William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

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 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