, and is apt to much strange behaviour.’

  ‘Still,’ she adds, with more seriousness, ‘It’s better not to disturb such people when they wake in the night. Keep your door locked, and ignore whatever you hear. Doors are best locked in this castle anyway. My brother is fond of the company of young women, and the temptation of your unlatched door may be too much for him. Do not allow yourself to become his plaything, Cecile. Remember, if you will, the fate of my mother. Remember, poor Livia...’

  Really, thinks Lucrezia, taking up a peach, and a knife to peel it with, if she chooses to ignore me, she deserves all that falls upon her head!

  However, Cecile readily gives her assurance. She is yet to decide how she feels about the Conte. His passion is flattering, but she must be the stronger party in this question of propriety. Perhaps, this is how it is with all men, before they accept the soothing regularity of the wedded state. How can she judge?

  It would not be unpleasant to call myself a countess, muses Cecile, and to be mistress of this garden, and the castle. I could travel, seeing countries I know only from the atlas. And, once wed, would he not give up his flirtations? Surely, I would be enough, as his bride…

  For a moment, she is no longer sitting at her breakfast but is in her marriage bed. Something within her thrills to the thought.

  ‘I was speaking to Agatha, earlier,’ admits Cecile, ‘She told me that I shouldn’t fall in love too easily.’

  ‘You’re not in love at all, I should hope,’ says Lucrezia, looking quite stern. ‘For you to consider the overtures of my brother is one sort of foolishness. For you to believe yourself in love, or that he is in love with you, is quite another.’

  Cecile isn’t sure what she’s feeling. Not love, no… Something else. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. The one thing she could not bear would be to marry a man who bored her. Lorenzo, whatever his faults, does not weary her with dull conversation.

  ‘People marry for other reasons than love, don’t they?’ says Cecile, feeling the remark to be such as a woman of the world might make. ‘Besides which, if I were to marry him, you and I would truly be sisters, together always.’

  ‘This I would dearly love,’ answers Lucrezia, ‘Though it would be a high price to pay, I fear. When daylight ends and night has not yet fallen, you cannot tell a dog from a wolf. Be careful, my Cecile, for you are looking into the twilight, and in pursuing my brother, you would have not the faithful dog about your skirts, but the greediest of wolves.’

  ‘Agatha said much the same to me,’ admits Cecile. ‘As my chaperone, she’s keeping her eye on me, as Henry told her to, I suppose.’

  ‘She’s a funny bird, I think you say,’ replies Lucrezia, rising from the table, and beckoning Cecile to follow. They stand where the terrace falls away, admiring the unhindered view of the sea beyond. ‘Have you seen her photographs? All of the dead people of her youth: writers, artists and musicians. I wonder, sometimes, if any were her lovers.’

  ‘Lucrezia!’ admonishes Cecile. ‘Even if you think such things, you shouldn’t say them.’

  The warm breeze is delightful, lifting the delicate fabric of their dresses, to billow behind. Cecile feels the strength of her body, standing in resistance to the moving air. How marvellous it is to have only the muslin against her skin, and to relax into the natural rhythm of breathing, without the constriction of whalebone stays.

  ‘Nonsense,’ smirks Lucrezia. ‘I see Agatha, as Flaubert says, her ‘dry bones quivering with joy’ at the remembrance of passion past. At least, I hope it’s so. How sad it would be to reach such an age and have no memories to call upon.’

  ‘Well, perhaps…’ concedes Cecile. ‘But there must be more to look back on than love affairs. There are all sorts of things I want to do, besides…’ she is unsure quite how to end the sentence.

  ‘In this, we agree, mia piccola,’ declares Lucrezia, taking Cecile’s hand. ‘We shall know our own value, and we shall make our own happiness, without relying upon a husband, or any man. And, we shall do whatever is necessary to gain such independence.’

  Cecile laughs. Lucrezia’s wild declarations, outrageous as
they are, fill her with a surge of excitement.

  Whatever is necessary, Lucrezia tells herself.

  * * *

  From his tower, Lorenzo looks down upon them. Lucrezia’s arm slips about Cecile’s waist and their heads, dark and fair, are held close. The breeze moulds the flimsy fabric of their dresses to slender curves. He lingers upon the image; the swell of breasts, and legs parted to the teasing wind.

  Violence

  ‘I fear you must prepare yourself, my dear, for my winning of our little bet.’

