The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  “Many of them,” Alessandro admitted, “but truthfully, Signorina, I have never seen one so beautiful as you. You are like a star yourself: pale and shining, pure, remote.”

  “I must go in,” she said, blushing. “Father will be worried.”

  “Of course. Perhaps we shall see each other again sometime. Although I don’t think I’ll be calling on your father again any time soon. We had a disagreement of sorts.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Father is often cross when he’s feeling bad. I’m sorry, Signor.”

  “Do you ever walk in the garden in the evening?” he wondered. “At around—seven o’clock.”

  Her heart thumped. “Once in a while, Emilia and I take a little walk before bed,” she said. “After dinner. At—ten.”

  “Ah, at ten,” he nodded. “A beautiful hour, when the moon is on the rise and lovers hearts yearn towards each other like flowers towards water. Will you give me your hand before you go?”

  He held out his own, and she put hers into it. He raised it to his lips, and brushed her fingertips with a kiss. She reddened. Suddenly her lungs seemed too big for her body. She whispered a hasty excuse and walked away quickly, not turning around. When she neared the house she broke into a run.

  Loredan smiled to himself. A pity all conquests couldn’t be so simple.

  Tomasso orchestrated the affair with all the cunning of a prisoner planning an escape. In the evenings after dinner, he would suggest to his father that they play a little chess, or cards. The old man couldn’t resist a game, no matter what it was, and they were soon engrossed in play. Orio Dolfin hardly looked up when Fosca kissed his cheek and told him she was going to bed. Then she and Emilia went out to the garden to await the arrival of Alessandro Loredan. When he appeared, Emilia vanished. Her cooperation had been easily secured. She thought that the affair, or at least Tomasso’s version of it, was more romantic than any play, and she dreamed of quitting the ramshackle Dolfin dwellings for a really elegant palazzo in town.

  Fosca felt sad at having to deceive her father, whom she loved, but she believed Tomasso’s assurances that only time and secrecy could overcome Orio’s objections to a match with Loredan. She loved the Alessandro she knew, the handsome gallant, the courtly and urbane lover. He was every schoolgirl’s dream: a rich and worthy prince who came out of nowhere, saw, and loved. He won her heart easily. He knew all the tricks, she knew none. He knew how to create magic with a word, a glance, or a quiet moment. A sophisticated woman would have recognized his passionate avowals for what they were: beautiful lies. But Fosca believed them.

  When he touched her, she began to awake to the possibilities of love as it exists in real life, rather than in story books. He didn’t rush her. He could sense when she was ready to give him another measure of trust, and he followed her lead. He kissed her for the first time on their fourth meeting, but so lightly that she thought she imagined it. Four days after that he took her virginity, on a carpet of pine needles in a little wood farther up the Brenta River. She was willing for it to happen, although she was a little frightened. She didn’t want to appear a bumpkin, though, or to disappoint him, or perhaps drive him away with her provincial prudery.

  She cried a little when it was over. He held her close and spoke soothingly, and all the while he was formulating what he would say to Orio Dolfin.

  “Marry Fosca! No. I know what you’re up to. Signor, and it won’t work with me. You think that as your father-in-law I’ll have to give you a push in the direction you want to go. Never. I’ll never let you have her!”

  “Don’t be so hasty, Signor. You know very well that she has no dowery, thanks to your profligacy—”

  “You dare!”

  “She’s destined for the convent, and believe me, it would be a pity for a lovely child like that to fret her life away behind convent walls.”

  “I’d rather see her buried alive than married to you,” Dolfin growled. “Now get out.”

  “I should tell you, Signor, that I have already taken your daughter as my wife.”

  The rheumy eyes stared and the parched face drained of color. Alessandro wondered if the shock would kill Dolfin. In that event, a marriage would be unnecessary. But Orio Dolfin breathed deeply and his color returned. He began to tremble.

  “You villain,” he croaked. “You inutterable scum!”

  “Come, come. Signor,” Alessandro said soothingly. “I speak quite objectively when I say that marriage to a Loredan would be an honor for any woman and any family. Would you deny her that, because of your own stubborn pride?”

