Casanova and the Faceless Woman

by Olivier Barde-Cabuçon

  ‘Did she have anything in her hand?’

  ‘I don’t remember, Monseigneur.’

  Volnay dug in his pocket.

  ‘This, my friend, is for you to forget these questions were ever asked.’

  The servant bowed solemnly.

  ‘So be it, Monseigneur.’

  Volnay turned to see Chiara and Casanova poking their heads out of the carriage windows, listening attentively. Casanova laughed quickly, as he caught the inspector’s eye.

  ‘Truly, there is entertainment in everything!’

  They walked in the Tuileries gardens, and the sun beat down on their shoulders. Streams of water flowed from the stone-rimmed ponds; antique statues were glimpsed in the copses, watchful guardians of their secret pleasures. Chiara seemed to delight in the play of the fountains, and the formal gardens with their charming borders of flowers. Along an avenue of fine sand, they came to a ring of box hedges and the statue of a lightly clad nymph, reclining on one side atop her plinth, lazily trailing one of her arms.

  Casanova gazed attentively at the statue. His eye followed its seductive forms, then shifted nonchalantly to Chiara, who looked away sharply. Volnay’s own thoughts at the sight of the nymph had taken a quite different direction.

  ‘Do you really believe the Comte de Saint-Germain has broken the boundaries of human existence?’

  The inspector’s question was addressed to no one in particular, as if he were enunciating the parts of an equation. Chiara spoke up straightaway, nonetheless, but adding further questions of her own.

  ‘None can escape death, the destiny of us all. Nature will not allow it, but what if scientific research could alter Nature? Has the comte discovered an elixir of life in his laboratories?’

  Volnay stared at her in surprise.

  ‘You seem beset by the question: you asked it at dinner last night. Never have there been so many fake healers and false prophets as now, in our age of reason. And you are like all the rest, in spite of your science and culture. You are fascinated by the regeneration of the body, and the soul!’

  ‘I am not talking about magic, but about science, indeed!’ said Chiara, in clipped tones. ‘In particular, I am thinking about chemistry, in which the comte seems well versed.’

  She turned to Casanova.

  ‘What do you think?’

  The Venetian gave a small laugh.

  ‘I have seen plenty of conjuring tricks and outrageous impostures in my life.’

  ‘Seen and practised,’ grinned Volnay.

  ‘But this is different,’ Casanova continued, ignoring him. ‘The comte speaks better than anyone. His tone is decisive, and pleasing, because he is erudite and at ease in every language. He cuts an agreeable figure and is skilled at befriending every woman he meets. He flatters them, too. He gives them creams for their complexion, and he alludes not to the possibility of restoring their youth, because that is impossible, as he tells them, but rather to the preservation of their present appearance by means of a special water, which costs a great deal, but which he most kindly presents to them as a gift. He possesses a kind of universal medicine; he can make Nature do his bidding—in short, he is most surprising, and never fails to astonish. He is, then, the cleverest and most seductive of impostors!’

  They turned back the way they had come, along the shady avenues. And it seemed their thoughts had effected an about turn, too.

  ‘They say the Comte de Saint-Germain is very close to the king, and La Pompadour,’ said Volnay. ‘Perhaps they know his secrets?’

  ‘I’d be surprised,’ said Casanova, wickedly. ‘Two things are required to seduce the great and powerful of this world: first, you must agree with them, and second, you must retain a reasonable air of mystery. There is nothing a great man or woman likes better than to be flattered by a person who is themselves out of the ordinary.’

  Volnay glanced at him sharply, but at a warning look from Chiara, he bit back the retort that was burning his lips. He addressed the young Italian:

  ‘We speak of the Marquise de Pompadour, but they say her star is in the descendant and that her sworn enemies, the Devout Party, exercise a growing influence over the king.’

  Chiara straightened her shoulders briskly.

  ‘The Devout Party have no influence except with the dauphin. The Marquise de Pompadour retains all the king’s favour and friendship. And the enlightened minds and freethinkers of this country all fall into rank behind her, while the Devout Party rallies those who, lacking any special merit, press their court upon persons of power for the lowest of motives. They ruminate and plot against intelligence and reason.’

