He paused with a sigh and saw the interest his words had sparked in Chiara’s eyes. She sat waiting attentively for him to continue.
‘My grandmother, who loved me, had me taken in secret by gondola to the island of Murano, near Venice. She delivered me to an old witch, surrounded by black cats, who shut me—still all covered in blood—in a chest. I could hear her laughing, crying, shouting, singing and beating on the box, hard, with her fists. When she took me out, I was bleeding less profusely. She caressed me, undressed me and laid me down on a bed. Then she burnt medicinal herbs, and collected the smoke in a sheet, and wrapped me in it like a mummy. Then she gave me sweets with a pleasant taste, and rubbed the nape of my neck and my temples with a sweet-smelling ointment.’
Chiara hung on his every word. Her lips were parted slightly, revealing the small, pink tip of her pointed tongue.
‘Then, the old hag cast a spell on me, telling me that a very beautiful, quite extraordinary young woman would come to me in the night, who would cure my ills. And so when I returned home, I tried hard not to fall asleep when evening came, despite a certain apprehension. Somnia terrores magicos, nocturnos lemures portentaque Thessala rides…’
‘Can you laugh, unafraid, at dreams, spirits of the night and Thessalian monsters!’ Chiara knew the poetry of Horace, and supplied the translation.
Casanova nodded, smiled and continued:
‘My patience was rewarded by the dazzling apparition of a woman made of flesh and light. Her dress was of the finest fabric, and on her head she wore a crown dotted with precious stones that sparkled in the night. She bent over me as if to kiss me, and drew out my sickness, through my mouth. That was my first experience with a woman, and my life began that very night.’
‘Tell me more!’
The young woman’s eyes shone. Casanova continued eagerly. He knew that women delighted in men who talked to them and made them laugh.
‘To think that the witch made me swear never to tell anyone what had happened, for fear of being bled dry. Dear God!’
He turned pale and pressed a hand to his heart. Chiara started violently in her seat, then broke into nervous laughter when she saw Casanova’s wicked smile.
‘When I had completed my studies,’ he went on hurriedly, so as not to embarrass her, ‘I took the cloth as a priest for a time, before leaving Rome and the clerical life to become a soldier! I soon gave that up, too, and became a lawyer, but relinquished that for lack of any appetite to see it through. Since then, I have been a financier, a professional gambler, a businessman—’
‘A spy—and a swindler, too, some say.’
‘People are always ready to speak ill of their fellow man,’ said Casanova smoothly.
‘And now, are you without a trade, or an income?’
The Venetian gave a charming, careless wave of the hand.
‘What can I say? I am a feather-brained friend of pleasure, and the enemy of planning ahead! I delight in everything and blind myself to nothing.’
‘And is that why you exploit the credulity of old women?’
Casanova shot her a piercing look.
‘The idea came to me when I returned penniless from Corfu. In Venice, I was a forgotten man. The only work I found was playing the violin at the Teatro San Samuele, but I knew Fortune had not forsaken me. She exerts her powers for all mortals who truly desire her, especially in their youth.’
He turned to her.
‘I am no longer very young, you know.’
‘It hadn’t escaped me,’ she said, drily. ‘But you’ll get no pity from me. Go on with your story.’
Pleased to have caught her once again in the net of his narrative, he went on:
‘I had sunk to the bottom when Fortune knocked at my door. One April night, a man collapsed in the street. I hurried to help him and by my treatment, or by chance, I saved his life. The man was a senator, wealthy and well known. He took me into his home after that, and treated me like a son.’
‘And then?’ asked Chiara, in spite of herself. She was trying in vain to conceal her eagerness.
‘With age, the man developed a passion for the occult sciences—a passion he shared with two of his friends. I had read enough to be able to discourse knowledgeably on the possibility of communication with the hidden spirits, water sprites, nymphs and salamanders. I had read the Clavicula Salomonis. I invented a game using numbered pyramids that enabled me to decipher the desired answer to any question that was asked. I was asked what its secret was. Cleverly, I replied that I had it from an old hermit in the mountains, who swore I would die if I divulged it. I was well liked, and so no more questions were asked.’
