‘I have always maintained that bloodletting is too much practised nowadays,’ said the monk.
‘In my misfortune,’ the woman went on, breathing heavily, ‘I was thankful at least that he left no debts and that he had bought one floor of this building, where I now live. I rent it all out, thank God, and I don’t ask too many questions. What has Mam’selle Hervé done?’
Volnay said nothing, He preferred to ask the questions.
‘I know that she received men at this address. Could you describe the last visitor she saw?’
The stairs were steep. The landlady paused for breath.
‘Dear Lord! Do you think I keep a lookout for all the comings and goings of her wretched trade? This is no house of debauchery, but I can’t prevent a lady lodger from receiving visitors… Anything for a quiet life.’
‘Did she receive many visitors?’
‘No denying the appeal of a pretty girl in a saucy dress…’ said the woman, continuing her climb up the stairs.
‘Well?’ Volnay was impatient now.
‘Not many, truth be told. Because I heard it said she lived at Versailles and only came here on occasion, for… pocket money. God’s mercy upon her!’
‘In the eyes of the Lord, the greatest virtue is love,’ intoned the monk.
And he added, wickedly:
‘For the rest, better say your prayers between two bouts of sinning!’
‘Come now…’ Volnay frowned at his colleague. They had climbed to the third floor as they talked. The landlady’s chest heaved noisily as she selected a key on her bunch.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘The lock has been forced.’
‘Leave it,’ ordered Volnay. ‘Kindly wait for us downstairs.’
She shrugged and disappeared down the staircase, muttering unintelligibly. Volnay drew his pistol from his belt and moved inside the room. He turned on the spot, taking in the scene, his features set hard as flint.
‘Who has been here before us?’
They paced around the single room with its lime-washed walls. The mattress had been ripped open, and cupboards, bookcases—even the stove—had been overturned. Everything had been systematically ransacked and searched.
‘Go no further!’ ordered Volnay.
He dropped down on one knee.
‘The young lady does not come here regularly—the floor is dusty,’ he said. ‘I see the print of a fine pair of boots here. And there… it seems the sharp tip of a rapier has been dragged over the floor. Another swordsman, it seems.’
He lowered his pistol.
‘A wooden bedframe, a feather mattress, a woollen blanket, curtains at the windows,’ he observed. ‘Here is a person with money, hence benefactors.’
The monk pointed out the iniquity of a figure of Christ, twisting on the cross above a bed reserved for pleasure.
‘She must have turned it to the wall before love-making, as so many Christian women do.’
They moved to the bedside table, where the contents of a collection of small boxes had been tipped out.
‘Powders and pigments. A woman who strove to please.’
Volnay walked across to the window and folded his arms.
‘There is a great lack of privacy in these buildings. Everyone knows everyone else’s business, and it is advisable to keep your voice down, so as not to be overheard. We shall go and talk a little with the neighbours.’
They walked along the wooden gallery overlooking the courtyard and knocked at a door. On the promise of an écu, it opened. They found themselves face to face with a young woman, clutching a baby to her bony ribs. The infant was suckling at her breast. She introduced herself as a fruit-seller. Fortunately, she explained, her husband worked fifteen hours a day as a master joiner. But even with that money, they could afford only one meal each day because the rent was very high.
Volnay took her meaning and slipped her another écu while he pressed her with questions about Mademoiselle Hervé.
‘I only spoke to her once, to ask her to make less noise when decent folk were trying to sleep,’ she said pointedly, ‘and that filthy whore dared to call me a “stuck-up bitch”. After that, we’d hear her at night, telling the men, “Gently now, you’re hurting me, and you’ll wake up the cow next door!”’
‘Did you notice any man in particular?’
‘Never saw them, only heard them!’
‘What can you tell me about Mademoiselle Hervé?’
The fruit-seller thought for a moment.
‘They say she used the money from her men to buy herself powders and ointments. You know, lotions, for a youthful appearance.’
‘Had any men come to her apartment lately? By day or night? Have you come across any strangers on the stairs, or in the passageway, in the last two days?’
