Casanova and the Faceless Woman

by Olivier Barde-Cabuçon

  ‘Charlatan!’ he growled, when the assistant returned, and froze before them.

  ‘But… but…’ he stammered. ‘Whatever does this mean?’

  ‘It means enough is enough!’ said a voice imbued with undeniable charm, but an equally undeniable accent of authority. The comte followed Volnay into the room. The assistant paled.

  ‘So,’ said the comte, ‘this is how you repay my generosity—by stealing my potions and selling them!’

  He stretched out his palm, and the assistant slipped the phial into his hand. The comte uncorked it and sniffed the contents quickly.

  ‘You poor wretch,’ he growled. ‘You are a dwarf among giants—do you have even the slightest idea what you are doing?’

  ‘Perhaps he was content to imitate his master,’ said Volnay, without a shadow of a smile.

  The comte span around to face him.

  ‘Ha! Believe me, Monsieur,’ he said, in horrified tones, ‘I would go stark, staring mad before I would give a person a drug I knew nothing about!’

  ‘What’s in the phial?’ asked the inspector, smoothly.

  The comte gave no immediate reply.

  ‘People ask a great deal of me,’ he said darkly. ‘One day, a woman of a certain age came to me for a liquor to preserve her hair and prevent it from turning white over the years! They say I possess powers of rejuvenation, even healing. I practise my skill as a chemist, but not to that end.’

  Quickly, he slipped the phial into his pocket and turned to his assistant. His face was an expressionless mask.

  ‘The Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths entrusted me with the phial you gave to Mademoiselle Hervé, in exchange for your vile gropings. It contained a substance capable of purging impurities from the surface of diamonds. When the young woman rubbed it over her face, her skin dissolved instantly, and she died in atrocious pain.’

  Volnay seized the assistant by the collar and pushed him roughly against the wall.

  ‘You realized your mistake when you learnt of the young woman’s death, and you paid the henchman to attack the monk while he was examining her body. You wanted to recover the phial, did you not? You were afraid the young woman had kept it with her, and that it would be traced back to you!’

  The assistant opened and closed his mouth in a kind of stupor.

  ‘Answer!’ roared the inspector, throwing him to the floor.

  The man gave a strangulated sob and rose to his knees.

  ‘No! No, I swear! I betrayed my master to secure my fortune, and I abused the trust of pretty young women, I admit. My mistake caused Mademoiselle Hervé’s death, but I did nothing more after that. Nothing!’

  Volnay was surprised by the sincerity in the charlatan’s tone. The man was trembling in every limb, and he doubted he would have been capable of bargaining with a hired henchman of the very worst kind. The attack had been another of Wallace’s plans after all, it seemed.

  ‘You’ll spend the rest of your days in a damp, dark dungeon,’ he growled. ‘At best.’

  The Comte de Saint-Germain intervened.

  ‘Chevalier, I beg you to consider this: my assistant is a rogue who deserves a measure of punishment. He has abused my trust and exploited my reputation to make money, and take advantage of women’s credulity.’

  He gave the man a hard stare. The assistant seemed to crumble on the spot.

  ‘He deserves a moment’s reflection within the walls of the Bastille,’ said the comte firmly. ‘But not to end his days there. A trial would deliver the harshest penalty and throw my name and my activities to the dogs of public opinion one more time. If you are in agreement, I will speak to the chief of police, even to the king himself, and ask for a letter of the royal signet. I believe that when an arrest is made for some minor misdemeanour, for which no further investigation is required, and when the inspector judges it appropriate to send the miscreant to prison, by way of correction, then it is up to the chief of police to determine the length of the sentence.’

  ‘You’re very well informed,’ said Volnay quietly, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘Invariably!’

  ‘I don’t know whether—’

  It seemed to Volnay that the Comte de Saint-Germain had just tried to signal something to him, discreetly. But he gave no reaction, and the comte continued:

  ‘Some things are best kept out of the public domain, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Chiara was the first to respond, nodding vigorously.

  ‘The comte is quite right. We must proceed with care.’

