Casanova and the Faceless Woman

by Olivier Barde-Cabuçon

  He saw a twisted body pass by, carried between two men with broad, strong shoulders. A man with a sharp, weasel face seemed to be in charge. His eyes shone with a disconcerting, yellow light. He patted the lifeless body with a grin that made the inspector shiver.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ said the man holding the knife to his neck. ‘He’s worth more to us alive than dead! You should be more worried about yourself…’

  But Volnay felt no anxiety. The spectacle of his past had reminded him that he felt no particular attachment to this life. He made no effort to discern the heavy features of the man holding him now between life and death. Instead, with calm detachment, his methodical mind tried to match the two spies who had been tailing him to their paymasters.

  One is with the Devout Party, that’s for sure, but the second man? Why not with Sartine, who cannot bear to be kept out of things? Or even the Marquise de Pompadour?

  He was dragged into a tiny courtyard, still held in a tight grip all the while. Again he saw the weasel-like man pass by, and he committed the man’s features to memory. He looked dangerous, and utterly without scruples. Half an hour passed, and the muffled sounds of a horse and carriage were heard making their way along the unpaved street. He was pushed into a highway coach, its windows masked by leather curtains. The door closed behind him. Volnay was not especially surprised to find himself opposite the big man with piercing grey eyes whom he had met at the inn, with other members of the Brotherhood. He took a moment to study the man’s face. His strongly lined features were severe but impassioned, and his gaze was of such intensity that he seemed to want to force his way into your mind. He was unquestionably a leader of men, capable of sending you to your death before you had even understood why.

  ‘Good evening, brother.’

  The German-accented voice was as gentle as Volnay remembered from their last meeting. The voice of a man so certain of obedience that he had no need to speak with any greater force.

  ‘You’ve had me followed since the beginning of the investigation,’ said Volnay.

  The other man waved his hand in irritation.

  ‘Who is not following you, my friend? You have three spies on your tail, as well as our own, and perhaps others too, for all I know! Your every visit is known within hours, by Sartine, the Devout Party and the Marquise Pompadour. Arranging a tête-à-tête with you without their knowing is something of a challenge, believe me! My men are blocking the street for the moment, but we have very little time.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘First, a warning, Chevalier. There are people around me who cannot understand how it is that you have dealings with the king, La Pompadour and the Devout Party. Some of those people hate the last of these: the religionists are the opposite of what we are, and what we want to be. But those who hate them are mistaken. The Devout Party is not our primary target, and nor does Father Ofag consider us his enemies, at present.’

  ‘Then Father Ofag knows of you?’ Volnay was worried. He squinted in the dark interior of the coach.

  The fat man gave a condescending smile.

  ‘He is as well informed as Monsieur de Sartine’s police force. Indeed, he may even be their source, for a fee. There is nothing that cannot be bought and sold here in Paris, as you well know. There is no trust, no loyalty anywhere outside the Brotherhood. Except…’

  He considered Volnay with a mixture of curiosity and respect.

  ‘Except for you. The one person who says nothing, sells nothing, an islet of loyalty in an ocean of betrayal. But loyalty to what? To chimeras! The stuff of dreams!’

  His stroked his beard complacently with his heavily ringed fingers.

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ he continued, thoughtfully. ‘And yet we resemble one another: we desire equality for all, and respect for the rights of every man, freedom of thought, an end to torture and the sale of public offices, society’s release from governance by the Church, and the representation of the people in the government of France!’

  His tone had become increasingly strident. He knew it, and lowered his voice once more, like a man with long experience of such precautions.

  ‘I cannot understand why you do not return to our midst. Is it the influence of that heretic monk, with his fantastical ideas, or the exclusive society of your talkative magpie that has turned your head once and for all?’

  Volnay blinked rapidly. The reference to the monk and the bird filled him with secret dread.

  ‘Leave the monk out of this,’ he said.

  The other man gave a short, unpleasant laugh.

  ‘Your monk has secret dealings with Sartine. We followed him to an inn. Surely you knew that?’

