The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  She looked superb, still flushed with excitement and bright with laughter. She had changed out of her man’s clothing into a white negligée decorated with green ribbons. Her little feet were slippered in satin, and while they talked her maid, Emilia, brushed her hair until it sparkled like filaments of fire.

  “A world has opened up to me!” she declared happily. “I never really understood before why people disguised themselves at Carnival. I thought it was just so they could play amusing pranks on their friends without being recognized. But that’s not the reason at all. It’s so you can become a whole different person and leave your old life behind and do things you would never dream of doing the rest of the year!”

  “Is your life so tedious and unbearable, my darling Fosca?” Antonio teased gently.

  “You know it is!” she replied feelingly. “Ennui is my most constant companion. Sometimes I think I can never escape it, and I rush here and rush there and it is always with me. Until tonight—last night! I put on man’s dress and my mask and when I left this house, ennui was nowhere to be seen! Oh, it was delicious! Listen, tonight I want to go to the theater in my new costume, and later—”

  “You don’t want to repeat yourself too often, Fosca,” Antonio said hastily, in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone. “That could become a bore, too.”

  “But not for ages and ages!” she assured him. “I have lived twenty-two years as a woman; why not live the next twenty-two as a boy?”

  “I don’t think Loredan would approve of that,” Giacomo said sleepily. He didn’t see the warning look that Antonio gave him. ,

  Fosca’s face clouded, but only for a moment. “Bah!” she said, tossing her head. “Do you think I care if he approves or not? He is old and dull and he has forgotten what it is to have fun—if, indeed, he never knew! It is Carnival, after all! Carnival! I don’t want it to end, ever!” She stretched and opened her arms to the ceiling, as though demanding that Heaven stop time for her.

  Soon her cicisbei took their leave, after much flattery and hand-kissing. Fosca allowed Emilia to put her to bed. Before she slept she thought with relish about the freedom she had tasted: to be someone else, not yourself, to leave behind the life that bored and irritated you. Wonderful, like being able to step into a dream. Her brush with death had not frightened her too much; she never really believed that she was in real danger. Rather, it had thrilled and excited her and left her wanting more.

  Fosca slept until mid-afternoon, when Emilia bustled in and threw open the curtains on the windows on both sides of the room. The wintry sun bathed the chamber with a soft glow, glinting warmly on the touches of gold that accented the mossy green wall coverings and furnishings. The room was decorated in the Chinese style, or rather in the style that the French considered Oriental and which the Italians eagerly adopted. Fosca’s bed stood on a slightly raised dais at one end of the room. The panels on the curved walls behind the bed concealed closets and a door that led to a small dressing room, an oval-shaped chamber where she received her most intimate friends, her confessor, and her hairdresser. As usual, the embroidered bed hangings were open. Fosca hated being confined in small spaces and slept with them open, even in the coldest weather.

  Emilia set down a tray of coffee things. Venetians of all classes were hopelessly addicted to coffee and hot chocolate, and spent most of their waking hours consuming either one or the other.

  Fosca lay savoring the warmth of her bed and the afterglow of her dreams for a few minutes, then she hitched herself up in bed and sighed. “Ah, Emilia, I was more tired than I imagined. Is it very late?”

  “Three o’clock, Signora.”

  “Only three? Not so late as I thought. Has anyone called?” She accepted a cup of coffee and blinked contentedly at her surroundings.

  “Donna Maria Foscari and Don Pietro.” Emilia poked at the fire and swept the ashes off the hearth.

  Fosca nodded. One of her friends from her convent school and her cicisbeo. Both incredibly silly and witless.

  “And Donna Elizabetta Tron and Don Mario Something-or-Other, the new Ambassador from Tuscany.”

  Fosca perked up. “Ah, I hear he’s quite handsome! So Elizabetta has captured him? Perhaps I’ll return that call someday. Anyone else?”

  “Your brother.”

  “Tomasso.” Fosca wrinkled her nose. “Well, he just came to borrow money and I haven’t a sequin to spare. He’d have been out of luck. Anyone else, Emilia?”