  Casanova shot Volnay an appreciative glance that seemed to say: Cunning, my friend! You have led her to confess which side she is on. Now try the same with me…

  But Volnay was taking no such risk. He had no need. He knew full well that Casanova took no side but his own. For his part, the Venetian had a great many questions for the inspector, but no guarantee of an answer.

  They emerged from the circle of box trees to see the city bathed in scarlet sunlight. They paused for a moment to admire the effect, then made their way down a flight of steps towards a shimmering water basin. Chiara tripped, and both men reached out to stop her falling. Each held out his arm. Smiling, she took both, and they walked on between flower beds overflowing with blooms. Soon, it was Chiara who dictated the pace and direction of their stroll. And soon after that, the direction of their conversation.

  ‘We all know,’ she said, addressing the inspector, ‘that you are determined to solve the murder of the young wig-maker…’

  Casanova was unable to suppress a frown of disapproval. Volnay dropped the young woman’s arm roughly and planted himself in front of her, outraged.

  ‘What in heaven possesses you to talk about that in front of this man? I insisted you keep it secret.’

  ‘But,’ she stammered, ‘you told him about it yourself.’

  The inspector turned abruptly to Casanova.

  ‘Explain yourself!’

  Casanova gave a resigned shrug.

  ‘Paris is such a small city, everything gets around very quickly. And so I learnt the identity of the victim whose body I had discovered.’

  Volnay’s logical mind worked fast.

  ‘And so,’ he said, ‘you confirmed the information by making this young lady believe you had heard it from me.’

  Casanova pursed his lips. He ventured a glance at Chiara, and saw the storm clouds gathering in her eyes.

  ‘I was wrong, I confess,’ he said, contritely.

  ‘You have no excuse!’ said Chiara.

  The Chevalier de Seingalt glanced at Volnay out of the corner of his eye. The inspector appeared overjoyed at the young Italian’s words.

  If he thinks he’s keeping her for himself, thought Casanova, then he has surprises aplenty in store!

  ‘Mademoiselle, I beg your forgiveness.’

  ‘Out of the question!’ ordered Volnay.

  Chiara’s face flushed with rage. No one decided on her behalf.

  ‘We three must be united,’ she decreed. ‘It is necessary, I feel it. This is how it must be.’

  She spoke as a woman of reason, and Casanova cast her an admiring glance. He liked people who kept their composure. Volnay found it harder to contain himself, so great was his aversion to this notorious womanizer. Chiara soothed him with a smile, and this time, as a subtle punishment to Casanova, she took only Volnay’s arm, as far as the cafe to which, with signal determination, she had decided to take them.

  A bright, friendly atmosphere reigned in the Petit Café des Tuileries. The place was a little noisy, but that suited their confidential talk. Mirrors dotted around the walls reflected paintings of restful Tuscan landscapes and scenes of the grape harvest, populated by country girls dressed quite inappropriately for the task. Despite the early hour, Chiara ordered a rossolis—an aperitif scented with rose petals, orange flower water, jasmine, aniseed and cinnamon, with a few cloves. The t
wo men drank coffee, with an aroma of toasted bread.

  ‘What a curious drink this coffee is,’ pondered Casanova. ‘The more one drinks, the less one sleeps, and the less one sleeps, the more one needs coffee.’

  ‘I can understand why it should be your favourite drink,’ taunted Volnay, ‘you who go about your business by night.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ retorted the other sharply, ‘I am no night owl; I live quite as much by day. Besides, I am known in every court in Europe.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Volnay persisted, ‘the Chevalier de Seingalt has conquered the whole of Europe with his… swordsmanship. Did you know, Chiara, that he refers to that sword of his as “the principal agent for the preservation of the human race”?’

  ‘Monsieur,’ cried Casanova, squaring his broad shoulders, ‘you forget yourself!’

  Chiara was plainly amused.

  ‘Please stop bickering, you two. Whoever saw such behaviour?’

  She looked at them both for a moment, Casanova bubbling with vitality, enthusiastic and voluble, Volnay grave and self-contained, thoughtful, but driven by cold determination.

