‘And that is exactly what I came to do,’ replied Volnay. ‘If I had known where you were going, I would have suggested you accompany me, but you’re as secretive as ever when it comes to your experiments. The grandfather in question is a charlatan who looks out for gulls he can pluck naked on the pretext of securing funds for his research into the transmutation of lead into gold.’
‘Ha! His kind are cunning indeed,’ said the monk feelingly. ‘They put mercury and copper vitriol in a copper crucible, mixed with a little water. The salts in the copper dissolve, and it melts and combines with the mercury to form an amalgam that looks for all the world like gold. Similar results are achieved by treating leather shavings with cadurie, a sort of greenish soot which they use to coat the sides of their furnaces.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Volnay interrupted, smiling. ‘I have no doubt you are quite the universal scientist! No one knows more than you about anything.’
The monk looked vexed. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘I don’t say there is no one wiser or more learned than me, merely that I have never had to the honour of being introduced to them.’
He dug his fingers into his short beard.
‘And what did you conclude from your interview?’
They walked a few paces along the lane, both glancing up on a reflex, at the same moment, to catch sight of a stone niche in the wall of a house, and the incongruous presence of a group of saintly statuettes.
‘Mademoiselle Hervé was only interested in what she could get out of her grandfather,’ said Volnay evenly, casting his eye all around him. ‘She dreamt of magical powders, potions to seduce and bind men to her, and an ointment of eternal youth, to preserve her beauty down the years. For his part, he managed to extort a few coins from her from time to time, by selling her creams for her complexion.’
The monk looked up at the reddening sky.
‘Our victim was a girl of inconstant morality, and her attraction to things magical was genuine. Interesting—our desires and our centres of interest exert considerable influence on our behaviour.’
He broke off to point to a tumbledown cottage with a roof of worn thatch.
‘Here are talismans for every eventuality: eternal passion, or requited love. They even sell one that prevents your wife from making a cuckold of you!’
‘I have precious little use for that…’ said Volnay, tonelessly.
The monk shot him an anxious look, then walked on, changing the subject.
‘Here is a dealer in ointments, who distils a very fine eau d’ange, for embalming.’
Volnay burst out laughing in spite of himself.
‘Well, I see you are familiar with everyone’s speciality along this street!’
‘Indeed.’ The monk lowered his voice. ‘And I can take you to eat a meal with the dead of your choice, in one of these buildings, where they practise incantations using bones, oil, flour, honey and, of course, human blood.’
He turned into a tiny blind alley as he spoke. Volnay followed him, unthinking, then drew close behind him and caught him by the wrist.
‘Where are we going?’
The monk turned, with a mysterious smile.
‘My scientific mind is not wholly closed, as you know, to certain processes unexplained by nature. Follow me!’
They entered a house whose front door opened directly onto a staircase that descended in two spirals to a vaulted cellar, curiously clean and well aired. Cushions were scattered over the floor in front of an unlit fireplace. Incense was burning, clouding the air with fragrant smoke. Candles cast a wavering light. A woman with silver hair, dressed all in white, turned to greet them. Her face was pale and serene, and long lashes framed her sea-green eyes.
‘It’s been a long time, gentle monk,’ she said simply.
The monk bowed gallantly and kissed her hand.
‘Too long, mistress of my thoughts,’ he said, straightening up.
‘I waited for you for a long time, once,’ she said, reproachfully.
‘I remember. But I was forced to flee abroad. To a country where I was unhappy indeed, for they clapped me in prison. You should know that you peopled my cell with sorrowful memories and piquant dreams.’
She placed a finger to her lips with an amused look.
‘I’ll hear no more, I am no longer of an age for such words.’
The monk shook his head in protest.
‘To say so is an insult to your charms.’
He seemed to have quite forgotten the Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths at his side, but quickly recovered himself and turned to introduce him.
‘My friend Volnay.’
