‘Calm yourself! Be calm…’ he intoned. ‘Proceed as you will but allow me to watch your back.’
He looked around, peering into the shadows lining the street. Then he glanced back at Volnay. His expression was serene, almost radiant.
‘I am loyal,’ he said simply.
He pronounced the word as if it were the loveliest ever spoken. All at once, the tension eased. Volnay nodded briefly, then planted himself in the middle of the crossroads, and quickly identified the entrance to the courtyard. On the far side, a bread oven glowed red in the darkness.
‘There! There it is!’
The monk shrugged and followed him. The yard was filled with wooden packing cases and sacks of flour.
Volnay paced every inch of the space, examining the joints between the cobbles. ‘Still,’ he muttered, ‘I cannot fathom why, as Wallace described, Mademoiselle Hervé hurried past her own staircase, which we know to be here beside the entrance, and further on into the courtyard?’
‘Look up from time to time,’ advised his colleague. ‘It rests the eyes. Perhaps this little phial is what you’re looking for?’
He held it aloft, with a sardonic look.
‘Hunting the hat on your head? I almost trod it underfoot when we entered here, but I said nothing. It doesn’t do to find the thing you seek too soon!’
The young woman was dressed in a grey satin cloak trimmed with fur. With not a flicker of movement in his face, the Chevalier de Seingalt watched as she emerged from the mansion of the Marquise de Pompadour. Nothing surprised him any more. He hurried to draw level with her, secretly delighted to see the blood drain from her face at his approach.
‘You! Here?’ he exclaimed, with forced jollity.
The young woman seemed to wilt on the spot.
‘Chevalier! Whatever are you doing here at this hour?’
‘Why, I’ve come to visit the Marquise de Pompadour. Just like you.’
‘Are you quite out of your mind, Monsieur?’
The Venetian smiled, and gallantly held out his arm.
‘Let us walk a moment together, if you will. The evening promises to be mild, and this gentle breeze is most pleasant.’
Pale as death, she slipped her hand through his arm.
‘I am conscious,’ said Casanova, ‘that I have arrived an hour early for my appointment. We should never have met here, but there it is. I wanted to get a sense of the place before presenting myself. One never knows what one will find!’
He laughed.
‘And fate has smiled! You, here. An intimate of the marquise, as it now seems.’
Chiara opened her mouth to protest.
‘No, no, do not speak—a lie will quite spoil your pretty face,’ said Casanova. ‘I knew you felt a certain liking, an affinity for the Marquise de Pompadour, but to think that you would be one of her spies… Well, it is often thus. The prettiest women are always ready to lend their hand to machinations designed to betray us men!’
The young woman’s eyes blazed with anger.
‘You don’t understand! The king is disgusted by the works of our philosophers—he speaks of them with horror. But the Marquise de Pompadour supports them. She has rallied to the new ideas, she advocates progress. Without her, France would have been thrown back a hundred years. For my part, I have chosen to follow the party of thinkers on the higher, more arduous path, not those who grovel and flatter in hopes of securing some small favour.’
‘Should I feel targeted?’ asked Casanova, in wounded tones. ‘But why should the marquise meddle in our petty affairs? And what has all this to do with the murder of the faceless woman?’
Chiara’s face was expressionless.
‘I cannot say.’
‘Do you not trust me?’
‘No!’
The Venetian burst out laughing.
‘I adore plain, honest speaking. It has always delighted me, and it is so rare nowadays. We all know, since yesterday, that Volnay removed a letter from the body of the first victim, but what I did not know, until lately, was that the marquise judges the letter sufficiently compromising for her to charge you with its recovery.’
A quick glance at Chiara’s face told him he had hit home.
And, he thought, the marquise’s faith in your talents is such that she has asked me to follow this affair, too! But let us keep that to ourselves. In this life, the secret of success is secrecy itself!
His sharp eye caught a movement on the other side of the street. He squinted to identify its source, and the smile withered slowly on his lips.
‘Well, Chiara, we are clearly not in luck today…’
She followed his gaze and froze as she recognized Volnay.
