Casanova and the Faceless Woman

by Olivier Barde-Cabuçon

  ‘Madame…’

  The voice resonated as if from beyond the grave. The comte’s hand dropped to his knee.

  ‘You have had another vision!’ exclaimed the marquise.

  The comte stared fixedly at her for a moment, before his features softened.

  ‘I have seen the letter in his hands…’

  ‘Volnay’s hands?’

  ‘No, the monk.’

  The monk contemplated the furnace glowing red in the darkness. The room was exceedingly warm, and a light sweat beaded his brow.

  ‘So you do not wish to see her?’

  Volnay hesitated. He thought of a few lines he had read:

  Let us tear ourselves from her gaze, her eyes.

  We love not, if we can say our goodbyes.

  ‘Never, no.’

  The monk sighed to himself. He knew how stubborn Volnay could be, that he was capable of losing the thing he most desired, for ever, out of sheer obstinacy. His colleague expected too much of others and could only be disappointed in return.

  ‘You must reconcile yourself to her,’ he insisted. ‘We have learnt today that the letter you recovered from Mademoiselle Hervé’s body and which you gave to the marquise was not the letter she was looking for. And so there is a second letter about which we know nothing, though its importance is such that we have both been attacked. I tremble at the very thought of the revelations it contains. Imagine! Sartine, La Pompadour, the Devout Party and the Brotherhood are all out to find it!’

  ‘Chiara, like the marquise, knew nothing of the existence of two letters,’ said Volnay. ‘Her surprise was unfeigned. She truly believed she held the letter the marquise so desired in her hand.’

  ‘She was sincere,’ agreed the monk. ‘I saw it with my own eyes. But the fact is, the contents of the second letter must be so dreadful that the marquise will never reveal them. Not to Chiara, not to anyone…’

  He stretched his hands out in front of him, in a gesture of supplication.

  ‘To the point: we have two unexplained murders and, still, one letter to recover. We learnt nothing last night at the Parc-aux-Cerfs. We shall never succeed alone. You must seek a reconciliation with Chiara!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I shall give you another reason,’ declared the monk, in triumphant tones.

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘You are in love with her!’

  The grounds were planted with tall trees. Chiara touched their coarse, flaky bark as she passed, one after another. She seemed reassured by the contact.

  ‘Thank you, Chevalier, for agreeing to see me again. I know that in your eyes I am an unworthy spy…’

  Shrouded in exhaustion and despair, Volnay struggled to stare straight ahead, avoiding her gaze, as he replied.

  ‘The whole system is perverted, Mademoiselle. Spies and informers everywhere. The whole world is watching itself, spying on itself, betraying itself. And this filthy cloaca is the fount of law and order in the kingdom.’

  Chiara shivered, in spite of herself.

  ‘I had no wish to be a part of it in this way.’

  ‘And yet you were.’

  Volnay looked up at the sky. He had sensed a change in the air. The fat, tow-coloured clouds overhead appeared consumed by slow fire.

  ‘For my part,’ he continued, ‘I am devastated by the thought that my conduct might have put you in danger, and that without…’

  He seemed to choke on his words, as if clots of blood were caught in his throat. Chiara took pity, and finished his sentence:

  ‘Without the Chevalier de Seingalt’s swordsmanship, our plight would have been dire indeed.’

  Volnay nodded briefly. It cost him dearly to crown his rival with laurels.

  ‘But you came to our rescue in your turn…’

  She placed a hand on his arm, as if he had offered it. Once again, Volnay was stirred by conflicting emotions.

  ‘Will you ever forgive me?’ asked Chiara, quietly.

  Seconds passed. They had stopped walking and stood looking at one another in silence, as if astonished by a sudden revelation.

  ‘You will forgive me! You must!’ she said impetuously, and leant closer. ‘I do not want your scorn; I desire your friendship. You and I are one of a kind. The creed of natural selfishness acknowledges no moral rights or obligations, and we are united in its condemnation. Nor do we believe in God: humanity is all our religion.’