He added, for the inspector’s benefit:
‘Our hostess is skilled in a most venerable art, which she learnt in Germany, beneath a walnut tree in Aachen, the ancient capital of Charlemagne. The art of divination.’
Volnay stifled an exasperated sigh.
‘Wait!’ said his friend. ‘This honourable lady has done me proud service in the past. There are things in heaven and earth that even science remains powerless to explain. Which is no reason to reject them out of hand!’
He bowed before their hostess.
‘Madame, would you do us the signal honour of lifting the veil on a portion of our destiny?’
‘I can refuse you nothing,’ she replied indulgently.
She filled a crystal cup brimful of limpid water and covered it with a white cloth, before lighting two candles to either side. She signalled to Volnay to sit facing the cup, and placed herself behind him, placing both of her hands on his forehead. Her touch was light, almost cold. His tension eased and his mind cleared. He seemed for a moment to be falling asleep. Clouds rolled and passed before his eyes, then vanished to make way for a spectre of light. Suddenly, the sky darkened, and it was night. He saw the figure of a woman stumble among the shadows, and turn around. The pale flash of a dagger shone in the moonlight, illuminating her terrified face. He cried out, and woke.
His hand was covered in blood. He stared at it, aghast, before realizing that he had overturned the magical cup, and that the monk was holding him firmly by the shoulders.
‘It’s only water! By Beelzebub, whatever did you see?’
Volnay recovered himself. Haltingly, he described the images.
‘There will be a second murder,’ the monk concluded, coldly.
It was midnight on Rue Saint-Louis, in the Parc-aux-Cerfs, and people were still dancing in the garden to the sound of violins. The trees were hung with multicoloured lanterns. Some of the little Sultanas sought the cool air beside the stone-rimmed pond. A girl emerged from inside the private mansion. She addressed one of her comrades, who was making her way up the steps, with a complaint about the king.
‘The old rogue did me good and proper! My cunt’s still sore!’
‘You would do well to remember, Marcoline, that your cunt is blessed indeed to have known such an honour,’ retorted her friend.
‘A royal honour!’ the other agreed, chuckling.
She walked down the long promenade lined with privet hedges, to the gates. The lanterns in the trees scattered flecks of light over the grounds, but the street was black as night. Marcoline hesitated, almost imperceptibly. All at once, her spirits failed her. The air was filled with foreboding. Had she heard something, or seen a tremor of movement in the darkness? She walked on, and her shadow on the wall seemed to grow beyond all reason. She shivered. She thought she heard footsteps pounding the cobblestones behind her. She stopped to listen. Nothing.
‘Is someone there?’ she asked.
There was no answer but silence. Her imagination was playing vile tricks. She continued on her way. Soft lights shone through the shutters of some of the houses. In one, a party was at its height. She heard laughter and singing. The noise and gaiety were reassuring.
But she had not been dreaming. A second shadow loomed against the wall, a shadow even bigger than her own, though it did not engulf it, yet.
�
�Who is it?’ she asked in a frightened voice.
There was no reply, but the shadow seemed to shrink into itself. The girl hurried on. The shadow loomed once again. It seemed to want to seize her, to swallow her up. She glanced desperately at the lighted windows. When a light shines it is hard to believe that evil is near. Now, the two shadows seemed to blend into one. She began to run. She heard the pounding of feet behind her. Just at that moment, a carriage turned into the street. She was saved. She ran out in front of it.
‘Help! Please help me!’
The coachman cracked his whip, and the young woman was forced back against the wall to avoid being crushed. The vehicle passed without stopping, with a hellish racket. The carriage lamps cast a brief pale glow on the cobbles, before the shadows returned. The poor girl turned, shaking all over. There was no one behind her now. Her breathing eased, and she gave a long sigh of relief. The stranger had been frightened off. She waited for her pounding heart to subside. Then she turned to continue on her way. Something blocked her path. A firm, strong torso. As if in a trance, she saw fingers reaching towards her, and when she recognized their owner’s face, she gave a small cry of surprise.
‘You!’