  Volnay shot her a look of hesitant surprise. The young woman seemed to have responded to the comte with a discreet signal of her own. He thought quickly. He knew he was in danger. He was being pressured, and spied on, from all sides. He needed support, and why not the support of the Comte de Saint-Germain, the intimate creature of the king and La Pompadour? He called to his men, outside on the landing, to take the assistant away in his carriage while he and Chiara remained in the room, with the comte.

  ‘Are we alone?’ asked the latter.

  ‘Yes, Monseigneur.’

  ‘I must thank you, Chevalier. Little did I know I was harbouring a viper in the bosom of my household. You have enabled me to scotch the creature. And I am grateful for your silence. You will understand the sensitivity of this whole business, for me. I have so many enemies… As for you, Mademoiselle…’

  He turned to Chiara and bowed gallantly to kiss her hand.

  ‘I cannot thank you enough for agreeing to play along with this farce and catch the villain. I am indebted to you both.’

  Volnay stepped forward, ready to seize the moment.

  ‘I still have a great many questions, Monseigneur, and I will be direct with you. What of the letter addressed to you by the king, asking you to take care of Mademoiselle Hervé’s condition?’

  The comte stared at him for a long moment.

  ‘I cannot deny my knowledge of it—the Marquise de Pompadour told me the contents of the letter she had discovered, when you handed it to her in the company of your two friends. I give you my word that I had never read it beforehand. I believe the king lost his head when he wrote it. How could I end a new life? It was madness even to contemplate such a thing!’

  There was a hint of cold fury in his voice, but the comte swiftly eased the tension with a sweet smile.

  ‘A momentary lapse on His Majesty’s part. This young woman didn’t dare hand me the letter, and addressed my assistant instead, who is ever ready to ingratiate himself with the fairer sex, as I now understand. She came to elude the estate of motherhood, and he sold her eternal beauty. Who could resist?’

  His words had the ring of truth, but a doubt remained in Volnay’s mind. He had had enough, and determined to come straight to the point.

  ‘Forgive me, Monseigneur, but you were seen entering the Parc-aux-Cerfs—a certain house on Rue Saint-Louis…’

  The comte looked at him serenely.

  ‘You are fearless, Inspector, and irreproachable. An honest man in a world where scarcely anyone dares speak his mind. Your courage will be rewarded, but I must ask you to be discreet.’

  The inspector nodded briefly.

  ‘I went to that place, indeed,’ the comte continued. ‘A young woman by the name of Hélène de Pal, taken there against her will by her father, had resolved to drink poison. With my support, she simulated the tragedy with a pill which I procured for her. The doctors were unable to revive her at the scene. At the appointed time, I arrived with an antidote to bring her back to life. Her repentant father agreed to give her in marriage to her lover, as the young woman desired, rather than prostitute her to the king. That is all the reason for my visit to that place.’

  Volnay considered him for a moment in silence, sobered by what he had just heard, and by the sincerity in the comte’s words. He believed him, though he had no proof, but the extraordinary tale opened up still further horizons, and hinted at quite a different Comte de Saint-Germain.

  ‘Today�
��s episode has allowed us to solve the mystery of the first murder,’ said the inspector, pensively. ‘But not the second. If the last victim had not been at the Parc-aux-Cerfs, I should have thought her death was the work of a madman aping the first killing, and clumsily at that. But the fact remains…’

  ‘She had been at the Parc-aux Cerfs!’ Chiara finished his sentence.

  In the street, Volnay gently stayed Chiara with his hand.

  ‘I must accompany this man. He is quite beside himself, and now is the best possible time to question him. Fear loosens tongues better than interrogation.’

  Chiara stared at him, in a new light.

  ‘You are quite pitiless, at times.’

  ‘I have an investigation to lead, and nothing will stand in my way,’ said Volnay with characteristic dread determination.

  ‘And do I stand in your way?’ she asked, in a pale voice. ‘Or am I your goal?’

  Volnay looked awkward.

  ‘Well, you have certainly served my cause…’

  Chiara drew back as suddenly as if she had been struck.

  ‘And is that why you came to see me, and kissed me, Monsieur the Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths?’

  ‘I seek after truth, Chiara, only the truth.’

  Chiara’s hands grasped Volnay’s.

