‘And you stopped him,’ said the other man, drily.
‘I had sworn an oath.’
‘And that oath still holds!’
Regretfully, Volnay shook his head.
‘I left the Brotherhood after Damiens’s death. I am no longer one of you.’
‘The oath of the Brotherhood binds all who swear it, for ever. It is broken only by death!’ said the square-jawed man icily.
Volnay ignored him. ‘What is your objective?’ he asked.
‘The same, as ever, and what was once yours,’ sighed the fat man. ‘An end to the monarchy. We have here an extraordinary opportunity to discredit it for ever. Across France, people are in revolt against the war and its mindless slaughter, against speculation in the price of grain, against taxes. There are mutterings of rebellion. People spit at La Pompadour’s carriage, and wish the king dead. But that’s not what we want. Another will only take his place. This king is good enough for our purpose: he stains the royal fleur-de-lys. Your investigation has the potential to ruin what remains of his reputation, for good. He will be viewed with horror throughout Europe!’
‘What does the Grand Master say about all this?’ asked Volnay, at length.
There was an embarrassed silence.
‘He is unaware of your plans!’ he exclaimed in amazement.
‘The Grand Master is very advanced in years. He is living far from Paris now.’
Volnay’s mind raced. The errors of his youth, his entire past had caught up with him. This was no accident of fate. The young woman in the street, the letter. A world of shadows was teeming all around him: Sartine’s spies, the Devout Party, the Brotherhood of the Serpent. They all knew something he did not.
‘What is your decision, my brother?’ asked the leader.
‘I have not changed my mind,’ said Volnay, though his voice quavered.
‘You swore an oath before,’ one of the three men in black reminded him.
‘To the Brotherhood, to the Grand Master, not to you. And I am no longer one of your number.’
The fat man sighed.
‘Oh, but you are. No one leaves the Brotherhood of the Serpent quite so easily, as you will very soon discover. When the Brotherhood needs you, it calls you back. If you change your mind, come to this tavern. There will always be someone waiting to talk. But act quickly, brother: the Devout Party is at your heels; you need our protection. You cannot act alone. Terrible forces have risen, and they are on the march. You will be crushed if you stand in their way!’
He shot a dark glance at Volnay and added:
‘You are a bird that throws itself into the void, unsure whether it will fly.’
V
The only God I worship is liberty!
CASANOVA
When morning came, Casanova saw to it that he was immaculately powdered, before setting out for the Marquis D’Ancilla’s mansion. Clad in a grey tailcoat lined with blue, and a waistcoat and breeches of purple silk, he presented himself at the gates. To his annoyance, he found his heart beat a little faster than was usual. A liveried footman walked ahead of him up a marble staircase. Chiara received him in the prettily decorated music room, lined with panelling. Through the window, he glimpsed a garden of touch-me-nots, enclosed by gilded railings.
Chiara wore a green dress, beneath which Casanova glimpsed a skirt of satin edged with lace, and a whole, rustling world of undergarments he had hopes of exploring. She wore a choker at her throat. Her black hair was gathered into a chignon, fixed by a single gold pin, gleaming in its midst. The Venetian’s heart melted at the sight.
They seated themselves in blue-painted armchairs decorated with a fine silver fillet, and chatted of everything and nothing until Chiara declared, rather abruptly:
‘I do not like this world in which we live, ruled by the accident of birth: riches for a small number, and misery for so many.’
‘Did you know my parents were poor?’ said Casanova, humbly.
Chiara made no reply. From childhood, her days had been filled with pure delight: playing with her dog in the mornings, then practising the harpsichord and singing. Before luncheon, she studied plants with her tutor. In the afternoons, after a short siesta, she would conduct experiments in the little laboratory that her natural sciences tutor had equipped with the latest instruments. After that, she would read until dinner, then gaze at the stars through her telescope before bed.
Casanova saw that Chiara was fiddling nervously with the silk of her dress.
‘You must have suffered greatly,’ she said.
