The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  He opened the top drawer of his desk and lifted out a duelling pistol. He had handled it a lot in the past few weeks. It had been a comfort to him, just knowing that it was there, ready, primed and loaded. He felt a little sad about leaving Fosca, but she would forgive him, and understand. He couldn’t help her anymore.

  He put the end of the barrel against his right eye, so that the ball wouldn’t be deflected by bone. He had botched so many things in his life; it would be a shame to botch this, too.

  Fosca’s child was stillborn. Her doctors attributed it to the shock she had suffered at her father’s suicide. A month later Alessandro came to her room. She lay under him like a carcass on a butcher’s chopping block, wishing she had the courage to speak what she felt.

  She became pregnant again. Her second child miscarried early in the term. She fell ill and could not leave her bed for several weeks. In those weeks she thought about Alessandro and her father and her own unhappiness.

  When she was well enough, Alessandro visited her. “What are you doing here?” she asked coldly as he eased himself down on the edge of the bed.

  “Why, I’m here because I’m concerned about you, Fosca. I have stayed away too long.”

  “You can express your concern during the day, can’t you? No, you’re here because you want me to give you a son.”

  “I beg your pardon, Madame,” he said coolly. “I wouldn’t dream of forcing myself on you.”

  “I hate you,” she said softly. “I don’t want you to touch me, ever again. You took the love I gave you and broke and twisted it until it became grotesque and ugly. You told me lies. You betrayed me. And you murdered my father. I shall never forgive you for that, never.”

  “Fosca, your father was ill.”

  “No, he wasn’t.” She was quite calm. “I visited him that day, remember? I was cruel to him. I said awful things. But I know why he died. Because of you. Because he couldn’t bear to be used by you anymore.”

  “Fosca, I assure you—”

  “Spare me your lies,” she said wearily.

  He held her hands. “My dear, I know how upset you have been. I am truly sorry—”

  “Please let me go.”

  “I am sure I didn’t mean—”

  She began to scream wildly, in ear-shattering waves. He jumped up and backed away from her. Emilia burst in to see what was the matter and he snarled at her to get out. Fosca regarded him without emotion.

  “Never touch me again, do you understand? Never. You can divorce me—I don’t care. I would welcome it.”

  “No.” His face was flushed with anger. How dare she humiliate him like that! “No divorce.”

  “I won’t change my mind.”

  “As you wish, Madame. I trust that we can keep up appearances?”

  “Of course,” she replied. He turned on his heel and stalked out. She slid lower in bed and closed her eyes. She didn’t weep. She had wept enough for him.

  He told himself that her behavior was only temporary madness, that she would relent. But he did not approach her again. His mother told him that she had chosen two cicisbei. He had no objection. He provided her with a generous allowance, of which half he knew would find itself in Tomasso’s lean pockets. He called upon her occasionally in her boudoir, to inquire after her health and to extend his greetings, but he never stayed longer than a minute or two, and they were never alone together. It was all part of the charade.

  Meanwhile Antonio and Giacomo showed her the real world. They escorted her to parties and concerts, accompanied her on shopping trips and attended her toilette, helping her to lace up her stays, put on her shoes, dress her hair. All the while they kept up a constant stream of light and amusing conversation. They flattered her and praised her and gave her the attention she craved. They taught her the ways of society: how to speak brilliantly on any subject just by saying something witty, how to turn an epigram, how to dress, how to gossip, what fashions to like, which to disdain. They taught her how to appreciate opera and chamber music and drama. They showed her how to gamble. She knew that the Venetian passion for gaming had contaminated her father’s blood and helped to destroy him, but she played anyway, because it amused her, and because when she lost, it was Alessandro Loredan’s money, and not her own. She extended her circle of friends. She began to live her own life.

  As a study of human nature and a reading of Aesop will attest, the moment an object is removed from reach, it attains a desirability that it previously lacked.