He went on brightly:
‘What man has never resorted to the basest of means when in need? But rest assured, I exploit only the credulity of those with the means to pay, unlike the sovereign heads of Europe, who live solely by pressuring the poorest of all!’
And as he laughed, he covered the young woman’s hand with his own. She smiled, and withdrew it gently, though she had savoured the caress.
‘You see,’ she said solemnly, ‘I was right. You care nothing for the established order, and convention. You obey nothing but your own desires. And you show boundless ingenuity when it comes to luring women to your bed.’
‘Then you must also know that they are rarely disappointed, and often discover new sensations.’
The Venetian’s tone was more urgent now.
‘Chiara—permit me to call you by your first name. Women’s bodies are inexhaustible founts of sensual pleasure, if only they knew it, which all too often they do not.’
He had whispered the last words in Italian, in her ear. She trembled, in spite of herself.
‘Chiara…’
He seized her hand and lifted it to his lips.
‘Chiara, man is born to give pleasure, and woman to receive. Will you be my light, and my host?’
Casanova froze. The young woman’s body shook violently, and again a second time. It was then he realized she was in the grip of an uncontrollable fit of the giggles.
‘What do you take me for, Chevalier, a mere child?’ she asked, laughing. ‘Do you think I don’t know who you truly are? I know how you use and abuse your charms to seduce. One more little act of treachery is nothing to you, if you can get what you want! You’re playing your sincerity card with me because you think that’s what I’ll like. Well you’re right, but I know your game, nonetheless.’
Casanova said nothing. He had been caught off guard, but he did not show it.
‘You have an abject opinion of me, based on a handful of gossip,’ he declared ardently.
‘And your reputation rides much too far ahead of you!’
She paused. When she spoke again, her tone was tinged with regret.
‘I do not belong in your world. Yours is turned in upon itself, whereas mine is devoted to others. I am interested solely in the progress of science and the intellect, for the greater good of humanity. Your world and mine are destined never to meet.’
She turned suddenly, to look out of the carriage window. When she turned to look at him once more, there was a hint of sadness in her eyes.
‘But I am charmed to have met you nevertheless, Chevalier.’
The carriage had pulled up in front of a magnificent mansion, its facade decorated with busts of figures from Antiquity. The flat roof was crowned with a balustrade supporting vases and trophies. A servant in purple and gold livery hurried to open the coach door and pull down the steps.
‘I must leave you now,’ said Chiara graciously. ‘My driver will take you home.’
She stepped down with a rustle of silk and climbed the steps to the house without looking back. Alone in the coach, Casanova repeated her parting words: ‘But I am charmed to have met you nevertheless, Chevalier!’
‘That woman,’ he whispered to himself, under his breath, ‘I must have her!’
III
I have loved women madly, but I have always preferred my freed
om.
CASANOVA
The street swept him along and spat him out, deafened by the cries of the merchants and street traders, each competing to holler the loudest and sell their fish, milk, cheese or fruit. Volnay strode along the Rue du Loup-Perché, his mood darker than usual. Thus far, in life, he had distanced himself from passionate liaisons which he knew to be hopeless. But Chiara D’Ancilla’s spirited ways and looks had awakened new interest in him, before that smug fool Casanova had arrived and ruined everything. The sight of so rare a pearl leaving his house in the company of that scoundrel and ladies’ man had left him seething with rage.
His first thought was to quell his fury by draining a glass or two, though he was not in the habit of drinking. He marched angrily along, jaw clenched tight, until the cool spring air brought him to his senses. Little by little, he recovered his calm, though the blood still buzzed in his ears. What did that charmer Casanova and the frivolous Italian aristocrat matter to him? Why form an attachment to someone about whom he knew nothing? In the gilded, decadent, doomed world of Chiara and Casanova, women were for the taking, or gave themselves freely, on a whim.
