Volnay was perplexed. He shook his head.
‘A glass of water,’ murmured Chiara. ‘Please…’
‘Straightaway,’ said Volnay.
He was surprised, on his return, to find her standing at his desk, examining his papers.
‘Mademoiselle?’
She turned to him, and her expression was open and candid.
‘I was admiring your lacquered work cabinet. It must have cost a small fortune.’
‘It came to me from my father,’ he answered, coldly. ‘I’m pleased to see you are feeling better.’
Relinquishing any attempt at manners, he held the glass out for her to take, but did not move. She walked slowly to where he stood, her eyes fixed firmly on his, but pouting sulkily like a naughty little girl who has been caught in the act. She took the glass, and their fingers brushed. Volnay felt a tremor of excitement throughout his body.
‘It is very fresh, thank you.’ She returned the glass, after taking the tiniest of sips.
Volnay was troubled indeed. He took the glass, resisting the urge to drink from it in turn, in the delicate trace of her lips. She hesitated for a moment, then walked across to admire the magpie once again, and played with it through the bars of the cage. The bird beat its wings and set about smoothing its feathers.
‘Is she any more of a prisoner than we poor humans, labouring under the yoke of our own rules, conventions and prejudices?’ she pondered.
The question took Volnay by surprise. He watched her closely.
‘You must find me very strange,’ she went on in some embarrassment, ‘but you see, my lady-in-waiting left to care for her sick mother, and has sent no word since. When I heard the news of the killing, I wondered if…’
Volnay relaxed. Here at last was the reason for her persistent questioning.
‘The post can be inefficient, Mademoiselle. But I can assure you that—’
There came a knock at the door. Irritated, Volnay excused himself and went to open it. He was a man who seldom entertained, and kept the company of no one but his magpie and his monk, yet he was receiving more visitors than ever before this morning. His surprise was all the greater when he saw the man standing outside his door:
‘Casanova!’
‘Chevalier?’
Chiara D’Ancilla’s delicate presence in the room he had just left prevented him from inviting the Chevalier de Seingalt to come inside. His visitor was clearly offended, but said nothing.
‘I come with greetings.’
‘What can I do for you?’ asked Volnay, standing his ground in the doorway.
‘Well, you might invite me in off the street for a start,’ said the Venetian coldly.
Reluctantly, Volnay stood aside.
‘I have a guest; I must ask you to be brief.’
He heard the rustle of Chiara’s gown and was alarmed to see a sparkle in Casanova’s well-trained eye. She had appeared behind him, and Volnay saw straightaway that Casanova was sizing her up as a potential conquest. For her part, the young woman seemed quite struck by the tall, handsome man—who stood a good head above Volnay—with his robust figure, healthy complexion and smiling eyes. Cold fury gripped the inspector, but he retained his composure.
‘Mademoiselle…’
Casanova had sunk into a deep bow.
‘Allow me to introduce myself, since our friend Volnay will not. The Chevalier de Seingalt, at your service.’
And he bowed once more, but without taking his eyes off Chiara this time.
‘Forgive me, I’m quite forgetting myself,’ said Volnay drily. ‘Chevalier de Seingalt, allow me to introduce Chiara D’Ancilla.’
‘Your family is widely known,’ declared Casanova, bending again to kiss the tips of the young woman’s fingers. ‘These are the moments I treasure most in life: chance encounters, unforeseen, unexpected, and all the more delightful for that!’
Volnay rolled his eyes to the ceiling, but Chiara considered the Venetian carefully.
‘Are you not the one they also call Casanova?’
She pronounced the name with a certain anxiety, and a glimmer of excitement, too. The Chevalier de Seingalt was unsurprised. His reputation preceded him, and he attracted the attention of women wherever he went.
‘What did you want to tell me?’ asked Volnay brusquely.
The Venetian mimed a gesture of comic despair.
‘To be perfectly honest, I have quite forgotten. It must have been something connected with last night’s business, but the sight of this charming young lady has quite driven it from my mind.’