‘Not at all! I’m a pauper untouched by adversity, and I have always found my own solution to every difficulty.’
Chiara lowered her eyes. Her head was filled with dreams of equality for all mankind, yet she had been born to a silk-lined cradle, and her path had been strewn with rose petals ever since. For that, she felt guilt, even a vague sense of shame.
‘You are of one mind with our great philosophers,’ said Casanova, who sensed the young aristocrat’s discomfort. ‘I saw that in you straightaway. I have met many of them: Rousseau, Favart, Fontenelle, Voisenon, Crébillon…’
‘And you agree with their philosophy?’ asked Chiara, incredulously.
‘I agree with Diderot. According to him, and I quote, man is “a material creature, nothing more, and can have no aim but the pleasure of the senses. We have no rights, no obligations, and act solely in our own self-interest.”’
‘If that is indeed our nature, then we must fight against it. A world in which inequality is the rule can only go from bad to worse.’
Casanova shrugged his shoulders. He was a fatalist.
‘That is the way of the world. Some get richer and richer, others get poorer and poorer. It’s up to us to stay rich if we are already, or to become rich if we are not. No one helped me become what I am—why should I help others?’
‘Yet many have shown you great generosity: women in their beds, and men with their purses!’
The Venetian gave a modest smile.
‘Indeed, and I have received richly endowed offers of marriage, too, but there it is: the only God I worship is liberty!’
I stand as a lesson, he thought to himself. A lesson to all those in positions of power, who gaze down on me with the arrogance that comes from centuries of security, plying me with gifts so that I might decipher their horoscope or give them the secret of cultivating gold under a full moon! Duping them gives me greater pleasure than if I were to beat them with a stick.
Silence fell. The Chevalier de Seingalt looked up. In front of him, the room stood reflected in a mirror, and with it the nape of a most delectable neck. Chiara was nibbling pensively at her lower lip and staring at her right foot. Casanova was torn by conflicting emotions. His memories beckoned, but he refused to listen. He had no desire to know who it was that Chiara so resembled. Not yet.
‘Tell me about your childhood,’ she said suddenly. ‘I like it when you tell me about that.’
Casanova hesitated. His childhood was the only time in his life when he had felt vulnerable. Then he thought of Bettina and began a curious confession.
‘At the age of nine, I was sent to board with an extraordinarily mean, avaricious woman,’ he said, very softly. ‘I slept in the attic with three other boys, and was bitten all over by bedbugs, and terrified by the rats that jumped onto my bed and nipped me. Food was so scarce that I stole in order to feed myself. My master, Abbott Gozzi, had a sister who was three years older than me: Bettina. She took pity on me, because I felt so lonely, far from my home, and my mother. Bettina wore long shifts, and her hair hung loose down her back, rippling like snakes. I was a small boy. She was like a mother to me. She called me “my dear child”. Each morning, she came to comb my hair and help me with my toilet. She had gentle, expert hands. Too expert. One morning, seeing my thighs were grubby, she scrubbed hard in her desire to get me clean, provoking a state of voluptuous excitement in me that ceased only when it had attained its highest peak. And then my ve
ry soul seemed to burst and melt in the hollow of her hand.’
He lowered his eyes and added darkly:
‘No mother would have done such a thing, do you agree?’
Raising his chin, Casanova saw with astonishment that the young girl’s eyes were filled with tears.
‘What is it?’ he asked gently.
‘It’s nothing. The black kohl on my lashes makes my eyes water,’ she said.
A heavy silence fell between them. Overcome with embarrassment, neither could find a way to break it.
‘Have you seen that curious police officer, the Chevalier de Volnay, since our visit?’ asked Casanova, suddenly.
The question was unexpected, and Chiara seemed troubled by it.
‘I have indeed. What concern is that of yours?’
The Venetian smiled charmingly.
‘I merely wanted to know if a rival stood in my way.’
Chiara was briefly surprised, then burst out laughing. Gallantly, Casanova laughed too.
‘Your rival! Since when do the great seducers of this world inform their victims that they have been chosen?’
