Part 10 (2/2)
Evelyn held out her hand, smiling again.
He took it immediately; it was warm and delicately boned, almost like a child's.
”Come,” she urged. ”May I call you William? Such a very proper English name. I adore it. It suits you perfectly. You look so dark and brooding, and you behave with such gravity, you are quite delightful.” He felt himself blush, but it was with pleasure. ”I shall make it my task to teach you to unbend a little and enjoy yourself like a Venetian,” she went on happily. ”Do you dance? I don't care whether you do or not. If you don't, then I shall teach you. First you must have some wine.” She started to lead him towards the steps down into the ballroom again. ”It will warm your stomach and your heart...then you will forget London and think only of me!”
Her effort was unnecessary; he was already thinking only of her anyway.
He spent much of the rest of the night with her, and of the following night as well, and of the afternoon of his fourth day in Venice. He did learn much of the life of the exile court, if it could be called such when there was still a king on the throne at home, and a new crown prince.
But he was also enjoying himself enormously. Stephan was a good companion for the mornings, showing him the byways and back alleys and ca.n.a.ls as well as the obvious beauties of Venice, and telling him something of the republic's history, showing him its glory and its art.
Monk kept on asking occasional questions about Friedrich and Gisela, the Queen, Prince Waldo, and the politics of money and unification. He learned more than he had imagined he ever could about the great European revolutions of 1848. They had touched almost every country as desire for freedom, undreamed before, swept from Spain to Prussia. There had been barricades in the streets, gunfire, soldiers billeted in every city, a wild resurgence of hope and then a closing in of despair. Only France seemed to have gained anything specific. In Austria, Spain, Italy, Prussia and the Low Countries, the moment's freedom had been illusory. Everything returned to the oppressions of before, or worse.
In the afternoons he continued to see Evelyn, except once when she arranged it before he had the opportunity, and that knowledge gave him a lift of pleasure like a bursting of wings inside him. She was beautiful, exciting, funny, and she had a gift for enjoyment unlike anyone he had known before. She was unique and wonderful. In company with others, they attended soirees and parties, they rode in barges down the Grand Ca.n.a.l, calling out to acquaintances, laughing at jokes, bathed in the brilliant, s.h.i.+fting light of a blue-and-golden autumn. Although the Fenice was closed, they attended small theaters and saw masques and dramas and musical plays.
Monk usually got to bed by about two or three in the morning, so he was delighted to remain there until ten, be served breakfast, and then choose which suit to wear for the day and begin the new adventure of discovery and entertainment. It was a way of life to which he could very easily become accustomed. It surprised him how very comfortable it was to slide into.
It was over a week through his stay when he met Florent Barberini again. It was during an intermission in a performance of a play of which Monk understood very little, since it was in Italian. He had excused himself and gone outside onto the landing to watch the boats move up and down the ca.n.a.l and to try to arrange his thoughts, and think about his mission there, which he was neglecting, and about his feelings for Evelyn.
He could not honestly say he loved her. He was not sure how much he even knew her. But he loved the excitement he felt in her company, the quickening of the pulse, the delicious sense of heightened enjoyment in everything from good food and good music to the humor and grace of her conversation, the envy he saw in other men's eyes when they looked at him.
He was aware of the large, oddly perverse figure of Klaus in the background. Perhaps the risk of it, the necessity for some semblance of discretion, added a certain sharpness to the pleasure. Now and again there was a p.r.i.c.kle of danger. Klaus was a powerful man. There was something in his face, especially caught in repose, which suggested he would be an ugly enemy.
But Monk had never been a coward.
”You seem to have taken to Venice with a will,” Florent said out of the shadows where the torchlight cast only a faint glow.
Monk had not seen him, he had been lost in his own thoughts and in the sights and sounds of night on the ca.n.a.l.
”Yes,” he said with a start. He found himself smiling. ”There cannot be another city like it in the world.”
Florent did not answer.
Monk was suddenly aware of a sense of grief. He looked across at Florent's dark face and saw in it not only the easy sensuality that made it so attractive to women, the dramatic widow's peak and the fine eyes, but the loneliness of a man who played the dilettante but whose mind was unfas.h.i.+onably aware of the rape of his culture and the slow dying of the aching splendor of his city, as decay and despair eroded its fabric and its heart. He might have followed Friedrich's court for whatever reason, but he was more Italian than German, and under his facile manner there lay a depth which Monk, in his prejudice, had chosen not to see.