  “No, no, I’ll never allow it!” Dolfin said. “I’d rather see her dead!”

  “She would want for nothing. And you would not find me an ungenerous son-in-law, Signor.”

  “Damn you, I don’t want your charity!”

  “It is not charity, but an arrangement that suits us both,” Alessandro said crisply. “For you, the knowledge that your daughter was being cared for, that she was enjoying the luxuries that should be hers by right of her beauty and her birth, that you had not ruined her life as well as your own by your chronic indebtedness. I would undertake to pay off your creditors—”

  “No! I forbid it!”

  “In exchange, you will do your best to insure my election to the Senate.”

  “How can I do that?” Orio demanded helplessly. “It’s impossible!”

  “I’m sure you can manage. You foiled my election often enough in the past. Oh, I have my eye on the Commission of the Seas. I’d like you to see what you can do in that direction as well.”

  “I won’t do it! I won’t become your puppet, do you hear? I won’t degrade myself—I won’t—”

  “Refuse and I will leave here, never to return,” Alessandro said coldly. “Your daughter can go back to her convent. No one will ever offer for her again, I can promise you that.”

  Orio Dolfin was beaten and he was too cagey a politician not to know it: He began to bluster.

  “I suppose Tomasso aided and abetted you in this! That rascal, that wastrel. He’s a disgrace! But Fosca.” His tone became softer. “The sweet child. My beauty. Oh, Fosca.”

  To Alessandro’s embarrassment the old man rested his head on his arms and began to weep. He tactfully turned his back and strolled to the window. Finally he heard the quavering voice.

  “When I have ceased to be of use to you—when I am dead—you will desert her!”

  “No,” Loredan said firmly. “I promise you, I will care for her and protect her until I die.”

  Divorces were common in Venice, and a woman’s dowery was returned to her, insuring that she would not be left penniless. But Fosca, who had no dowery, would suffer.

  Eventually Dolfin gained control of himself. He rang for his old manservant and asked that Fosca be sent in. She arrived, looking heartbreakingly innocent and flushed with love.

  Her father said, “This gentleman has offered to marry you, Fosca. Is that what you want, too?”

  “Oh, yes. Papa!” Her eyes never left Alessandro’s face. He had never before been subjected to such a loving look, and it made him uncomfortable. He coughed and dug in his waistcoat pocket for his snuffbox.

  “So be it, then,” said Orio Dolfin heavily. “I won’t 'Stop you.”

  Ecstatic, Fosca flew into his arms. She was a little disturbed that her father didn’t seem happier for her, but she didn’t think about it for long.

  The wedding guests agreed that Loredan's bride was a beauty, and predicted that she would cause a sensation in society. They also confided to one another that they had never seen a bride so obviously in love— unusual in a society where most brides never met their intended husbands until their wedding day.

  Fosca felt like a newly-hatched chick, emerging from the quiet darkness of a protective shell into a dazzling and beautiful world. She had never seen such a house as Ca’ Loredan. The women were so elegant and breathtaking that she stared openly, trying to take in every detail. Their fac
es were artfully painted and patched, their gowns elaborate, their powdered coiffures gravity-defying, their jewels sumptuous. She herself wore a single strand of pearls, traditionally given to brides by their mothers as their first piece of jewelry. Unmarried women were forbidden by ancient laws to wear any jewelry at all. Fosca’s pearls had been purchased by Alessandro, and given to her by her father, who wept as he fastened them on.

  The gentlemen were similarly powdered and lavishly costumed for the occasion, in a brilliant array of velvets and silks. Alessandro was easily the handsomest man there, in dark blue velvet and powder blue breeches. Fosca’s heart swelled with pride and love as she looked at him. He seemed curiously reluctant to meet her gaze.

  The day passed like a beautiful dream. That night, waiting for her bridegroom in her elegantly appointed boudoir, Fosca clasped her old rosary and prayed to the Blessed Mother to help her be a good wife.