Life for gaudy nobles such as them had no meaning beyond present enjoyment and the satisfaction of their desires from one moment to the next. Love was an illusion, a pretty illusion indeed, but feelings were transient things, and however solid-seeming, the day always came when they crumbled to nothing, leaving an inescapable void. Love was always unreliable.
Volnay hesitated a moment. He was on Rue du Paradis now, near the palace of the Prince de Soubise. A fountain stood nearby, and around it a crowd of water-carriers and housekeepers busied themselves fetching their supply. He felt suddenly empty, drained of energy, incapable of advance or retreat. Volnay turned and paced slowly back to his house, pushing through the crowded streets, past the picklocks, whores and beggars who clutched at his sleeve with one hand while they felt for his purse with the other. Here was a trader selling purgative pills, there another selling greasy fried sweetmeats and spices, and, further along, a third selling her own body. The spectacle left him feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly weary.
At home, an extraordinary sight met his eyes. His orderly dwelling had been reduced to chaos. Books and notes from his desk lay scattered over the floor. The armchairs had been overturned. A candelabrum lay on the floor, beside a broken glass. He hurried into the room and swore vehemently. Suddenly, as if to warn him, the magpie cackled. Alerted by the bird’s call, he felt a presence at his back and moved to defend himself, just in time.
All hell broke loose.
A fist glanced off his temple. Half knocked-out, he sank to the floor on one knee. A kick hit him hard in the stomach. He gripped his assailant’s ankle and chopped the calf with the side of his hand. He suffered another kick for his pains. Hot blood filled his mouth. He was struggling to his feet when a thin knife blade was laid against his throat.
‘Stop twisting about, Chevalier! Now, tell me the whereabouts of the letter you took from the faceless woman.’
Volnay was at his attacker’s mercy, gasping for breath, when a hoarse, nasal voice rang out behind him.
‘Quick! Quick!’
It was the magpie. Caught off guard, the intruder loosened his grip and glanced over his shoulder. Instinctively, Volnay turned and brought his knee up hard and fast between his attacker’s thighs. The man howled in pain. Without a second’s thought, Volnay head-butted him, and almost knocked himself out in the process. He threw haphazard punches after that. His foot found a soft belly and kicked it sharply, over and over. Then he heard a ringing of steel. Through a blood-red fog, he saw the dagger clattering across the floorboards and threw himself after it. A moment later he was on his feet, staring in disbelief at the tall, thin man with milk-white skin, brandishing at arm’s length the thing he held dearest in all the world: the magpie in her cage. He lunged forward on instinct, trying to grab the bird. His attacker made a dash for the door. Volnay tried to follow and tripped over the cage. When he reached the street, the man had disappeared. Volnay tore back inside and scrabbled feverishly to turn the key in the door. The terrified magpie flapped and fluttered in her cage.
‘Quiet, quiet!’ Volnay soothed her as he caught his breath. ‘Good bird!’
Gently, he took hold of the cage and placed it on his side table, talking to the bird all the while, to reassure her. His mouth was still dripping blood as he knelt and began to dislodge a flagstone hidden under a carpet. His hands were shaking violently, so that it took several attempts before he succeeded. A narrow space was revealed, containing a roll of gold coins, a packet of herbs which, when infused in water, could fell an ox, a few carefully sealed documents and the letter from the king. Volnay removed the last of these items, carefully replaced the flagstone, then sank into his favourite chair. He sat for a moment or two, with the letter in his hand. The relative, specious quiet of his existence was at an end. He was determined now. He broke the seal, and read with growing astonishment:
Louis XV, king of France, to Monsieur le Comte de Saint-Germain,
Monsieur le Comte,
Madame la Marquise de Pompadour has spoken highly to me of your skill in the natural sciences, in particular the science of herbs. You are hereby instructed, with my grateful thanks, to accord the bearer of this letter the treatment this wicked creature has earned. You may verify the identity of the bearer of this letter by asking her for the affectionate name by which I called her, viz. My Little Kitten.