  Which of the two might I choose, if ever I were forced to choose just one?

  She dismissed the thoroughly improper thought and focused her attention on the conversation. She must play her cards carefully.

  ‘So, Messieurs, let us speak frankly. A young wig-maker in the employ of the king has been killed, and you must do everything in your power to find the culprit.’

  The two men said nothing. Both were on the defensive. Chiara placed a pretty hand on the inspector’s wrist, and felt it tremble.

  ‘Chevalier de Volnay,’ she said, ‘you first. Tell us everything.’

  Volnay blinked rapidly. Ignoring Casanova, he gazed into the young Italian’s eyes.

  ‘I have sought no confidences from the Chevalier de Seingalt.’

  The latter grunted scornfully, then swore in Italian, causing Chiara’s cheeks to flush pink. Volnay continued, unperturbed:

  ‘And so I am not about to confide in him now.’

  The Venetian leant towards him, threateningly. His gaze was ice-cold. All trace of enthusiasm and good humour had disappeared.

  ‘You are swift to judge me, and to condemn me out of hand, but beware! I may be a good-natured fellow in a lace collar, but I can soon take that off.’

  The inspector paled.

  ‘You would threaten an officer of the king’s police! I can have you interrogated…’

  Casanova threw himself back in his chair and laughed. People were starting to look in their direction. His laughter died suddenly in his throat, and he whispered quietly:

  ‘And will you also interrogate the man who is concealing vital evidence?’

  He glared at Volnay.

  ‘Shall I elucidate?’

  The inspector closed his eyes for a moment. No, the Venetian would not go so far as to say it out loud. Not here, not in front of Chiara. This was a cunning scheme to buy his silence, or worse.

  ‘Mademoiselle…’

  Casanova had turned to the young woman, who sat listening intently.

  ‘Our friend Volnay removed a letter from the victim’s body and has kept it hidden from everyone.’

  ‘Did you really do such a thing, Monsieur de Volnay?’ Chiara’s voice sounded oddly choked.

  She had not noticed the inspector’s fingers closing around the hilt of his sword, nor that he was beginning to draw it from its sheath. But Casanova had caught the hiss of metal. He watched as the blade emerged. Chiara followed the Chevalier de Seingalt’s gaze. She saw the inspector’s clenched fingers.

  ‘Volnay! Return your sword to its sheath this instant!’

  Her voice was commanding, authoritative and utterly unexpected, thought Volnay, in such a charming creature. Almost in spite of himself, he obeyed. She leant towards him, and for a moment he thought she would slap his face, but she did nothing of the kind, and the closer she came, the faster his heart beat, for he suffered a new discomfort now. Casanova stared hard at them both.

  ‘Volnay…’

  For the first time since they had met, Chiara covered Volnay’s hand with her own. A wave of tenderness broke over him.

  ‘Do not allow yourself to be ruled by anger,’ she said gently. ‘Anger kills the intellect, and the spirit.’

  She gazed deep into his eyes. Her own were dark as the blackest pearls, but softened by the same iridescent light.

  ‘Do not act alone now, Volnay. No man can fight alone against the whole world.’

  A heavy silence ensued, but the inspector felt strangely soothed by the contact of her hand on his.

  ‘The letter exists,’ he hold Chiara, ignoring Casanova. ‘I can say nothing more, but it concerns—’

  ‘The Comte de Saint-Germain, am I right?’ she asked. Casanova accompanied her question with an approving nod of the head.

  So they had guessed that, too.

  ‘Indeed, the comte. But the letter is unconnected to the murder,’ he added, sharply.

  The magical moment had passed. Chiara’s hand deserted his own, and he felt again that familiar, aching void. He remembered his discussion with the monk, on the subject of clothing. If the patina of a fabric could capture the accelerated passage of time, his own clothes would fall to shreds and rags when Chiara took her distance once more.

  ‘Mademoiselle Hervé was meant to deliver the letter to the comte, is that it?’ asked Chiara, in an odd tone of voice.