‘What of it?’ sighed Casanova. ‘Chance is a fickle mistress indeed, and it seems that we have all arranged to call on the marquise this evening…’
Chiara gave no reply. She watched anxiously as Volnay strode towards them, his face an expressionless mask. Behind him, an older man with a short, greying beard and a sharp, lively demeanour hurried to try to hold him back.
‘Well, here you are, both,’ fumed Volnay as he drew level with them. Accomplices by day and night! Mademoiselle, what of my faith in humanity now?’
‘You are mistaken, Monsieur—’
‘I know everything, Mademoiselle, and rest assured, I am fulfilling the damned mission entrusted to you by the marquise, this very evening. I am about to hand her the letter, and I trust you will keep out of my way from now on!’
He turned to the Chevalier de Seingalt, who stood bolt upright, with an impartial smile on his lips.
‘And that remark goes for you too, Monsieur Giacomo Casanova!’
The Venetian adopted a pained expression, and drew closer to his compatriot.
‘Chevalier de Volnay,’ said Chiara, blushing deeply, ‘I can explain—’
‘Too late, Mademoiselle. I discovered the whole truth a few hours ago. I did not believe it at first, but Father Ofag has been kind enough to tell me whose side you are on.’
He saw her start in surprise at the mention of the name, but shrugged and went on:
‘Rest assured, I quite stupidly put my life in danger by keeping the letter from him. I told myself that whoever wanted it would have to snatch it themselves from the point of my sword. But it is of no interest to me now. The Devil take you all—you, him, her! Here’s an end of it: there’s your damned letter, you can take it to the marquise yourself!’
Chiara’s face had turned white as bone. She saw Volnay’s older companion smile and address her a small signal, as if to say: ‘All will be well.’
‘This is all horribly embarrassing,’ bemoaned Casanova, delicately wrinkling his nose. ‘Such vulgarity!’
Volnay made as if to draw his sword and run the man through, but the monk gripped his colleague firmly by the arm.
‘Let us go.’
He led Volnay away, leaving Chiara alone with Casanova. The young woman appeared quite lost. She signalled to her coachman. Her carriage stood waiting at the entrance to the mansion, unable to enter the courtyard, which was already filled with vehicles and their horses. The groom hurried to fold out the steps and open the coach door. As if in a trance, Chiara climbed inside, followed—after a moment’s hesitation—by Casanova. The coachman cracked his whip, and the horses moved off.
‘What’s this?’ frowned the monk. He spoke quietly, under his breath. ‘What’s this? She’s climbing into her carriage and making off in the opposite direction with the letter. She hasn’t taken it to the marquise! We are betrayed.’
The carriage was moving away, bouncing over the cobbles. The monk swore, and dashed across the street after it. A carriage almost ran him over, and Volnay was forced to pull him back sharply, before he was trampled under the horses’ hooves. They both fell to the ground and watched as Chiara’s carriage disappeared around a corner.
‘God in hell!’ swore the monk. ‘Why give her the letter?’
Volnay looked lost. Conflicting emot
ions played over his features. It was some time before he managed to speak.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Me,’ hissed the monk between his teeth, ‘I understand only too well. Those two have played us for a pair of fools.’
Inside the coach, Casanova was the first to recover his spirits. His instinct dictated the safest course of action.
‘Mademoiselle? Recover yourself, you are quite pale.’
He patted one of Chiara’s hands, and his eye fell on the letter, clutched tightly in the other.
‘Give that to me,’ he commanded.
He took the letter and stowed it in his waistcoat pocket.
‘Mademoiselle, doubtless you have your reasons for not taking the letter to Madame la Marquise. Rest assured, I am wholly at your service.’
His habitual reflexes returned. Never one to waste an opportunity, he set about unclenching her fingers and entwining them with his own.
‘Chiara—’
All at once, she seemed to jump out of her skin.
‘The letter! Why didn’t I take it to Madame la Marquise?’
‘I have no idea. I thought perhaps you had changed your mind.’