  Volnay sat motionless. He could not think, only feel. Had the monk reviewed his options and decided to change sides rather than become trapped in a situation with no way out? Impossible!

  ‘But we are here to talk about us,’ insisted the large man. He sensed that Volnay’s determination was wavering. ‘You cannot continue alone against all the rest. We want the same thing, you and I.’

  Volnay nodded slowly, with an empty stare.

  ‘When I was younger,’ he said bravely, ‘I wanted to overthrow degenerate kings and tyrants who are accountable to no one. Then, one day, I asked myself who would take their place.’

  ‘Us! We can take their place!’ hissed Volnay.

  ‘And therein lies the problem.’

  A heavy silence fell between them. The inspector was the first to speak.

  ‘What do you want from me? What are you trying to do now?’

  ‘To stir up public opinion, Volnay. Public opinion! We are gaining ground. The people’s outrage is growing against the most flagrant injustices, the most shameful scandals. Tell me more about the murders of these two young women. I order you, brother!’

  Volnay was breathing heavily. His heart knocked against his ribs. He knew that he was bound for ever by his old oath of allegiance to the Brotherhood. He knew, too, that if he refused to speak, he would die. A thin cord around his neck, and it would all be over. Even Wallace inspired less fear in him than the servants of the Brotherhood of the Serpent. He told the man everything, choosing his words carefully and sparing nothing except, as for Father Ofag, the fact that he had read the contents of the letter discovered on Mademoiselle Hervé’s body. The other man nodded as if unsurprised by any part of what he heard. He sighed, then addressed Volnay in angry tones:

  ‘A short while ago, a young virgin of fourteen was taken before the king. Le Bel had not had time to deflower her and provide the usual training, and finding herself suddenly confronted, with no explanation, by a sinister man undressing himself without a word, she scurried like a terrified hunted animal all around the bed. By dint of chasing around after her, naked, the king caught a cold and was confined to quarters. The story got out. The Court merely laughed, because morale—and morality—there have reached their lowest ebb. But the people were outraged. Now, the mothers of Paris hide their daughters when they go out, for fear of crossing his path. I have travelled in the countryside, and across Europe. Everywhere, people tell me: “He’ll be killed!” I have even heard people whisper that, one day, there will be a great bloodletting, to rid us of this ill.’

  He scratched in his luxuriant beard again, but there was a hint of awkwardness now.

  ‘We do not seek the king’s death, but the death of his office. We have no desire to make a martyr of him. But to discredit him, to ensure that the monarchy is viewed with horror, yes! That is our aim.’

  He fixed Volnay with a penetrating stare.

  ‘Is it yours, too?’

  Volnay felt the blood drain from his face. There was a time in his life when he would have stopped at nothing to achieve precisely that end, but sometimes men learn, and change.

  ‘Yes,’ he managed to say. ‘My aim is to destroy the monarchy.’

  ‘The Fraternity of the Serpent has existed down the ages,’ said the Brotherhood’s leader, still staring hard into Volnay’s e
yes. ‘It has died and been reborn; it has adapted to political systems, and influenced them. And yet the massacre of the Templars almost destroyed us. It took centuries to rebuild what we had lost. Now, we must recover our rightful place, stolen from us by the Freemasons: we shall be first! And for that, we must strike hard at those who refuse to hear us. You say you have always wanted to destroy the monarchy. Are you prepared to pursue that end by any means, however vile?’

  The coach was silent as the grave. Volnay felt the blood pulsing at his temples. He heard himself speak:

  ‘By any means!’

  The other man observed him for a few moments.

  ‘Well then, good. We shall destroy them together: the king and all who serve him, Sartine and La Pompadour alike. Listen carefully, I am about to give you my instructions. Diverge from them by so much as a hair’s breadth, and you are dead.’

