Casanova and the Faceless Woman

by Olivier Barde-Cabuçon

  He stood and waited, arms pressed close to his sides, staring straight ahead like a soldier awaiting orders. Father Ofag laced his fingers and turned to the inspector.

  ‘You see, now you know everything. Your turn next…’

  Volnay was perplexed.

  ‘What can I tell you that you don’t already know?’

  He would have to find something, to satisfy the terms of his contract with the Devout Party, concluded just a moment before.

  ‘You could always tell me about your reasons for visiting the Comte de Saint-Germain,’ suggested Father Ofag with a treacherous smile.

  Truly, thought Volnay, Paris is a breeding ground for informers and spies. How many are at my heels?

  He decided on a mixture of truth and lies.

  ‘The letter bearing the king’s seal was addressed to the Comte de Saint-Germain. And so I decided to pay him a visit to try to discover more, but alas, it was not possible. I bribed one of his servants, and discovered that the Marquise de Pompadour had visited the comte on the evening of Mademoiselle Hervé’s death, and that she had probably taken the girl along with her, though she was very probably not introduced to the comte.’

  ‘A letter addressed to the Comte de Saint-Germain!’

  Father Ofag’s eyes shone with joy.

  ‘This is most… What did we say, Wallace? Exciting! An intimate of La Pompadour’s mixed up in all this! I am a passionate follower of Our Lord, and I abhor their kind. Anyone who claims to speak for the dead, or with the dead, is guilty of sacrilege! I’ll have Saint-Germain’s head, too! The Church denounces his claim to eternal life. Man was driven out of the Garden of Eden, and there is no escape from our mortal condition. Dig there, Chevalier, on that very spot! And come back and tell me what you find. Is that all? Heaven knows, I’m hungry for more—come back quickly with your news. I pray to God that he will ensure your success. Wallace will escort you out.’

  ‘No need. I will find my own way.’

  ‘I’m afraid I must insist.’

  They bade one another goodbye, one with unctuous charm, the other somewhat stiffly. The inspector was about to pass through the open door when Ofag called out to him.

  ‘Ah, Chevalier, one last thing. Your friend Chiara D’Ancilla works for the Marquise de Pompadour—were you aware? She is what your people call an informer, is she not? She has been trying to get hold of the letter for the marquise. She must be quite satisfied now. Surely you knew?’

  Volnay stood rooted to the spot. His face had turned deathly pale, and the lines of a poem—an ode to treachery—sprang to his mind. He bowed his head coldly and followed Wallace from the room.

  Father Ofag smiled and rubbed his hands, adding, as if to himself:

  ‘So it seems you did not know, indeed.’

  X

  The prettiest women are always ready to lend their hand to machinations designed to betray us men!

  CASANOVA

  The beggar had acquired nothing but a singular pain in the backside, after sitting for hours on the irregular cobbles opposite a building with tall windows protected by wrought-iron grilles. From time to time, he shifted his gaze to the church of St Martin, some sixty feet away. Once, it had been a church of the Knights Templar, people said. He was intrigued by a small statue perched at the top of the central doorway. The figure represented a demon with a woman’s torso, but covered with hair, bearing a set of horns and leathery wings, like a bat’s.

  When, at last, the assistant to the Comte de Saint-Germain passed in front of him, the beggar scratched himself with a leer of disgust, as if he were covered with vermin, then held out his hand awkwardly. The assistant paid him no attention whatsoever. The beggar spat on the ground and gazed after him. When the man disappeared around a corner, he jumped to his feet and hurried after him, eager to keep him in sight.

  He had kept watch for two days and understood his target’s habits now. The streets were thronged with miserable wretches like him. He passed mostly unnoticed in the crowd, but once or twice he had been pulled aside, as an unfamiliar face in the neighbourhood. At those times, the dagger he kept well hidden, and handled with dexterity, had dissuaded his opponent from bothering him further.

