Casanova and the Faceless Woman

by Olivier Barde-Cabuçon

  Casanova fixed the woman with his ardent gaze. ‘Thank you,’ he said at length. ‘I need nothing but your charming company.’

  Madame Bertrand gave a small, embarrassed but satisfied laugh.

  ‘You are too gallant, Chevalier.’

  She blushed, adding:

  ‘Too gallant indeed, it seems. Much is said about you and your exploits…’

  Casanova affected a conceited tone.

  ‘Ah, Madame! Believe me, whatever ill you hear of me falls far short of the truth!’

  They both laughed, and their shared laughter drew them closer. The conversation turned to more intimate matters. The lady ventured a question: was it true that on a certain occasion in Venice, the chevalier had satisfied fifteen women, one after the other? Casanova gave her to understand that the number was exaggerated. Two or three might be subtracted from the total. Mademoiselle Hervé’s name was slipped into their talk, but the madam showed no reaction. They chatted pleasantly in this vein until Madame Bertrand excused herself. She had orders to give to the staff and would be back in twenty minutes.

  Left alone, Casanova set about exploring the house. He had planned nothing in advance, but followed the inspiration of the moment, as so often, taking advantage of favourable opportunities, and rebounding when things took a turn for the worse, for there was no fall from which he could not spring back onto his two feet. He knew it would be difficult to talk further to the madam, who studiously avoided any questions about the girls and their visitors in this place. He might learn something from a glance into the bedrooms. If he were to encounter one of the royal prostitutes, he could make them talk—and more besides.

  Silently, he climbed the wooden staircase, noting a few rather crude copies of canvases by Boucher and Fragonard on the walls. He heard a burst of laughter, and hurriedly sought refuge on the floor above. Peering through the balustrade he saw two young girls holding hands, entering a bedroom. One was small, apparently of Spanish origin; the other was taller, blonde and very much to Casanova’s taste. He supposed the girls were treating themselves to a moment’s mutual pleasure. He listened intently, but was disturbed by the sound of an ill-tuned harpsichord. The music was coming from a bedroom that seemed bigger than the others. To his right, a door led to a small closet. Casanova smiled. Could this be what he had known in Venice?

  He turned the handle. The door hinges were well oiled and made no sound. The space was a closet, but of a rather particular kind: a large painting hung on the wall that divided it from the next-door bedroom. Casanova examined it carefully, then unhooked it from the wall and placed it delicately on the floor. A hole had been bored in the wall. Casanova understood. Just as in Venice, where the French cardinal de Bernis had delighted in spying on him as he made love to his mistress, a young nun, the hole doubtless corresponded to the eyes of a figure in a painting on the other side of the wall. He pressed his eye to the hole and saw the king!

  Louis XV was tall and well built, with a high forehead and thick eyebrows. He was past fifty, but he cut an imposing figure nonetheless. For now, from what Casanova could see, he had seated a young girl of about fourteen on his knees and had set about exploring every curve and hollow of her nascent breasts while she played the harpsichord. The melody was becoming increasingly discordant, as the king progressed in his explorations. His Majesty was implacable, and his expression was hard as flint.

  The Chevalier de Seingalt shifted his position. When he looked again, the pair had undressed prior to slipping beneath the eiderdown. The room was cold, however, and Louis XV was still in his undergarments. The chase was on, and the king seemed to delight in pursuing his prey around the bed, scurrying to catch the child, who appeared afraid, though she may have been play-acting—it was difficult to tell.

  Casanova was startled by the sudden touch of a hand on his arm. It was Madame Bertrand. Gently but firmly, she pulled him away from the wall.

  ‘You should not be here, Chevalier,’ she whispered icily. ‘I was mad to have admitted you.’

  Casanova feigned the depths of despair as she pulled him along a corridor.

  ‘Alas, I am so inquisitive, it will be my downfall!’

  ‘Did you recognize the gentleman?’ she asked, with barely disguised anxiety.

  ‘He put me in mind of a Polish count I once knew,’ said Casanova, innocently. ‘But I may be mistaken?’

  Madame Bertrand fixed him with a cold, fish-like eye, then pushed him ahead of her into a bedroom that lay apart from the rest. She closed the door behind her and drew the bolt, before sizing him up with a calculating stare.