  He stared at her in wonder.

  ‘Have I given so much away that you can think such things of me?’

  Chiara burst out laughing.

  ‘The occasional hint, yes. Now, what will you say if I tell you: our priests are not what we think them to be…’

  ‘Their science is naught but our credulity!’

  ‘There! You read Voltaire. I knew it! You see, we were made to get along together!’

  ‘To go forward together?’ asked Volnay, unexpectedly. He regretted the question as soon as it was asked.

  There was an embarrassed silence. The inspector was the first to speak.

  ‘You are in a position to help me,’ he said slowly. ‘With your help, Mademoiselle, we can trap the comte’s assistant.’

  Chiara’s eyes widened. Volnay hurried to explain himself, reassuring her as to the nature of the role he had planned for her.

  ‘Be careful of the Comte de Saint-Germain,’ she said. ‘We do not know his true identity, and Casanova told me that, a few nights ago, he saw him entering a certain house in the Parc-aux-Cerfs.’

  ‘The comte! In that den of debauchery?’

  Volnay was astonished and made no secret of his surprise.

  ‘I will do as you say, Chevalier,’ said Chiara, ‘for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  Chiara nodded sadly.

  ‘Yes, because there is no other role left to me in this business, as you know.’

  She stared into space.

  ‘I have disappointed you. I know that. Believe me, I regret it. But you have not answered my question. Can we be friends?’

  For a moment, Volnay feared she would take his hand, and that he would lose all control of his faculties. But she did not, and he regretted it even so. The slightest touch from Chiara filled him with happiness, and he knew now how badly he felt the need of such moments.

  ‘Perhaps I am not the first woman to disappoint you, Chevalier?’

  Volnay clenched his jaw.

  ‘There was one…’

  ‘One may sometimes be enough,’ murmured Chiara, thoughtfully.

  There was a long silence, as each pondered what they would say next.

  Chiara spoke first. ‘For my part, I have had no occasion to be disappointed in men, because I expect no more from them than they are able to give. Perhaps you expected too much of womankind?’

  ‘Is a measure of constancy too much to expect? One day, you are everything to them, and the next, nothing. You meet them in the street and they go on their way as if you never existed.’

  This time, Chiara reached for his hand and clasped it in hers. Volnay did not resist. The blood pulsed at his temples, and he prayed his disarray would pass unnoticed.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  He hesitated, until Chiara’s hand pressed his still more firmly.

  ‘There came a time when we told one another that our feelings could never change, that we could never be otherwise. Two weeks later, she had forgotten everything, in favour of a mere youth, a ladies’ man with a smooth tongue in his head.’

  ‘And did she marry him?’

  There was a long silence. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing.

  ‘No, Mademoiselle,’ said Volnay dully. ‘She did not marry him, because I killed him.’

  A shattering silence followed. Chiara’s hand deserted Volnay’s.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘A duel…’

  ‘I see.’

  They had reached a terrace planted with box trees. The sun disappeared behind the clouds.

/>   ‘It looks like rain,’ said Volnay, simply.

  ‘I don’t mind getting wet,’ she said. ‘I adore the rain, as I adore everything in nature. Do you like the rain, Chevalier?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you love science, at least?’

  ‘I am more inclined to poetry, and letters.’

  ‘With the exception of volumes of anatomy, to help solve unexplained murders,’ she observed, in a gently mocking tone.

  A winding avenue of trees led them to a copse, in the middle of which stood a hidden group of marble cupids, their arrows primed to prick the hearts of unwary souls who ventured their way.

  ‘For my part, I take an interest in anything new,’ said Chiara, with renewed enthusiasm. ‘We have so much to accomplish, and only the Marquise de Pompadour can help us.’

  There was a silence. Plainly, the inspector was dissatisfied with this latest turn in their conversation.

  ‘You seem to have very little regard for the marquise,’ said Chiara, regretfully. ‘And no greater liking for the king, or the nobles at Court.’

