Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  Cecile picks out fragmented words, having learned a little Italian since her arrival. Enough for her to understand that she overhears an argument.

  ‘… cannot go on.’

  ‘…wicked…’

  ‘…do as you’re told.’

  ‘and if I won’t?’

  The sharp slap of hand upon flesh cuts through the night, as if the blow were upon Cecile’s own cheek.

  Tumbling from the stool, the window pulls shut behind her, and Cecile finds herself upon the floor, the breath knocked from her body.

  As if in a trance, she returns to lie beneath the coverlet. How foolish she has been, entertaining notions of playing the grand Contessa. She knows well that she has permitted herself to be flattered, ignoring the realities of the man before her. Has she encouraged, where she should have remained aloof?

  Yet I have resisted his advances to the point that I retain my virginity. How far can he carry this empty threat that I carry his child?

  Will the Conte’s words have already poisoned her brother’s ear, convincing Henry that she is a ‘fallen woman’? For all the modern-thinking he has adopted of late, will her brother look sternly upon her?

  I must get word to Henry.

  She cannot have him believing such unseemly lies about her character. Cecile reminds herself of Henry’s love and regard for her. Surely, he’ll believe her assertion of her unmolested state, over any claims made by the Conte.

  If I marry the Conte, it will be of my own free will, in good conscience.

  I am not alone, she reminds herself. Agatha will speak for her, she’s certain. Maud, too, will support her, being of such an independent nature, and Lucrezia. She must strategize, insist upon delay, appealing for time to organize the wedding in a respectable fashion. The Conte could not reasonably refuse her.

  In spite of all she has witnessed, some part of her thrills, still, to imagine Lorenzo’s hands reaching to possess her, his mouth claiming ownership of her skin, his eyes penetrating her very soul.

  May it not, even now, turn out for the good, she wonders.

  A man mellows under the influence of a wife, so they say. Once married, would he not grow to love me? I would be the mother of his children, his Contessa, his lifetime companion... and I would have position, and wealth, and Lucrezia would be always with me. What wonders we might discover together, all the world at our feet.

  Even as she paints the scene, she knows it to be an illusion. She closes her eyes, in semblance of sleep, but is unable to quieten the fierce revolutions of her mind.

  The wind continues to whip around the fortress walls. The worst excesses have left the terraces scattered with fallen blooms, flowers torn from their stems. The vivid beauty of the garden has been battered, cowed by the weight of raging rains. She listens to the hollow mistral-moan, pressing on all sides, as if to seek ingress.

  At the window, the wind keens, and the castle responds with its own creaking of wood and plaster, shifting internally to meet the mournful lament. Hewn from the same granite as the island it stands upon, the ancestral stronghold of the di Cavours has withstood the centuries. Its occupants awake, and surrender, through the cycle of birth and death, but the castle walls remain unchanged, holding captive the souls within them, until they find repose in the depths of its vault, in those cold tombs.

  The wail of the wind seems amplified, echoing inwards, carrying down the passageway, ever louder, until she begins to think her mind plays tricks on her. The weeping howl might be outside her very door, so magnified it seems. And then, to her shock, there is a kick upon the door, and the uttering of execrations.

  ‘Sta ‘zitto! Non lottare! Donna del diavolo!’

  In reply, only an animal-whine, as of one held in the jaws of the huntsman’s trap.

  Cecile cannot close her eyes and pretend all is well. Instead, she rises, and lights her lamp, turning the flame low, and when the ululation has receded, moving past her chamber, onwards, she draws back the bolt and peeps into the corridor.

  It’s dark, but her lantern shows her the outline of a tall figure, broad of back, carrying a woman in his arms, her hair hanging loose, her head lolling.

  Pulling her door closed with a quiet click, Cecile follows.

  At the top of the staircase, she looks over the bannister, through the gloom, watching the pair descend. The woman’s face, cast upwards, is pale in the darkness, her mouth slack. Her voice has folded in upon itself, until it is only a whimper.

  Feeling for the edge of the steps with her slippered feet, Cecile takes each with care.

  At the bottom, the moonlight from the tall windows shows her the profile of Serpico, with his hooked nose, and prominent brow. The woman clutches a bundle, close upon her chest.

