The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  She got up and stood in front of him. “But what about you? You haven’t mentioned yourself.”

  He looked,up and smiled feebly. “I am going to try and save Venice from total humiliation, if I can. It would be a shame to give in without a fight, don’t you think?”

  “You would resist the French?”

  “Oh, I won’t stand alone against the invader, Fosca,” he said reassuringly. “There are many others who feel as I do, who would rather die on their feet than live on their knees.”

  “But it’s madness!” she gasped. “You can’t defend a city that doesn’t want to be defended. Against a whole army? No, Alessandro, you can’t mean it!”

  “I do mean it,” he said calmly, taking her hands in his. “I intend to do everything in my power to keep those ruffians from taking over the Republic without a struggle.”

  “But you’ll die!” she said in a horrified whisper. “You’ll—you’ll die!”

  He held her hands firmly. “Listen to me, Fosca. I’m not a complete fool. I’ll try to preserve my own worthless life if I can, but I won’t run from danger. I won’t hide. I won’t capitulate, no matter what the Senate decides. A man must do what he thinks is right, even when he is grossly, hideously wrong, as I have been many times. I believe that a country softened by pleasure becomes weak, and history has shown it is so. I’ve been preaching for the past twenty years that we needed to keep our defenses up. If I run now, the years I’ve given to the government will be meaningless. I don’t want to sound noble. I’m not. I’m not brave and I don’t particularly want to become a martyr. But I wouldn’t be worthy of the name Loredan if I didn’t defend my country with my last breath.”

  She bent her head over his hands.

  “Forgive me for causing you distress, Fosca. You were right to ask that I not lie to you. The truth is always better, and I feel better for having spoken it. Go to bed now. It’s late.”

  Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. “What about Paolo?” she said. “And your mother? And the people in this house, whose livelihoods depend on you?”

  “They’ll all survive, I daresay. Paolo is still a child, a baby. He’ll forget. And Mother is old—. ”He looked at her searchingly. “What about you, Fosca? Will you miss me?”

  “We’ll all miss you!”

  “Of course,” he said gently, touching her cheek. “I haven’t been much of a husband to you. Or much of a lover, either. You’re still young and beautiful—you’ll find someone to love very soon.”

  She stepped back from him. “You said you love me. But it was a lie.”

  “I don’t tell lies,Fosca,” he said. “I do love you.”

  “No, you don’t. If you loved me, you wouldn’t even think about deserting me! You’re in such a tearing hurry to go and get yourself killed, aren’t you? One last glorious show of Venetian strength! Oh, what insufferable pride. You think the world will care what you do—or even take notice?”

  “No,” he said evenly, suppressing a spasm of anger, “but I will know, and so will my son.”

  “Yes, this son who is supposed to forget you so easily. What about Paolo? You’re cheating him. He needs you now, and he’ll need you even more as he grows older, to help and guide and teach him. You have so much you could give him—but you don’t care about that. All you care about is your moment of glory. What a lot of nonsense. You have no right to weigh your worth to other people. To assume your mother won’t suffer because she’s old. She adores you, but you don’t care about that. And what about me? You ’re trying very hard to marry me off before you’re even gone. You keep telling yourself that I don’t love you, but the truth is that love is too great a burden for you. You’re not comfortable with it and you never have been, which is why you’ve always been a better lover than husband. You don’t want me as your wife, Alessandro. You never did. All you wanted was another mistress, conveniently placed in your house, someone who wouldn’t make unreasonable demands, who would be available when you wanted her for lovemaking, and who would stay out of sight when you didn’t. I think you enjoyed the charade of the Masked Lady even more than I did. I thought you had changed, but you are still as arrogant as ever. Presuming to know what people are thinking and feeling! I don’t care two pins if you let the whole French army fill you with their bullets, but don’t you dare tell me what I’m supposed to feel about it when they do!”

  She stopped abruptly, having run out of breath. Alessandro stood up slowly. “What’s come over you, Fosca?”

