Casanova and the Faceless Woman

by Olivier Barde-Cabuçon

  He spoke with genuine emotion. The inspector lowered his head in silence. The monk prepared to leave.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Volnay, anxiously.

  His colleague turned, and his eyes burnt with rage and despair.

  ‘I am going to throw off this habit, for more civilized attire, because I intend to go and drink till I forget who I am. I’ll thank you not to come along.’

  At the inn, a handful of students from the Sorbonne were tucking into a fine, runny omelette with chives, washed down with a hearty, cheap, slightly bitter wine. Near the chimney, a group of severe-looking merchants devoured roasted woodcocks trickling with grease. In a corner, a man sat slowly drinking, watching the rest of the company out of the corner of his eye. He was clearly past fifty years of age, yet he appeared sharp and alert. His bright eyes were filled with humanity. He nodded his head and smiled to himself when the students broke into song:

  ‘We must away to Paradise

  There we’ll take an angel each

  Their heavenly cunts do smell of peach…’

  Doubtless he knew the song, but his bearing was more aristocratic than scholarly. His short, greying beard gave pleasing definition to a patrician, Roman face. He had been a handsome man in his time, and the years had not dimmed his charm.

  ‘And here’s the rest!’

  The innkeeper set down a golden, well-roasted chicken and another pitcher of wine in front of the man.

  ‘Like Prezzolini, that great chef before all Eternity,’ commented his client, wickedly, ‘I am a loyal devotee of the spit roast and the purifying flame: no sauces with my roasts and fries! Delirium dieteticum. The secret of my good health and vigour, both physical and intellectual!’

  The innkeeper stared at the man as if he were quite mad, then shrugged his shoulders and returned to his kitchen. A draught of cold air ran through the room, causing the candle flames to gutter. Night itself seemed to rush inside. Slowly, the monk—for it was he—raised his head. The door closed quietly behind a small man with an inquisitorial look, meticulously coiffed and powdered, dressed in a dark, wine-coloured coat and gilet decorated with buttons stitched with golden thread. He walked straight over to the table occupied by the man and his golden roasted chicken. The monk watched impassively as he approached, though his eyes darkened.

  ‘Good evening, monk,’ said the new arrival, seating himself without waiting to be asked. ‘Shaking off your old habit tonight, I see.’

  The monk gave a wan smile.

  ‘Sartine! What ill wind blows you hither?’

  ‘Ah, my friend,’ sighed the other, ‘you are seldom out of my sights. An object of perennial interest!’

  ‘I am not your friend, and I’m surprised to see you’re following me yourself today. Usually you send your filthy flies to buzz around me instead…’

  ‘Is that what you think? In truth, I’m here quite by chance,’ said the chief of police.

  His jocular tone was unmatched by any gleam of gaiety in his eyes. His entire person radiated a subtle but implacable determination. The monk pushed his glass away. With such a redoubtable adversary, a man had better stay in full possession of his faculties.

  ‘Your flies are everywhere,’ he said, not bothering to hide his scowl of disgust. ‘Why waste their time on me? They’d do better to spy on the great and powerful of this world—those you fear like a cur trembling before his master!’

  Sartine gave vent to a grunt of anger but contained himself.

  ‘A fearful master muzzles his own dog,’ he said.

  ‘Ha! You and your kind at Court, you prefer tongues that lick to fangs that bite.’

  Sartine shrugged and lifted a hand to his wig, patting a curl into place, then swept an invisible mote of dust from the sleeve of his coat. The monk watched him, with no hint of indulgence. He knew Sartine spied on the nobility, even under their own roofs. The chief of police knew their most shameful secrets and brightened the king’s days with his stories.

  ‘Well, I fear I must a call a truce in our pleasantries,’ said Sartine firmly. ‘We have a second murder, and Volnay has sent me a most succinct note. He didn’t even see fit to bring it to me himself. Does he truly believe he can keep me out of this?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said the monk cautiously.

  His dark eyes were watchful, attentive to the slightest shift in the chief’s expression.