Casanova often fell in love at a glance. His smouldering gaze left Chiara quite disconcerted. Her fingers toyed nervously with a flower of gold that she wore about her neck. Volnay noticed, and felt a rush of anger at the Venetian. He thought of a stratagem to rid himself of this unwelcome visitor. He invited his guests to sit in his two armchairs, and seated himself on a stool. Pleasantries were exchanged about the late coming of spring.
‘You are a lover of science, Mademoiselle,’ said Volnay, suddenly. ‘Madame d’Urfé’s laboratory will certainly fascinate you. They say it is crammed full of stills and jars of every kind, with a furnace that is kept burning even through the height of summer. Madame d’Urfé has been working there night and day for years, in hopes of discovering the elixir of life. The Chevalier de Seingalt here is sure to know all about it.’
Casanova raised one very aristocratic eyebrow, feigning incomprehension. Chiara D’Ancilla turned to address him.
‘Whatever does our friend mean?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. Though I have indeed met Madame d’Urfé, of course…’
Volnay gave a thin smile.
‘And extorted money from her on the pretext of initiating her into the mysteries of the Kabbalah!’
The Venetian jumped to his feet.
‘You cannot say that, sir! I have never received so much as a penny from the lady, I give you my word of honour!’
‘Gemstones, to be precise,’ insisted the policeman.
‘Oh, that…’
Casanova affected a gracious wave of the hand.
‘I used them to show her the constellations…’
Chiara was unable to suppress a loud giggle. Volnay turned to her, furiously.
‘Does it amuse you to think of swindling a fifty-three-year-old lady? Do you believe the Chevalier de Seingalt, here present, behaved in a manner befitting his freshly bestowed title when he told the poor, credulous woman that she would become pregnant, die in childbirth and be reborn sixty-four days later?’
Chiara pressed her hands to her chest, struggling unsuccessfully to contain her laughter.
‘Did you really tell the lady that, Chevalier?’
The Venetian gave an exasperated sigh.
‘How the devil did you hear about that, Volnay?’
The inspector sat impassively, in silence. Casanova turned to Chiara D’Ancilla and saw straightaway that she found the story greatly amusing.
‘You shouldn’t mock the Marquise d’Urfé,’ he said indulgently. ‘She was the mistress of the regent, and he is passionate about alchemy. They say he was conducting his experiments with the express aim of meeting the Devil himself! The marquise is researching the balsamic properties of plants, to create an elixir of life. It’s an obsession with her. A harmless enough obsession if it weren’t for her private genie.’
Chiara’s hilarity increased. Volnay was transfixed by her charming lips, chilled by a secret horror that he might see them offered to another.
‘Yes indeed,’ Casanova continued enthusiastically, ‘she has a genie who talks to her at night! He’s thoroughly well intentioned, and advised her to elicit my help in securing the passage of her soul into a male child born of the philosophical coupling of a mortal man with a divine female being. She was even prepared to poison herself to that very end! I dissuaded her…’
He broke off with a modest smile, as if expecting to be congratulated.
�
��If I had been thoroughly honest,’ he continued, with aplomb, ‘and assured her that her ideas were absurd, she would never have believed me. And so I thought best to go along with her, for her own safety. But I formed no plan whatsoever to rob her of her riches, though I could have done it most easily, believe me, if I had been in any way ill-intentioned.’
‘And how did you “go along” with her?’ asked Chiara, wickedly.
Casanova fixed her with a penetrating stare.
‘I developed a theory, according to which we would achieve union with the elementary spirits by engaging in hypostasis. The Marquise d’Urfé was eager to carry out the experiment, in order to bear a miraculous child, in which form she would be reborn. This would help her overcome her absurd fear of death!’
Volnay gave an exasperated groan.
‘Her children have filed a complaint: there’s more trouble ahead for you, dear Chevalier.’
Chiara D’Ancilla turned to the Venetian, to scold him.
‘You have made me laugh, but I cannot approve your actions: robbing a poor woman who has taken leave of her senses!’
Casanova’s face lit up with a mocking smile.