  Serpico crosses the hallway and enters the library. Having left her lamp upon a side-table, Cecile creeps to peek through the door left open behind him. The library is empty but for he, and the wretched woman he carries.

  He walks directly to the right-hand side of the room, and looks along the shelving, as if seeking a particular title. Cecile sees him reach to touch the spine of a volume, and the wall moves. A dark space opens and Serpico, bearing his human burden, enters.

  Cecile darts forward, but the shelf has slid back into its former position before she has reached even a third of the way. Looking at the books ranged before her, she cannot begin to guess at which unlocks the mechanism. Her hands trace the leather, pushing randomly at the height which appears most likely, without success.

  The door has closed, and there is no hope of her following.

  In the Dark

  ‘Good morning, my dear. Now, I’ve no intention to slight where your heart has chosen,’ begins Agatha, rising from the breakfast table, as Cecile enters the room. ‘But I cannot hold my tongue.’

  ‘My godson tells me that you’ve accepted his proposal of marriage, and that we should expect a new Contessa before the week is out.’

  She pauses, as if searching for the right words, and seats herself again.

  ‘My dear, it’s all most sudden! Am I to believe that a proper courtship has taken place? That he has won your heart? That you are convinced of his suitability as a husband?’

  Cecile finds that she must sit too, for her legs will no longer support her.

  ‘Of course, the Conte is undeniably handsome and a man of status, and no inconsiderable means…’

  Cecile looks across at Lucrezia but her friend makes no contribution, her eyes downcast to the rim of her coffee cup.

  ‘If you’re sure that this is the path to your happiness, I’ll be the first to congratulate you,’ adds Agatha, ‘But I wish you to assure me that you’ve given the matter proper consideration, my dear. To act in haste is folly, as the marriages of so many demonstrate, and the Conte, for all his attractions, is not one to be tamed.’

  Agatha sips from her cup.

  ‘It’s true that wives choose, often, to be blind to the indiscretions of their husbands, but is this what you wish for yourself, Cecile? For I cannot believe that the tiger will be turned from its nature.’

  Agatha’s plate is laden with ham and eggs, glistening in oil. As she raises a sliver of meat to her lips, Cecile feels, suddenly, quite sick.

  ‘I understand that your suitor’s eagerness has led to his early departure, crossing the causeway as soon as it became safe, to meet with the padre to acquire a special license. I must say that his hurriedness is unseemly. People will talk, Cecile.’

  Agatha raises a toast soldier to attack her molten-yolk, looking sharply at Cecile. Her face is not that of an excited bride, Agatha cannot help but notice. In fact, she looks decidedly wan. Agatha lowers her voice, speaking with more gentleness.

  ‘Forgive my indelicacy, my dear, but I must ask. Is there reason for this celerity? Have you permitted the Conte… freedoms? You are young, I know, and the passions of a whirlwind courtship can lead us astray. You would not be the first young woman to find herself in a difficult situation.’

&
nbsp; ‘Lady Agatha,’ Cecile begins, feeling that she must find her voice. ‘The Conte’s ardour has been difficult to keep at bay…’

  Her eyes brim with tears.

  ‘But I have not succumbed to any action obliging marriage, no matter what the Conte may infer. I fear that I do not know my own mind, and I do not know the Conte as well as I would like.’

  With a little cough, Agatha dabs her napkin to her mouth.

  ‘I see that I am right. You are not ready to be married.’

  She hesitates.

  ‘You wish to delay, my dear?’ coaxes the old lady.

  ‘I do,’ admits Cecile, her hands trembling upon her cup. ‘I don’t understand his urgency, and I am fearful of what the Conte may have said to Henry to persuade him of the necessity for a hurried ceremony. That Henry has not visited, to discover my own feelings on the proposal, pains me.’

  She finds that she cannot look Agatha in the eye.

  ‘Of course, my dear. Say nothing more. I shall write this moment to Henry, and I shall speak to Lorenzo on his return. If he values your hand, he shall wait for it. It’s indecent for him to bully you into marriage, and improper to fail to observe a courtship of adequate duration. He is too used to having his own way.’