  “Your hairdresser—”

  “Oh, no!” Fosca sat bolt upright. “You didn’t send him away, did you, Emilia?”

  “No, no, Lady. He is with your mother-in-law at the moment. They are playing piquet."

  Fosca lay back, relieved that she hadn’t missed her most important caller.

  “And—and,” Emilia swallowed and said with a different note in her voice, “your husband is at home and asks if he might have a few moments of your time.”

  “Indeed!” Fosca felt a prickle of nervousness. She shook herself. What had she to fear from him? “Bring my dressing gown, then, and brush my hair. We mustn’t keep Don Alessandro waiting.”

  Alessandro Loredan found his wife reclining on the chaise lounge near the fireplace. Her coffee cup was near her hand. Her hair flowed loosely around her shoulders. She wore a dark green dressing gown over her ivory nightdress, and flounces of white lace billowed around her feet.

  He greeted her politely. He refused coffee and declined to sit, but stood with his back to the fire, his hands linked loosely behind him.

  “It’s so kind of you to visit me, Signor,” she said lightly. “I know how busy you are.”

  “Do you indeed?” he countered softly. A flush mounted to her cheeks. So he was determined to be rude, was he? He took a breath. “You father was an honorable and well-respected man, Madame. For his sake, as well as your own, I have decided that I must speak to you. He would want me to, and I would be derelict in my husbandly duties if I hesitated.”

  “Then pray do not hesitate, Signor,” she said mockingly.

  Alessandro lifted his chin and looked down the arch of his nose at her. “The Broglio was buzzing this morning with a fantastic story. It seems that Count Giulio Morosini fired a musket at three masquers who appeared under his wife’s balcony in the small hours of the morning to serenade her.”

  “How thrilling!” Fosca trilled. “But how humiliating for poor Graziella, to have the world know that that dreadful old man—”

  “Were you one of those three?” he asked quietly.

  She felt suddenly warm, and a little afraid, but she kept her voice unconcerned. “You know that I was, Signor.”

  He lowered his eyes. She could see a pulse throbbing in his temple. He did not speak for a whole minute, and silence settled over them. Fosca felt a tightness in her chest and had a little difficulty breathing. Lately, he had that effect on her. Finally, he looked up and their eyes met.

  “Were you drunk, Madame? Or merely mad?”

  She sat up straighter. She hadn’t expected such a direct attack.

  “Neither, I trust,” she replied coolly. “It was merely a harmless masquerade.”

  “Not so harmless,” he reminded her. “You might have been seriously injured. Or even killed!”

  “Oh, that would have been such a terrible tragedy,” she clucked. “Would your heart be broken, Signor?”

  He stiffened. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Madame?” he demanded harshly. “Do you need to be reminded that you are the daughter of a Dolfin and the wife of a Loredan? It does not become you to put on lewd attire and act the jape—”

  “I need to be reminded of nothing,” she said sharply. “It was amusing.”

  “Are you so bored that you need to behave in this disgusting fashion, like a common hoyden, a jade?” Alessandro snapped. “Courting danger! Flirting with scandal! I find your behavior reprehensible. Other incidences have come to my attention, but up to now I refrained from saying anything. I told myself that you were st
ill quite young, that you would outgrow this silliness. But people are beginning to talk about your wild ways. Your name is on everyone’s lips because of the ‘wonderfully amusing’ things you do. Carrying on with the dwarf, Flabonico! Appearing on a public stage with that castrated monster, Benelli!”

  Fosca said tartly, “They are my friends, both of them! Count Flabonico is a nobleman! And everyone knows that Signor Benelli is the finest singer of his age! I was deeply honored to be allowed to appear on the same stage with him. Where was the harm? I was masked and costumed and I didn’t even have to sing or dance or speak! I just rode down on a swing—I was the Goddess of the Moon. It was marvelous fun, and no one in the world could have guessed that it was I!”