‘Well,’ she said, hesitating, ‘yesterday there was a man out on the gallery, tall, bald and beardless, with very white skin. He had nasty eyes. Quite frightened me.’
Volnay and the monk shared a look and took their leave.
‘Our friend Wallace has been putting himself to a great deal of trouble,’ said the monk.
Volnay nodded, and asked to go back to the victim’s apartment. He positioned himself at the window, and gazed thoughtfully down at the bread oven in the yard below.
The early afternoon sun shone brightly in a clear sky. Crowds were out walking in the streets of the capital. Among the passers-by, the courtiers had spotted two fourteen-year-old girls with adorably pretty faces and figures. They were a little anxious but allowed themselves to be talked into climbing aboard the carriage to accompany the party to Versailles. Certain of payment for their services later, the courtiers showed the girls around the gardens. They admired the fountains. A thousand birds chattered in the trees shading the fine, sandy paths. A thousand water jets spurted at intervals from the mouths of mermaids and Tritons. A thousand flowers bloomed in the ornamental beds.
The young girls uttered small cries of delight at the sight of Neptune, recognizable by his beard and his menacing trident, riding in his chariot pulled by six seahorses. To his left, Proteus, shepherd of the monsters of the deep, rode on a unicorn’s back. To the right swam a herd of sea dragons, ridden by cherubs. The myriad jets, shooting out like watery lances, made a sound like a great waterfall as they poured into the huge stone-rimmed basin. The gentlemen courtiers exchanged glances and decided to conclude with a visit to the Grotto of Love.
Three high arches were decorated with golden seashells. Inside, the two ingénues sighed ecstatically. The ceiling of the grotto represented the sun; the walls were covered with seashells and colourful mother-of-pearl. At the back of the cave, the god Neptune held an upturned wineskin, from which water poured into a crystal lake at his feet. More water poured from great seashells carved in mottled marble. In places, the jets fed sheets of water that rose in steps, like a fairy-tale staircase leading nowhere. Tritons and Nereids, their bodies coated in mother-of-pearl, fed four fountains shaped like chandeliers, whose jets crossed to form the silhouette of a flame. Mirrors set into the biggest seashells offered infinite reflections of the graceful birds painted in relief on the walls. Hidden organ pipes played rustic melodies that, coupled with the rippling water, mimicked the sound of birdsong, as if in the depths of a wood.
The two friends wept with emotion at the sight of such marvels. The gentlemen courtiers took advantage of their near-swooning state to support them gently with an arm passed nonchalantly around their slender, girlish hips. At which moment Le Bel—first valet of the king’s bedchamber and His Majesty’s personal pimp—appeared from out of nowhere like a pantomime devil.
‘We’ had picked out these young ladies, he reminded the gentlemen, and ‘we’ had desired to offer them some light refreshment…
Knowing full well who ‘we’ were, the two courtiers regretfully abandoned their prey to the king, who greeted them in one of his nearby villas, before a mountain of cold meats, pastries and bonbons. The girls’ names were Marion and
Mariette, they declared. After much charming banter, and aided by alcohol, ‘we’ asked the girls to undress. The king followed suit and sneezed as he did so.
‘Oh, Rachel!’ giggled the older of the two. ‘He’s getting cold feet!’
‘What did you say your names were?’ asked the king, who was worried now.
‘Begging your pardon, Majesty, but we’ve been playing a game. Our true names are Rachel and Sarah: Rachel David and Sarah Lévy…’
The king, who was a devout Christian, stared at them, quite taken aback, and began yelling out loud.
‘Jewesses! They are Jewesses!’
He rushed from the room in his undergarments, his voice ringing out still, all around the house:
‘Jewesses!’
Fortunately, other young girls were on hand to satisfy his desires and chase away his anxious fears. The king soon forgot the disappointment of his ill-fated tryst in the Parc-aux-Cerfs, with a visit to another house: number 20, Rue Saint-Louis, purchased by a proxy.