  Lorenzo sits before the dying embers of the fire in his private sitting room, cigar in hand. Lucrezia, in her dressing gown, her long hair plaited for sleep, stands, warming her back to what heat remains. It has been raining, and the night has grown unseasonably chill.

  ‘Her terror at the prospective assault on her virginal state offers more entertainment than I’d foreseen!’ he observes. ‘She positively pants to be seduced, while tormenting herself with her own wickedness.’

  ‘As you say,’ admits Lucrezia. ‘But don’t be so sure of your victory. She’s as liable to submit to my kisses as yours. She’ll take my embraces as sisterly affection before realizing to what she commits herself and, then, in the heat of the oven, will rise to me as sweetly as new-baked bread.’

  ‘Of course, it may be that she requires a rougher hand than yours to lead her astray,’ he counters. ‘One inclined to force, rather than teasing pleasure. How deliciously she would struggle at being punished over my knee, and how rapturously she would beg for more. The anticipation of it is most diverting.’

  Lucrezia rolls her eyes.

  ‘You’re nothing if not predictable, brother. Meanwhile, if you wish to play your games with Vittoria, it would be prudent to do so behind a locked door. Our virginal Cecile, no doubt, thrilled to her unexpected act of voyeurism, but I fear you may frighten her off altogether if she finds you too engrossed in the charms of our serving staff.’

  ‘But perhaps I wish to begin as I mean to go on,’ answers Lorenzo. ‘Let her see that she must compete for my affections. In point of fact, I rather fancy that she would put up with a great deal, if the enticement were sufficient. As the next Countess, I believe she would do very well, and endure whatever dalliances I pursued as those due to a hot-blooded nobleman of the di Cavour line.’

  ‘You are shameless…’ says Lucrezia. ‘Though I’d expect nothing less.’

  His attitude gives her pause. Once he has truly set his mind to the acquisition of a prize, Lucrezia knows, he will not step aside.

  ‘She might be persuaded into all manner of sport, once the family diamonds are at her disposal,’ muses Lorenzo, drawing thoughtfully on his cigar. ‘She appears particularly disposed to being restrained, which makes things a great deal easier. It’s always interesting to see how far a ‘lady’ will surrender herself when she feels her own will is no longer an obstacle. All the trappings of defiant struggle may be observed, while the body submits to the true spirit of debauchery.’

  Lucrezia, for all her exasperation with Cecile’s naïvety, cannot help but pity her. To marry Lorenzo would be a harsher sentence than she would wish upon any woman. Far better for the coddled innocent to succumb to Lucrezia’s embraces, and escape with her liberty.

  She knows well Lorenzo’s darker inclinations, and that her own avoidance of submission cannot be infinitely extended. Lucrezia must find another path, away from his guardianship, and the power he holds over her.

  ‘I’m quite taken with our fair Cecile, I admit,’ Lorenzo continues. ‘My inclination is to marry her without further ado, which might be most speedily achieved by compelling the necessity of a ring upon her finger.’

  He stretches out his legs and leans back, drawing deeply upon the cigar.

  ‘I lack the patience for a prolonged courtship. I might take my prize, and sire the next heir to the di Cavour title in one swoop.’

  His exhaled smoke plumes between them.

  ‘It would be a pretty piece of work for one evening, would it not?’

  Lucrezia turns away, refusing to be goaded.

  ‘No doubt, Lady McCaulay will positively run to the altar once her maidenhood has been lost. I might even allow her to believe herself in love.’

  ‘You’re too kind, I’m sure,’ replies Lucrezia. If she but knew for certain that provision existed for herself in Lorenzo’s will, she would swiftly arrange his demise — the fact of which is not lost upon the Conte. His machinations, and his tastes, have long been repugnant to her, and she feels the leash tightening upon her neck with each day that passes.

  ‘Of course, no wife should bask too long in the unconditional love of her husband.’

  Lorenzo has risen from his chair, tapping the ash from his cigar into the hearth.

  ‘True devotion is best inspired by a desire to please, isn’t it, my dear.’

  Standing close, he wraps the length of Lucrezia’s dark plait around his fist, pulling firmly upon it, so that her neck bends back.

  ‘Naturally, there will still be a place for you,’ Lorenzo says, his lips almost upon her exposed throat. ‘I can think of plenty of ways in which you may be party to the merrymaking, sister dearest. And, Serpico, you know, is very fond of you. Such a faithful servant, and deserving of sharing in the same pleasures enjoyed by his master.’

