The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  “I congratulate you both on your ambition this morning,” Fosca said acidly. “Such early risers! Emilia, do you have coffee for me? Well, sit down, both of you. What brings you out at such an obscenely early hour?”

  Giacomo perched on the end of the bed. He had lately adopted the dress of the Incroyables, the unbelievable young men of Revolutionary Paris, who vied with each other to see who could come up with the most outlandish and shocking costumes. This morning Giacomo wore a coat of the brightest orange, with a red waistcoat, blue knee breeches, red and blue striped stockings, and a hat with a pink ostrich plume. His walking stick was shoulder height, and topped with a representation in gold of a naked couple engaged in amorous activity.

  He made an idiotic remark about the weather, and Antonio scowled at him. “We thought you ought to know at once, Fosca,” Antonio said. “Loredan has been arrested.”

  She stared at him, and at Giacomo, who nodded in confirmation.

  “What do you mean, arrested? But he’s a hero! Arrested by whom? For what?”

  “The French Ambassador protested strongly over the attack on the Liberateur yesterday,” Giacomo explained. “Not that they had any grounds for complaint, everyone knows that, but—”

  “But he insisted that the Senate place Loredan and the Commander of the Fort—what was his name, Giacomo?”

  “Pizzamano. Place them both under arrest and free the French sailors we’d imprisoned.”

  Fosca was sitting bolt upright, wide awake now. “And you mean to tell me that they actually agreed? They did it?”

  “In the interests of appeasement,” Antonio said glumly. “They said they had no choice, otherwise the French would take the incident as a provocation of war.”

  “But that’s exactly what they were trying to do by sailing in here!” she cried. “Oh, this is ridiculous. It’s unfair! They ought to be shot, all of them. And they call themselves Venetians! They’re cowards, that’s what they are!” She threw off the bedclothes and called to Emilia to help her dress. “I must go to him at once,” she said feverishly. “This is outrageous, simply outrageous. Where is he? Is he all right? They haven’t thrown him into the Tombs, have they?” she asked worriedly.

  “Oh, no, no,” Giacomo said quickly. “We understand that he’s being very comfortably housed in a room in the Palace. There was no question of the Tombs, ever. This was just a formality.”

  “A formality!” she sneered, stepping behind a Chinese screen and throwing off her nightclothes. Emilia brought underthings, petticoats, and a gown.

  “They arrest the bravest, most patriotic man in Venice, and you call it a formality!”

  Antonio and Giacomo exchanged glances. They were not used to hearing Fosca speak of her husband in such glowing terms. Even more astonishing was hearing her condemning the Senate for cowardice, and speaking of such things as patriotism. This was not the Fosca who a few years ago couldn’t even remember the name of the Doge.

  She came out from behind the screen and sat on a low bench so that she could put on her shoes. She wore a simple gown of sheer beige muslin, long dark brown mitts, and a shawl of brown silk embroidered with small orange blossoms. The gentlemen murmured appreciatively, but she ignored them and sent Emilia to fetch her bonnet and parasol.

  “You must come with me, both of you. How can they do this to him? He’s worth a dozen of them. Two dozen!”

  Again Antonio and Giacomo exchanged meaningful glances but saved their inferences for later. They entered one of the Loredan gondolas and arrived at the Doge’s Palace a few minutes later.

  Fosca wasted no time but demanded to see the Doge’s secretary, whom she knew slightly.

  “I understand that you are holding my husband here. I demand to see him.”

  “Of course, Signora. It’s a most unfortunate circumstance, wholly a gesture—political, you understand. He is quite comfortable. He even took breakfast with the Doge this morning. He has everything he needs.”

  “Except his freedom,” she snapped. “I suppose that if the French had asked you to imprison the Doge, you would have done that, too!”

  The man looked embarrassed. He led Fosca and her friends through long, lushly decorated corridors, up broad stairs to a room on the third floor, near the Doge’s private apartment. He stopped outside a door and tapped. Fosca was relieved to see that there was no guard and that the door was even unlocked. The secretary asked them to wait, and he went in to tell Alessandro that he had visitors.