  She blinked at him. “I—I don’t know,” she said shakily. She covered her face with her hands. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me!”

  He pulled her hands down and tilted her chin with his forefinger. “I think you’re learning to love me a little!” he said in an amazed voice.

  She jerked her head aside. “I’m not! I hate you! I hate you as much as I’ve always hated you! More!”

  “You do. You must, or you would never have jumped down my throat like that!”

  “Let me go!” She broke free of him. Her cheeks were flaming and her eyes brimming with tears. “I hate you, Alessandro Loredan! I—”

  She pressed her fingers over her mouth and ran out of the room. The door slammed behind her. Loredan stood stock still for two minutes, then shook himself and tried to go on with his packing and sorting. But objects slipped out of his trembling hands. He tripped over the edge of the carpet. He mislaid things. He couldn’t think.

  Damn her. In a burst of anger he kicked over a chair. Damn her! He stormed out of his room and threw open the door to her bedroom. She had left candles burning near the bed. Her clothes lay strewn on the carpet, All was silent except for the crackle of low flames in the fireplace.

  He closed the door and locked it, then stripped off his clothes and left them in a heap near hers. He approached the bed and stood over her. The coverlet was pulled up to her chin. Her head was turned sideways and a veil of hair hid her face. He sensed that she wasn’t asleep. He grabbed the covers and wrenched them away from her body. She was naked.

  Brushing her arm over her face so that it pushed her hair into a coppery cascade over the pillows, she stretched languidly and smiled up at him.

  “It certainly took you long enough to get here,” she said.

  “You bitch,” he breathed, throwing himself on top of her. She laughed softly until her laughter dissolved into soft moans of pleasure.

  When it was over she said, “I’m glad you don’t have the courage of all your convictions. I really did think you were going to wait a hundred years, or until I gave you permission.”

  “If you were so eager, you could have come to me,” he said crossly. “You didn’t have to make me compromise my principles.”

  “Yes, I did. It wouldn’t have been any fun otherwise.” She kissed him.

  “It’s a good thing you weren’t around when Satan was tempting Christ,” Alessandro said.

  “There you go, thinking yourself better than God,” she sighed. “Oh, dear. I really didn’t want to fall in love with you. It was a game, after all. Just a charade. Summer madness.”

  “I willed it to happen,” he said with a grin. “You can use that as a measure of the strength of my will: it’s taken twelve years.”

  “But it’s so inconvenient,” she protested. “You’re all set to sacrifice yourself for the Republic, and I’m going to fall in love with someone else. You said I might. I have him all picked out.”

  “Forget him. I’m going to live to be as old as Abraham, and to make you a mother many times over.”

  “But what about your plan? What about Venetian honor?”

  “I will repel the French, capture Bonaparte, sink their ships, and slaughter their armies. I can do it all, with ease, because you love me.”

  “Was this all a trick?” she demanded, suddenly suspicious. “You planned this whole thing, just to provoke me into revealing what I felt!”

  “No, Fosca, I didn’t,” he said seriously. “I didn’t expect
you to care. I confess that I had grown tired. Tired of waiting for a love that looked like it was never going to materialize. Frankly, tired of celibacy. I was not meant to live a priestly life.”

  “Alessandro, did you really? You gave up all your mistresses, for me?”

  “Every one. From the night you walked into my casino. I did it to show you—and myself—that I was indeed capable of honoring my wife. It wasn’t easy. Tonight I felt old and frustrated and impatient, and I decided that I might as well end it all in a blaze of glory.”

  “But I have dissuaded you,” she said happily. “No. I told you, Fosca, this is something I must do. For my own sake, and for Venice, and for you, too.”

  “No, not for me!”

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “I will be careful, I swear. Let’s not argue about it anymore, please.” He held her close. “I love you so.”

  “And I—no, I can’t say it yet.”

  “It’s all right. You don’t have to speak it yet. You have shown me, and that’s all I need right now.”

  He left her just before dawn, and as he slipped out of bed he heard her murmur, “Come back to me, Alessandro.”