  Cecile once more cannot speak, but her eyes show her gratitude.

  Lucrezia has sat in silence, but her own voice is added now to that of Agatha.

  ‘Like all men!’ she scoffs. ‘They think only of their own desire, assuming reciprocity, and that everything can be accomplished in the twitch of a tail. Cecile shall not be manoeuvered into marriage. We’ll tell him that she shall not wear some dusty relic of a dress, handed down from his grandmother. We shall take ourselves to Sorrento, and ensure Cecile is properly attired, with a trousseau as befits the next Contessa di Cavour. With all the items that must be purchased, and tailored, it will allow Cecile several weeks to decide her mind.’

  ‘Marvellous, Lucrezia. Your tenacity does you credit,’ admits Agatha, rising from the table.

  She places her hand upon Cecile’s shoulder. ‘What it is to have good friends. As a married woman, you’ll find them just as important as you do now. More, perhaps…’

  With that, Agatha sweeps from the room, calling over her shoulder, ‘I shall show you my letter for Henry when we meet for luncheon, my dears, and we may send Raphael to deliver it this afternoon.’

  Cecile has risen and flung herself into Lucrezia’s arms in a moment.

  ‘There, there,’ soothes Lucrezia, ‘We shall not allow anything to happen unless it’s your wish. Don’t despair, mia piccola,’ says Lucrezia. ‘Together, we shall be stalwart, as the English say. Lady Agatha’s letter will set all to rights. And we may prevail upon your new sister-in-law. She has some acquaintance with Lorenzo, I believe, and will speak for you, I’m sure. She may convince your brother that the match would be ill-fated, if that is your desire.’

  ‘You’re right, of course…’ accedes Cecile.

  Lucrezia holds Cecile’s hand tightly.

  ‘And, if you wish it,’ ventures Lucrezia, ‘We may suggest a modest income for you. I have jewellery that will fetch enough to live on, for some time. We might be our own selves, and not think of marriage just yet. We may rent a small cottage, in your English countryside, play music, paint and write, and turn our faces to the sun.’

  ‘Could we really do such a thing? Might we?’ asks Cecile.

  The picture is suddenly an attractive one.

  Feeling herself grow stronger, Cecile recalls something else that her conscience refuses to ignore.

  ‘Last night, Lucrezia, I saw the strange woman again. She looks like you, except filled with wretchedness, as if carrying some terrible grief.’

  Lucrezia diverts her gaze. There are many secrets, and she has concealed the truth for so long that she doesn’t know where to begin revealing it.

  ‘Not only that, Lucrezia,’ Cecile continues. ‘Serpico took her into the library and a wall opened. They stepped through, and I couldn’t follow, but I fear something dreadful is afoot. I’ve been so caught up in myself that I’ve neglected to see what may be happening under my own nose. I don’t know what’s taking place here, but I can’t ignore it and leave. How would I ever rest easy, having procured my escape, if this woman remains here in distress? We must find her and help her.’

  Lucrezia has thought herself strong and this English lady weak, but admiration wells within her, and something akin to shame. Her own inclination is to flee, and not look back. No doubt, her principles are ill-formed. A childhood of manipulating others to ensure her comfort has given her little compunction to act otherwise than in her own interests.

  ‘We must look Lucrezia, and find this passageway, and where it leads to,’ urges Cecile. ‘We must be brave.’

  Lucrezia has long known who resides in the tower, and the story of why she’s there.

  ‘For her own good,’ Lorenzo has told her. ‘What life would she have? She’s a danger to herself, and all around her.’

  Lucrezia has allowed herself to believe this to be true. It has been convenient to do so, and Lucrezia would rather not bring complications on her head. However, she feels some shift in herself.

  ‘Sì, mio dolce,’ she nods. ‘We shall look.’

  * * *

  Lucrezia knows already which book must slide back, to engage the mechanism. Her fingers find it easily, and the gloom of the stone passageway is revealed to them. A cool draught rises from the opening, and the smell of damp stone.

  ‘Where does it lead?’ asks Cecile.

  ‘You know the place. Where the di Cavours lie in their tombs. There’s more than one door to that chamber,’ explains Lucrezia. ‘We should take a lamp.’