  He emerged a moment later looking somewhat abashed. “Forgive me. Signora, but your husband asks me to convey his, ah, greetings. He says that he, ah, does not wish to cause you needless distress by seeing him in this unfamiliar setting, and he would like you to wait at home until he sends word to you.”

  She felt her cheeks turn crimson. He didn’t want to see her. She lifted her chin. “Please tell my husband that I shall accede to his wishes. Please assure him that his mother and son are both well, and that we will all pray for him.”

  She thanked the man politely, nodded briskly to her two escorts, and walked away. The secretary mopped his brow and went back into Alessandro’s chamber to give the prisoner his wife’s message.

  Fosca set aside her humiliation and ordered her servants to collect her husband’s favorite books and clothes, some bottles of wine and special foods, and take them to him. She resolved not to try and see him again. They had nothing to say to each other anyway. He wouldn’t believe her explanations and he wouldn’t accept her apologies.

  Napoleon sent the Senate a declaration of war based on fifteen violations by the Venetians of the peace, among them the death of Captain Laugier, the firing on a French vessel and the capture of the crew, the recent uprisings against the French garrisons in some towns on terrafirma, and a long list of other trumped-up grievances. There was no hope for peace; and war, in such an advanced state of unpreparedness, was unthinkable. With Loredan in prison, the strongest voice against capitulation was stilled. On May 12, 1797, the Grand Council and Senate voted themselves out of existence. The Republic of Venice was no more. As the old Doge was led trembling and weeping from the chamber, he was heard to mutter, “Tonight we are not even safe in our beds.”

  A written proclamation was posted on the door of the Cathedral of San Marco, and the people learned of their leaders’ perfidy and cowardice. There were riots, shouts of protest, accusations of treason. But the Signoria could not retract. From that day on, Venice was officially a democracy.

  The next day, Captain Rafaello Leopardi crossed into Venice from the mainland with a battalion of French soldiers. He was ready to assume control of the Provisional Revolutionary Government, which would exist until elections were held and the Venetian people could choose their own representatives.

  Fosca was in her bedroom when she heard the clatter of martial feet on the cobblestones of the courtyard. A few minutes later, Emilia, her face flushed with fear and excitement, rushed in.

  “The French are here, Donna Fosca, with that Jew at their head! He wants to see you at once!”

  “Please ask the gentlemen to wait in the small drawing room. I shall come in a few minutes.”

  She checked herself in her mirror. She wore a plain morning dress of pale green silk. It was cut rather low in front, and she draped a filmy fichu around her neckline. She patted a few stray wisps of hair into place, fastened a small gold cross on a thin chain around her neck, blessed herself, braced herself, and went downstairs to confront the invader.

  Raf was standing in the middle of the drawing room carpet, a thick blue Aubusson that perfectly set off the hand painted wallpaper and the exquisite blue porcelain vases that flanked the mirror over the fireplace. He and his two soldiers looked clumsy and out of place in the bright, delicately furnished chamber. He wore the uniform of a French officer. When Fosca entered the room he doffed his hat, but kept his left hand resting on his sword.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Fosca said politely. She turned to Raf. “I’m afraid I d
on’t know how to greet you, Signor. Are you General, or Colonel, or— what?”

  “Captain, Signora,” he said a little stiffly. They were both conscious of the other two men in the room. “I wanted to inform you that as Provisional Governor of this province, I have chosen this house as headquarters for myself and my staff. I promise we shall try not to inconvenience you too much.”

  “Is that so?” She sat gracefully in a low chair and stared pointedly at the clods of mud deposited by heavy boots on the carpet. “That’s very kind of you, Captain, I’m sure.” She stressed his title slightly, mocking it. She saw a slight flush mount to his cheeks under his tan. “Of course you are welcome to use this house. I don’t see how I could prevent you if I wanted to. But since this is really my husband’s house rather than mine, I suggest, Captain, that you apply to him for permission to use it.”

  “Signora, General Bonaparte has ordered that all mortgages on all properties be paid immediately. It is my understanding that this house has not one but three such loans outstanding against it. If you can pay these debts, well and good. If not—then this house and all its contents belongs not to the Loredan family, but to France.”