He wondered now if Florent were, in his own way, fighting for the independence again of Venice, and what part Friedrich's life or death might play in that. In the last few days he had heard whispers, jokes from the ignorant, of Italian unification also, a drawing together of all the different city-states, the brilliant, individual republics and dukedoms of the Renaissance, under one crown. Perhaps that also was true? How insular one could be, wrapped in the safety of Britain and its empire-an island world, forgetful of changing borders, the s.h.i.+fting tides of nations in turmoil, revolution and foreign occupation. Britain had been secure for nearly eight hundred years. An arrogance had developed unlike any other, and with it a lack of imagination.
He was there as Zorah's guest. It was long past time he did all he could to serve her interests-or, at the very least, the interests of her country. Perhaps that was why she had made this absurd, self-sacrificing accusation-to expose the murder of a prince and awaken her countrymen to some sense of loyalty before it was too late.
”I could fall in love with Venice very easily,” he said aloud. ”But it is a hedonistic love, not a generous one. I have nothing to give it.”
Florent turned to look at him, his dark brows raised in surprise, his lips in the torchlight twitched with humor.
”So does almost everyone else,” he said softly. ”You don't think all those people are here, the dreamers and the would-be princes of Europe, except to live out their own personal charades, do you?”
”Did you know Friedrich well?” It was not an answer, but Florent could not have expected one.
”Yes. Why?” he asked.
Out on the water, someone was singing. The sound of it echoed against the high walls and back again.
”Would he have gone back if Rolf, or someone else, had asked him?” Monk said. ”His mother, perhaps?”
”Not if it meant leaving Gisela.” Florent leaned over the stone parapet and stared into the darkness. ”And it would have. I don't know why, but the Queen would never have allowed Gisela back. Her hatred was boundless.”
”I thought she would have done anything for the crown.”
”So did I. She's a remarkable woman.”
”What about the King? Wouldn't he allow Gisela back if it was the only way to persuade Friedrich?”
”Override Ulrike?” There was laughter in Florent's voice, and the tone of it was answer in itself. ”He's dying. She is the strength now. Perhaps she always was.”
”What about Waldo, the Crown Prince?” Monk pressed. ”He can't want Friedrich home!”
”No, but if you are thinking he had him killed, I doubt it. I don't think he ever wanted to be king. He stepped into his brother's place only reluctantly, because there was no one else. And that was not affected. I know him.”
”But he will not lead the battle to keep independence!”
”He thinks it will mean war, and they will still be swallowed up in Germany anyway, sooner or later,” Florent explained.
”Is he right?” Monk s.h.i.+fted his weight to turn and look more directly at him.
On the ca.n.a.l, a barge went by with pennons flying, music floating behind it, and torchlight glittering on the dark water. Its wake surged and lapped over the steps of the landing with a soft sound, whispering like an incoming tide.
”I think so,” Florent answered.
”But you want Venetian independence.”
Florent smiled. ”From Austria, not from Italy.”
Someone called out, his voice echoing over the water. A woman answered.
”Waldo is a realist,” Florent went on. ”Friedrich was always a romantic. But I suppose that is rather obvious, isn't it?”
”You think a fight to retain independence is doomed?”
”I meant Gisela, actually. He threw duty aside and followed his heart where she was concerned. The whole affair had an air of high romance about it. 'All for love, and the world well lost.' ” His voice dropped, and his banter died. ”I am not sure if you can really love the world and keep love.”
”Friedrich did,” Monk said quietly, but he thought even as he spoke that perhaps he meant it as a question.
”Did he?” Florent replied. ”Friedrich is dead-perhaps murdered.”
”Because of his love for Gisela?”
”I don't know.” Florent was staring over the water again, his face dramatic in the torchlight, the planes of it thrown into high relief, the shadows black. ”If he had stayed at home, instead of abdicating, he could now lead the struggle for independence without question. There would be no need to plot and counterplot to bring him back. The Queen would not be making stipulations about whether his wife could come, or if he must leave her, set her aside and marry again.”
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