  The habit maketh not the monk, as the old saying went, and never was a truer word spoken in his case. The monk, for it was he, followed the comte’s assistant at a careful distance. On Rue de Montmorency, they passed in front of number 3, a house of medieval appearance, with a dark, austere facade. The pillars bore the initials, now partly worn away, of the legendary alchemist Nicolas Flamel. The words Ora et labora could be seen, carved in relief: ‘Prayer and work’. The monk glanced at them with interest, then continued tracking his prey to a rented apartment on Rue des Quatres-Fils. He waited patiently for the assistant to emerge, then hurried down a blind alley to a tiny courtyard, where he threw off his habit and, decently dressed underneath, slipped inside the building. Equipped with a set of keys supplied by Volnay, he opened to door to the assistant’s lodgings.

  Contrary to the impression of the building’s exterior, the rooms were pleasant enough. The door opened straight into a sizeable, well-lit room with large windows and a fine chimney-piece carved in wood. It was furnished with a long oak table and four chairs, a rosewood cupboard and a chest. Fine tapestries warmed the walls, and the floor was laid with Venetian carpets. They looked new—a recent addition to the decor, it seemed. The monk lifted one corner and examined the condition of the floor tiles underneath. He checked the tapestries, too. They were newly hung: the panelling behind them was the same hue as the rest.

  Someone has earned themselves some money quickly, and lately, he thought.

  Two doors led to a bedroom and a small laboratory. The bedroom contained a large bed and chest of drawers. A three-branched candlestick stood on a chest of exotic hardwood. The monk glanced into the final room and nodded approvingly. Here, too, everything looked clean and well maintained. Test tubes were arranged in order behind a set of scales. The room was lit by a single, tiny dormer window, and a scrubbed furnace glowed faintly in the half-light. He was about to examine it more closely when he was startled by noises at the main door.

  How could the comte’s assistant be back so soon?

  He heard voices and understood that the fellow had gone to fetch someone. In the space of a heartbeat, the monk took stock of his situation. A key was turning in the door. The only solution was to hide under the bed. He hurried to the bedroom and wriggled out of sight, with some difficulty, just as the assistant and his guest entered the main room.

  He heard a muffled conversation, then someone pushed open the bedroom door. The monk saw a delectable pair of ankles encased in the most adorable boots, right in front of his nose. The young girl sat down upon the mattress. The comte’s assistant seated himself quite properly in the armchair. Hidden from view, the monk listened as he spoke.

  ‘Mademoiselle, the years go by, wrinkles appear and beauty fades like the flowers of the field. The furrows that remain are the work of the Great Gardener above…’

  The monk could not see the comte’s assistant, but supposed he would be pointing up at the sky.

  ‘But what if the bloom on the rose never faded? What if your beauty, that wondrous gift from heaven, were to survive the passage of time unblemished? A face such as yours, Mademoiselle, deserves to remain just as it is now, a timeless frame for those pretty eyes.’

  Under the bed, the monk winced at the pompous, not to say ‘flowery’, language. He heard the assistant rise from his chair, saw his feet approach and felt the mattress sag under his weight. He was sitting beside the young girl now, and the monk sensed her discomfort. Her boots moved a few inches, as if their owner had shifted her position, to preserve a certain distance between her host and herself, as he continued his bombastic address:

  ‘For beauty is truly a gift from God, is it not? Why then, should God see fit to take it back, after so short a time?’

  The young girl heaved an unhappy sigh.
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  ‘But,’ she objected, ‘perhaps it is better this way? If God has so ordered the world…’

  The assistant gave an amused chuckle.

  ‘God has also given Mother Nature the power to remedy the problem. The Comte de Saint-Germain, with my help, has found ways to extract and capture Nature’s powers, in phials of inestimable value. Oh, of course, he cannot part with them, and offers them only to a few people of the very highest rank. But since I assist him in the preparation of the elixirs, it so happens that I have one here.’

  The monk heard the assistant get to his feet and guessed he was fetching the little phial from the top of his desk.

  ‘Here is something truly priceless!’ he declared. ‘As rare and precious as gold, diamonds, emeralds or opals. A commodity such as many would kill to possess. And this commodity, Mademoiselle, can be yours.’

  He boomed the words like a fairground peddler. The monk heard the young girl fidget in embarrassment on the bed.