  ‘Do not sacrifice what truly matters to discover the secret cause of things.’

  ‘I cannot relinquish the quest for understanding,’ said Volnay obstinately.

  A gulf yawned between them.

  The iron-clad wheels of the inspector’s carriage clattered over the cobbles. The comte’s assistant stared at him in terror.

  ‘Will I be tortured? Unlike you, I am a tremendous coward, and I have told you everything, outright.’

  Volnay shot him an icy smile. The man had abused every possible trust, and a woman had died by his mistakes, for which he showed little enough remorse.

  ‘You should have thought of that before,’ he said simply.

  Volnay thought for a moment. One detail still bothered him.

  ‘When she climbed down from the carriage, in front of her home, Mademoiselle Hervé did not go straight up to her rooms but hurried further into the courtyard. I do not know why.’

  His prisoner returned his gaze, utterly at a loss.

  ‘I have no idea. What was there in the courtyard?’

  ‘Nothing in particular. A baker’s oven, on the far side.’

  The assistant’s face lit with a flash of understanding.

  ‘Then, er… She was following my instructions, no doubt.’

  ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘I advised her to warm up the phial before rubbing the contents over her face. With the heat from the oven, the results would be immediate.’

  Volnay threw himself back in his seat, eyes half-closed.

  ‘And so her impatience led her there. Now I understand.’

  The assistant trembled like a plate of veal jelly.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘my fate is in your hands. Help me and I will give you information that will put the Comte de Saint-Germain firmly under your control.’

  The inspector fought not to let it show, but a wave of curiosity flooded his consciousness.

  ‘And why should I wish to exercise control over the Comte de Saint-Germain? I am no master blackmailer, nor am I at war with your former master.’

  The assistant leant closer and addressed Volnay in confidential tones.

  ‘Believe me, sir, the Comte de Saint-Germain is a redoubtable adversary. He is a true Kabbalist, and a follower of the magus Hermes Trismegistus. He is the author of An Open Entrance to the Closed Palace of the King. He possesses a globe of smoked quartz into which he conjures spirits. He violates ancient taboos, dating back to the time of Moses, to do it! You cannot imagine the things he is capable of!’

  ‘Well, tell me about them,’ said Volnay evenly. ‘I’ll make up my own mind when you’ve finished.’

  To his great surprise, the assistant seated himself next to the inspector. He smelt the man’s sweat, and a distinctive odour that he knew well, from having sniffed it on so many suspects under interrogation: the smell of fear.

  The inspector listened, in growing astonishment, to what the assistant had to say.

  ‘And so,’ he summed up, when the assistant had finished, ‘you’re telling me that—’

  ‘The Comte de Saint-Germain has truly discovered the secret of the transmutation of lead into gold!’

  XII

  I fear marriage more than death!

  CASANOVA

  The monk pursued his inquiries among the friends of the second victim, Marcoline. In so doing, he visited Casanova at his residence, La Petite Pologne. The chevalier received him warmly, but as soon as his guest was seated, he addressed him with a knowing wink.

  ‘You don’t often emerge from your lair by the light of day, monk. Our man of God favours the night!’

  The monk’s eyes glittered fleetingly with a cold, harsh light. Then it was his turn to smile.

  ‘Moonlight stimulates the circulation, as you well know, Chevalier de Seingalt. A tonic for mind and body alike!’

  Casanova moved closer and stood before him, with his hands on his hips.

  ‘And so, do you think I failed to recognize you when we drew swords together against that whey-faced devil? Do you think that while I never forget a woman, I forget the faces of men? In a word, do you honestly believe I could forget the accomplice of my escape from the Piombi, in Venice?’

  The monk’s face was expressionless.

  ‘The fact is, I have barely had occasion to present myself to you,’ he said calmly. ‘I am pleased you recognized me: the man who scraped a hole in the ceiling, to reach the roof of the doge’s palace, after all!’

  Casanova laughed heartily.

  ‘Heaven knows, I was never one for manual labour!’

  ‘Nor I,’ retorted the monk, politely, ‘and yet I scraped a hole in the floor, too.’

  ‘By the Devil, so you did! But we must celebrate our reunion!’