  Alessandro Loredan began to notice, when he was able to observe his wife in the company of others, how attentive men were to her—and not only her cicisbei. She received fervent professions of adoration and praise, and turned them aside with a laugh. With the help of her two well-informed friends, her beauty blossomed and she recovered from her sadness and disillusionment.

  The Venetian government, ever strapped for funds, generally assigned the entertainment of visiting dignitaries to its richer citizens. Thus the Loredans planned a grand ball in honor of the Duke and Duchess of Savoy.

  On the night of the ball, Fosca appeared at her husband’s side just as the first guests were arriving. Alessandro, himself resplendent in black velvet, white satin, and a powdered wig, greeted her cordially. He could barely manage to keep from staring. Her gown was gold satin with yards of skirt and a small train. The tight-fitting bodice was slashed in a V in front, displaying a panel of lace studded with seedpearls. The V opened out below the waist again, showing a similarly decorated underskirt. Her hair was unpowdered and swept up into an impossibly high swirl and topped with a gold ostrich plume that dipped down over one ear. Around her neck she wore a glittering diamond necklace, a gift from her mother-in-law. She was breathtaking, easily the loveliest woman in the room.

  As he led her out for the first minuet of the evening he murmured, “You look delightful tonight, Madame. That’s quite a stunning gown. What are you trying to do, become the Marie Antoinette of Venice?”

  Her eyes shone. “If you are referring to my jewels, Signor, they really were a gift.” The Queen of France had once become involved in a scandal over a diamond necklace that she was supposed to have purchased from a Cardinal of the Church with her favors.

  Alessandro lifted his brows and led her expertly through the intricacies of the minuet. “I was referring to your gown. I received the bill for it yesterday and sent it back with a request for an explanation. I thought there was some mistake.”

  She laughed delightedly, and when he escorted her to the edge of the dance floor where Antonio and Giacomo were waiting, she greeted them gaily with, “My dears, I have just discovered the difference between a lover and a husband: a lover praises his lady’s beauty without hesitation, and the husband cavils at the cost!”

  The two men laughed. Alessandro, for once in his life, had nothing to say. Her ready wit and sophisticated airs left him speechless.

  She began to test her limits. She gambled and lost heavily, and he paid her debts without a murmur. Her dressmakers and milliners and hairdressers submitted bills that made him frown, but he paid those, too. It didn’t hurt, after all, for an important man to possess a beautiful wife whose dress was costly; it advertised his own prominence.

  The culmination of the first phase of Fosca’s social development was the attempted suicide of the Duke of Savoy, who fell in love with her at the ball and pursued her in person and by letter, sent gifts of books and flowers and poetry, and suffered greatly from her mocking laughter. He was unattractive and morose, and Fosca disliked him and made rather merciless fun of him. She returned his gifts and presumed to correct the Italian of his poetry, and when he, perhaps inspired by the suicide of the hero of Goethe’s popular novel, The Sorrows of Young Werther, tried to shoot himself, she was heard to remark that it was a pity that any man should ruin his coat on her account.

  The story spread like wildfire. Her name was on everyone’s lips. Still proclaiming his love for her and vowing never to return, the Duke left Venice. Everyo
ne agreed that Fosca’s behavior in the affair had been beyond reproach, and that the fellow had simply confused literature with life. Nevertheless, it all added luster to her growing reputation as a heartless siren.

  Alessandro realized that he could not let the incident pass without notice. Now was the time to check her, before she did something really scandalous.

  He waited up to see her one night when she returned from a ball. She felt exhausted and the sight of his grim countenance gave her no pleasure. Emilia remained in the room during the interview, and helped get her mistress ready for bed.

  “You look delightful, my dear,” Alessandro said after he had bowed politely over her hand. He settled himself in a low chair near her dressing table. “That gown is truly superb.”

  “Do you think so?” She gave him a slight smile while Emilia undid the fasteners at the back and she pulled her arms out of the sleeves. “Perhaps you haven’t received the bill for it yet.”