  ‘So, tell me more about your investigation,’ growled Sartine.

  ‘Why would I tell you any more than Volnay?’

  The chief’s face hardened.

  ‘Need I remind you that you have known the horrors of prison, and risked far worse?’

  The monk sighed.

  ‘When I was young, I was an island, free to think and act exactly as I pleased, but there is no room for such people in a monarchic system…’

  ‘You may find yourself back in prison if you’re not careful! Think, quickly man!’

  The monk leant back in his chair and blinked delicately. There was a fixed quality to Sartine’s stare that quite made a man’s hair stand on end.

  ‘You’re asking me to betray Volnay,’ he said.

  ‘For the common good,’ replied Sartine, amiably.

  VII

  Truly, there is entertainment in everything!

  CASANOVA

  The Comte de Saint-Germain did not live in the palace of Chambord, where he had installed his pigment workshop, but in Paris, at no. 101, Rue Richelieu, in the mansion of the widow of the Chevalier Lambert. There, late in the morning, two lackeys in tobacco-coloured livery with gold braid, and collars and cuffs of blue lace, ceremoniously opened the doors to the three visitors.

  The comte received them in the music room, decorated with statues of the nine Muses. Around the walls, mirrored pilasters reflected the splendid, richly varnished woodwork, alternating with others bearing garlands of golden leaves against a ground of lapis lazuli speckled with silver. With his habitual eye for detail, Volnay observed a Treatise on Engraved Stones, devoted to the art of intaglio and gem-cutting, on a side table. A print taken from the book lay unrolled beside it.

  The inspector turned his attention to the Comte de Saint-Germain. Of average height, with a swarthy complexion and a high forehead topped by an expertly curled wig, the comte was elegantly dressed in a coat of Parma silk brocade with generous, turned-back cuffs, an elaborate waistcoat of many different fabrics, and a jabot and shirt-cuffs of Brussels lace. He seemed youthful and alert, though he must have been almost fifty years old. His skin was fresh and bright, and his features regular, with a hooked nose, well-defined lips and a dimple on his chin.

  He had an undeniably aristocratic air, but there was otherwise no ostentation in his manner. He wore a lively, spirited expression, and his dark eyes fixed his visitors attentively. His manners were exquisite, and his bearing was one of noble, disinterested politesse. Volnay noticed the rings on his fingers, set with magnificent diamonds, and the fine rubies adorning his sleeves.

  Chiara wore a damask gown embroidered with gold nasturtium flowers, and three-tiered pagoda sleeves. Her lips were coloured with Spanish vermilion, that most delicious and desirable of shades.

  She is magnificent, thought Volnay, with a touch of bitterness. Clearly, the comte thought the same, for he hurried to greet her.

  ‘Mademoiselle, I am honoured to receive you.’

  He executed a perfect bow and kissed her hand. Chiara’s cheeks flushed with pleasure. Next, the comte greeted the Chevalier de Seingalt and the Chevalier de Volnay with the courtesy he reserved for all of his guests.

  ‘May I offer you a glass of Jerez wine? This is the oloroso, or “fragrant”. It is aged for ten years in oak casks.’

  Volnay tasted it and discovered an exquisite flavour of fresh almonds, ginger and prunes. Light conversation ensued, on topics of the day, until Casanova skilfully directed their talk to the subject of precious stones. The comte sensed his implicit request. It came as no surprise to him. All his visitors a
sked the same thing. He led the trio to a small side room. There, on a piece of black velvet, he emptied the contents of soft bag he had taken from a chest.

  A torrent of colour seemed to pour out onto the table. The stones glittered and sparkled in the soft half-light. Volnay knew little about fine gems, but he recognized an opal of monstrous size, and a white sapphire the size of an egg.

  ‘How beautiful,’ whispered Chiara ecstatically.

  Casanova, for his part, seemed to be weighing up the stones and estimating their value.

  ‘A fortune, before our eyes!’

  The comte gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders and declared lightly:

  ‘Our riches are merely the measure of our needs.’

  The Venetian gave a short sigh.

