Weighed in the Balance Read online

  He looked at Monk over the top of his glass, his eyes wry and amused. “I have a cousin who is one of her ladies in waiting. She loves her and is terrified of her. She says there is nothing Ulrike could not and would not do if she believed it was for the crown.”

  “It must have grieved her to the core when Friedrich abdicated,” Monk thought aloud. “But it seems there is one thing she would not do, and that was allow Friedrich back if he insisted on bringing Gisela with him. She could not swallow her hatred enough for that, even if it meant losing the chance to fight for independence.”

  Stephan stared into his wine. All around them the soft sun-light bathed the stones of the piazza in warmth. The light was different here, away from the shifting glitter of the water. The breeze died down again.

  “That surprises me,” Stephan said at last. “It seems out of the character I know of her. Ulrike doesn’t forgive, but she would have swallowed gall if she knew it would serve the crown and the dynasty.” He laughed sharply. “I’ve seen her do it!”

  The party was splendid, a lavish, beautiful echo of high Renaissance glory. They arrived by sea along the Grand Canal just as dusk was falling. The barges and piers were all lit by torches, their flames reflecting in the water, fragmented into sparks of fire by the wakes of passing boats. The night wind was soft on the face.

  The western arc of heaven was still apricot and a tender, faint blue above. The carved and fretted facades of the palaces facing west were bathed in gold. In the shadows against the light through windows shone the flickering of thousands of candles in salons and ballrooms.

  The gondolas floated up and down gently, their boatmen dark silhouettes swaying to keep their balance. They called out to each other, sometimes a greeting, more often a colorful insult. Monk did not know the language, but he caught the inflection.

  They arrived at the water entrance and stepped out onto a landing blazing with torches, the smell of their smoke in the wind. Monk was reluctant to go inside; the Canal was so full of vibrant, wonderful life—unlike anything he had seen before. Even in this sad, foreign-occupied decadence, Venice was a city of unique glory, and history was steeped in its stones. It was one of the great crossroads of the world; the romance of it burned like fire in his brain. He imagined Helen of Troy might have had such a beauty in her old age. The blush and the firm flesh would be gone, but the bones were there, the eyes; the knowledge of who she had been would be there forever.

  Stephan had to take him by the arm and almost lead him inside through the great arched doorway, up a flight of steps and onto the main floor, which was so large it stretched from one side of the building to the other. It was filled with people laughing and talking. It blazed with light; reflections glittered on crystal, gleaming tablecloths, white shoulders and a king’s ransom in jewels. The clothes were gorgeous. Every woman in the room wore something which would have cost more than Monk earned in a decade. Silks were everywhere, as were velvets, laces, beading and embroidery.

  He found himself smiling, wondering if perhaps he might even meet some of the great figures of legend who had come here, someone whose thoughts and passions had inspired the world. Unconsciously, he straightened his shoulders. He cut a very good figure himself. Black became him. He was of a good height and had a curious lean grace which he knew men envied and women found more attractive than they entirely wished. He did not know how he might have used or abused that in the past, but tonight he felt only a kind of excitement.

  Of course, he knew no one except Stephan—until he heard laughter to his right and, turning, saw the dainty, elfin-faced Evelyn. He felt a surge of pleasure, almost a physical warmth. He remembered the rose garden and the touch of her fingers on his arm. He must see her again and spend more time talking with her. It would be an opportunity to learn more of Gisela. He must make it so.

  It took him nearly two hours of polite introductions, trivial conversation and the most exquisite wine and food before he contrived to be alone with Evelyn at the top of a flight of stairs that led towards a balcony overlooking the Canal. He had stood there with her for several minutes, watching the light on her face, the laughter in her eyes and the curve of her lips, before he remembered with an unpleasant jolt that he would not be there at all were Zorah Rostova not paying for it. Stephan, as her friend, believing her innocence of motive, had brought him there and introduced him for a purpose. He could never have come as himself, William Monk, a private investigator of other people’s sins and troubles, born in a fishing village in Northumberland, whose father worked on boats for his living, read no book but the Bible.

  He dragged his mind away from Evelyn, the laughter and the music and the swirl of color.

  “How terrible to lose all this suddenly, in a few hours,” he said, gazing over her head at the ballroom.

  “Lose it all?” Her brows puckered in confusion. “Venice may be crumbling, and there are Austrian soldiers on every corner—do you know, a friend of mine was strolling along the Lido and was actually driven away at gunpoint! Can you imagine that?” Her voice was sharp with indignation. “But Venice can’t sink under the waves in an hour, I promise you!” She giggled. “Do you think we are another lost Atlantis? A Sodom and Gomorrah—about to be overwhelmed by the wrath of God?” She swiveled around, her skirts frothing against his legs, the lace catching on the cloth of his trousers. He could smell the perfume of her hair and feel the faint warmth of her, even a yard away as she was.

  “I don’t see the writing on the wall,” she said happily, staring across the sea of color. “Don’t you think it would be fair to give us some sort of a sign?”

  “I was thinking of Princess Gisela.” With difficulty he forced his attention back to the past. The present was too urgent, too giddy to his senses. He was desperately aware of her. “One moment she must have believed Friedrich was recovering,” he said quickly. “You all did, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes!” She looked at him with wide brown eyes. “He seemed to be doing so well.”

  “You saw him?”

  “No, I didn’t. But Rolf did. He said he was a lot better. He couldn’t move much, but he was sitting up and talking, and said he felt much better.”

  “Well enough to think of returning home?”