  As they descend, the dark is palpable. Cecile’s hand finds the rough granite of the wall, cold to the touch, using it to feel her way. The lamp, held aloft by Lucrezia, throws little enough light, making it difficult to see the edge of the steps. Cecile fears that she may stumble, but some force draws her forward. Something is here that she must discover.

  At last, she finds the flat of the floor, and they stand together. Water is dripping. Small bodies scuffle and scuttle.

  ‘Ratti,’ says Lucrezia. ‘Let’s move.’

  Their breathing is so loud that it seems to fill the space, but there’s someone else too, Cecile is sure. Another’s breath in this subterranean cavern; inhaling, exhaling.

  Lucrezia holds their lamp higher, illuminating the tombs down either wall. It’s cold, here, in this buried place. The skin on Cecile’s back prickles, as if something unearthly touches her from the shadows, something wild and terrible. She feels eyes upon her, beyond the meagre pool of light in which they stand. Eyes which have watched long, seeking her out, wishing to communicate.

  The flame of their lamp sputters, eaten by the darkness, and a mournful wail begins to rise. It curls from the walls in an unravelling ribbon of grief and pain, as if the stones of Castello di Cavour bemoaned the long, dark hours of silence, and their own centuries of suffering.

  Lucrezia clutches at Cecile’s arm.

  ‘Così terribile! Preservami Dio!’

  ‘I’m here,’ says Cecile. ‘We’re together. We’ll do this together.’

  She doesn’t feel brave, but she must convince herself to be so.

  The wail subsides, replaced by a scraping sound, as of nails against stone.

  ‘Can you hear it?’ asks Cecile

  The sound comes again. A scratching, ahead of them, deeper in the crypt. As they move forward, there is the smell of decay, of old meat, of sour flesh. And a faint glow, as from a lantern turned low.

  At the far end of the chamber, a figure crouches upon a bed, hair long and tangled, face turned away. Her nails drag across the stone, lifting periodically to renew the motion, hands cuffed and chained. When the woman raises her head, her eyes are sunken and her face deathly, in the flicker of the oil lamp.

  ‘Mio Dio!’ exclaims Lucrezia. ‘Livia!’

 
; She jerks at the utterance of her name.

  Cecile’s instinct is to draw back, but this is no monster, and there is no malevolence. She is flesh and blood and her nails, though blackened and broken, are those of no demon, but a human wretch.

  ‘It’s alright,’ Cecile whispers, whether to herself, or Lucrezia, or this poor creature. ‘It’s alright.’

  Cecile takes the final steps towards the woman, bends to take her hands in her own, refusing to be deterred by the unwashed smell of her body.

  The woman’s mouth moves, as if to speak, her voice rasping, but the sounds she wishes to make are unable to leave her tongue. They remain half-formed, dying in a stutter.

  ‘These are like the manacles Lorenzo placed about my wrists that day…’ says Cecile.

  The remembrance of it, of her own quickened pulse, of the strange excitement it roused in her, now makes her feel nauseous. For who can be responsible for this but the Conte. Nothing happens in the Castello without his direction.

  ‘There are keys, near the staircase. Wait here, Cecile, and I shall fetch them. One may open these cuffs.’

  Before Cecile has a chance to answer, Lucrezia has moved away, taking their lamp with her. Despite the dim glow from the lantern suspended overhead, the darkness seems to flood into her eyes, her nostrils, her ears. All the horrors of that place whirl about her within that rushing dark. Her consciousness sways inside her.

  To be left here alone, without sufficient light or warmth, without anyone to care. What mind would not be disturbed by such imprisonment, such isolation?

  Livia’s fingers press tightly to her own.

  When Lucrezia returns with the lamp, Cecile’s own face turns towards its welcome light.

  It’s the work of moments to fit the key into the lock and slide back the bolt, revealing the skin of Livia’s wrists, rubbed red. Her mouth trembles again, but words still will not come.

  ‘Come with us,’ says Cecile.

  ‘Cecile,’ warns Lucrezia. ‘We cannot!’

  Cecile stands, attempting to raise Livia to her feet, but she cowers away, reaching for the bundle beside her on the bed.