  ‘Your Lordship has never known want.’

  The comte turned to look at him sharply.

  ‘I was not born to silks, Chevalier! At the age of seven, I lived a vagrant life in the forests with my governor. There was a price on my head, and my mother had fled.’

  The revelation met with astonished silence. The comte held up a diamond.

  ‘The Queen of Stones,’ he said. ‘Hard, limpid, brilliant.’

  He let it sparkle for a moment in a shaft of sunlight, then ran his hand carelessly over the stones, spreading them across the velvet cloth.

  Volnay understood now why the comte was able to lead the life he did. All the riches he needed for a contented existence, for centuries to come, were kept close to hand in a single bag. And suppose for a moment, as was rumoured, that he had the secret of making precious stones such as these, too…

  ‘Forgive me for asking,’ he said, ‘but you must know what people are saying—that you have the art of removing flaws from diamonds.’

  ‘And you are equally curious to know if I can make them, are you not?’ supplied the comte, with heavy irony.

  For a moment, the trio watched his lips, ready to hang on his every word. A delicate breeze blew in through the half-open window, tinkling the crystal droplets on the chandelier overhead.

  ‘Well, of course I don’t know how to make diamonds!’ exclaimed the comte. ‘That is a gift granted to Nature alone. Do not be tempted to believe every rumour they spread about me. The facts have always been supplanted by a wealth of supposition, in my regard. But I am merely a man of science and reason.’

  ‘An exceptionally gifted man of science, so they say,’ breathed Chiara, in curiously gushing tones. ‘For example, you are rumoured—’

  She broke off suddenly, conscious of her clumsy intervention. Her cheeks turned a ravishing shade of red. The comte finished her phrase:

  ‘…to possess the philosopher’s stone,’ he said evenly. ‘And to have pierced the mysteries of matter, and eternal life—why ever not, while we’re on the subject? Every man dreams of eternal life! That’s why they all talk about me.’

  A hornet struck the window with a dull thud that startled them all, though not the comte.

  ‘Strange indeed,’ he observed delicately. ‘Our philosophers preach the strictest logic and reason, and yet, in this era of universal incredulity, we prefer to question nothing, and to believe anything at all!’

  ‘What of the dinner with Madame the Comtesse de Gergy, who seemed to recognize you as a man she had known in her youth?’ ventured Volnay, as much out of his own curiosity as to come to Chiara’s rescue: the young woman clearly felt she was being targeted. Her cheeks were still flushed scarlet.

  The Comte de Saint-Germain gave a slight smile.

  ‘Madame the Comtesse de Gergy confused me with another man she had known. All I did was ask whether the man in question, a Marquis de Baletti, had enjoyed an upstanding reputation. She said that he had, and I laughingly told her that, in that case, I would happily adopt him as my grandfather. That’s the whole story! And so the rumours run…’

  He stared Volnay in the eye.

  ‘As an officer of the police, you will know that my enemies have hired an actor to impersonate me and discredit my reputation, throughout Paris. It doesn’t do to be an intimate of the king and the Marquise de Pompadour; it incites mortal enemies.’

  Volnay blinked nervously. So the Comte de Saint-Germain knew his profession, though he had been presented only under his—in this instance highly convenient—title of chevalier. An uncomfortable silence fell between them. The comte smiled impassively, while Casanova cast the inspector a knowing smirk.

  ‘In truth, Monsieur le Comte,’ said Volnay, recovering his sangfroid, ‘I take little interest in Paris gossip. I prefer to concentrate on my work—a rather particular speciality.’

  The comte’s smile brightened.

  ‘And you think I don’t know that you are the king’s Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths?’

  Seeing his guest’s growing expression of surprise, he added quickly:

  ‘I don’t have the gift of divination, but people talk about you a great deal—and your mysterious colleague in his hooded habit, who reads corpses like books. Between you, you have solved a number of complicated cases. At least, that’s what they say. There was the affair of the young nobleman who claimed to have been pursued by a vampiress who had granted him her favours, or the priest who was found in his confessional with his throat cut.’