  “How interesting,” Fosca remarked. “So your General finds himself owner of half of Venice, just like that! Well,” she lifted her hands helplessly, “I cannot pay, obviously. Therefore the house is yours. I shall have my servants pack only what we need, and I’ll move out as soon as possible.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Fos—Signora,” Raf said. “We don’t want to disturb you. I can promise you that you and everyone here will be quite safe if you stay.”

  She said, “But I do not wish to stay, if you don’t mind.”

  “But I do mind.” His voice was steely. “We do not want to cause needless disruptions in the life of the city. You will stay here.”

  She shrugged. “Why didn’t you come right out and tell me that you were keeping me a prisoner here? It would have prevented misunderstanding.” She stood up. “If that is all you have to say, I will leave you now.”

  “Wait just a moment,” he said sharply. He jerked his head at his two officers, indicating that he wanted them to leave. They obliged. When they were alone he put his arms around Fosca. She was as stiff and as cold as a corpse.

  “Is this part of my duty as prisoner of war?” she demanded coldly.

  “You know damned well that you’re no such thing.”

  “Oh, no? What do you mean by barging into my house like this and assuming possession of it in the name of France? You think you can take possession of me in the same way! You are wrong, Captain. I want nothing to do with you or your revolution or your Bonaparte. You forbade me to leave. I am sure if I disobey, you will shoot me. Therefore I must stay. But I will not let you make love to me. I won’t let you touch me. Let me go!”

  He opened his arms and stepped back with a mocking bow. “You’re quite free, Fosca. I’m sorry. I seem to have upset you. I didn’t intend to. I didn’t realize that our last meeting—our last quarrel—had turned you against me.”

  “Where is Loredan?” she demanded. “Why haven’t you let him go?”

  “Because he killed a captain of the French navy,” he said. “He will remain a prisoner until his trial, which is set for next week.” He added, “I’ve ordered him moved to the Tombs.”

  “No!” Fosca gasped. “How could you! You know very well that this whole thing is a mockery of justice. He was only doing what he thought was right, defending our waters from the enemy, protecting his country and his home! And the Tombs! It’s harsh! It’s cruel!”

  Raf said, “I’ve been waiting for a chance like this for seven years, Fosca. No, longer than that. For nearly thirty years. Since I was a child. Loredan, Loredan, always Loredan. The epitome of everything corrupt and evil and repressive.”

  “This is nothing more than spite, vendetta!” she cried. “I would have expected better of you, Raf. You used to pretend that soldiers of the revolution had higher principles than those they fought against, but you’re no better than those Parisian headhunters! You want Loredan’s head as a trophy!”

  “No, damn you, it’s not like that at all.”

  “Oh, yes it is. It’s because of me. You want me, and you think as long as he’s alive, you can’t have me. But you’re wrong, Raf. I’ll do whatever you say, go wherever you like. I’ll be your mistress, your consort, your queen. But let him go!”

  “How touching,” he sneered. “The faithful wife sacrificing herself to the evil soldier, so she can save her husband, her real love.”

  “Oh, Raf, it’s not like that at all,” she said despairingly. “There is not love between Loredan and me anymore. He knows I saw you. He thinks I’m a traitor to Venice, as you are.” She broke off and bit her lip.“I mean, he thinks I have revolutionary sympathies. But I don’t. I can’t! I don’t want you to destroy all the things I love.”

  “You used to love me,” he said in a low voice. “More than any of this!” He waved his arm.

  “Yes, I loved you, I do love you! But it’s not the same anymore, can’t you see that? We can’t go back and recapture what we had. It’s gone forever. And the future—. We can’t go back, we can’t go ahead. It was an impossible romance, impossible from the very beginning. We were never suited to each other, but it didn’t matter so much then. We should have left it to our dreams.”

  He said angrily, “Is that how you feel about it now? That you wish it had never happened?”