  The Chevalier de Seingalt glanced through the letter he had just finished, then scattered a little sand over it to dry the ink. The letter read as follows:

  Madame,

  My sincere and disinterested attachment to you, and to the good of your beloved country, force me to warn you that new elements requiring prompt action necessitate our meeting. I request an audience as soon as possible, at your mansion, so that I may reveal them to you. I am thankful for this happy opportunity to prove my eagerness to act in your service.

  I remain, Madame, your most humble, respectful and obedient servant,

  Chevalier de Seingalt

  He rang, and a liveried valet in a braid-trimmed coat hurried to his side.

  ‘Go immediately to the Marquise de Pompadour and give her this letter. Be sure to tell her that it is of the greatest urgency and importance. Wait for her reply and hurry back here. Do not stop at an inn along the way!’

  There was much to tell. As usual, the monk refused to say anything until he had moistened his lips. An excellent bottle of Champagne wine served the purpose.

  ‘You left very early this morning,’ he told Volnay. ‘The young Italian woman came and rang at your door. Naturally, I didn’t open it to her, but dear God, how charming she is!’

  Volnay gave a gesture of exasperation.

  ‘I quite forgot! When we parted yesterday in the Tuileries, she told me to do nothing until I had seen her again. She must have had something important to tell me.’

  He smiled dully.

  ‘I should have done as she said!’

  The monk shrugged. He had taken Volnay’s best chair, and sat gazing at the gilded spines of the books opposite with an unfocused smile. He received the news of his partner’s promotion to the direct service of the king with circumspection.

  ‘One day you’re at the summit, the next, right down at the bottom. The Tarpeian rock is very close to the Capitoline Hill… The king never shows any emotion. He can chat amiably with a minister in the morning and send him into exile that same evening. Your position is delicate.’

  Volnay told him about the rest of his audience with Louis XV, and how he had felt himself to be in the presence of some cold-blooded animal, a creature brimful of nothing but a terrifying void.

  ‘The king is not evil,’ declared the monk. ‘But he is implacable. He is cold, and inconstant. He has no feelings, no pity. None for other people, and none for you. We must distance ourselves from him as soon as possible, or he will suck us into his void.’

  Volnay told him about his fruitless interview with Le Bel, followed by his visit to the Marquise de Pompadour, and to Father Ofag. The monk was astounded. He even forgot to pour himself another glass of wine.

  ‘What an extraordinary day! But not altogether surprising, in the end, because everyone is at your back. Everyone is trying to secure some personal profit from this business. First the Brotherhood of the Serpent, and now the Devout Party, making good ground right behind!’

  The monk’s expression hardened.

  ‘Father Ofag… Another one who wanted to burn me alive because I claimed that Christ possessed nothing on this earth but the poor clothes on his back. Cursed spawn, preaching in the morning and dogmatizing all day long!’

  He broke off when he saw Volnay take hold of a glass and pour himself some wine, glancing sidelong at his colleague. Hastily, he held out his own glass for Volnay to fill.

  ‘Now it’s my turn to surprise you,’ he said. His spirits revived. ‘I chanced on a fine scene at the lodgings of the assistant to the Comte de Saint-Germain. The villain sells potions to women—potions he claims to have perfected with his master.’

  Volnay froze.

  ‘Potions? Precisely the sort of thing likely to interest Mademoiselle Hervé, according to her grandfather, and the neighbour at her lodgings.’

  The tips of his fingers were touching, and he gazed into empty space. The monk leant closer. He knew this pose: it often preceded a moment of sudden revelation, an idea that would spring fully formed from Volnay’s reasoning, and resolve the most complex questions.

  ‘A potion contained in a phial. How stupid of me, how idiotic… The comte was right about one thing: complex problems arise from the simplest of causes.’

  Volnay seemed to have entered a deep trance. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

  ‘Could that be it? Wallace said she was holding something in her hands when she climbed down from the carriage. Could it be?…’

  He turned to the silent monk.

  ‘Tell me more!’

  The other man gave a shudder of disgust.

  ‘When a woman has no money, but is young, and pretty, the comte’s assistant takes his payment… in kind, on the spot, even before she has time to remove her dress. Believe me, I heard everything!’