  Volnay seized the moment.

  ‘I am currently investigating the murder of two young women, both of whose faces were cut away.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  The comte’s expression was impassive, filtering nothing but polite curiosity.

  ‘Doubtless you have heard talk of that?’ Volnay persisted.

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  Another silence, which no one felt emboldened to break. At length, the comte addressed Volnay with a question, more out of politeness, it seemed, than any real interest.

  ‘And do you have any suspects?’

  The inspector held his gaze firmly.

  ‘I cannot say, Monseigneur.’

  ‘Of course, I understand…’

  Volnay fished for a way to open up the conversation. In desperation, he asked:

  ‘You are a man of reason—perhaps, with your enlightened mind, you are able to proffer me some advice?’

  The compliment was heavy-handed, and the comte ignored it. He shook his head lightly.

  ‘None that I can think of…’

  Then his eyes lit up, and he added:

  ‘I must, however, recommend the greatest caution. Such murders, in Paris, are likely to cause a considerable stir. I imagine they have already provoked much talk and dismay in many circles. You have very little time before others will start to encroach on your territory. Be careful, discreet, and trust to your intuition, more than the facts.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  The comte stared at him gravely.

  ‘Often, we form an opinion, and then we bend the facts until they correspond…’

  At that moment, a door opened abruptly, and a young man entered the room, making his apologies. He had a frank, pleasant face below a high forehead, framed by a long, curled grey wig. He wore a purple velvet coat over a yellow doublet. Shreds of tobacco dotted his lace jabot: clearly, he had just taken a pinch of snuff.

  ‘Forgive my intrusion, Monsieur le Comte, but you asked me to inform you when your carriage was ready, for your appointment.’

  His message delivered, he bowed to the visitors with some ceremony.

  ‘Allow me to introduce my assistant!’ exclaimed the comte. ‘Monsieur Mestral, I give you the Marquise Chiara D’Ancilla, the Chevalier de Seingalt and the Chevalier de Volnay.’

  The assistant bowed a second time. He was about thirty years old, and his manners were every bit as polished as those of his master.

  ‘I am most honoured to meet you. The comte is an extraordinary man. You will have heard many wonderful things about him already, but the truth is more remarkable still. Did you know that he mixes elixirs for the common good? There is nothing in this world whi
ch he cannot improve upon and make use of.’

  For the first time, the Comte de Saint-Germain showed a glimmer of embarrassment. He rebuked his assistant gently, and asked him to wait outside. The comte excused himself to his guests: he would have to curtail their visit. They took their leave with great civility. On their way out, the comte signalled to Volnay and whispered quickly in his ear:

  ‘Do not forget that however complex the situation, its causes are often very simple.’

  Volnay pondered the phrase as he made his way down the staircase. Turning, he saw that the comte’s eyes were fixed upon him still.

  Outside in the courtyard, the inspector stopped the servant who had accompanied them and slipped an écu into the man’s hand.

  ‘Rumour has it your master is two thousand years old…’

  ‘I cannot say,’ said the other, coldly, as he handed back the money. ‘I have only been in his service these past three hundred years!’

  Chiara giggled, and Casanova burst out laughing. Volnay clenched his teeth and climbed into the carriage after them. They had just driven out into the street when he saw the comte’s doorman hurrying along with a letter in his hand. He asked the driver to stop, and climbed down just as the man was passing.

  ‘One question, friend!’ he said. ‘We have just come from Monsieur le Comte’s. You are the servant who admits anyone who comes to his door, am I right?’

  ‘Myself, or another by the name of Jean Folioure,’ said the man, clearly uncomfortable at being addressed in the street.

  Volnay pressed a louis into his hand.

  ‘Has the comte received a visit lately from a young woman named Mademoiselle Hervé?’

  ‘I don’t know, Monseigneur,’ replied the man, pocketing the coin. ‘But when the Marquise de Pompadour paid the comte a visit yesterday evening, she was accompanied by a young woman. The lady waited in a side room while her mistress visited my master. Then she left with her in her carriage, one hour later.’