Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two Read online

  Italian Sonata

  Noire - Volume Two

  Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  Edited by

  Adrea Kore

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents are either used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  This publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted with prior permission in writing from the author, or in accordance with the terms of licenses issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  The right of Emmanuelle de Maupassant to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  ‘Italian Sonata’ was first published in 2017

  www.emmanuelledemaupassant.com

  Contents

  Italian Sonata

  Prologue

  Sins of the Flesh

  Betrothal

  Honeymoon

  The Wager

  Gooseberry

  Confidences

  The Curse of the Di Cavours

  She and He

  Piety Above and Devilry Below

  Secrets

  Birds and Bees

  Visions by Night

  Shame

  Surrender

  Warnings

  Violence

  Pleasure

  Blood

  Temptation

  Things Left Unsaid

  Abduction

  Seduction

  Revenge

  In Pursuit

  A New Countess

  Between Life and Death

  A Foul Plot Thwarted

  Entrapment

  In the Dark

  Consumed

  Death

  Awakening

  New Beginnings

  Epilogue

  Reviews

  Murder on the SS Leviathan

  Further Works, by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  Bonus Materials

  Highland Pursuits

  About the Author

  About the Editor

  Italian Sonata

  My greatest thanks go to my dear friend, and developmental editor, Adrea Kore, for her work in helping bring my stories to the page.

  Prologue

  Not far from Sorrento, in Southern Italy, where the coast meets the sea in precipitous cliffs, lies Castello di Scogliera, that ancient seat of disdainful nobility. Built upon an island of eternal, wave-lashed rock, the castle is reached only at certain times of the day and night, according to the ebb and flow of the tides, by a cobbled causeway.

  Look up at its narrow windows, and you might imagine yourself watched. Perhaps all old buildings watch. How else might they while away the centuries but in observing their residents. They listen, and remember: secrets and deceptions, memories of joy, and pain.

  By night, some of those windows wink, lit by candles or chandeliers. Others stand dark, yet with a knowing glint, reflecting the moon’s light from their panes.

  Take these stone steps, worn smooth from the tread of generations of di Cavours, and all who serve them. Listen to the rise and fall of the sea, and the cold murmur of the granite. Place your hand upon the castle walls, salt-misted damp, where others have touched.

  Like the succulent plants which grow on this rock, the inhabitants of this castle are hardy. Tragedy has taught them to be stalwart. It has shaped them in ways we can only imagine.

  Come now, and enter, for a fire is blazing in the ancient hearth, and dinner has been set. The wine is poured, and a tale is ready to unfold.

  The past does not lie quietly.

  Sins of the Flesh

  Born with a substantial portion of Toscana in his pocket, the Conte di Cavour greets the world with the appropriate level of condescension, and a readiness to take his amusement, regardless of the cost to others.

  Gambling, whoring, drinking and hunting are his birthright; a legacy he cultivates with enthusiasm. In these pursuits, Lorenzo prides himself in setting the bar, since all men of nobility require an example before them.

  Even the Italian King, Umberto, in his younger years, was inclined to accept an invitation from Lorenzo di Cavour. Certain members of the Russian Imperial family are regular guests at his table.

  He is a di Cavour, beholden to nobody on Earth or in Heaven, or (to his mind) in Hell.

  His hedonistic ways continue unabashed as the hands of time race to vanquish the antiquated nineteenth century, and usher in the endless promise of the new. Lorenzo may be of ancient stock, the blood of a hundred noblemen galloping through his veins, but he anticipates keenly the awaiting triumphs and entertainments of this brave new world.

  Despite, the vast volume of wine and flesh he consumes, the Conte di Cavour retains, at the age of forty-five years, a rakish charm. His hair, silver-threaded, is thick, and his elongated moustache abundant: oiled and curling. Cigar smoke hangs upon his breath and the odour of a thousand cunts upon his cock, though not yet any sign of the pox.

  From Siena to Milano to Venezia, he is notorious for the eccentricity of his tastes, which raise the painted eyebrows of even the most jaded prostitute. He is known also for his generosity, and his reputation for debauchery is matched by his renown for bestowing gifts upon the ladies — and young men — who please him.

  No matter that, following a soirée to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of Lorenzo’s birth, Signora Battaglia had been obliged to entirely redecorate her Yellow Salon, famed for its sumptuous décor, and furniture made by Francesco Scibec da Carpi (as graced the very chambers of Fontainebleau). The evening had been a relatively civilized affair until a band of female trapeze artists he befriended in Orvieto commenced an innovative performance aided by four dozen champagne corks and the salon’s grand chandelier (itself a miniature of those hanging in the Hall of Mirrors within the Palace of Versailles).

  The Conte compensated Signora Battaglia so amply that the good lady commissioned a portrait in his honour, which hangs still in the vestibule of that establishment.