  Instinctively, she sensed his distress. And placed her hand on his once more, as if she had guessed this was the sole precondition for his answer. Her touch was light and tremulous. He sensed her vivacious, ardent nature.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you ask the comte if he knew of it?’ she asked in surprise.

  This time, Casanova intervened.

  ‘To ask such a thing would be to reveal the existence of the letter, in the hands of an officer of the police. It would serve to warn the comte, too, and perhaps others besides… Is he not a friend of the king and La Pompadour? Besides, we know now, though neither of you seems inclined to mention it, that the victim was a creature of the marquise.’

  The Venetian stared deep into Chiara’s eyes, causing her to blush and look away, at Volnay.

  ‘And the servant you questioned acknowledges that a girl accompanied La Pompadour to the comte’s residence,’ ventured Chiara. ‘You might ask the comte whether he received the girl together with her mistress? And why?’

  ‘And the comte would tell me that she came to adjust his wig, or to proffer any other kind attention you please! I should be no further advanced…’

  Volnay turned to Casanova.

  ‘And on the subject of kind attentions, might this Mademoiselle Hervé have been a visitor to the Parc-aux-Cerfs?’

  The Venetian made a show of pondering the question, his fingers tapping delicately on the rim of the porcelain saucer under his coffee cup.

  ‘She was doubtless a little too old for the king’s fancy, but certainly, nothing in her private morals would have prevented it.’

  He shot Volnay a piercing look.

  ‘Is there something in the letter you found that gives you reason to suppose she might have gone there?’

  The inspector struggled to retain his composure, cursing himself for asking the question, whose answer he had already guessed. Mademoiselle Hervé was carrying the king’s child. Clearly, she had enjoyed his favours, no matter where. And here was Casanova reading him like an open book, matching one piece of information with another, honing his intuitions.

  ‘Tell us, then, Volnay,’ the Chevalier de Seingalt continued. He seemed to be following a thread, from one thought to the next. ‘Was the second victim a prostitute?’

  If only I knew for certain! thought Volnay. He almost spoke the words out loud.

  ‘The victim was unable to be identified,’ he said drily, ‘for reasons you may imagine. And we have no other clues.’

  ‘Such a
shame! But she may have been, surely?’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ asked Chiara impatiently, leaning in more closely to her two companions.

  Casanova settled himself squarely in his chair, focused all his attention on Volnay and pronounced eight words as distinctly as if he had counted them off on a rosary.

  ‘She was found at the Parc-aux-Cerfs.’

  Adding modestly:

  ‘Otherwise, why would our friend Volnay have mentioned the latter?’

  Volnay blinked rapidly. Nothing escaped the cunning Venetian. Chiara, for her part, was staring at them with unfeigned astonishment, struggling to grasp what lay beyond the words uttered by both men.

  ‘One moment!’

  The Chevalier de Seingalt leapt up from his seat. A familiar figure had just passed in front of the cafe window.

  ‘The comte’s assistant!’ exclaimed Chiara, and her eyes followed Casanova as he rushed outside and urged the man to join them, with his usual infectious enthusiasm.

  The comte’s assistant was fulsome in his polite protestations while the others pressed him to take some coffee. But Chiara’s charm and quiet authority broke his resistance, and she withdrew her hand from Volnay’s once again, to focus all her attention on the new arrival. He had an open face, and the broad brow of a man accustomed to deep thought. He spoke readily on the subject of his master, heaping him with praise.

  ‘Believe me, Monsieur le Comte de Saint-Germain is motivated solely by the good of all mankind. I have never seen anyone so attentive to others. He is a friend to man and beast alike—his heart beats for the happiness of his fellow creatures.’

  His tone was perfectly sincere.

  ‘He knows everything and foresees everything. I have never known such a clairvoyant mind as his.’

  ‘Does his clairvoyance extend to making predictions?’ asked Casanova innocently.

  Volnay shot him an acerbic look. Even a scoundrel like Casanova could not suppress an interest in the esoteric sciences. The rumours regarding the comte’s discovery of the philosopher’s stone, and the secret of longevity, clearly excited him, despite his natural scepticism.