  He didn’t come to her that night. She felt the disappointment keenly, and cried herself to sleep. Two days passed. She didn’t see him at all. Finally he appeared late one night after she had already gone to bed. She ran to him and threw herself into his arms.

  “Oh, Alessandro, I’ve missed you so! Why didn’t you come sooner? I’ve been so worried—terrified that you didn’t love me anymore!”

  He detached her hands from behind his neck and said, “Come, come, there’s no need for that, Fosca. I am sorry to have neglected you. I’ve been quite busy, and I’m sure you have had plenty to occupy you: dressmakers and hairdressers and all the usual things that women like. I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you as soon as I could.”

  Talk?

  “You are my wife now, Fosca,” he said. “That’s not a position to be taken lightly.”

  “Of course not, Alessandro.”

  “I expect you to honor the vows you made at our wedding. You will give me children, and you will be a good mother to them. You will comport yourself in a fashion that will not cast any shadow on the Loredan name. It is a proud name, and an ancient one, and I expect you to wear it proudly.”

  She swallowed and said, “I will try, Signor.”

  “Very good. Will you come to bed now?”

  No tender words or passionate declarations. Even his lovemaking was quick and perfunctory. She was puzzled. He was so different from the man who had wooed her so ardently in the country. He left her and she wept a little. She felt cheated, and told herself sternly that she had no right to feel that way. He had already done so much for her. She ought to be grateful. What did she know about marriage, after all? Still, it would have been nice if he had been a little more—loving.

  Alessandro Loredan had very little time these days to devote to an adoring bride. The barriers to his advancement were down, his progress was assured. He easily won election to the Senate that fall, and was chosen to the Commission of the Seas, one of the most powerful in government. Orio Dolfin worked tirelessly in his son-in-law’s behalf, and every cynic in Venice knew why. Alessandro went back to his old pattern of living: hard work, nights with his current mistress at his casino, the little apartment he maintained near San Marco. He visited Fosca once or twice a week until she became pregnant, six months after they were married. Then his nocturnal visits ceased, although he managed to pay a rare courtesy call when he happened to be at home during the day.

  Emilia assured her that he hadn’t ceased to love her.

  He was an important man, after all. He couldn’t possibly be as devoted as he was in the country.

  One day she and Emilia went for a stroll along the Liston, the side of the Piazza San Marco favored by people of fashion, who liked to walk and gossip as they admired displays of new goods in shop windows. They stopped at Florian’s Café to refresh themselves, choosing a table near the front where they could watch the passing scene.

  Their coffee came. Fosca, feeling very much the worldly lady, paid. Suddenly she heard a voice behind her saying.

  “My dear, have you heard that Alessandro Loredan has taken up with the Gonzaga woman? I saw them together at the opera last night. They were masked, of course, but she’s unmistakable anywhere, with her height and that awful laugh of hers.”

  “Oh, I can well believe it! You know, she’s just finished decimating the French ambassador,” drawled the woman’s companion, who might have been an effeminate male or a masculine female. “Loredan will make her his mistress, of course. He won’t be able to resist her. No man can! But wait until he finds out how much she costs!”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s disgustingly rich. Oh, why couldn’t I attract a man like that?”

  “He married, didn’t he? At long last!”

  “Oh, yes. Dolfin’s daughter. And now he has the old man right where he wants him. So clever, our Alessandro. By the way, what ever happened to that blond singer of his, the German?”

  “Didn’t you hear? She’s sleeping with the envoy from Prussia! He must be a glorious lover, because he hasn’t got a sequin to his name!”

  Emilia, sipping her hot chocolate with relish and intent on the parade of elegance that passed the windows, paid no attention to the conversation. But Fosca heard every word as if amplified, although the two were speaking in low tones.

  She felt dizzy and thought she was going to be sick. She left her seat and ran out of the café. Emilia hurried after her, and found her huddled against a wall. She was sobbing wretchedly and couldn’t speak.

  She touched no food for three days. Rosalba Loredan sent for a doctor, then a priest to counsel her, but she would speak to no one. Finally Alessandro came to see her, to upbraid her for making herself ill at such a critical time in her pregnancy. She challenged him with what she had overheard. Was it true?

