Casanova and the Faceless Woman

by Olivier Barde-Cabuçon

  La Pompadour was elegantly dressed, as ever, but Volnay noted her pale complexion and drawn features. The marquise looked ill. The king had broken his toy. She welcomed them in appropriate style, but her gaze turned frequently to Chiara, as if to seek an explanation for this intrusion à trois.

  ‘Madame la Marquise,’ said the young woman in clear, confident tones, ‘Fate has seen fit to set all three of us in pursuit of the same letter. We judged it fitting that we should bring it to you together. Everyone gathered here has shown absolute discretion, as you know.’

  La Pompadour gave no reply. She had tried to secure the service of each of the three individuals now present, but the only one in whom she truly trusted was Chiara. The girl watched her now, in silent adoration, as she rose and walked over to the musical instrument. For an instant, the polished wood of the harpsichord reflected the marquise’s frail figure, as her fingers brushed the ivory keys.

  ‘Who has read the letter? Tell me the truth.’

  ‘I have, Madame la Marquise,’ said Volnay.

  Chiara shook her head. She was quite overcome. La Pompadour turned to her and waited.

  ‘The letter was in my hands for a just few minutes,’ said the young woman. Her expression was deeply troubled. ‘I swear to God, I have not given it so much as a glance.’

  Next, the marquise looked at Casanova, who bowed graciously.

  ‘For my part, Madame, I have not so much as touched it,’ he lied, with breathtaking aplomb.

  The marquise considered him for a moment, but Casanova was an habitué of the stage, and did not bat an eyelid. After a while, La Pompadour nodded. She rewarded Chiara with a smile, and Casanova with a purse of gold. For Volnay, she seemed to hesitate before finally proffering her hand to be kissed. Dutifully, the inspector brushed her slender, burning fingers with his lips. He felt no particular emotion: if the marquise thought to secure his personal attachment through her gesture, she was quite mistaken, as she very quickly understood. Volnay took a step back, a little surprised at the strong smell of rice powder that hung about the marquise’s person.

  The same graceful hand was outstretched to him now. Still without a word, the marquise took the letter and read it.

  ‘Is that all there is?’ she asked evenly, when she had finished.

  Volnay was caught off guard. He observed her more closely. She seemed perplexed, but quickly adopted the usual impassive mask.

  ‘Yes, that is the letter, Madame,’ said Volnay, staring her straight in the eye.

  The favourite’s expression was impenetrable. Volnay understood that something was wrong. A sidelong glance at Casanova confirmed that he, too, was watching her reaction with careful attention.

  ‘Do you take me for a complete fool?’ asked La Pompadour.

  Volnay glanced at Chiara, dumbfounded, and received a look of equal astonishment in return. Casanova himself appeared thoroughly taken aback.

  ‘I cannot think that the king sent Mademoiselle Hervé to the Comte de Saint-Germain for such a purpose,’ said the marquise, and her voice trembled slightly. ‘But if he did, I doubt whether the comte would have received her, even bearing a letter such as this.’

  ‘He did not, Madame,’ said Volnay, solemnly.

  The marquise fixed her pale eyes on his, as if to draw his gaze and dissolve it in her own. When she released him, Volnay felt his violent heartbeat subside. Deathly silence reigned in the room. All eyes followed the marquise as she moved towards the fireplace, where, despite the mild spring weather, a pile of logs burnt with hellfire. She approached her hand to the flames, and suddenly the letter caught alight. She spread her fingers sharply, and the paper twisted and writhed as if convulsed in pain, on the hearth.

  ‘Forget all of this,’ she said calmly. ‘All of it! One word, and you will end your days in the Bastille.’

  She turned to face them, and for a single, eternal moment, all were struck by the last rays of her faded beauty.

  ‘Adieu,’ she said.

  Volnay felt Chiara blanch at his side. They took their leave with suitable deference and reached the door. The sound of La Pompadour’s voice called them back, as they were about to step outside.