  Volnay looked incredulous.

  ‘Here and now, in our century of enlightenment, people are peddling elixirs of eternal youth. Even love potions…’

  His tone shifted indefinably as he uttered these last words, but the monk said nothing.

  ‘What do you expect?’ retorted the monk. ‘The encyclopedists and philosophers are brilliant indeed, but they are few in the face of the ignorant masses. Swindlers pass themselves off as men of science, for their own profit. They use mathematical formulae and Kabbalistic numerology, and they calculate the positions of the stars to tell your fortune.’

  He gave a sad smile.

  ‘Our scientists and our philosophers have forgotten that by sacrificing faith on the burning altar of reason, they deprive humanity of one vital thing: hope. And there will always be people ready to supply that vital need: soothsayers, healers, Kabbalists, sorcerers… They are the custodians of hope in the life beyond.’

  Volnay shrugged, opened the door to the birdcage and placed the magpie on his shoulder. The bird cackled loudly:

  ‘Damn the Pope! Damn the Pope!’

  He glared at the monk.

  ‘Did you teach her that?’

  His colleague shifted uncomfortably in his seat and changed the subject.

  ‘You must keep your promise. Go to the marquise’s mansion and give her the letter you found. If you do not, the direst consequences will ensue. As for me, you see, I am dressed in my layman’s clothes, and I shall accompany you.’

  Volnay protested, but his colleague cut him short.

  ‘I’ll stay outside, at the entrance, but we’ll take our swords and pistols. It’s getting dark. To shake off the spies let us hurry first to the inn, the Leaky Barrel. If we’re followed, we will leave there by the back door. Until we reach the marquise, our lives hang by a thread.’

  Volnay caught his arm.

  ‘First, I need to test a hypothesis. We must return to the spot where Mademoiselle Hervé’s body was found.’

  They made their way quickly through the motley throng, cutting through the bird-catchers’ and grain merchants’ quarter, where a bitter smell filled the air.

  ‘I forgot to mention, I’ve been contacted by the Brotherhood,’ said Volnay, casually.

  The monk gave vent to a vehement, blasphemous curse invol
ving the king and the Pope.

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Same as usual, an end to the monarchy.’

  The monk glanced quickly around them. The darkness was thick now, and silent. He hurried on, pulling Volnay behind him, with a firm grasp on his arm.

  ‘As far as the Brotherhood are concerned,’ he growled, ‘the people are naturally ignorant and stupid. They want to free the people from the chains of monarchy, but only so that they may substitute those of an enlightened elite that will confiscate all power, to its own advantage. Their morals are no better than the king’s. You were one of them. The worst mistake of your life. Do not make it twice!’

  ‘A young man readily chooses the most expedient way,’ said Volnay in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘You are still young, and every man follows a twisting path in this life!’

  Volnay seemed not to have heard him.

  ‘I wanted to avenge my father.’

  The monk’s expression hardened suddenly.

  ‘Madness! Madness! Do you believe for one minute that we can go back? Must you remain a child your whole life?’

  Distress pierced his voice. Cursing, he led Volnay firmly through the streets, as if the younger man had been struck blind. They paused only once, in front of the Saint-Jean cemetery, its tombstones shining faintly in the moonlight. The darkness distorted their sense of direction.

  ‘It must be this way,’ said the monk, ‘but a man is easily lost in this half-light.’

  Volnay shot him a piercing glance. He voiced the question that had tormented him since his talk with the leader of the Brotherhood.

  ‘They told me you met Sartine at an inn.’

  The monk froze with a wounded air. The moonlight cast tangled shadows at their feet. Time stood still.

  ‘I was forced to strike a deal with Sartine,’ he said wearily, at last. ‘A plan of action with manifold advantages: I keep him informed, and he leaves us in peace for the duration of the inquiry. If I had not… Well, he is capable of things beyond imagination.’

  Volnay’s eyes burnt with anger. The monk knew that blazing, Arctic hue, the blue-grey of cold rage. No good would come of it.