  He pulls aside the collar of Lucrezia’s dressing gown, and tugs her nightgown, beneath, to expose her collarbone. It is his mouth she expects to descend there but, instead, she feels a sudden heat. He tugs the gown down further, his fingers hovering above her breast. He has raised the glowing tip of his cigar, holding it almost to the tender flesh. She winces, straining to release herself, but his grip upon her hair is firm.

  ‘I’ve plans enough for you, my dear, when the time comes. But we may taste a little of your fine wine tonight. It’s a simple matter to uncork the bottle.’

  Taking a final draw upon the cheroot, he exhales the smoke against Lucrezia’s face, then throws the stub into the fire.

  As his hand moves to unbutton his britches, Lucrezia raises her knee, catching him abruptly in his sensitive parts. Another twist and she has hooked him from his hold upon her plait, and drawn his elbow up, behind his back.

  ‘You may find I have a bitter aftertaste,’ she hisses, pulling his arm a little higher.

  ‘You enjoy pain, do you not, brother?’ she taunts, pressing his head to the hard marble of the mantle. ‘In this, I shall oblige you.’

  Lucrezia takes the side of his hand between her jaws. The flesh yields to her determination to inflict injury.

  With his blood in her mouth, she leaves.

  Pleasure

  Twilight has descended, and the first stars are visible, the breeze carrying scents more extravagant than by day. Lilies and jasmine, Cyprus and pine. The air is thick with the salted-brine of the ocean, weaving between floral notes.

  Following the rain, the grass is damp underfoot. There is a subtle chill to the air.

  Nevertheless, Maud insists that Henry remove his clothing, until he stands naked.

  ‘We exist between the Earth and the Heavens,’ she tells him. ‘Part soil and part starlight.’

  She ties the sash to close his eyes, and another to bind his hands behind him.

  ‘We tread the bridge between this world and the Divine and, at certain moments, we feel ourselves closer to one than the other.’

  She guides him, until his back feels the rough bark of an olive tree.

  ‘Tonight, the other world is calling to you.’

  He hears the swish of her skirts retreating and is reminded of another time, long ago it seems, when she passed behind her seated audience, her gloved hand touching briefly the back of his neck.

  He is alone, exposed. The cool air makes him shiver.

  Some time passes, in which he listens to the cicadas and the staccato squawk of a night heron.

  As a nightjar lands close by, adding its low, churring call, he hears footsteps on the path, and the brush of sk
irts, female voices, hushed, speaking rapidly in Italian. How many, he cannot tell. Maud does not seem to be among them.

  ‘Guarda!’

  ‘Lui è bello.’

  ‘Sembra freddo,’ says another.

  ‘Lo riscaldiamo,’replies her friend, and the voices descend into giggles.

  They draw close, bringing with them the scent of their bodies.

  A hand, tentative, touches his chest, stroking the golden hair, moving outward, to brush his nipple.

  Another alights upon the muscle of his upper arm.

  They are close enough that he can hear the intake and exhalation of their breathing.

  He understands now, and his pulse quickens. A flush of excitement fills his groin, and that which had lain dormant between his legs gives a small leap.

  ‘Guarda quello!’ says one of the women.

  Fingers rest upon his lower belly, moving lower, into the thatch of his pubic hair, moving to grasp the root of his cock, until it is encompassed in a small, warm hand. Henry’s voice catches in his throat.

  ‘Cosa sciocca!’cries the next.

  The hand moves back and forth, experimentally. The woman before him whispers encouragement.

  ‘Crescere per me... fammi vedere’

  Her breathing is as rapid as his own. She stands closer, her skirts either side of his knee, leaning in, the fabric of her blouse skimming his bare chest.

  ‘Vogliamo anche un po 'di divertimento!’exclaims another, to his right.

  The hand upon his arm moves behind, to settle upon his buttock, giving a gentle squeeze.

  ‘Buona e ferma...’

  The women giggle again, but they quieten as the woman in front removes her hand. She has brought him to full erection, and Henry is a man amply endowed. His understanding of Italian is insufficient to understand all, but he recognizes admiration, and a note of urgency in the exchanges that follow.

  ‘Lo voglio…’

  ‘Devo essere il primo!’

  ‘E io dopo.’

  Whatever argument is afoot, it ceases as a mouth lowers, taking him inside. There is no hesitation; tongue and soft inner cheeks caressing him, sucking hard along his length, releasing him, and taking him again. Here is the enthusiasm of a woman devouring what she wishes to claim as her own. Moans of satisfaction escape him.