‘Robbing her? The lady is vastly rich, and a miser. Securing a few gifts for myself won’t ruin her. Those who have money distribute it to those who do not—it’s a very good system. It’s my belief the rich should be subject to taxation, and the proceeds distributed to the poorest in the land, rather than the opposite, as we do today.’
Chiara smiled affectionately.
‘Well, hark at you.’
‘Her money should go to her children,’ grumbled Volnay, ‘not to you!’
The Venetian’s smile froze on his lips.
‘It will go to her offspring minus a few baubles, rest assured. And her stupid, stubborn children will be a little less rich and fat as a result, Monsieur, the great defender of the rich and powerful of this world! I have no employment, hold no office, as you know. My freedom is unconstrained. All I have are women to love, and the purses of others to spend. Allow me that privilege, at least.’
‘A dubious privilege indeed,’ growled Volnay.
Casanova shot him an icy look.
‘What am I to do? I’m a man of considerable merit, but I live in a century where such things go unrewarded.’
‘Casanova, the great, misunderstood genius.’ Volnay’s response was heavy with irony.
‘Chevalier de Seingalt, if you please.’
‘Your name is not Seingalt, it’s Casanova!’ objected Volnay. ‘The latter is true, the former is false.’
The Venetian responded with a gesture that suggested the conversation was beginning to bore him.
‘Both names are as true as I’m sitting here talking to you now. The alphabet belongs to everyone, as far as I am aware.’
‘You have no more status than a stage valet,’ said Volnay scornfully.
‘Watch your words,’ said Casanova, losing none of his sangfroid. ‘Many’s the stage valet who ends up beating his master with a stick!’
He rose and took his leave of Chiara, elegantly addressing a few words to her in Italian, to which she responded most charmingly. Then he gave a stiff nod to the Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths and left.
‘Chevalier de Seingalt! Wait, please!’
Chiara turned to Volnay with a playful look.
‘Forgive me, Monsieur, for leaving so quickly, but I’ve just remembered that I am expected elsewhere. Please consider my request. You are a police inspector—you will know how to find me.’
Out on the street, Volnay watched darkly as Casanova gallantly helped the young woman into her carriage, then joined her. The driver cracked his whip and the vehicle shuddered. Volnay shook his head, trying to rid himself of his black thoughts. It was said that Casanova had raped a young woman in her carriage and that she hadn’t even reported the crime. But then, what woman would dare report such a thing in this day and age?
The chevalier’s pronouncements about money lacked conviction. Casanova was often short of funds, but as the protégé of the abbé de Bernis, the former French ambassador to Venice, with whom he had shared a mistress in Venice, Volnay knew that he had secured an introduction to the Duc de Choiseul. After which, praised by Bernis as an expert in matters of finance (especially the finances of others), he had persuaded the financier Joseph Pâris-Duverney of the infallibility of a plan he had devised, for a lottery. D’Alembert, the mathematician, had been persuaded, too. Casanova had obtained six offices and a comfortable salary of four thousand francs per year to set up the lottery, the aim of which was to finance the new military college, without raising taxes! Since when Casanova had been living in luxury, in a magnificently furnished villa, with a stable of horses, carriages, grooms and a retinue of servants.
Volnay walked slowly back to his house. Again, his thoughts turned to the carriage bearing away the young woman who had awakened a heart imprisoned in ice for so long. Then he thought of the Venetian and sighed.
‘Ah! Casanova…’
He swore out loud. The magpie broke its silence, cackled and called out:
‘Casa! Casa Cretin!’
Casanova studied Chiara’s face as she turned to him. She radiated an unexpected light, just as some paintings of the quattrocento subtly show Mary to be more woman than Virgin. And with that, memories rose to the surface of his mind, in a disorderly rush he had not experienced for many years. First, the face of a mother who never granted him so much as a single loving look. Yet he would have paid dearly, in his childhood, to see his own reflection even for a second in the sparkle of her eyes. Next, the face of Henriette, his dearly beloved, and the message she had left him, carved on the windowpane with the point of a small diamond she wore in a ring: ‘Henriette shall be forgotten, too.’ Twelve years had passed, and he had forgotten nothing. He half closed his eyes, allowing his feelings to subside and his carapace to shut tight once more. He was alone with his memories. There was nothing to be gained as a lover of women.