  ‘You’re as cunning as a Chinaman, Chevalier, but now you must pay.’

  Casanova stiffened, but Madame Bertrand’s eyes betrayed the punishment she had in store for him.

  ‘Ah, Madame! I am at your mercy!’ he declared, throwing himself to his knees.

  Looking up, he suppressed a sigh at the sight of the hard-faced madam preparing to unlace her dress.

  ‘Twelve or fifteen women?’ she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘What, then, might you be capable of with just one?’

  The Marquise de Pompadour peered out into the night through the barely parted curtains of her carriage. In the darkness, the gateway with its pilasters decorated with gilt bronze stags seemed to taunt her.

  Her mind filled with memories of the first years of her relations with the king. She had tried to conquer his incurable ennui by never offering him the same woman twice. One day, she had received her royal lover dressed as a simple village girl, for a rustic picnic on a cloth spread directly on the ground. On other occasions she had been a lady of Imperial Rome, reclining on her bed, or a Spaniard, or an androgynous page. She had made herself up as a Pierrot, with flour whitening her cheeks, and red paint on her lips. Each evening, she had organized intimate suppers with guests from a carefully selected circle of close friends, for his relaxation and entertainment. She had ridden out hunting with him, and built the king his own theatre. Nothing worked. When the excitement was over, the king’s mood would darken, and he would sink once more into his never-ending lassitude.

  Violent exercise and dissipation were essential to dispel the king’s black moods. When he lacked either, his anxiety became unbearable. His unquenchable urge for new adventures and fresh, juvenile meat had to be satisfied. She had introduced—without success—a new diet calculated to warm her own somewhat cool temperament: chocolate with three types of vanilla and ambergris, truffles, celery soup and elixirs provided by a string of charlatans. Weary of her efforts, she had made arrangements for the house in the Parc-aux-Cerfs. She had been the favourite for thirteen years; she had done everything for the king, including taking on the mantle of the Royal Madam.

  Just then, she spotted a silhouette slipping away from the building with an agility that spoke of long experience in such matters. She lifted the curtain and signalled for the figure to climb aboard. Casanova hesitated a moment, upon recognizing her, then greeted her respectfully and joined her inside the carriage.

  ‘Madame, I am deeply honoured—’

  She dismissed his words with a wave of the hand, and issued a brief command. The coachman cracked his whip. Casanova waited in deference, for the marquise to signal her permission to speak. She was the king’s favourite, after all. He watched her closely, though he was careful to disguise the fact. His instinct told him that everything he had heard was true. Frigid: that was exactly what she was. For a moment, the arch-seducer reflected on the feat he knew he could accomplish—revealing her true sensuality to the second lady of France, after the queen. And immediately he decided against it. He was prepared to take risks with a woman for whom he felt a measure of desire, but this woman prompted no such feelings. She was unappetizing, he decided, despite her regal air.

  She was past thirty, but still beautiful. Casanova had never seen her in the flesh before, only in paint. Nattier had painted her as Diana the Huntress, Carle van Loo as a Sultana, and then as a shepherdess, and Drouais as an embroi
deress. As a result, the original before him now was somewhat different from the woman of his imagination.

  She was taller than average, and her dark blonde hair framed a near-perfect oval face with large, prominent eyes of indeterminate colour. Her features were soft and regular, and her lips parted in the most charming of smiles, to reveal fine white teeth. In spite of the many cares on her shoulders, her face remained open and amiable. Her health was fragile, and from morning till night, she was forced to present a smiling face to her friends and enemies alike and attend to the king’s pleasure. Louis XV’s maniacal egotism brooked not the slightest murmur of complaint from his entourage. The royal pleasure took priority over all else. One evening, overcome with fatigue, she had begged to be excused. The king had asked if she was suffering from a fever. When she told him she was not, he had ordered her down on her knees!

  Now, her exhaustion was plain to see. Her blonde hair had faded, and patches of eczema had appeared on her face. Wrinkles clawed at the corners of her eyes, which were ringed with blueish circles. The king had walled up the secret staircase that once connected their two apartments. He felt nothing for her now but the deepest friendship. It was said the marquise kept a register in which she recorded all the king’s adventures and infatuations, suffering in silence until she was able to score through the name of the person, when she fell from favour. She lived her life constantly on the alert, an existence that might drive any woman to despair, but not her, Jeanne Poisson, Marquise de Pompadour.