  ‘Ah, I was forgetting—Chevalier de Seingalt, I have heard that, together with the Duchesse de Chartres, you were practising a personal variation of the Kabbalah. Such tricks and practices are wholly incompatible with your present situation. Remember that in future, if you do not seek my displeasure.’

  Casanova bowed, proffering his most dazzling smile.

  ‘I have sworn my loyalty to you, Madame, as you know. Your wish is my command! Before I leave, I must warn you of certain damaging libels that will be published tomorrow if you do not take immediate action with Monsieur de Sartine.’

  The marquise listened impassively, and rewarded the information with another purse of gold, under Volnay’s disapproving eye. They emerged into the courtyard without another word. It was almost midnight, and they were alone—an uncomfortable trio standing in the pale moonlight, all in a state of some consternation. They stared at one another in silence. Had they given La Pompadour the wrong letter? Casanova observed Volnay with undisguised suspicion. The inspector knew that there had been only one letter on Mademoiselle Hervé’s body, though it was not, it seemed, the letter the marquise had been expecting.

  Chiara was the first to attempt a reconciliation.

  ‘You must not think ill of me, Chevalier de Volnay, I never thought to harm you, I—’

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said in icy tones, cutting her short, ‘you seem to have forgotten your game of deception, but I have not.’

  He turned to Casanova.

  ‘As for you, Chevalier, I have scant appreciation for your role in this affair, but I am grateful to you for protecting this lady with your sword.’

  He gave a short, shallow bow, as if against his better judgement, then turned to walk away, leaving Chiara blushing deeply and Casanova with a nascent smile. Driving in the young woman’s carriage, to her mansion, the Venetian observed her in silence. Her features were an astonishing blend of gentleness and firm conviction. He closed his eyes for a moment, lost in thought.

  Love was the sole aim of his existence. Obviously, as a younger man, he had desired riches, before the highs and lows of life had fostered a more philosophical outlook, leading him to refuse lucrative positions, and the hands of wealthy young women, offered to him in marriage. His freedom was without price, but what price must he pay for Chiara? He was surprised to find himself wondering what was going through her mind, as she sat deep in thought.

  Chiara was lost in a reverie. She had lived her life thus far without seeking the attentions of men, but not without lovers, either. A total of two, to date, because while she had learnt how to seduce a man, she had not perfected the art of entertaining others behind his back. She had abandoned her first lover for the second, and left the latter for his own sake, because she despaired of his stupidity. Neither had proved particularly disappointing, but they had failed to touch the depths of her heart, or to ignite her passion. Today, she knew that she had invaded the lives of two more men, and that her choice had not yet alighted on one or the other.

  She liked Casanova’s adventurous nature, his refusal to conform to life’s rules and his determination to play them along, for his own advantage. By comparison, Volnay’s upright integrity bored her, but she admired him nonetheless. Both were free because they had decided to remain true to their own selves. But the fact remained: Casanova made her feel like a woman, while Volnay made her feel like a child.

  ‘Why has everything worked out this way?’ she asked abruptly. ‘And what’s troubling him, anyhow, that he should speak to me so rudely?’

  ‘You mean Volnay?’ asked Casanova, nonchalantly.

  ‘Who do you think I’m referring to? Is my reputation so low that you think men line up to insult me in turn?’

  ‘He was indeed most discourteous,’ agreed the Chevalier de Seingalt.

  �
�On the other hand…’

  ‘On the other hand, you betrayed him, just as you be trayed me.’

  Chiara sulked in silence until they reached her residence. The Venetian climbed down from the carriage and followed her inside, as if invited, though she had said nothing on the subject. She received him in her bedroom. A bed of daffodil-yellow Peking silk stood on a rosewood floor. Casanova’s eye wandered over the walls, stretched with filmy lengths of gauze. Chiara invited her guest to sit in an armchair.

  ‘I am truly sorry for betraying you,’ she said, ‘but who can I trust?’

  Casanova smiled.

  ‘No one, believe me!’

  ‘You are poking fun.’

  ‘No, I am quite serious.’

  Chiara shrugged.

  ‘You spend your life seeking entertainment in others.’

  ‘I poke fun at stupidity. Nothing else.’