  “I will, I swear.”

  Alessandro steeled himself. The Corsican was in a fury, actually screeching with rage. He didn’t know if this show of anger was genuine or merely a charade for his sake, so that he could carry back an impressive report to the Senate.

  “I will have no more Doge!” Napoleon shouted, bringing his fists down on the table in front of him with a crash. “I will have no more Senate! No more Council of Ten! No more Bridge of Sighs! How dare you bring me a message like this! I am insulted! France is insulted! And you will pay for this insult, I promise you! Go back and tell your senile Doge that I reject his request for—compensation!” he spit out the word with a sneer. “You dare ask for compensation? I demand compensation for this insult! Now get out of my sight before I have you shot, Venetian!”

  Alessandro had suspected that Napoleon would treat the message from the Senate as a provocation to war. He had told them it would happen. But they were determined to put on one last show of diplomatic power, like a toothless old dog who growls at intruders in the night, hoping to frighten them away so he won’t have to give chase on crippled legs.

  A few days later, on March 28, Napoleon’s emissary entered the great hall of the Grand Council. Spurs clanking, sword swinging at his hip, Rafaello Leopardi strode through the silent throng of Senators and Council members towards the dais, where the Doge and the Council of Ten were waiting to greet him. As he approached they rose to their feet, except for one Commissioner who steadfastly remained seated and watched the arrival through cold black eyes.

  Raf paused for a moment. He and Alessandro Loredan glared at each other, then Raf sat impudently in the vacant chair that was ordinarily occupied by the Papal Nuncio. He did not remove his hat and he kept his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword.

  “General Bonaparte has instructed me to inform you of his deep sorrow over your intention to war with France,” he said to the silent crowd. “He asks me to remind you that war is costly business. You would lose lives, and you would certainly lose money, and in the end you would still have to submit to the messengers of Freedom, the French Army. You can spare yourselves the agonies of confrontation in battle by dissolving your government and turning the power over to representatives of the people. You have one week to meet our demands, and then your city will be bombarded.”

  He waited a few moments for them to absorb his remarks, then he stood and walked out of the hall.

  Alessandro rose to his feet and shouted after him, “Traitor! Jew turncoat! We will not bow to any requests carried by a Jew traitor to Venice! Tell your General that!”

  Raf whirled. “You’re a dead man, Loredan!” he roared. “You’re all dead men!” He stalked out of the chamber, and it erupted.

  Many of the Senators recognized the messenger as the radical Jew who had insulted that austere body some years earlier. Some shouted for his arrest, others shouted for war, a few begged that they consider capitulating. The Barnabotti began to shout the French motto of “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity!” Angry rebukes were hurled at Alessandro Loredan for having the effrontery to insult Bonaparte’s personal representative, and he came forward to defend himself.

  “Would you have the proudest Republic in the world grovel on her knees in front of the Corsican upstart? Would you have her repudiate her past, her government, her ideals? We have one week in which to reply to this sickening ultimatum. I say we answer them with guns!”

  He was cheered, and the meeting broke up. The old Doge, nearly weeping with fright and fatigue, had to be helped to his rooms and put to bed. The Senate agreed to meet in emergency session to decide the fate of their city, while Jacobin sympathizers urged surrender to their French liberators.

  That evening the cafés and streets were flooded with thousands of pamphlets informing the citizens of Venice that war with France was at hand, and that fathers and brothers and sons would die uselessly unless the Signoria agreed to French terms and accepted freedom for all men. Fights broke out between French sympathizers and patriots. Bands of burly Arsenal workers, staunchly loyal to the Republic, roamed the streets, looking for Jacobin heads to crack. Later these workers met with Alessandro Loredan and the Commander of the Fort of Sant’ Angelo on the Lido. They agreed to man the barricades of the fort in case of attack from the sea.

  Through it all, Alessandro thought of Raf Leopardi. Was it worth it, to have spared his life? Yes, he had won Fosca. But in setting the man free he had endangered Venice, and his own happiness.