  ‘My parents have some property and possessions to their name, but I myself have nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Mademoiselle, you offend against your own charms.’

  There was a silence, and the monk felt the girl’s awkward embarrassment. The comte’s assistant returned to the bed and sat very close to her.

  ‘The sands of time are pouring away fast, like your life, Mademoiselle. The season of roses is so soon past. Permit this humble gardener to give you the benefit of his science.’

  ‘I don’t know if I should…’

  The monk felt the mattress move. The comte’s assistant was doubtless slipping his hand around the girl’s waist, leaning still more closely towards her.

  ‘Your face is so sweet, so beautiful… Oh, your skin is so smooth. I do not want you to change. No! Not ever!’

  The monk heard a muffled sigh and supposed the two were kissing. He felt their bodies fall across the bed. He shook his head and suffered the rest with a resigned air.

  Casanova observed Joinville with circumspection. The wine merchant’s broad shoulders had sunk, and he kept his elbows planted firmly on the table, as if fearing to lose his balance. The man had been drinking, and the Venetian judged him incapable of tackling more than one matter at a time.

  The pair were in a charming house on Rue du Petit-Bourbon, which Casanova had had the pleasure of visiting before. The walls were covered with rose-pink hangings, and the tables were dimly lit with candles.

  The residence was populated by delightful creatures, whose caresses came at a price but were none the less passionate for that. Casanova had come here once with a painter of his acquaintance, who liked to say that the canvas was a flat bed and that a painter’s brush stood permanently erect and yearning in the direction of his model. From that evening, Casanova cherished the charming memory of an amorous encounter with two exceptionally lusty young women.

  A young girl with rosy cheeks and plump, hungry lips came to pour their drinks—wine for Casanova and beer for his companion. She swayed her hips as she walked, turning every head. Joinville observed her with a sidelong glance, and Casanova made a note to return one day and make her acquaintance more fully.

  ‘She has a fiery temperament, that one,’ said Joinville, who had caught his friend’s eye. ‘She comes twice.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  The wine merchant leant closer, his eyes shining.

  ‘There’s even a woman here who has a wine stain on her face, yet she commands a very high price!’

  ‘Outward beauty is not all,’ said Casanova, simply.

  He was becoming impatient. He needed no advice whatsoever when it came to women.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I found your message, and here I am. Do you have the means to settle your debt?’

  The other man gave an arch smile and pulled a sheet of poor-quality paper from his pocket, seemingly fresh from the printer’s.

  ‘There,’ he said, ‘a torrent of libels that will be all over Paris tomorrow morning. Read it, and you’ll see that La Pompadour is accused of nothing less than having the king’s young mistresses killed in the most hideous way, to dissuade whoever dares think to take her place.’

  ‘The work of the Devout Party.’

  The other man’s smile broadened.

  ‘So one might think, but it is not so—I know the printer well. He’s a member of a secret society—’

  ‘The Freemasons!’ declared Casanova.

  ‘No,’ Joinville corrected him. ‘They obey neither the Masonic law nor London. They are a Brotherhood. A very ancient and secret society. First known as the Fraternity of the Serpent, and now as the Brotherhood of the Serpent.’

  ‘Novus ordo seclorum,’ recited Casanova, who had turned quite pale. ‘“The new order of the ages”.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Their motto.’

  ‘Is there nothing you don’t know?’ grumbled Joinville.

  ‘Very little. And secret information is my speciality!’ Casanova brightened, and took a sip of his wine. ‘I have read a great deal—’

  ‘Yes!’ laughed Joinville. ‘Few people know that Casanova is a translator of books from Latin and Italian, knows his classics back to front and can recite almost any snatch of Antique poetry.’

  ‘Few people indeed,’ said the Venetian pensively.

  The Chevalier de Seingalt reflected on the new information. He had not foreseen this and pondered the matter darkly. The case was becoming highly complicated, even for someone like him. If it were not for Chiara, he would happily have withdrawn from the whole thing.