The last sound ever to emerge from her throat.
VI
A woman has only one way to be beautiful, but a hundred thousand to be pretty.
CASANOVA
A whirl of lace, jabots, powdered wigs and colourful satins danced in the iridescent light of the chandeliers, and the flickering glow of the candelabra. Precious stones glittered at the women’s white throats. Not for the first time, Volnay pondered the motive behind his invitation to dine with this rich and noble company. Doubtless the mystery of the faceless woman had attracted the attention of some, but many were rightly suspicious of officers of the police, fearing they may be spies of the king.
He was annoyed to find Casanova had been invited, too. The Chevalier de Seingalt greeted him warmly and, seizing him by the elbow in a sudden show of familiarity, drew him aside.
‘Chevalier de Volnay…’
The inspector started in surprise.
‘Ah yes!’ said Casanova brightly. ‘I learnt of your title, and a great many other things, too. Don’t look so enraged…’
Volnay understood:
‘It was you who secured my invitation this evening!’
Casanova gave a dismissive wave of the hand.
‘I thought it an occasion to patch things up between us.’
Three words fought to escape from the inspector’s tightly pursed lips: imposter, swindler, schemer!
‘You have troubled yourself for nothing,’ he said drily. ‘I do not feel coldly towards you. Neither am I your friend.’
Casanova looked hurt.
‘What a shame. I have an appointment tomorrow with the Comte de Sainte-Germain. I had thought you might like to come along.’
‘Why the devil would I come with you?’
‘Because you are as curious as I to know how an individual who proclaims himself immortal can appear out of nowhere. No one knows where he was born, whence he comes, nor how he acquired the riches which are so obviously his.’
Volnay was about to give a colourful reply when Chiara entered the room. Once again, the sight of her left him quite breathless. She wore a dress of light, glossy silk with a satin ground and a large damask pattern of stylized, scrolling leaves. Her double-flounced pagoda sleeves were pushed up to reveal layers of fine embroidered lace. She had stuck a beauty spot at the corner of her lips, and that simple change had revolutionized her appearance. Volnay found himself considering her in a completely new light. She came towards them, her eyes shining. Casanova kissed her hand most gallantly. Volnay did the same, though rather more stiffly.
‘Mademoiselle,’ said the Chevalier de Seingalt, ‘a woman has only one way to be beautiful, but you have found a hundred thousand ways to be pretty!’
Chiara accepted the compliment with an indulgent air.
‘I was just explaining to the Chevalier de Volnay how we came to be invited by the Comte de Saint-Germain,’ he went on.
‘You’ve explained nothing whatever,’ growled Volnay, who had positioned himself instinctively between Chiara and the Venetian.
Casanova laughed brightly.
‘Well, it happens that I met him at a dinner given by Madame d’Urfé.’
Chiara gave an amused smile and added, for Volnay’s benefit:
‘You know, the lady who is to be reborn on the seventy-fourth day.’
‘I am not easily impressed,’ Casanova went on, as if he had heard nothing, ‘but I confess that I found the comte quite astonishing. He drinks no wine, ale or spirits, and refuses anything of animal origin. He eats chiefly grains and seeds, pecking at them like a bird.’
‘And what does he do while everyone else is eating?’ asked Volnay.
‘He talks! All the time! And I am forced to admit his conversation is fascinating. He knows everything about everything. You can question him on almost any subject and be certain of an answer. In particular, he has an extraordinary flair for detail, and casts the great events of history in a thoroughly new light.’
‘As if he had been there himself…’
‘Yes, that is indeed his gift!’ declared Casanova, and there was a hint of envy in his voice.