Casanova gazed into her eyes, and there was no trace of gaiety in his expression now.
‘When they wish to give them some small chance, Chiara. I hope I have afforded you the possibility of escape.’
The young woman was speechless. A strange shade of red flooded her cheeks.
‘What an actor you are!’ she said hurriedly.
Casanova nodded. He had spoken the truth, and now he was accused of play-acting! He was growing older and softening in the process. It was no good, no good at all.
‘You didn’t answer me, regarding Volnay,’ he said cautiously.
‘Indeed not. The Chevalier de Volnay is a serious, conscientious man.’
‘Who thinks of nothing but his work?’
‘Yes, but I cannot say a word about that—he has made me promise.’
Casanova savoured the moment. When a person declared they had been sworn to keep a secret, they were generally about to confess it.
‘Well,’ he said innocently, ‘I am glad to hear it. He has sworn me to secrecy too, over the death of the king’s wig-maker.’
Chiara looked taken aback.
‘He spoke of that to you too?’
‘He needed my help. I am a material witness in the affair, and I have a great many contacts in Paris, which can help ease things along. I wonder whether he has told you the rest, however…’
It was worth trying, he thought, though he held little hope of success. His astonishment was all the greater when Chiara asked, fresh and innocent as a daisy:
‘About the Comte de Saint-Germain?’
Casanova could have bowed to kiss both her hands, there and then!
The Comte de Saint-Germain bowed low before the Marquise de Pompadour. He wore a braided, fur-trimmed coat and a lace jabot spilt from the unbuttoned top of his waistcoat. His thoroughly aristocratic face wore an expression of rare sensitivity and intelligence. His olive complexion made his host’s appear whiter than ever, indeed drained of all colour. Around them, the entire room was decorated in harmonious shades of blue: vivid blue motifs on the Persian carpet, a muted blue for the woodwork, the delicate blue of a Flemish-inspired painting, turquoise blue for the upholstery—and the florets decorating his hostess’s gown—a dusty blue-grey for the cover of a piece of piano music, and the ribbons attaching a portfolio of drawings. And lastly, the pale blue of her eyes.
‘See here,’ said the comte, eager to entertain his host, ‘I have brought you this very fine box. I had it fitted with an amusing mechanism!’
She took from him a black tortoiseshell box, its lid decorated with an agate.
‘Watch,’ said the comte, carefully taking hold of the object once more.
He held the box over the fire. When the marquise took it back, she was astonished to see that the agate had become a pretty miniature of a shepherdess holding a basketful of flowers. She held the box over the fire once again and saw to her amazement that the shepherdess disappeared, to be replaced by the agate.
‘Truly, you are a magician!’ she exclaimed with childlike excitement.
Then she bit her lip, as if she had let slip some inappropriate comment, and sighed.
‘Thank you, my friend, for trying to help me forget my troubles.’
She glanced around with a conspiratorial air, then signalled to the comte to come closer and listen to what she had to say. Even within the walls of her private mansion, she was not safe from inquisitive ears.
‘I need your advice—I am terrified at the thought of that letter falling into the wrong hands. How have we come to this?’
The comte gazed sympathetically at the Marquise de Pompadour. He knew she was exhausted and had no idea where to turn. She was profoundly ill at ease.
‘We have come to this, Madame, because we live in a country in which a shadowy committee intercepts all correspondence, acting on behalf of the king. They even have expert cryptographers, for coded messages. You were the letter’s safest means of conveyance.’
‘Then it is all my fault—’
‘No, Madame, trust in God and the Chevalier de Volnay.’
The marquise gave a small gesture of irritation. Nervously, she rearranged her gown with her left hand, in a loud rustling of silk.
‘The Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths? He is so young…’
‘Perhaps, but he is possessed of two qualities in short supply in our royal administration: integrity and efficiency. I beg you to do everything in your power to ensure that he remains in charge of the investigation.’