  ‘Chevalier de Seingalt—’

  She had broken the silence, conscious that Casanova, skilled courtier and man of the world, would not risk being the first to speak.

  And so here he is, before me, she thought. The famous Casanova. Here like all the others, with his obsequious air, ready to serve me, or betray my trust. Watch him—he has that light in his eye, that calm assurance. He is no novice, from what they say. He knows all the uses and abuses of this world. But I can handle him.

  ‘I have been waiting for you,’ she said.

  Casanova was unable to conceal his surprise. The marquise gave an ironic smile.

  ‘Do you honestly think you can enter the Parc-aux-Cerfs as easily as all that? The footmen came to warn me the moment you set foot inside the house.’

  ‘And you rushed here in an instant?’ asked Casanova, sceptically. He had lost none of his lucidity.

  The marquise was unperturbed. Truly, these people had ice in their veins, as Casanova knew only too well.

  ‘They tell me you’re a Venetian,’ she said. ‘Are you really from down there?’

  ‘Venice is not down there, Madame la Marquise, it is up here!’ Casanova tapped his temple.

  For a moment, La Pompadour’s lip trembled very slightly, and Casanova feared he had been too impertinent by far. He had expected anything but the sudden confidence that followed, the fruit of the marquise’s profoundly disheartened state.

  ‘The king is indifferent to everything; nothing truly interests him.’

  Casanova froze. He devoured choice morsels of gossip, but he would happily have gone without this. The marquise stared at him coldly.

  ‘You’re wondering why I have told you this? Some men, like you, have an understanding of human nature. The king suffers from acute ennui. It is his affliction.’

  A severe coughing fit interrupted her words. Casanova’s discomfort increased at the sound.

  ‘Ennui,’ she continued, catching her breath. ‘Ennui, and a crippling fear of death.’

  She sighed. Her features betrayed her immense weariness.

  ‘Louis yawns after making love,’ she said. ‘Does that ever happen to you, Chevalier?’

  The Venetian shook his head.

  ‘You are a most fortunate man,’ she sighed. ‘But perhaps my temperament is not suited to his.’

  Casanova translated: I am frigid, and past pretending!

  ‘I betray no secret,’ La Pompadour continued, ‘if I tell you that the king has constant need of the pleasures of the flesh. And that has allowed some ladies to set traps for him…’

  There was a heavy silence. Then she sighed:

  ‘I do not want to lose the king.’

  Casanova sat in silence, reflecting that this woman had captured Louis XV with all the artifices and wiles known to woman. She was frigid, but had simulated transports of ecstasy in their love-making. Neglected, she had transformed herself into the royal madam. She had pretended to share the king’s passion for hunting, and cards, when she hated both. No indeed: this woman was determined not to lose the thing she had fought so hard to obtain.

  ‘What do you ask of me, Madame la Marquise?’ he asked in deferential tones.

  For the first time, she looked into his face, and the Venetian fell under the spell of her large eyes.

  ‘Be at my service, Chevalier. You will not regret it.’

  Casanova hid his discomfort and affected a knowing look. He was capable of weighing up a person’s self-esteem to the last ounce. The marquise’s was boundless, he could see that. There could be no question of vexing her with a show of hesitation, or excessive reflection on the matter, before giving his answer.

  ‘What must I do?’

  ‘Your friend Volnay, the Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths, is in charge of an investigation that is very close to my heart. Keep me informed as to its progress, at every stage. I will see to it that you are admitted to me, day and night.’

  Casanova’s mind raced. ‘Day and night,’ La Pompadour had said. But the marquise’s icy expression dispelled any confusion.

  ‘Your loyalty and discretion will be total,’ she commanded. ‘If you disappoint me, I’ll have you sent to the Bastille, and you will see the light of day only through the bars of a cell.’

  Casanova acquiesced, submissively.

  ‘Be assured, Madame la Marquise, you will find in me your most loyal servant. I will spare no zeal in your service. I offer nothing but my arms and my blood, and they are yours, with joy in my heart.’