  “Really, Fosca, I have no objection to paying for your finery. I never meant to take you to task for your spending—although it has been a little excessive lately. You present quite a sumptuous feast for the eye.”

  She stepped out of her gown and Emilia held up a negligée for her. “Thank you, Signor.”

  “I can well understand that your admirers are without number,” he went on, trying not to stare at the pink swelling of her breasts above the top edge of her corset. “You’re cutting quite a swath in society, and leaving behind you a trail of broken hearts.”

  Her smile widened. “And a trail of ruined waistcoats, too.” She settled herself in front of her mirror and began to remove her jewels while Emilia started to dismantle her hairdo.

  Alessandro said, in a slightly condescending tone, “I’m sure you didn’t mean to encourage the man.”

  “Oh, but I did! I flirted with him quite boldly. He could hardly have mistaken my meaning.”

  “You—what!” Alessandro stared. “But—why?”

  She shrugged. “Because that is what Venetian ladies of rank do. They promise everything and give nothing. I have learned how to give my heart to everyone—and no one.”

  “But you must have seen what might happen,” I Alessandro protested. “What if he had actually succeeded in killing himself over you?”

  “What if he had?” she asked carelessly. “Surely dying for me would be a much more worthwhile and impressive end than growing fat and diseased and dying in bed.”

  “You have grown cynical, Madame,” Alessandro said grimly. “It does not become you.”

  “You think not? Then it does not become anyone in Venice, and yet everyone behaves this way. I think it is not cynicism at all, but realism. We have no more illusions, therefore no more disillusionment. No more trust, therefore no more betrayals. People of fashion, I have observed, pretend that nothing is so important as to cause unhappiness. For them—and for me— unhappiness does not exist.”

  “You might as well imitate monkeys in the jungle as people of fashion,” Alessandro growled.

  “And so I would, if I lived in the jungle. But I live in society now, and if I don’t want to be lonely and neglected I will follow the rules of fashion, and spurn those who ignore them as my inferiors.”

  “You learn quickly.”

  “Of course. I could not stay ignorant forever, anymore than I could stay a child forever. Age has a way of inflicting experience on one, whether one likes it or not.” She lifted her chin. Emilia brushed her hair with long, deep strokes. “Beauty wields a power all its own. Mine won’t last forever, so I must use it while I can, don’t you agree?”

  “I do not. You are careless of your reputation, and your good name!”

  “It is not my name, but yours,” she answered. She gave a little tinkling laugh. “The Loredan name: my first piece of borrowed finery!”

  “I would like to remind you that it is considered ill-mannered to abuse borrowed goods,” he said sharply.

  She laughed. “Considered so particularly by the lender, who has a greater stake than the borrower.”

  He scowled. “I would prefer it, Madame, if you would be more careful of your conduct in the future. You were lucky that this man didn’t die. If he had, the sensation would have been a scandal.”

  “And I would prefer it. Signor, if you would kindly refrain from advising me on how to conduct my affairs. I would not dream of presuming to offer you advice. I have observed that civilized people do not meddle where they are not wanted.”

  “You have observed a great deal in the past two years,” Alessandro remarked acidly. “I trust that you will not cease to observe the dictates of common sense.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of observing anything dictatorial, common, or sensible!” she informed him brightly. “It’s so old-fashioned, Signor!”

  “Things old-fashioned are not without value.” He was becoming exasperated. “They have withstood the test of time.”

  “I dislike tests,” she said airily. “Why should any human, knowing that he will ultimately fail the test of time himself, bother with the past? The challenge of every age should be to invent new standards, new values, new modes. But I see you disagree, Signor. No matter. Where would the young be without the old to remind them of how dull they will be when they attain great age?”

  So, she was implying that he was an old man! And old-fashioned!

  He took a breath. “I have no wish to interfere in your life, Fosca. I merely wanted to warn you of possible dangers so that you could avoid them.”