She cast him a scornful look.
‘Who do you take me for? I serve the marquise, and I serve her with loyalty.’
She called to the coachman.
‘Stop! Turn around and take us back to the Marquise de Pompadour!’
She turned to Casanova, her eyes sparkling.
‘Give me back that letter!’
‘Chiara, is this quite reasonable? The letter will be safe with me…’
Her dark gaze speared him to the seat.
‘Give it to me or I’ll see my lackeys have you whipped.’
He sighed, forced a smile, and gave her what she was asking for.
‘This is all rather unnecessary, Chiara, is it not? I am your friend…’
Chiara threw herself back in her seat. She seemed on the verge of tears.
‘I don’t know.’
Turning the coach about was a difficult operation. The Rue Saint-François was narrow and dark. The coachman struggled to manoeuvre the two horses harnessed between the shafts. He swore and cracked his whip, heightening their nervous agitation.
A little way down the street, Wallace dismounted from his horse and called sharply to the two henchmen close by. The men hurried towards him, their swords knocking against their sides.
‘They have the letter—we must seize our chance! Gentlemen, you know what you must do. May God bless the steel in your blades!’
The metal shafts hissed and rang as they were drawn. Chiara’s horses reared in fright. Casanova risked a glance through the carriage window.
‘Ah! An interesting turn of events!’
Quickly, he assessed the situation. The carriage was blocked sidelong across the street. Paralysed with fear, the coachman had dropped the reins. The Chevalier de Seingalt heaved a sigh and turned to his companion.
‘A pair of filthy villains, daring to have their way with a ravishing young woman such as you!’
He opened the carriage door as he spoke, and jumped nimbly to the ground. The two henchmen approached, brandishing their long, threatening swords.
The Venetian drew his own weapon, muttering under his breath:
‘Ne Hercules quidem contra duos! Not even Hercules fought alone against two!’
‘Chevalier!’
Chiara had climbed down silently from the carriage, and clutched his arm. Gently, he pushed her behind him, without taking his eyes off the two men.
‘Have no fear, Chiara, and above all, stay far behind me.’
It occurred to him, on a sudden, that he would never know a finer death than this: to fight and die for a young woman, before her very eyes. His heart beat fast. The knowledge of what he would do for Chiara terrified him.
The two henchmen moved closer all the while. Casanova greeted them with a smile and a smooth flourish of his sword, then plunged it straight at the heart of the more dangerous-looking of the two: the man with a three- or four-inch scar down his cheek.
‘There!’ he breathed, straightening up with a show of false bravado.
The thrust was ill-defended and slipped between his opponent’s ribs. The man clutched one hand to his side, drenched in blood. Casanova dodged an attack from his partner, gripped his sword hard and fought the man off vigorously. The wounded man staggered back to take stock of his injury, while his partner launched a second attack. Again, Casanova parried the thrust, effected a feint, then attacked again. A skilled swordsman, he identified his opponent’s weakness in seconds. When his attacker lunged, he knew what to do. Parry, riposte, and he scored a fine hit on the man’s arm.
‘There!’ he breathed again, with satisfaction.
Clearly, the henchmen were unprepared for their opponent’s skill. The two attackers seemed to be collecting themselves when a third figure emerged from the shadows, pale as death. Casanova was filled with foreboding: the man drew his sword as smoothly and easily as if it were an extension of his own arm.
‘Now that’s hardly fair,’ muttered Casanova. ‘I’m beginning to tire!’
Again, he felt the death wish seize his gut. He cast a final glance at Chiara over his shoulder. She stood watching him.
Casanova heard the pounding of feet. Cautiously, he glanced round to see Volnay running towards him, followed by his companion, older but still sharp and alert. He heard the ring of the new arrivals’ swords being drawn in their turn. The wounded henchmen turned and fled, and Wallace quickly found himself surrounded.
‘Three against one?’ he exclaimed in surprise, hesitating as to his next move.