  She said nothing, but walked to the window and looked down at the courtyard.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said more gently. “You can’t wish that—you can’t want to forget, to pretend that it all meant nothing to you. We were young. We loved each other so much, so very much.”

  “We’re older now,” she said. “We’ve both changed. It’s been seven years since you escaped from the Tombs. Eight years since we met. A long time, Raf. I’m different from what I was then. Wiser, perhaps. I don’t crave excitement anymore. I don’t need danger as I used to. I want stability. Love and marriage. A home, secure and safe. More children, and a husband to look after all of us. I wouldn’t have that with you. You’d be bored with that kind of life, and I’d always play second fiddle to your real love. You’ve loved Revolution even longer than you’ve loved me, and you’ve been more faithful to her, too. You won’t give her up.”

  “You’re wrong, Fosca,” Raf said. “Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve worked for has been not for Revolution, but for Venice. My home. Our home. But it won’t mean a thing if I don’t have you. I mean that, Fosca. I love you, more than any of this. I need you.”

  “You’re saying that you’ve won the things you’ve been fighting for, and you’re ready to give it all up?” She faced him.

  “But we haven’t won, not yet. Listen to me, Fosca. Two days before he even drew up his declaration of war against Venice, Napoleon was making a deal with the Austrians: Venice was to go to them, in exchange for territories we—the French—had taken on the left bank of the Rhine. This wasn’t any crusade for freedom, to liberate the oppressed peoples of Venice. It was a purely political move on Napoleon’s part. It was done even without the knowledge of the Directory. Someday soon, Venice will belong not to France, but to Austria.”

  “But what does this have to do with you, with us?”

  “In all of this conniving, no one bothered to ask the people of Venice what they wanted. But I know what they want, even if they don’t know it themselves. They don’t want to be French, they don’t want to be Austrian, they want to be free. They need someone to speak for them, to fight for them, to win back the freedom their leaders bartered away. I don’t trust Bonaparte. I never did. But I needed him, as he needed me. I used him to unlock the gates that were closed to me before. This city is mine now. Mine. I wanted it, and I got it, and by God, I’m going to do my best for it. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t have the life you want, right here.”

  “Free Loredan, pleas
e,” she said.

  “I can’t, Fosca. He killed Laugier and he has to pay. He’s a sworn enemy of this government. What do you want me to do, let him go so that he can plot against me?” He laughed harshly. “If he were in my shoes he’d do the same. He’d refuse, even if my loving wife got down on her knees and begged for my life.”

  “It’s such a little thing, really,” she said pleadingly. “Please, for my sake, because of what we meant to each other once.”

  “I can’t run a revolution on sentiment, Fosca,” he said gruffly. He went to her and pulled her into his arms. “Don’t worry. I have our future all mapped out.”

  “We have no future,” she said dully. “Don’t you see that? It’s over. It’s all over.”

  “No. I don’t believe that, and neither do you. We belong together, Fosca. We need each other. I won’t let you go. I’ve worked too hard—”

  She shook her head. “You’re so blind—you really can’t see—”

  A knock on the door startled them. They sprang apart. One of the French soldiers told Raf that Donna Rosalba Loredan demanded to see him at once.

  “Who?” Raf scowled.

  “Alessandro’s mother,” Fosca explained with a sigh. “This is her house, too. It would be a courtesy.”

  “I don’t know the meaning of the word. Well, if she thinks that she can beg for her son’s life, too—”

  “If you don’t visit her now, she’ll keep pestering until you do,” Fosca said. “You won’t have to stay long. She tires quickly.”

  “Is she ill?” Raf thought about his Aunt Rebecca, who rarely left her bed now.

  “Oh, no, she’s as healthy as a horse. But twenty years ago she decided that she was bored with society and she’s hardly left her room—or her bed—since. But she knows everything that goes on. Her cicisbeo, Carlo Dandolo, brings her all the news.”

  “I suppose a few minutes wouldn’t hurt,” he muttered.

  She led him up to Rosalba Loredan’s room on the second floor. They found the old woman sitting up in bed, surrounded by the usual jumble of possessions, her old dog snoring at her side. Her small black eyes were bright with excitement and curiosity.