  “Idiotic stunts. Wild behavior,” Alessandro growled. “Are you without shame, Madame? Do you want to become a sensation? A scandal? Dear Heaven, is there not enough lewdness and immorality in this city already? Must the daughters of noble families set a sickening example of our degeneracy? If you will not curb your wildness for my sake, then think of your father and how this would have hurt him. Think of the good name of your family. But I beg you, Madame, think, think about what you are doing.”

  Her eyes glinted. “How novel to hear you lecturing on public morals, Signor. I find it a great pity that you couldn’t have concerned yourself with my father’s honor while he was alive—! ” Her breasts rose and fell. She had very nearly given way to a show of anger, and she controlled herself with difficulty. With something of her old lightness she said, “I think you are exaggerating the seriousness of this incident. Signor. Everyone masks for Carnival. Even the Doge. Even beggars! It is a time for fun and a time for folly, and no one was hurt. Why, my father would have enjoyed the joke! He never liked old Morosini, and he would have found it amusing, the way the old man has become besotted with his young wife.”

  “I disagree. In any case, he never would have approved of the disgusting way you exhibited yourself!”

  “Ah, so you are really annoyed at my costume! Did you find it so terribly unattractive? I was masked and cloaked, and I assure you, no one recognized me.”

  “Perhaps not. But no one could fail to know that Giacomo Selvo was one of the parties involved. There isn’t another man in Venice who has the bad taste to wear pink silk with green brocade.” Alessandro shuddered. “He looked like a parrot!”

  Fosca laughed. “But that still doesn’t implicate me!

  “You think not? He and Valier are your constant companions. What else is one to infer? That they carried on the entire scheme without even telling you? I would wager rather that the whole thing was your idea, and that neither of them had the spine to refuse you.” He gave a satisfied grunt. “Well, at least that Jew tailor won’t talk.”

  Fosca stared. “What do you mean? You haven’t—murdered him!”

  “Of course not. But he will be leaving Venice immediately to join his relatives in Trieste. One less Jew for us to worry about.”

  “I cannot believe it,” Fosca said slowly, shaking her head. “I cannot believe that you would banish that poor little man, because of something as silly as this!”

  “I did it because I want no one to discover the true identity of the miscreants, is that clear? I have already informed Signors Selvo and Valier that I consider their complicity in this affair inexcusable, and that if your part in this becomes known, or if any further such incidents reach my ears, I will forbid them to enter this house.”

  Fosca stood up quickly. “You dare?” Her eyes snapped. “You would dare deny—? But they are my friends, not yours! You have no right to forbid me to see them!” The last shreds of her self-possession deserted her. She was hurt, furious, close to tears.

  Alessandro Loredan took a step towards her. He said firmly but not unkindly, “They are high-born gentlemen who should have known better than to permit a young woman to disgrace herself and her name in such a fashion. They have a responsibility to you, and to me, and they know it. I wouldn’t expect rational conduct from that idiot, Selvo, but young Valier should have known better, and he admitted as much to me. I have their word that they will both keep this affair a secret, and that in the future they will think twice before letting you indulge your mad lust for excitement.”

  Fosca ground her fingernails into the palms of her hands. She looked up at her husband. Her eyes were blazing and her voice shook.

  “You forbid my friends to visit me. You exile an innocent man because he did what I asked him to do. If I am such a trial to you, why don’t you just lock me up? Or put me away in a convent?”

  Loredan smiled wearily. “I doubt that the convent exists that could hold you, Fosca.” She turned her back on him. He went on quietly, “I want you to promise me that there will be no more masquerading, no more serenading, no more public displays of ill-breeding.”

  Fosca said, “If you do not like the way I behave. Signor, nor the way my friends behave, then why don’t you divorce me?”

  Loredan’s mouth tightened. “No.”

  “Why not?” she demanded. “I am not the wife you want. I’ve been a disappointment to you in every way!”

  “I won’t hear of it,” he said tersely. “It’s absurd. I don’t wish to discuss it.”

  “My father is dead now,” she argued. “He can’t help you anymore, and I am only a hindrance to you.