‘Find me some young women of the world!’ he ordered. ‘Tonight, I feel in need of a little savoir faire!’
In the dim, late-afternoon light just before sunset, Volnay entered the Ruelle de l’Or, a narrow lane lined by houses so low that a man might touch the eaves of some of them just by stretching out his hand. Life in this neighbourhood went on at its own mysterious pace. The area was home to a dubious population of dealers in potions and lotions, spiritualists, exorcists, astrologers, witches and necromancers. The cellars of the houses lay deep, and rumour had it that the lane and the cemetery nearby were the object of strange comings and goings on certain nights, when the moon was full. It was said, too, that some of the local magi would scratch the earth beneath the feet of hanged men, to collect the putrid mosses that formed there, and harvest a magical plant: the mandrake.
Faceless shadows, clients careful to keep their identity secret, would slip into one or other of the houses from time to time, and emerge later, their faces covered. What strange ceremonies had they engaged in? No secrets escaped these peeling walls. The spirits conjured there remained firmly under lock and key. In the shadowy street, the smell of mould and incense filled the air. There were no sudden noises; no merchants clamoured for the attention of passers-by. The silence was broken only by occasional, quickly stifled mutterings. Everyone knew precisely where they were going, and no one dawdled along the way.
Volnay made his way hesitantly along, struggling to find his bearings. Behind the smoky windowpanes, pale faces cast curious glances. A man whose features were concealed beneath a hood muttered to him in passing:
‘Amulets and wax figures for enchantments—follow me if you’re interested!’
Volnay ignored him. Further along, a woman with a masked face took him by the hand. Volnay started in surprise, for he had neither seen nor heard her approach.
‘Fear grips your heart—will you come and couple with Death?’
There was a hint of a beautiful face beneath her mask, but she was dressed in rags. Volnay pushed her away, saying simply:
‘I have no fear of death. I am afraid of nothing.’
But he was lying. His heart was beating fast. He hurried along, and soon found the house mentioned by Chloé, the king’s troublingly sensual wig-maker. Some of the windowpanes were broken, and bundles of rags had been stuffed into the holes. The door was so low that Volnay was forced to bend double to step into the smoke-filled lair, its walls coated with soot. The fire in the chimneypiece cast a blazing light over the convoluted forms of the alembics and crucibles. A shelf to the left of the door bore an array of phials and bottles containing strange, stagnant liquids.
A bent figure turned slowly to greet the visitor: a very old man, clad in a long, dark robe, his forehead deeply furrowed. He held a pair of pincers in one hand. His face was red, and his temples glistened with sweat.
‘Well, Monseigneur, what brings you here? Do you wish to know your fate? The key to life, and death? Or perhaps it’s a simple case of stiff joints? I am your servant! I have the remedies!’
His voice was low and wheezy, unpleasant to the ear. He shuffled across to a huge table covered with clay vases, alembics and stones carved with symbols of the Kabbalah. He took hold of a dull-coloured globe, wiping the dust from it with his sleeve.
‘There are truths aplenty to be revealed in this orb, and a veil to be lifted on the future, in exchange for a modest sum indeed…’
‘Indeed! My concerns are more monetary…’
‘Ah!’
The other man’s face darkened.
‘My services are not free of charge.’
‘You mistake my meaning: I have too much but, on a private whim, I should like still more, and very quickly.’
The old man’s eyes shone with greed.
‘Oh, that’s good! A wise resolution. Only one solution for that: the coition of King Sulphur and Queen Mercury! The Great Work.’
‘Coition?’
‘Monseigneur, sulphur is the male element, associated with fire and the sun. Mercury is the feminine element, symbolized by water and the moon. They must be married with the addition of salt, the breath of life that animates all things.’
He shuffled over to the glowing furnace. He noticed Volnay watching his hunched gait and shrugged with a resigned air.
‘My vertebrae are rusted with age, Monseigneur, but a year from now I shall walk straight as the letter I! I am nearing my goal, the ultimate secret: the secret of eternal youth!’