  ‘Your kind feel nothing but indifference for the misfortune of others.’

  Volnay’s tone indicated this would be his last word on the subject. Chiara hid her discomfort with another question.

  ‘Have you always been a man of such rigid conviction, Chevalier? What were you like as a child?’

  Volnay did not reply immediately. He remembered childhood games in gardens: swings, and playing at hide-and-seek or blind man’s buff. A thousand things that woke in him a feeling of nostalgia and regret.

  ‘The child in us dies in the world of men,’ he sighed, between his teeth. ‘I had a fine childhood, but it was shattered with one blow, and me with it. I should like to recover the innocence of that age…’

  A cloud masked the sun. Around them, the flower beds shivered.

  ‘It looks like rain,’ said Volnay a second time.

  Chiara’s hands were clasped behind her back and she stood with her head cocked to one side, revealing a smooth, white neck.

  ‘The people of this earth are not as bad as you think, and there is good in everyone. Take Casanova—’

  ‘Bad example,’ hissed Volnay. ‘The man’s a tremendous fraud, cold and manipulative.’

  Chiara shook her head.

  ‘He is far from cold, I can assure you.’

  Volnay shot her a swift glance.

  ‘You see,’ he said, bitterly. ‘You’re defending him, and you like him, despite his reputation.’

  Chiara’s response was to the point.

  ‘His reputation precedes him wherever he goes,’ she said, ‘because he makes no effort to hide his true nature. In our century of hypocrisy, he is a creature of sincerity.’

  Silence.

  ‘Like you,’ she hastened to add.

  Volnay made no reply but stared at her with an expression of renewed hope. Chiara gave a charming frown.

  ‘But even you, Monsieur, you hide your true nature somewhat. You are not as cold as you would like us to believe. Am I right?’

  There was no time for Volnay’s answer: the first drops of rain were splashing on the ground. Chiara cried out as if hurt, then grasped his hand and pulled him along.

  ‘Follow me, you who so dislike the rain!’

  They sheltered in a dense, leafy grotto that gave protection from the sudden shower. Chiara shivered, and in a gesture more instinctive than calculated, Volnay put his arm around her shoulders. Surprised, she turned her enquiring face to his. The inspector closed his eyes for the briefest of seconds. Chiara’s mouth was a scarlet wound he must soothe. His lips brushed hers, ready to pull away at the slightest sign that she might recoil. But she did not. It was as if she had decided to confront the truth at that moment.

  She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be kissed, timidly at first, then more and more passionately. Her tongue seemed to take on a life of its own, offering itself liberally to the chevalier’s. For a moment, she held him so tightly in her arms that he stiffened. Little by little, as if by instinct, her ardour cooled, and she relinquished his mouth at last, recoiling slightly and adjusting her hair.

  ‘You see,’ she said, taking a deep breath, ‘your true nature burns far hotter than may be imagined at first sight. Why did you flee from me?’

  He was still holding her in his arms. He felt that if he let her go, he would lose her for ever. Great happiness, and muffled pain, mingled in his heart.

  ‘I fled from you,’ he said, ‘because your presence woke such pain in me that I judged it wiser not to provoke it further by seeing you.’

  ‘And so why aren’t you fleeing me now?’ breathed Chiara.

  ‘Because there is nothing more terrible than my feelings for you, and nothing sweeter, either. Do not reproach me for this confession.’

  Chiara gazed in silence at the scar that ran from the corner of Volnay’s eye to his temple, then placed a hesitant finger against it, following its contours.

  ‘I would reproach you more for keeping silent about your feelings,’ she whispered, her lips barely two fingers’ breadth from his.

  And he kissed her again, and again.

  ‘This garden is a place of marvels,’ she said at length, breathlessly. ‘And of traps…’

  A soft, hesitant light filtered through a thin, bright haze of cloud when Volnay left Chiara’s mansion. Even the foul, muddy street was powerless to overcome the happiness he had recovered after so many years.