  “How very kind of you, Signor,” she said, stifling a yawn. “You must have been very concerned indeed to keep yourself at home tonight, just so you could speak to me.”

  He stuck doggedly to his point. “If you persist in ignoring my warnings, I will be forced to curtail your freedom.”

  “Really?” She looked interested. “And how will you do that, I wonder? By closing your purse strings so that I will be forced to dress in rags—the way you found me—and will be too ashamed to go out? Oh, that would be monstrous cruel, Signor,” she sighed daintily. “You would make yourself unpopular, not only with the young men of this city, but with a score of merchants as well. Not to mention the croupiers who reap the benefits of my bad luck at the gaming tables!” She stood and stretched. “And now, if you don’t mind, I think I shall put an end to this interminably boring day.

  Really, Venice is so dull this time of year! I don’t know how I bear it!” She offered her hand as a dismissal.

  He took it and bowed stiffly. “I regret that you find us dull, Madame,” he said smoothly, hoping to leave her with the last word. “It’s a pity you had to forsake the thousand joys of convent life for this sink of boredom.”

  But she merely smiled sleepily and said, “You are quite right. At least in the convent one is spared the unwanted attentions of boring old men, Signor, goodnight.”

  He retreated. She had bested him at every turn with the wit and wiles of a practiced charmer. She had indeed learned quickly, and well. He hadn’t been able to penetrate her hard veneer of sophistication at all. She was brittle, gay, impervious to insult. There wasn’t a sign of the trembling child he had married. She was all woman. She had discovered that she was beautiful, and she knew how to use her powers.

  He was furious with himself. He had acted boorishly, priggishly. Like one of those bumbling husbands in Goldoni’s comedies who are bemused and baffled by their young wives. But he wasn’t old. Not yet thirty-five! And she was still a child, barely twenty.

  He suspected that tomorrow she would relay the amusing details of their discussion to her drones, and he, Alessandro Loredan, son of Doges and rising political star, would become a figure of fun in her little circle. He clenched his fists and ground his teeth.

  Loredan immersed himself in work and his single-minded pursuit of power. He steadfastly ignored his wife’s pranks and gossip-worthy actions,'and drew some small comfort from the knowledge that in spite of her many flirtations she remained virtuous, giving h
erself to no other man.

  Theirs was a typical Venetian marriage. Fosca and Alessandro Loredan revolved around the planet Venice, two moons whose orbits crossed only on rare occasions, and then with unpleasant results. Alessandro regretted that Fosca would not give him a son. As his ambitions soared, so did his desire for an heir. But he told himself that he could not divorce her because of the promise he had made to her father. Nothing else could explain his reluctance to let her go.

  He was aware that she had a curious effect on him when they met. He behaved pompously, something he never did elsewhere, or in other company. Her mocking laughter made him swell inwardly with anger. Her taunts, her jabs at his age and conservatism, ignited the sparks of a rage that only manifested itself when he left her. He avoided her, because when he was with her he lost his composure, yet he frequently found himself wondering what she was doing and who she was with.

  But it never occurred to him, until he stood pinned by the master’s sword to the wall of the fencing academy, that he was in love with her. The gleaming shaft of the rapier was like Jove’s thunderbolt, a brilliant flash that illuminated everything that he had been feeling. He knew that the man’s words were true.

  This was Cupid’s revenge on Alessandro Loredan. He had committed the unspeakable folly of falling in love with his own wife.

  III

  THE JEW

  The bulky merchant ship pitched and rocked on the stormy sea. It heeled so sharply that the tips of the masts almost touched the surface of the water. Waves washed over the decks, and sailors lashed themselves to supports in order to keep from being dashed to pieces or flushed overboard. In the cargo holds below decks, huge barrels ripped loose from their moorings, and their constant rolling thunder accompanied the deafening din from the skies. Men long familiar with the tempers of the seas said later that they had never seen such a violent storm on the Mediterranean.