My very best to you, dear Monsieur le Comte.
Volnay rose heavily and poured a glass of Bordeaux wine, which he drank down all at once, with no enjoyment. With the letter in one hand, he paused in front of the magpie’s cage, stroking its plumage.
‘Thanks are in order, for saving my life,’ he said quietly. There was true affection in his voice.
He opened the cage door to place the bird on his shoulder, then, feeling suddenly burdened as if by a great weight, he walked slowly back to his chair. He read the letter through once more, then sat with his head in his hands.
Volnay muttered to himself: myriad scraps of information about the Comte de Saint-Germain. The fellow had arrived in Paris the previous year and had petitioned the brother of the Marquise de Pompadour, the Marquis de Marigny, director of the king’s buildings, asking for the use of one of the royal houses, in which to install a laboratory so that he might continue the research he had been carrying out over the past twenty years and more. He had promised the king a rich and rare discovery, hitherto unparalleled. And the marquis, far from dismissing the comte out of hand, had offered him the palace of Chambord! The comte had been so busy installing his laboratory that he had quite disappeared from society for a time, and attracted no attention until he was presented to the king at Court.
Everyone surmised what had happened next. Each evening, the monarch visited the apartments of Madame de Pompadour at Versailles, using a hidden staircase. There, the marquise organized small, intimate dinner gatherings, designed to afford the king a chance to relax and converse in agreeable company. The Comte de Saint-Germain was a striking figure: understandably, La Pompadour’s brother had brought him along for the entertainment of a monarch afflicted by ennui. Louis XV had taken a liking to the comte and invited him on a number of occasions. He had become part of the king’s close circle, and the Marquise de Pompadour counted him her friend.
Volnay knew that during one such dinner in Paris, the comte had told a series of anecdotes about the court of François I, with great accuracy and wit. Questioned on any subject or period of history, he showed surprising knowledge—or powers of invention—and his plausible tales often shed new light on things hitherto shrouded in the greatest mystery.
When the party had moved to the drawing room, the elderly Madame de Gergy, who had been listening with passionate interest, approached the comte. She told him she had met him in Venice, during her time as the wife of the ambassador to the Most Serene Republic, fifty years before, and that he l
ooked much younger now! She even remembered that at the time he called himself the Marquis de Baletti. Smiling all the while, the comte had assured her that her mind was as fresh now as it had been fifty years ago.
The anecdotes, and their exchange, overheard by the other guests, were reported all over Paris and Versailles, and incited much curiosity. A rumour spread that the comte, to all appearances a man in his forties, was in fact several hundred years old.
Suspicions were confirmed when, at subsequent dinners, the comte told how he had met King David, attended the wedding party at Cana at which Jesus had turned water into wine, hunted with Charlemagne and gone drinking with Luther. He sat at the piano and played the march that had accompanied the entry of Alexander the Great into Babylon. The high point of the entertainment came when he spoke of his friend Jesus Christ, the finest man who ever lived, though possessed of so wild an imagination, and so reckless and impulsive, that the comte had predicted he would come to a bad end. After that, he told how he had intervened in person with the wife of Pontius Pilate, a woman he knew well, to beg for Christ’s life to be spared. Asked if he had found it difficult to live for several thousand years, he would reply that ‘the first thousand are always the worst!’
But while the comte had indeed been present at the dinner with the Comtesse de Gergy, everything that took place subsequently had been a trick. The king’s minister, Choiseul, who loathed the comte for having a liaison with his wife, had paid a man by the name of Gauve, an actor known for his clever impersonations, to make the rounds of the Paris salons and the streets of the Marais, passing himself off as the Comte de Saint-Germain. This, then, was the source of the tall tales, but contrary to their intended purpose, the comte suffered no ridicule, but instead found himself at the centre of a web of mystery that fascinated the popular imagination.
Casanova and the Faceless Woman Page 4