His fingers brushed the furnace in a curiously sensual caress.
‘But to get back to the business in hand,’ he said in honeyed tones. ‘I cannot lie, Monseigneur. If I had discovered the secret of turning base metal into gold, I would not be living here. I am impeded in my research only by a lack of means—’tis all that stands between me and that moment when, after torturing my metals in the alembics, and under the crucible, I see them reveal themselves to me, as silver or gold!’
His hand swept the room, and he pointed a finger at the rickety, dusty shelves.
‘Look there! Mandrake roots, toad venom, the sting of the queen bee, dragons’ teeth! I speak of the primordial dragon, ancestor of us all! And that tooth there is a sea unicorn’s canine!’
He hobbled over to a shelf, and gazed in ecstasy at a terracotta pot.
‘Do you know what’s in there? The plant like no other: the moon spittle that contains the universal spirit! It grows only in Paradise, and by night in a mere handful of places on this earth. Who can claim to possess such marvels? All I need now is money to fund my research, because still I need colophony powder, iron filings, red sulphur, borax, red arsenic and a list of other materials too long and tedious to recite for you here.’
He held out his gnarled, bony hands to Volnay.
‘Eaten alive by the fire and the acid! I have worked night and day for more than twenty years to wrest the secrets of Nature from her bosom.’
His expression was cold and calculating now.
‘A small injection of funds is all I need to take up my research once again, and I promise you that in a year from now, or two, I will succeed in transforming the basest lead into gold.’
Volnay stood for a moment, saying nothing. His smile had frozen, and he observed the man with some severity now. He moved swiftly over to the furnace.
‘You think I don’t know your tricks? You think I don’t know how you tamper with your dishes, the double bottom of clay concealing a stash of gold powder? Your aqua fortis peppered with gold pellets! Even if your experiments were real, they would be a blasphemy in the sight of God and a challenge to the authority of the king!’
‘Monseigneur!’
‘Inspector.’
Volnay’s icy tones lowered the temperature of the room by a good ten degrees.
‘I am investigating the death of your granddaughter, Mademoiselle Hervé.’
‘My little girl? Dead? Woe is me!’
The old man sank heavily onto a chair and be
gan sobbing unconvincingly. Unmoved, Volnay pressed him with questions. At length, he was satisfied and left, but not without casting a curious glance at the furnace glowing in the corner of the room.
Outside, he chased the polluted air from his lungs. He scanned his surroundings and froze at the sight of a familiar figure, quite out of place in the Ruelle de l’Or. The capacious habit and hood did nothing to disguise the familiar gait of the monk. Volnay hurried after him, and soon caught up with his colleague. Idiotically, he thought to startle him by placing a hand on his shoulder. But the monk’s long years incognito, in hiding, on the run, had sharpened his senses to a state of perpetual alert. He turned with astonishing speed, and blocked Volnay’s wrist.
‘You?’ he exclaimed.
He released Volnay immediately and sighed.
‘In flagrante delicto!’
‘What brings you here?’ asked Volnay.
A faint look of unease spread over the monk’s face.
‘Oh, some purchases for my experiments. You can find anything here.’
Volnay whistled between his teeth.
‘You haven’t given up, either. You’re all the same, chasing after mirages!’
‘Scientific curiosity!’
‘It will be your downfall. You shouldn’t come around here, you who were accused of heresy.’
‘De haeresi vehementer suspectos. Strongly suspected…’ said the monk, pointedly.
He broke into a broad smile.
‘That said, not all the goals I pursue are without name. Here is where I buy my supplies of myrrh, for foul breath, and to clean the teeth and repair the gums. You crush an ounce of myrrh and mix it with two spoonfuls of the finest white honey and a little green sage. You apply this to the teeth before retiring and…’
His voice trailed away, seeing his colleague’s obvious lack of interest.
‘If I’m boring you, perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re here, on Witches’ Alley? When you left me earlier, you said you were going to question Mademoiselle Hervé’s grandfather.’
Casanova and the Faceless Woman Page 10