  ‘The Brotherhood are mightily sure of themselves,’ Joinville continued, lowering his voice. ‘They distrust the Freemasons and detest the monarchy. People say they are dangerous, unpredictable. They are utterly without scruples, and will not hesitate to kill if it suits their ends. “Anyone, anywhere, anyhow”, they say. Their Grand Master is a very old man now, and he has a hard time keeping them in check. Some are contesting his power.’

  ‘Power is always contested,’ said Casanova wearily, ‘and young men must kill their elders if they are to live!’

  ‘Well, if you’re satisfied, I’m leaving,’ grumbled Joinville, pulling himself clumsily out of his chair.

  Casanova placed a hand on his wrist, holding him back gently but firmly.

  ‘One last question. Do you know Chiara D’Ancilla, and who it is she serves?’

  ‘A young Italian aristocrat, of excellent family. She lives in Paris with her father and dabbles in science. Her apparent naivety masks a greater love of plotting and intrigue than one might think. They say she is one of La Pompadour’s creatures.’

  *

  The carriage set Volnay down on the muddy banks of the Seine, just before the Pont Notre-Dame. At once, the inspector was engulfed by the tumult of the street, the cries of the vegetable-sellers and water-carriers. He walked the length of a block of houses along Quai Mal-Acquis, jostled by the throng of chair-carriers, pickpockets and street peddlers. The tumbledown assortment of buildings looked like a house of cards ready to collapse at the first breath of wind. A bowl of peelings crashed without warning at the inspector’s feet. Not wishing to dirty himself any more than was necessary, Volnay made his way past a row of small, well-known, very ancient hotels—Le Mortier d’Or, La Corne de Cerf and L’Arche de Noé—before turning onto a narrow street, the Rue de la Chouette-Clouée. The only apparent danger here was a troupe of about ten prostitutes, baring their breasts under the noses of the few passers-by, in hopes of luring them to a filthy nest of straw infested with fleas and bugs, there to engage in various age-old erotic entertainments.

  He had lost valuable time at Versailles, and later with Father Ofag. The setting sun extended its last, bloodied rays over the rooftops, like sharp fingers gouging livid red scars. Inexorably, it sank. The horizon flushed purple, and cinnamon.

  Volnay pressed close to the wall, to avoid the foul gutter running down the middle of the street, and the buckets of slops that were emptied into it
at regular intervals. He brushed past a young woman with long legs, her stockings hitched up with suspenders. Her beautiful face was framed by bronze-coloured hair, which she wore thrown back in a long mane, over her shoulders. Her pale eyes gazed deep into his, and she gripped his arm as he passed. The young woman smelt bad, but she exuded an animal sensuality—her only perfume—and her skin was a soft shade of honey. She smiled insistently, but said nothing. She leant more and more heavily on Volnay’s arm, trying to force him off the street and drag him upstairs. In the half-light, her mouth glistened like an open wound. Volnay pulled himself free with some difficulty. The touch of her hand as it drew him to her was a fresh challenge to be overcome. He got past the woman, and turned back to look at her. She was staring after him, saying nothing.

  The inspector quickened his pace, away from the young prostitute’s imperious gaze. Overhead, the swiftly gathering clouds announced rain. Overhanging facades were a common feature in this quarter. Volnay was heedless of the danger they posed. Suddenly, he felt a tight grip on his arm. He found himself backed against a cold wall, with a dagger at his throat.

  ‘If you were not our brother you would be dead already,’ growled a voice. ‘Consorting with the Devout Party!’

  Volnay froze. He knew what these people could do—he had been one of them. For a fleeting moment, his life passed before his eyes: an endless string of regrets, a funereal march of missed opportunities, the flames of a bonfire, a weeping child and—heaven knows why—Chiara’s mouth. Chiara’s eyes. He felt droplets of blood beading his neck, and heard another voice, calm and cold. The voice told him to wait, not to move—a carriage would be coming. The inspector sighed heavily. After Father Ofag’s henchmen, it was the turn of the Brotherhood to take him off to some secret place, to be killed, or to meet one of their number. Was there any man in Paris more threatened than he?

  He heard a muffled sound followed by an exasperated cry.

  ‘Another spy! Dear God, that’s two he had on his heels.’