  There was a brief silence, broken first by the Chevalier de Seingalt.

  ‘Why do you work for the Marquise de Pompadour? By which I mean, what drove you to choose her camp?’

  She looked at him, scandalized.

  ‘But I have told you: I believe that she represents the future of things.’

  A sudden thought seemed to strike her, and she lowered her voice:

  ‘Whereas you represent the past.’

  Casanova sat in silence. Not as a result of what had just been said, for he had turned worse situations than this on their heads in the past, but for the unexpected pain her words had caused, piercing him like a dagger. The thought of a future without Chiara was intolerable. He determined to take his fate into his own hands.

  ‘Your pleasure is my greatest passion, Mademoiselle, though I am nothing but a poor miscreant whose life consists of duping others, and enjoying the pleasures of love, gaming and the table.’

  Chiara was fascinated in spite of herself. She shook her head.

  ‘Why tell me such things? Why do you persist in showing yourself in your very worst light?’

  ‘Because I want you to know me as I truly am.’

  ‘But I know who you are,’ she said, ‘and what I like in you is that you never try to do otherwise.’

  With her unerring woman’s instinct, Chiara understood that there was nothing dark, nothing wicked in the schemes of this infectiously good-humoured rogue, this impish voluptuary, for whom womankind was both religion and sacrament. Still, she wanted to know more, for nothing had touched her so much as the child he had once been, and who lived in him still.

  ‘Tell me more about the episode with Bettina. At the time, you were aged…’

  ‘Almost twelve, but let us speak no more of her: she broke my heart with another, and Fate saw to it that I would never pluck the flower I so desired, with her.’

  Again, he avoided Chiara’s gaze, preferring to observe her from behind, in the play of mirrors.

  ‘At that time,’ he said, ‘my mother, who had been summoned to perform in St Petersburg, desired to see me in Venice. I was taken there. I hadn’t seen my mother for two years, and I had forgotten she was so beautiful, so wonderfully beautiful. Abbott Gozzi doubtless thought so, too, because for all the time he spent in conversation with her, he was unable to look her fully in the eye. When we arrived, he told me to go and kiss her, and I hurried into her arms, but she did not return my kiss.’

  Chiara paled, but said nothing. Casanova went on, seemingly in spite of himself:

  ‘That refusal,’ he said, speaking slowly and with unusual emphasis, ‘was the greatest betrayal I have ever known in my life. There is nothing worse than a mother who will not accept your love.’

  Father Ofag laced his fingers. He pouted sorrowfully.

  ‘You wake me in the dead of night to tell me that you have killed my faithful Wallace,’ he moaned, ‘and you stand before me here, with no shred of remorse or repentance, bad Christian that you are!’

  ‘Your faithful Wallace,’ retorted Volnay, ‘attacked the carriage of the Marquis D’Ancilla’s daughter with two vile assassins. I am indeed without remorse.’

  ‘Dear God! What an outrage! How dare you?’

  ‘There is no one to contradict me. I was there, and I have the word of the Chevalier de Seingalt and that of Chiara D’Ancilla. A patrol of the night watch has also visited the scene, to take away the bodies. And lastly, the incident was witnessed by the coachman, and a streetful of people watching from their windows!’

  Father Ofag’s normally boyish face was a mask of deathly white. ‘Dear God! The scandal! The scandal!’ he raged.

  ‘Not necessarily, but only you can ensure that the news is contained. Everyone knows your connections to Wallace; you cannot erase them. But you may correct your servant’s mistakes.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  Father Ofag was listening attentively now.

  ‘The carriage of the young noblewoman Chiara D’Ancilla was attacked on a narrow lane by two robbers. Finding himself nearby, Wallace rushed bravely to her aid. He killed the two villains, but received a fatal blow, and died shortly after, where he fell. Perhaps this version will suit you better?’

  Father Ofag’s eyes shone. He straightened up, and his natural colour returned.

  ‘That’s my Wallace, a brave and noble soldier of God! But…’

  He blinked rapidly and a look of cunning stole over his face.

  ‘What do you want in exchange?’