  You think I don’t know it? I don’t want your charity anymore, Signor. I never wanted it!”

  “Fosca, I warn you, go softly—”

  “Why not?” she asked again, her voice rising.

  “You would discard a coat that no longer fit, or a hat that had gone out of fashion. You would dismiss a servant who was insubordinate. You would throw away anything that was no longer useful to you—except your wife. You surprise me. I would have thought that you would like to exchange me for the daughter of another nobleman who could help you achieve power. Or are you too proud to admit you made a bad bargain when you married me?”

  “I forbid you to say more!” Loredan said sharply.

  “You cannot forbid me! I am not your servant! You won’t let me go because you hate me! That’s true, isn’t it? You hate me because I won’t let you come to me at night and because I won’t give you a son! You want to drive me to my death, as you did my father!”

  “Will you be silent!” Loredan roared.

  She stared at him speechlessly. Then she dropped her face into her hands.

  Loredan stormed out of the room, without taking proper leave of her. Fosca sank down on the chaise lounge. Her hands fell limply into her lap. She felt sick in her soul, burning hot and freezing cold at the same time. She hated her life, hated her husband, hated herself for not having the courage to escape him.

  In a sudden burst of fury, she leaned forward and swept her arm over the top of the table that held the coffee tray. China and silver went flying. The resulting crash did not soothe her.

  She threw herself face down and wept bitterly.

  Loredan went to the fencing academy he attended when he felt the need for violent exercise. Masked and suitably outfitted, he crossed swords with the fencing master, the only duellist in Italy—in Europe—who could give him a good fight. He attacked his opponent with a reckless fury and an uncharacteristic disregard of form and style.

  “Ah, Signor,” grinned the master, “I pity the man you would like to see in my place.” Their blades met and slid up to the hilt. They disengaged, stepped apart, and renewed the battle.

  “It’s no man,” Alessandro said grimly, tearing off his mask. The other man did the same.

  “Oh, ho! A woman!” Steel met steel. “I feel sorry for you, Signor. When a man wants to skewer a woman on his sword, it’s a very bad sign.”

  “Oh?” They exchanged a flurry of blows. “Why?”

  “Why?” The master laughed and fended off a vicious attack. “Excuse me, Signor, but you are leaving your right side exposed. You left-handed fighters—where were we? Ah, the lady. You want to kill her because you’re i
n love with her. It’s obvious.”

  Alessandro failed to protect his right side. The other man pinked his quilted vest, then disarmed him with a swirling motion of his own sword and pinned him to the wall.

  “What happened?” the fencing master asked. “Your defense was brilliant, and then it just fell apart.”

  Loredan stood panting, staring at the gleaming blade whose buttoned tip prodded his liver. His eyes were smoldering. They seemed about to burst into flames. The fencing master spoke, but he seemed not to hear. Wisely, the other man retracted his sword and went away.

  II

  THE NOBLEMAN

  In 1774, fresh from the traditional apprenticeship in the Venetian navy and in two important foreign embassies, Alessandro Loredan took his seat in the Grand Council of the Signoria, or Venetian congress. All men whose names were entered at birth in the Golden Book, the official registry of nobility, were expected to participate in governing the Republic of Venice. At this time there were officially sixteen hundred members of the Grand Council, although usually no more than four hundred attended daily sessions, in spite of fines levied against those who failed to appear.

  Venice, once Queen of the Adriatic and ruler of a vast empire on land and sea, now found herself a faded power. The rising sea power of other nations, England, France, and Spain, and their control of the rich trade routes to the Americas, had left Venice far behind. Her nobles, once proud merchant princes and fierce warriors, consoled themselves for their loss of prestige by devoting themselves to pleasure and ignoring their duties to the State. Fully half the year was taken up with Carnival, not only pre-Lenten festivities but over a hundred other holidays throughout the year when the public was given permission to mask and to frolic. Venice was the playground of Europe, a required stop on the Grand Tour, a seductively beautiful city with a reputation for loose women and unlimited opportunities for amusement.