  Volnay’s next scheduled visit was to the Comte de Saint-Germain. The comte was in the small paint workshop he maintained in Paris, and welcomed the inspector without affectation, but with his habitual show of extreme politesse. Urbane and charming as ever, he embarked delightedly on an explanation of the day’s activities.

  ‘What you see here is crushed, baked clay, mixed with coloured powders of my own composition, a little gum arabic as the binding agent, and fresh clay to thicken the preparation. Note how the clay ensures a cohesive mix of pigment. I stabilize the mixture with honey, because it’s an excellent captor of atmospheric humidity.’

  He took a step back and contemplated his work with a satisfied air.

  ‘I love the powdery, velvety aspect of woad. Its granular consistency gives it an incomparable brilliance, as it refracts the light.’

  He took a piece of cloth and enhanced the colour by rubbing and padding it skilfully over the coloured surfaces.

  ‘And how goes your investigation?’ he asked brightly.

  Volnay told him everything about his assistant and confided his innermost thoughts on the matter. He knew that the comte—the creature of the great and powerful—would make no move if he believed the inspector was harbouring secrets. The Comte de Saint-Germain remained impassive, but he stared fixedly at Volnay, as if trying to read his thoughts.

  ‘Well,’ he said at length. ‘So be it! I shall do what is expected of me.’

  Volnay hesitated. The Comte de Saint-Germain gestured for him to approach an easel near the window, whose curtains were closed. He pulled them open, flooding the room with golden light. Volnay was dazzled for a moment and stood blinking while the comte hurried to turn the picture around, with a conjuror’s flourish.

  ‘I committed this little work to paper after your visit in the company of that charming young lady, who quite struck me with her beauty.’

  The pastel was a portrait of Chiara. Bending closer, Volnay saw that the composition was organized in a pyramid structure, formed by the figures of the young woman, Casanova and himself. Chiara’s eyes sparkled like uncut gems in the darkness. The train of her gown led the eye to a sheet of drawing paper held in one, trailing hand, to which she seemed to be pointing with the other. Volnay bent closer still and saw that the sheet was filled with an esoteric symbol: an equilateral triangle inside a pentagon, inside a heptagon, inside a nonagon. He committed the image to memory, before turning his attention to Chiara’s portrait.

  The artist had worked to guide the viewer
’s gaze progressively around the picture. In the foreground, a carpet exerted a trompel’œil effect, conferring depth and providing a solid base for the pyramid. Following the line of her dress, the eye rose to meet Chiara’s face, wearing a thoughtful expression. She was looking at Volnay, though her body seemed to lean towards Casanova. Surely this was more than straightforward observation?

  ‘I did the portrait from memory,’ said the comte.

  Volnay realized he was referring to the image of Chiara. She looked resplendent, and he felt a sudden urge to possess the picture at all costs.

  ‘It’s for you,’ said the comte, as if reading Volnay’s thoughts. ‘It’s not quite finished. But then, whatever we may think, this story is very far from over…’

  He turned to face the inspector.

  ‘Remember two things, my young friend. First there is rarely only one truth, but several. All the rest is mere opinion.’

  He glanced at Chiara’s portrait and continued:

  ‘And second, if we are to define happiness, it is surely the joy of clasping in one’s arms a person whom we love, and who loves us in return.’

  Volnay returned home in the golden light of sunset. His thoughts returned to the young woman he had held in his arms. It seemed his lips were still moist from her kisses.

  ‘Can I go on living without her?’ he thought suddenly, in despair.

  It had rained again in the night. In the morning, the wet cobblestones steamed. In his apartment, the comte’s assistant brandished the phial with an inspired look, as Chiara pressed a hand to her forehead.

  ‘Dear God, my head is burning.’

  The assistant hurried to her side and offered her a seat.

  ‘Would you like a glass of water, or a little eau de vie?’

  ‘A glass of water, please,’ said Chiara, in deathly, hushed tones.

  Once he had left the room, she hurried to the main door and quickly drew the bolt. Volnay was the first to rush in, sword in hand.