They were interrupted by the call for the company to be seated at dinner. The silver sparkled amid the fine porcelain and crystal glasses. The table overflowed with flowers. Volnay tried awkwardly to manoeuvre himself into a seat beside Chiara, but failed hopelessly and was relegated to the far end of the table. He felt uncomfortable in this bejewelled, gleaming microcosm, obsessed as it was by appearances, rumour and scandal. He overheard one diner commenting idiotically to another: ‘The people lack for bread? Let us feed them the crusts of the pâté en croute…’
Volnay was listening without enthusiasm to his neighbour’s comments on her iced dessert, when a burst of laughter drew his attention. Casanova excelled in the subtle art of salon conversation, by turns erudite and playful, and especially in the company of women. Just at that moment, he was enjoying great success with one of his anecdotes:
‘And so, the Prince de Lambèse, with characteristic devotion to duty, ran to the burning thatched cottage and emerged carrying an elderly, paralysed woman in his arms. Her clothes had caught alight, and he raced to the pond and threw her in, to extinguish the flames, whereupon she drowned!’
The unexpected conclusion was greeted with gales of laughter around the table, as the first dish was brought in: veal sweetbreads with a shrimp coulis, truffled roe, pricked and stuffed pike, red partridge wings with puréed mushrooms, and white snipe on toasted bread spread with baked stuffing meat. The Chevalier de Seingalt knew how to captivate an audience by awakening its curiosity, but Volnay was no conversationalist, and his neighbours quickly lost interest. He looked from Casanova to Chiara, gazing at the young woman for longer than was seemly. He saw the Venetian staring at him long enough to secure his attention, before leaning towards Chiara, certain that he could be heard at the other end of the table.
‘The talk is all of the Comte de Saint-Germain just now; it seems he’s an accomplished artist.’
Another guest agreed.
‘And an excellent musician! He sings and plays the violin wonderfully well, and he composes music, too. When the comte improvises on his violin, an expert ear may pick out the four parts of a full quartet!’
There were exclamations all round, and Madame de Genlis leant towards them, her eyes bright.
‘The Comte de Saint-Germain paints in oils, too, and is extraordinarily skilled in the secrets of colour. You should see the colours he contrives for the floral decorations in his paintings. Emerald greens, sapphire blues, ruby reds… Truly, they have the sparkle, sheen and brilliance of precious stones. Van Loo, La Tour and some of the other painters told my father they had never seen such dazzling colours!’
The second course appeared, and occupi
ed the company for a time, until Monsieur de Cobenzl, minister plenipotentiary of the Empress Maria Theresa, delicately replaced his fork and commented, in a somewhat reedy voice:
‘For my part, I find him quite the strangest man I have ever encountered. He is possessed of great wealth but lives very simply. He is remarkably honest and demonstrates admirable kindness and decency to his fellow man. He has profound knowledge of all the arts. He is a poet, a musician, a physician, a chemist, a mechanic, a painter… In short, I have never seen such general knowledge and culture in any other man. His knowledge appears quite boundless.’
Volnay was fascinated, like everyone else. Casanova’s presence was forgotten. The diplomat paused for a moment, and Volnay looked up to see the Venetian fixing him with a knowing stare. He shifted his gaze back to the minister plenipotentiary. Monsieur de Cobenzl had paused merely to dab at his mouth with a napkin, for fear that talking at table might have left some small trace. He continued in the same vein:
‘Before my very eyes, the Comte de Saint-Germain performed a remarkable experiment, though for him it was a quite ordinary piece of work, so he told me. He stained pieces of wood in vivid colours, without indigo or cochineal, and went on to make a most perfect ultramarine blue, just as if he had extracted it from lapis lazuli. Finally, he took an everyday oil—walnut or linseed—as used in painting, and took away its smell and taste, making it the finest edible oil anyone could imagine.’
More exclamations were uttered around the table, including from those guests who had not fully understood all the terms employed. Casanova taunted Volnay in silence, and his look seemed to say:
See if you can resist accompanying me to the comte’s tomorrow, after all that!
The Baron de Gleichen was moved to contribute a story of his own:
‘I have had occasion to see his collection of precious stones, and I can assure you, it is quite unique!’
The ladies uttered piping, quail-like cries.
Casanova and the Faceless Woman Page 11