  ‘A letter in your own hand, acknowledging Wallace’s misdeed. I will deposit it with a lawyer, and it will remain confidential until the moment of my death, which I hope will be neither accidental nor untimely… In case you get any wicked ideas!’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ asked the cleric in honeyed tones. ‘My word will suffice, and I shall withdraw from this whole business immediately.’

  ‘Your word…’

  The inspector guarded against speaking his true mind out loud. Father Ofag tried one last time to plead his case. He swung his rosary before his eyes with his left hand, as if to hypnotize him. Volnay followed its movement with his eyes, feeling suddenly ill at ease.

  ‘The king has need of our party, to assist him in wise government, in accordance with Christian principles.’

  ‘The role of a monarch,’ Volnay interjected, ‘is to give his subjects adequate sustenance here on earth, and not in Paradise.’

  He moved closer and planted himself firmly in front of the cleric, with one hand on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘You will withdraw from this business immediately,’ he decreed, ‘but you will also sign this letter for me. If you refuse, your enemies will use this occasion to their advantage, and the police will very soon be here at your door.’

  Father Ofag sighed and took up his quill.

  ‘A man such as you, Chevalier…’ he said, looking at Volnay half fearfully, half in admiration. ‘Truly, it is a great shame we cannot be friends.’

  The monk paced nervously in the passageway, his hand in readiness on the hilt of his sword. He kept a wary eye on two evil-looking men, both heavily armed and wearing buffalo-leather jerkins and scuffed boots.

  More of Wallace’s henchmen, he thought.

  With relief, he saw Volnay emerge, unruffled.

  ‘Another two minutes,’ he said, ‘and I would have skinned these vermin alive to get inside!’

  ‘Why?’ asked Volnay in astonishment.

  ‘I feared for your safety.’

  ‘You’re getting old!’

  The monk’s face reddened.

  ‘Not at all. I’m growing younger by the day! Did he sign?’

  ‘Without too much persuasion.’

  ‘He has a pliant soul.’

  The inspector nodded. Quickly, they left the building and found themselves on the dark street outside. A bell sounded in the distance.

  ‘We need a carriage,’ said Volnay.

  They made for the more-frequented streets in search of a coachman, taking care to walk down the middle of the road, their hands ready on their sword
s. Shadows slipped silently from one alleyway to the next, but brigands and policeman weren’t the only people abroad at this hour. It was one o’clock in the morning, and already thousands of country folk were pouring into Paris, making their way to the market halls laden with fruit and vegetables. They called out noisily to one another.

  ‘Where are we going, anyway?’ asked the monk.

  ‘To Rue Saint-Louis, in the Parc-aux-Cerfs. The king granted me complete freedom to pursue my investigation this morning, and on his authority, I will have no difficulty gaining admittance to question the madam and her boarders about Marcoline, the second victim.’

  ‘Now there’s a place I have never seen and should very much like to visit!’ said the monk, stroking his beard with an expression of rapt delight. ‘But when are we to sleep?’

  ‘When we have solved this case.’

  XI

  Follow God; fate will find its own way.

  The nearby church tower was ringing ten o’clock when someone came to knock on the monk’s door, studded with great black nails. He uncovered the peephole, and the young woman smiled as she heard a muffled expletive. The bolts were drawn back and, cautiously, the door was opened a crack. The monk blinked like an owl in the white light of day. Chiara observed him for a moment. He was taller than most men, with smiling eyes but a thoughtful expression. A narrow, slightly hooked nose pointed firmly above a finely drawn mouth and a determined chin. He would look very fine struck on a medal, she thought to herself.

  ‘Here you are in your monk’s habit,’ Chiara noted. ‘It all depends, then, on the hour of the day!’

  The monk said nothing, but his expression darkened considerably.

  ‘As you now know,’ she went on, confidently, ‘I am a loyal servant of the Marquise de Pompadour, and I am ashamed that the Chevalier de Volnay has not chosen the same camp, as a man of science. I know who you are, too, reverend sir. Indeed: the loyal colleague of the Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths cannot hope to pass unnoticed for long.’