‘Well I’ll be damned!’ said the monk brightly, presenting his sword. ‘I doubt another chance to kill you quite so easily will come our way any time soon…’
Wallace parried his thrust and backed away to the wall. With a single gesture, Volnay halted his companions as they moved forward, swords pointed.
‘Wallace, answer my questions and your life will be spared.’
The other man glared at him coldly. His milk-white face glowed faintly in the half-light. The fire in his pale, colourless eyes was such that Volnay could barely hold his gaze.
‘Do I look like one who will tell his life story to the first man that asks?’
Volnay’s mind was made up.
‘Then I will take you man to man, and we can talk while we fight.’
He observed Wallace carefully as he spoke. His tall figure was planted firmly on the ground, yet he gave the impression of a curious lightness, too. Wallace gave a thin-lipped smile. His pale, ice-cold eyes stared at Volnay as if he were already dead.
‘If you insist.’
He tore forwards. A timely reflex spared Volnay a good six inches of steel in his chest. He brandished his sword at arm’s length, holding his adversary at a distance.
‘Gently does it, Monsieur Wallace, the briefest exchanges are not always the best.’
Volnay concentrated on keeping up a solid defence, seeking out his opponent’s sword so as to leave him minimal room for manoeuvre.
‘I know that you are not Mademoiselle Hervé’s killer.’
He parried another attack, caught his breath and continued, still on guard.
‘But for the second victim, I cannot be so sure.’
‘And why not?’ demanded Wallace, circling him, ready to lunge.
Volnay kept his left flank covered, and parried with ease to his side.
‘Did you kill her?’
‘In God’s name, no! To what end? I don’t even know who she is.’
He concluded his phrase with a sudden, quick jab at Volnay. Volnay crossed his right arm and drove the blade aside, with a sharp clash of steel that resonated the length of the street. Windows began to open, and people leant out for a better view. Another parry and riposte from Volnay drew a ripple of polite applause.
‘A fine defence!’ said Casanova appreciatively, turning to hi
s neighbour.
‘Indeed!’ A smile wrinkled the corners of the monk’s eyes. ‘Though a little less piste may be in order, and rather more of the street.’
‘Quite so, quite so…’ said Casanova, eyeing him with curiosity.
Volnay repulsed another attack. He took no risks, and tried to keep himself at a reasonable distance, to anticipate the next assault.
‘Was it you who ordered the attack on the monk, while he examined the first victim’s body?’
Wallace gave a sinister laugh.
‘There is no lesser Christian on this earth than your monk, as you well know! His life is worthless!’
Again he jabbed his sword, and swiftly produced his dagger, swiping at the hilt of his opponent’s blade, and finding Volnay’s wrist. The inspector yelped in pain and dropped his weapon. A trickle of hot blood ran down his hand. At the same moment, Wallace gave a gasp of surprise, beat his arms as if to take flight, then fell on his face like a dead weight. The monk stepped forward to pull his damascened dagger from the man’s back—a fine, six-inch blade, thin and razor-sharp.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘for interrupting, but I had made no promise to spare his life, and I simply could not stand by and hear myself accused of being a bad Christian! For shame!’
The Chevalier de Seingalt stepped forward, holding a dagger in his left hand.
‘I was preparing to do the same. You’re a fine swordsman, Volnay, but rather too courtly for this day and age, I fear.’
He turned to Wallace’s body, raised the point of his sword in a salute, and pronounced a brief eulogy:
‘In death, as he in life had done,
He turned his filthy rump to heav’n
And showed his arse to everyone.’
Skilfully, the monk dressed his colleague’s flesh wound with a handkerchief supplied by Chiara. The young woman’s face was utterly white. With some effort, she smiled at Volnay, though her eyes were filled with sorrow. Ever discreet, the monk waited at the mansion gates, while the others went inside. The Marquise de Pompadour received all three in her music room. A superb harpsichord took pride of place. Sheets of music for guitar could be seen in one corner. A bouquet of roses contributed its fragrance to the prevailing aroma of beeswax.
Casanova and the Faceless Woman Page 21