  The monk bowed, smiling.

  ‘I have nothing against reunions, if there’s a decent wine.’

  Casanova ordered Cyprus wine and a piece of smoked tongue. The bottle was brought, and duly dispatched, and the tension eased.

  ‘Contrary to popular opinion,’ said Casanova, ‘I am a lover of the religious life. My last relations with a nun continued for twelve hours straight, hard as a rock throughout and all under the watchful gaze of a future cardinal of France.’

  ‘He moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform…’ observed his visitor solemnly.

  ‘You’re a devil of a monk!’ declared Casanova, laughing. ‘You speak Latin, handle your sword like a hired assassin, and you’re a greater heretic even than I! How sad to have gone our separate ways the moment we got out of prison. I like you.’

  ‘And I you, my dear philanderer.’

  They clinked glasses.

  ‘Yes,’ said Casanova, ‘our kind recognize a kindred spirit at first glance.’

  The monk blinked knowingly. He knew what Casanova was thinking. Adventurers are eternal rebels. They know how to recognize another soul for whom any constraint is provocation. Casanova returned the acknowledgement, with a barely perceptible nod of the head. The monk leant closer.

  ‘One piece of information, and you shall have my blessing, my son. After we parted in Venice, how did you get away? I was forced to disguise myself as a washerwoman!’

  Casanova shrugged his shoulders lightly.

  ‘A capacious robe suits you very well! As for me, I took shelter with the wife of the police chief of a nearby town, while her husband was out, hunting me down in the woods.’

  The monk nodded.

  ‘Clever!’

  Casanova observed him attentively.

  ‘My turn to ask you a question. I never knew how you came to be locked up in the Piombi.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the monk, ‘the merest tri
fle. I compared the Most Serene Republic’s Council of Ten to a pack of red-arsed baboons.’

  Casanova gave a short burst of laughter.

  ‘Any criticism of the Ten is strictly forbidden!’

  ‘But there it is—I am drawn to forbidden things.’

  Casanova looked at him thoughtfully, with the air of a man reunited with a former brother-in-arms. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘You’re not here to rake over old memories. You have something to ask of me.’

  The monk nodded.

  ‘Circumstances have embroiled you in a criminal investigation. Your zest for first-hand information, and your hopes for the hand of our young friend Chiara have drawn you in further. And so I am going to give you an opportunity to help us. Discreet inquiries have revealed the name of the second victim: Marcoline. She had two friends, Léonilde and Maria. Occasional bedfellows at the Parc-aux-Cerfs.’

  He stroked a finger along the edge of his glass, watching for Casanova’s reaction.

  ‘You know what will happen if we question them. They will snap shut like a pair of oysters, and we will find ourselves pressured by Sartine to keep our distance. On the other hand…’

  The monk’s smile etched a thousand tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

  ‘On the other hand,’ he continued, ‘pillow talk passes unnoticed and will doubtless deliver more satisfactory results.’

  Casanova thrust his glass into the air.

  ‘To the Devil’s own monk! And delightful entertainment in prospect…’

  The sun was a tarnished copper disc when the Chevalier de Seingalt climbed down from his carriage. He took a few cautious steps, knowing that his prey would turn the corner of the street at any moment, then hurried forward, jostling the two young women as he passed.

  ‘Oh, dear Lord!’ said one.

  Casanova swept the ground with the brim of his hat, and delivered a flurry of apologies. The women stared at him in curiosity, noting his elegant clothes, his autocratic bearing and his pleasant, open face. The Venetian returned their scrutiny. He remembered the pair from his incursion into the Parc-aux-Cerfs, on Rue Saint-Louis. One was quite tall, with a narrow waist. She wore a red velvet dress with slashed sleeves, decorated with ribbons and tassels. Her pale face was framed by twin cascades of dark blonde hair. Her cheekbones were high and well defined, and beneath her slightly hooked nose her generous, scarlet-painted lips offered a glimpse of fine white teeth. The other girl was smaller and thinner, with a more highly coloured, exotic complexion and lank, black hair. Her watchful brown eyes were flecked with gold. She held her hands clasped behind her back and affected a frown of annoyance.