  “Oh!” She dragged out the syllable with understanding. “You think Rolf was there to persuade him, and Gisela overheard it and thought Friedrich would go? I’m quite certain you are wrong.” She leaned back a little against the railing. It was a gently provocative pose showing the curves of her body. “No one who knew them really thought he would go without her.” The laughter died and there was a faintly wistful look in her face. “People who love like that cannot ever be parted. He wouldn’t have survived without her, nor she without him.” She was half profile to Monk. He could see her delicate nose, a little turned up, and the shadow of her lashes on the smoothness of her cheek. She stared over the hubbub of noise from scores of people chattering, the music of violins and woodwind instruments.

  “I remember when one of Giuseppe Verdi’s new operas was performed at the Fenice here,” she said with a rueful smile. “It was about politics in Genoa. The scenery was all rather like this. Lots of water. That was ten years ago.” She shrugged. “Of course, the theater is closed now. I don’t suppose you have noticed it yet, but there are no carnivals anymore, and Venetian aristocracy has all moved to the mainland. They don’t attend the official parties the Austrian government gives. I don’t know whether that’s because they hate the Austrians so much or because they are afraid of nationalist reprisals if they do.”

  “Nationalist reprisals?” he said curiously, still watching the light on her face. “You mean there is a nationalist movement here so strong they would actually victimize people who openly accept the occupation?”

  “Oh, yes!” She shook her head in a gesture of resignation. “Of course, it doesn’t matter to us, who are expatriates anyway, but to the Venetians it’s terribly important. Marshal Radetzky, he’s the governor, said
that he would give balls and masques and dinners, and if the ladies would not come, then his officers would waltz with each other.” She gave a rueful little laugh and glanced at him quickly, then away again. “When the Austrian royal family came here, they went in procession down the Grand Canal, and no one even came to the windows or balconies to look! Can you imagine that?”

  He tried, visualizing the sadness, the oppression and resentment, the dignified, rather pathetic figures of the royalty in exile keeping up their pretense of ceremony, and the real royalty, carrying all its power of empire, sailing down those glittering waters in silence as they were totally ignored. And all the while the real Venetians busy elsewhere, planning and fighting and dreaming. No wonder the city had an air of desolation unlike any other.

  But he was here to learn about Friedrich and Gisela, and why Zorah had made her charge. He was standing very close to Evelyn. He could feel the warmth of her body. Her soft hair was faintly tickling his face, and the perfume of her seemed to be everywhere. The noise and the glitter swirled around him, but he was islanded alone with her in the shadows. It was hard to focus his attention back to the issue.

  “You were going to tell me something about Friedrich,” he prompted her.

  “Oh, yes!” she agreed, glancing at him for a moment. “It was the opera. Gisela wanted to go. It was to be a special performance. All sorts of old Venetian nobility were to be there. As it turned out, they were not. It wasn’t really a success. Poor Verdi! Gisela was determined, and Friedrich refused. He felt he owed it to some Venetian prince or other not to go, because of the Austrian occupation. After all, Venice was his home after so many years here. A sort of loyalty, I suppose.”

  “But Gisela didn’t care?” he questioned.

  “She wasn’t very political …”

  Or very loyal either, he thought, or grateful to a people who had made her welcome. It was suddenly an ugly tone in a picture up to then in totally romantic colors. But he did not interrupt.

  From the ballroom the music floated up to them, and a woman’s sudden laughter. He glimpsed Klaus in conversation with a white-bearded man in military uniform.

  “She dressed in a new gown,” Evelyn went on. “I remember because it was one of the best I had ever seen, even on her. It was the shade of crushed mulberries, with gold braid and beaded embroidery, and the skirt was absolutely enormous. She was always slender, and she walked with her head very high. She wore a gold ornament in her hair, and a necklace with amethysts and pearls.”

  “And Friedrich didn’t go? Who escorted her?” he asked, trying to picture it but seeing in his mind’s eye only Evelyn.

  “Yes, he did go,” she said quickly. “That is, she went with Count Baldassare, but they had barely sat down when Friedrich arrived. To anyone else it could have looked merely as if he was late. It was only by chance I knew the truth. I don’t think Friedrich even knew what the opera was about. He couldn’t have told you whether the soprano was dark or fair. He watched Gisela all night.”

  “And she was pleased to have won?” He tried to understand whether it had been a battle of wills, a jealousy, or simply a domestic tiff. And why had Evelyn elected to tell him this?

  “She didn’t seem so. And yet I know perfectly well she had no interest in Count Baldassare, nor he in her. He was merely being courteous.”

  “He was one of the Venetian aristocracy who remained?” he assumed.

  “No. Actually, he’s gone too now.” She sounded curious and surprised. “The fight for independence has cost a lot of people far more than I used to think. Count Baldassare’s son was killed by the Austrians. His wife has become an invalid. She lost a brother too, I think. He died in prison.” She looked rueful and puzzled. “I’m not sure how much it is all worth. The Austrians aren’t bad, you know. They are very efficient, and they are one of the few governments in Europe who are not corrupt. At least that is what Florent says, and he’s half Venetian, so he wouldn’t say it if it were not true. He loathes them.”

  Monk did not reply. He was thinking of Gisela. She was an unclear picture in his mind. He had never seen her face. He had been told she was not beautiful, but his vision always saw her with wide eyes and a turbulent, passionate kind of loveliness. Evelyn had marred it with the story of the opera. It was a very slight thing, only an ungraciousness in insisting on attending a function her husband had considered dishonor to their hosts, a form of ingratitude he had forbidden, and she had defied him for the pleasure of an evening’s entertainment.

  But in the end Friedrich had gone too, rather than endure her displeasure. Monk did not admire that either.

  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 canals 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 Canal, calling out to acquaintances, laughing at jokes, bathed in the brilliant, shifting 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 canal 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 no
t 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 prickle 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 canal.

  “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 unfashionably 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.