  Similarly, Signora Segreti has readily forgiven him for the ruin of her collection of rare instruments of torture, extracted from the Stanza di Tormenti, located beneath the Dominican convent in Narni. A blacksmith has restored their cruel workings, though they will never be as they were. The cheerfully compliant contortionist duo of Esmeralda and Eduardo should, in truth, be apportioned some share of the blame.

  Lorenzo is seldom fully sober, but when he is, the glint in his cold, dark eyes fixes in earnest upon his prey. It is then that his wolf-gaze is at its most dangerous, appraising with devious intent. He is a fallen angel, as devoid of remorse or conscience as Satan himself.

  In this, he is the epitome of honesty, making no attempt to conceal his sins. His scandals, each more outrageous than the next, have appeared with regularity in the provincial newspapers, and, on occasion, in journals of international circulation. His exploits, being always worthy of report, might have occupied every edition, but that the wealthier victims of his debauchery have oft bribed silence from those who would make public their shame.

  The greediest of matrons, eager for their debutante daughters to marry into wealth and position, yet baulk at placing their tender offspring in his path. How many fair lilies had been plucked from under the noses of the unwary? To deflower these blossoms is mere sport to Lorenzo.

  Having cast his carnal spell, even the most demure allow him liberties, transfixed by the touch of his cool hand, which soon finds its way beneath their skirts. The pursuit and rough deflowering of a trembling virgin, aquiver with anticipation and fear, m
ight occupy him for an hour. There is something in that sweet consumption which warms his blood.

  The memory of an upturned face, on occasion, returns to send a jolt to his groin. He recalls the gasps and squeaks, from his having pinched an inner thigh, and having let his fingers stray to places untouched even by the lady in question. A firm hand cannot be denied, and his is a hand of experience, and of pleasure and pain, and all that lies between.

  How many pretty necks has his teeth grazed, as his thumb has delved and teased? All cunts are hot and wet in the end, however daintily their owners remonstrate. Their arms have curled about his neck and their legs parted in eager invitation, as they’ve sighed their protests. They’ve pulled him close while decrying his damnable audacity.

  There is something in that single moment, when his cock, the conqueror of so many, forges its path. No woman who has felt his touch has returned to her Mama quite the same. Skirts and hair can be smoothed, and faces composed, but each young “figlia” totters back to her chaperone born anew; her shame as apparent as the semen dampening her drawers, but with new knowledge and a spirit of defiance.

  It is his gift to them.

  Such a man takes whatever he desires. Nevertheless, the greatest temptation is to possess what is beyond our reach. Such is the paradox of our lusts, to seek delights denied.

  What satisfaction there is in seducing a woman whose outward show of respectability crumbles under his tutelage. How often has he sent a wife home to her husband with the sting of his palm, or his whip, upon her buttocks: flesh livid, smarting with the lash, yet thrilling at the humiliation?

  It amuses him to see how far he can push their gentle sensibilities. Will they take his engorged phallus between their chaste lips, those lips which kiss their children goodnight? Will they concede as he spreads their buttocks wide and spits upon their anus, to ease his entry where none has been before? Will they consent to being watched by “his man” (his faithful butler, Serpico) as they rut, panting like a stray bitch in the street, welcoming the advances of any dog able to mount?

  How many times has Serpico done more than watch? Fine ladies have basked in the degradation of having his servant’s organ in their mouth, and wherever else he’s chosen to place it.

  On a recent trip to visit his mother, at her London house, what fun he and Serpico enjoyed in the company of Baroness Billington and her sister, aided by three stocky dock laborers Serpico collected on his nocturnal wanderings. Lorenzo was quite tempted to send the ladies on their way, at the sight of those firm and muscular chests, and with biceps handsomely inked. His own knees weaken when presented with so much glorious cock. The remembrance still makes his balls ache.

  And then, there is his collection of innovative instruments…but these have, of late, lost their allure. Once his subject is willing to be restrained and pleasurably tortured, they’re no longer a challenge. Titillation, for the Conte di Cavour, lies more in the conquest than the feast.

  * * *

  Padre Giovanni, of the small town of Pietrocina, has spent a lifetime cultivating his belief in the fiery flames of Hell, and warning his flock, with all due urgency, of the torments that await them for their ungodly acts. He’s intimately acquainted with their sinful nature, insisting on every detail via the confessional. Corruption of the flesh he renounces with particular rigour.

  As for himself, he feels more concern as to the direction of his final destination than he cares to admit.

  How shocked would his parishioners be to discover where his thoughts stray as they bend their heads in prayer? He knows every pretty face and shapely behind, although, he tells himself, these he studies purely with intent to identify which of his female flock might be most cast upon temptation’s path.

  His own life is one of celibacy, though his hand eases him now and again, when the constant burden of a sinless demeanour becomes too great to bear.