  She held her breath and waited for his denial.

  “True?” He raised his brows. “Of course it’s true. I won’t bother to deny it. I suppose it’s time you were learning about such things, Fosca. You’re not a child anymore. But understand one thing: this has nothing to do with you.”

  “But I’m your wife!” she cried. “Who has it to do with, if not me? You betrayed me!”

  “Nonsense,” he said briskly. “Throw out all that romantic stuff you’ve been filling your head with. Marriage is business, Fosca. Men marry because their wives have important connections. There’s nothing wrong with that. When you married me, two ancient and important families were joined together. That’s good for both of us, and for Venice. I have given you a home and protection and a noble name. You mustn’t be selfish and make unreasonable demands of me. I have my own life to live. I won’t dance attendance on you. Now that you’re expecting a child it’s more important than ever that I stay away, so as not to do him injury.”

  “But I love you!” she sobbed. “I love you!”

  “You have not found me cruel or ungenerous, have you?” he demanded. “I haven’t hurt you. It’s all in your imagination, Fosca. Someday you will see that your expectations of marriage were unrealistic.”

  “But the things you said! And now—this! It’s like a sword in my vitals!”

  “Please don’t dramatize the situation, Fosca,” he said impatiently. “This is the way of the world. Noblemen do not have the time to devote to their wives that peasants do.”

  “No, but they have plenty of time to devote to their—mistresses!” she observed angrily.

  “That will do! ” His tone was sharp. “What I choose to do with my time is my own affair, not yours. When you have been married a little longer you may choose some companions of your own age, young men who share your interests, who can take you around and amuse you. But right now you must be content. Think of your child, and don’t distract me by becoming a nuisance.”

  His words washed over her like an icy bath. He was like a stranger to her. So brusque and overbearing—she didn’t know him. He didn’t love her anymore. Then she realized: he had never once said that he did love her.

  She was so steeped in misery that when she went to visit her father later that w
eek, she couldn’t even feign happiness. From the first moment when he embraced her and remarked that she was looking a little pale, she burst into tears and blurted out the whole story.

  “He lied to me! He doesn’t love me! He never loved me! Oh, Papa, I’m so unhappy!”

  Orio Dolfin gave her off-handed comfort and turned his face away, but not before she saw his guilty expression.

  “You knew!” She gasped. “You knew he didn’t really love me. And you let me marry him anyway! Oh, Papa, why didn’t you say something?”

  “It was for your own good, child,” Orio said miserably. “I didn’t want you to go back to the convent. I knew how much you disliked it.”

  “But it would have been better than this—deceit! I don’t understand why it has to be this way? It’s so wrong!”

  “I am sorry, Fosca. Sorry you had to find out this way. You’ve been so sheltered—I never meant you to be hurt, child. I had already hurt you so much—gambled everything away, left you without a future. Loredan gave me a chance to undo some of the wrong I’d done.”

  “Those people said that he has you where he wants you. What does that mean?” she demanded.

  “Oh, nothing, nothing. Only that I am helping his career now.”

  “In exchange for his marrying me?”

  “Yes, something like that. I don’t mind. I’m old and old-fashioned. I’ve done enough for Venice. Maybe it’s time to turn things over to the younger men.” “But you didn’t like him,” Fosca said shrewdly, brushing away her tears. “You disagreed with him, didn’t you? You wouldn’t help him at all if it wasn’t for me, would you?”

  “No, perhaps not. But I might—I might have been wrong about him,” Dolfin said hopefully.

  “You don’t believe that.” Her voice was hard. “I’m sorry, Fosca,” he hung his head. “You don’t know—how sorry.”

  “You let him use you!” she said cuttingly. “Oh, Papa, how could you be so—so weak?”

  After she left him, Orio Dolfin sat for a long time in front of his desk. He was losing power in the Senate as quickly as Loredan was gaining it. Those who had once admired him because he refused to betray his principles now mocked him. He felt tired, defeated, full of sorrow and guilt.