‘And so I shall. But he has no weight against Sartine or the Devout Party. They will sweep him aside like a wisp of straw. As for the rest, my dear Chiara tells me that he has made little progress and knows even less than we do.’
The Comte de Saint-Germain maintained his neutral expression, but the marquise caught the bright gleam that lit his eye like a tiny lantern in the night.
‘A vision,’ whispered the marquise. ‘You have had a vision! Am I right?’
The comte shook his head slowly.
‘Sum quia sentio: “I feel, therefore I am.” Trust me, Madame, I have never hidden anything from you, and never will. Talk to the king and see to it that Volnay reports to no one but him for this investigation—certainly not to that cursed devil Sartine, who serves nothing but his own interest.’
‘I will do what I can,’ she promised him. ‘But I cannot be sure the king will listen to me.’
A dry cough rose in the marquise’s throat. When it had subsided, she asked anxiously:
‘How much time do I have?’
‘What do you mean, Madame?’
Her cough worsened, as if determined to assert itself.
‘You know very well, as my medical adviser!’
The comte remained impassive, but pity shone in his eyes.
‘Now is not the time, Madame, to talk of such things. And while your mission is far from over, forces are mobilizing, of a brutality you cannot possibly imagine.’
The marquise paled.
‘What now, the Devout Party? We know they will stop at nothing. Monsieur de Sartine? He is merciless.’
The comte leant towards her. Two dark, attentive eyes scrutinized La Pompadour’s face.
‘Worse! Have you heard talk of the Brotherhood? The Brotherhood of the Serpent, to be more precise…’
People yelled in the street at the tops of their voices for no reason. The din was so great that it was known to induce panic in visitors to Paris. At the corner of Rue Vieille-Place-aux-Veaux the crowd parted suddenly, torn asunder by a carriage at full gallop, driven by a crazed coachman. The cracks of his whip masked the curses and cries of terror from those on foot. It was noon. The Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths and the monk were returning to the scene of the crime to subject the surroundings to close scrutiny, as was their habit. Directly overhead, the midday sun cast a thin scar of b
right gold along the right-hand side of the street.
‘Now then,’ said Volnay, his eyes screwed up against the light, ‘Mademoiselle Hervé’s young companion told me that, from her apartment, her friend could see the fires from the baker’s oven at night. We shall enter the courtyard and examine it.’
They passed under the archway and concluded that two of the buildings overlooking it afforded a direct view. The place was like an anthill, full of nooks and corners, traversed by narrow passageways, endlessly busy with the comings and goings of the inhabitants, their visitors and their clients. Shops faced the street, workshops lined the courtyards. The cries of the sellers mingled with the cheerful singing of the artisans. A ragged child of about ten, its face blackened and filthy, held out a hand as they passed.
‘Take this, boy,’ said Volnay, slipping him a six-livre coin. ‘But watch out, the police have orders to arrest anyone found begging and take them to the Châtelet, whatever their age!’
The child’s eyes widened at the sight of the coin in the hollow of his hand. Then he raced away as fast as his legs would carry him, as if the two men might snatch his treasure back at any moment. The monk smiled benevolently.
‘You have a generous heart, just like me! It pleases me to see it.’
Volnay shrugged lightly. They knocked at a door of one of the buildings overlooking the courtyard. The door was opened by a tall, surly woman perched on long, thin legs. She peered at them suspiciously. Her features looked rough-hewn, as if her creator had lacked the time needed to finish the job properly. The two visitors’ civilized demeanour, Volnay’s fine bearing and the monk’s spotless habit seemed to reassure her. Volnay explained the reason for their visit.
‘Mam’selle Hervé, yes,’ she mumbled. ‘She is my lodger. I’ll take you to her room.’
They followed close behind her, up the first staircase, beside the courtyard entrance.
‘My husband’s dead,’ explained the landlady on the rickety stairs. ‘He came over all dizzy and weak one day. I called a doctor. He was bled four times from the arms and feet, but to the doctor’s surprise that left him weaker still. The fifth bleeding was what killed him.’
Casanova and the Faceless Woman Page 9