  Fosca. Did she knew that Leopardi had returned? Had she seen him? Made love to him?

  He suspected Raf of authoring the pamphlets that were circulating around Venice. Had he perhaps been slipping unnoticed in and out of the city, before appearing at the Council meeting as Bonaparte’s emissary? Did Fosca know that her old lover was working for the French?

  He worked hard, preparing his city for battle, lobbying Senators to vote for war when the time came to decide, promising the Arsenalotti his support and his money. He persuaded the Senate to requisition from religious institutions all gold and silver plate not necessary for worship to help finance the war effort. He was interested to note that the Jews, supposedly the most oppressed segment of the population, were the first to respond.

  He spent little time at home, returning only to bathe and change his clothes. He asked for Fosca, but she was out. He finally saw her one afternoon. She and Paolo were playing backgammon in the little drawing room near the library. Alessandro greeted them both warmly, and spent a few minutes observing their play and listening to Paolo’s chatter, then he asked the boy to deliver a message to his valet. When he and Fosca were alone he said, “Did you know that Leopardi was in Venice?”

  She looked startled. The color drained out of her face. She knew she couldn’t lie to him successfully, and she said, “Yes, I did.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Yes, Alessandro. I had to.” She looked miserable. He flinched. “So your elaborate show of concern—and love—that night was just that, a show?”

  “No, it wasn’t!” She came up to him and put her hands on his arms. “I swear it, Alessandro, I do care for you, very much!”

  He held her off. “What does love mean to you, Fosca?” he demanded. “Does it mean only pleasure, losing yourself in lovemaking, titillating the senses and delighting the body?” He shook his head. “You have no honor. No idea of what honor means. That—traitor!” he rasped. “I should have known he’d be back. I did know it, but at the time I wanted you more than I wanted to see him dead. You’re still the same, aren’t you? You’d sell your soul for a new thrill, a new pleasure. What do you care about your country, your name, your son, your honor? You’d betray us all for that man!”

  She was very pale, “You wrong me, Alessandro. I have betrayed no one. I haven’t seen him since that night we—”


  “I don’t want to listen to your excuses and explanations. You saw him. You shared his bed, didn’t you? Didn’t you!” he bellowed. She gave a small nod. “I swear to you, Fosca, that I would burn this city to the ground before I’d let it fall to the likes of you and that bastard!”

  He left her. An hour later he left the house. She tried to intercept him, to reason with him, but he pushed past her without a word or a glance.

  XVI

  ECHOES OF WAR

  A few days later, Venice heard the first sounds of war. A French frigate, the Liberateur d’ltalie, sailed boldly into the harbor. Unauthorized by the Senate, but clearly in accordance with their policy not to permit ships of war in their harbors, Alessandro Loredan ordered the Commander of the Fort of Sant’ Andrea to fire on the intruder. The Liberateur d’ltalie returned fire, but was itself badly damaged by Venetian gunners. Loredan led the boarding party himself. In the bloody fight that followed, the captain of the frigate, Laugier, was killed. The ship was captured and the crew taken prisoner. That night the Venetians celebrated, as though they had won a great victory.

  Fosca was proud of her husband, and thankful that he hadn’t been hurt. She hadn’t seen him since he left Ca’ Loredan after accusing her of treachery with the enemy. The anger she had nurtured against him for the injustice of his remarks didn’t last long. She couldn’t blame him. She had been unfaithful to him and betrayed his trust.

  On the morning after the capture of the frigate, Emilia woke Fosca at eleven o’clock.

  “You’d better get up, Donna Fosca. Your friends are here and they say they must speak to you at once.”

  “What friends? I don’t want to get up yet—went to bed so late last night,” Fosca mumbled. She sat up and shielded her eyes from the harsh sunlight that poured through the windows. “Oh, how bright it is!”

  Emilia opened the door to Antonio and Giacomo and they approached the bed. They both looked unusually solemn.