  A little theatrical, but uttered with conviction. The marquise was no fool, but she received his speech with a smile of such warm encouragement that Casanova took her hand, and kissed it. For a second, he thought she might slap him, but her outrage and exasperation were quickly transformed into a most charming look.

  ‘I am sure you will serve me well, Chevalier.’

  She knocked firmly, once, on the side of the coach. The carriage drew to a halt. The Chevalier de Seingalt understood that he must climb down. He found himself in a dark, unfamiliar street. The coachman cracked his whip and the vehicle lurched heavily before going on its way.

  ‘A plague on the great and powerful of this world! We are mere animals in their eyes: they pick us up and set us down at will!’ Casanova muttered to himself angrily. ‘This place is blacker than the Devil’s own arse—I might be in hell itself for all she cares! And me, like some pathetic lackey, “Yes Madame, no Madame!” I can deploy my talents till I’m fit to burst, but there will always be something between me and such as them: the lack of a title, and the blood of a few ancestors in some godforsaken wooden stockade, centuries ago! One day, the people will see them all hang!’

  He walked through the deserted streets, trusting to instinct and his innate sense of direction. The Rue du Hasard and the Rue des Mauvais-Garçons forced an ironic grin—chance and bad boys, indeed. After half an hour, he found himself on the Rue Saint-Louis. His carriage was still waiting, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The wheel was fixed. He would ride home to some well-deserved rest, and above all a decent meal, for his adventure had sharpened his appetite.

  At the sound of iron-clad carriage wheels clattering over the cobbles, Casanova threw himself into the shadows. He saw a coach draw up in front of the gates to the royal house of pleasure. A distinguished-looking figure leant down for an instant, to speak a few words to the porter. He recognized the man’s face. The Comte de Saint-Germain!

  IX

  La Pompadour, the B
elle Marquise, Brings many a courtier to his knees…

  ANONYMOUS

  Dawn. Rising with the first cockcrow, thousands made their way to Versailles, their place of work. To the right of the palace, a vast, green and pleasant plain reached to the horizon and beyond, dotted with windmills. In front, the road was crammed with riders and vehicles. The air was vibrant with the loud cries of the carters and the cracking of whips. When Volnay arrived, the palace courtyards were already filled with carriages and teams of horses delivering the courtiers and petitioners. The exasperated outriders yelled and swore at one another. Impassive, the inspector pushed his way through, walking as if in a dream, but making straight for the palace grounds.

  All at once, the gardens of Versailles lay before him, the palace’s terraces bright with flowerbeds, gilt bronze balustrades and the play of the fountains, rising and falling in a milk-white mist. He gazed for a moment at the enamel-bright blooms, then at the cleverly arranged jets in the water basins. Nymphs and Tritons cavorted, spouting sheaves of white spray into the sky. Gods and mortals revelled in illicit pleasures, disporting themselves in the stone-rimmed pools. His eyes followed the perspective of the rows of box hedges, and the avenues of fine sand, more neatly combed than a lady’s hair. A world of order and beauty. And suddenly, everything seemed too straight, too perfect, to Volnay’s eye. Nothing of all this was real, or true. It was all a carefully maintained illusion. The harsh experience of life had shown him that Nature was curved and sinuous. The right angle was a product of the hand of man. Volnay turned his back on the naked nymphs, without regret.

  The inspector wore his hair tied with a ribbon at the nape of his neck, unlike the royal courtiers, who wore short wigs, powdered white to conceal the difference in their ages. His doublet was of dark velvet, and he wore a hat decorated with a white plume. His flannel cape was fastened with a luxurious, diamond-headed pin. The ensemble was new, and well made, and yet it seemed to Volnay that he could scarcely have looked more laughably out of place if he had strolled around stark naked. The men were resplendent in their elegance, and the ladies’ dresses were elaborate, architectural constructions, sophisticated and lightweight. Their gigantic coiffures were decorated with golden chariots, baskets of fruit carved from precious gems, or entire landscapes—great, towering artworks beneath which their faces quite disappeared. The Court was a temple of fine manners and sophistication, too, as Volnay discovered when his clumsy greetings drew a cool response from the beautiful, diamond-bedecked ladies.