  His housekeeper, Maria Boerio, stout of figure and of constitution, has served him ably over the years, fulfilling every duty, from cleaning and cooking to brushing the cake crumbs from his bed. This is, perhaps, his only visible vice: the consumption of heavy fruit pudding in the late hours. It’s a duty Maria has performed without remark, having perfected the art of invisibility (a talent honed by all servants worth their salt). Even when the old priest sneezes a quantity of masticated carrot onto her freshly laundered table linen, she says not a word.

  Each morning, she checks upon him, to reassure herself that her Beloved Padre, for such he is to her, breathes still. In his slumber, she admires the less weary appearance of his face, and traces the now sagging line of his jaw, the stubble accumulated through the night. That she has oft contemplated stealing a kiss is her greatest secret. No matter that his eyes are cloudy, and his nasal hair grows more abundant with the passing years, or that she knows the state of his bowels by the condition of the undergarments she scrubs. To her, he is all that a man should be: serious-minded and above earthly temptations.

  Like all men of his age, he is prone to piles. Even in this, she does her best to soothe him, preparing a tea of butcher’s broom, and an ointment of witch hazel and chamomile. Were he to request her to apply the unguent to the pale recesses of his behind, she would do so without question. Sadly, such a plea has never been voiced.

  Her adoration is such that, though she knows it to be a terrible and shameful sin, she has, at times, hidden where she might spy upon him, wishing to behold that dear, though aged, body, in its naked splendour. Enfeebled as it is, the elbows and knees at sharp angles, and the stomach flabby; to Maria, the padre’s form is a vision.

  Her peeping has afforded her, just once, the sight of Padre Giovanni’s penis: a sad, flaccid little thing barely worthy of the name. She imagined her own hand coaxing it to life and guiding it, to offer the ultimate comfort. Such wicked thoughts cannot always be avoided.

  How fortunate that the padre is a man of God, and above such dissolute thoughts. His purity is her comfort, as she tells herself, her hand cupping her place of warmth betwixt ample thighs. Her stolen glimpses have sustained her through many a long night.

  * * *

  Leaving Serpico to follow on with the bulk of his luggage, the Conte Lorenzo di Cavour has taken a train from Pisa, through Rome, and onto Naples, before boarding a coach, which has taken him past Vesuvio and Pompeii, arriving in Sorrento by late afternoon. He might have taken a room at the Paradiso Vigoria, to enjoy its lush gardens of citrus and olive groves, looking out over the azure expanse of the bay. In all likelihood, the chambermaids would have obliged him in some amusing manner. He has entertained himself there often enough before.

  However, he is eager to reach his destination, the Castello di Scogliera. With the sun dipping into the final quarter of the sky, Lorenzo has boarded a carriage heading to Salerno, via Scogliera and Pietrocina. Already inside sits an elderly priest: an unappealing specimen, to the Conte’s eyes. However, he nods in greeting and smiles to himself. He has anticipated sharing the carriage with at least one other passenger, and this white-haired man of the cloth, snuffling into his pocket-handkerchief, has been thrown into his path. Fate will now watch over their journey, if not God (whom Lorenzo has long been convinced looks the other way, if He looks at all).

  A few minutes later, the door opens again, hailing the entrance of a third to join them. The woman is dressed head to toe in black, gloved, veiled and hatted with not an inch of skin on show. Nevertheless, the Conte’s expert eye, accustomed to appraising a figure at speed and from some distance, easily surmises that the lady is yet in her youth, her waist being narrow, and that she is of some noble birth, carrying herself with a lightness of foot and gentle bearing.

  She settles herself on the cushions opposite the two men, spreading her skirts as best she can in the confined spot. There is little space between them, such that their knees will touch, if Lorenzo slouches down even a few inches. She holds her head erect and, though masked by her veil, he would wager 10,000 liras that her look is one of challe
nge and, even, contempt. Through the fine lace concealing her features, he catches a flash of indignation from her eyes.

  It appears that they are the only three traveling. A few moments pass before the driver calls out their departure, placing his whip to the horses. With a jolt, the carriage sways, and they move across the cobbles of the Piazza Tasso, towards the Via Fuorimura, and southwards, past the street-sellers and the first evening promenaders.

  Padre Giovanni Gargiullo shifts uncomfortably; his hemorrhoids are paining him more than usual, perhaps due to the heat, and he has a cold coming on. He is returning from his summons to Sorrento by Bishop Cavicchioni, having reported on the declining number of faithful attending his Mass. The Bishop has pointed out that not all of them can be suffering from malady or ill disposition, and the residents of his small town produce children enough between them to compensate for those who shuffle off this mortal coil. Padre Gargiullo is now out of favour, and will not be invited to attend the Bishop’s anniversary celebrations. Nor will he be granted a bonus to his stipend.

  Feeling thus sorry for himself, he seeks consolation in his Bible, opening it to his favourite passage, in Galatians: ‘Now the works of the flesh are manifest, which are: adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness…’