‘Why were you in such a hurry to leave Volnay?’ he asked.
‘Because he was in too much of a hurry to chase away one of my countrymen, and doubtless for the wrong reason.’
‘Really?’ he asked, innocently. ‘And what reason is that?’
She stared him straight in the eye, discovering all the Venetian’s legendary vitality as she did so, concentrated in his gaze.
‘A reason I’m sure you can guess.’
Casanova allowed an amused smile to flutter at his lips. This young woman was vivacious indeed, and very sharp.
‘And what about you, Chevalier?’ she went on. ‘What brought you to visit the inspector? Have some young girl’s parents filed a complaint?’
Casanova looked slightly annoyed. The fact was, he had been thinking all night about the faceless woman, and the letter that Volnay had removed from her body. His mind, ever alert to the possibility of securing some advantage in life, told him that this was fertile territory, worth exploring. The inspector must have taken the letter for good reason. From what he knew of Volnay, he was a man of integrity. Was he trying to protect someone? The affair was worth a closer look. Often enough, knowing all there was to know had helped him keep body and soul together: one reason why he had called on the Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths. But this young woman had distracted him from his purpose.
‘A simple courtesy call,’ he replied, and said no more.
Chiara laughed.
‘A courtesy call to an officer of the police—a rebel like you!’
‘Me, a rebel?’ Casanova was astonished.
‘You’ve been in prison; you escaped. You don’t care a jot for the law, you have dared to revolt against authority!’
Her eyes were so bright with excitement that the Venetian was loath to disappoint. But some reputations were best not lugged across Europe in a man’s baggage.
‘I am no threat to society, Mademoiselle.’
‘And yet you challenge it, by n
ot living according to society’s conventions!’
Casanova watched her attentively. He was seldom seen as a man at war with his own time. He had no bone to pick with anyone, though he enjoyed duping the gullible, and making a mockery of the law. And yet no one on earth was freer than he: he loved women madly, but when pushed he would always choose his freedom.
‘It is true that I often pass from Their Royal Highnesses’ courts to their prisons,’ he admitted, elegantly.
She chuckled, and again he enjoyed her refreshing laughter, a reminder of Venice and more carefree days. What is beauty? he wondered, observing her with rapt devotion. We cannot say, and yet we know it in our hearts.
‘Why did you take the name Seingalt, which seems to annoy our friend Volnay so?’ she asked him suddenly.
‘Oh, that’s very simple,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Seing means “signature” and alt is short for altesse: Highness.’
She looked at him, and her expression was grave once more. The Venetian’s insolent disregard for society as a whole was enormously pleasing.
‘How did you become what you are, Chevalier de Seingalt?’
‘I grew up surrounded by women, from infancy,’ he replied, in a tone of sincerity that surprised even him. ‘That certainly influenced me in some way, for I have always loved the opposite sex, and have made sure to be loved as much as I was able.’
She leant forward, intrigued. Immediately, he was enveloped in her wonderful scent. He breathed it discreetly, alert to its elegance and sensuality.
‘Tell me about that, Chevalier.’
The Chevalier de Seingalt affected an air of discomfort.
‘As a child, I lost my father at a very young age, and my mother Zanetta was too busy acting and taking lovers to raise me herself. My memory developed only after the age of eight years and four months. I remember nothing before that.’
Not even if his mother had ever taken him in her ams. He paused for a moment. When seducing a woman, he was not in the habit of talking about his childhood. A quality of light in the girl’s dark eyes encouraged him to go on.
‘My mother took me for an imbecile, and never cared for me herself. I was placed in the care of my grandmother, who despaired because I seemed insensate, with my mouth hanging half-open. The doctors were at a loss, endlessly conjecturing as to what ailed me. My imbecility was due to frequent nosebleeds. Picture me standing in my bedroom at the age of eight, my grandmother supporting my head while I gaze, transfixed, at the blood trickling across the floor.’
Casanova and the Faceless Woman Page 3
