The Chevalier de Seingalt bowed graciously.
‘Ladies, again, I beg you to excuse me! I am quite in a whirl. My clumsiness has its reasons, and I can but hope you will suffer to hear them, by way of explanation and apology. I have come straight from a gaming table where I have won a small fortune, and I can think of nothing but the best way to spend it as quickly as possible.’
The darker, thinner girl said nothing, but the tall blonde smiled indulgently.
‘Consider yourself excused, Monseigneur. And if you are in need of advice on how to spend your winnings, I am sure we can offer some ideas.’
Casanova burst out laughing, and the young women warmed immediately to this cheerful, unaffected, vigorous and thoroughly likeable man.
‘Truly, I need your help!’ he declared, shaking a purse full of gold. ‘Allow me to escort you to the theatre in my carriage, and after that we shall take supper at my mansion.’
The smaller girl, who was seemingly of Spanish descent, spoke first:
‘But we do not know you, Monsieur.’
Casanova gave a signal, and a magnificent carriage pulled up beside them.
‘Is that your carriage, Monsieur?’ asked the taller girl.
‘Mine, indeed. But allow me to introduce myself: the Chevalier de Seingalt, at your service.’
The taller girl dropped a slight curtsey.
‘I am Léonilde, and this is Maria.’
The coachman folded down the steps. Casanova helped the first girl to climb aboard, then held out his hand to Maria. She hesitated a moment, then smiled in turn and leant her weight on his arm rather more than was necessary to step up into the coach. Certain of splendid entertainment later that day, Casanova was bright and spirited, sparkling for the benefit of the two demoiselles, who were flattered to have attracted the attentions of such a well-known gentleman.
Léonilde couldn’t help but ask: ‘Why has a fine man such as yourself never married, Chevalier?’
‘Why, because I fear marriage more than death!’ replied Casanova, laughing.
‘And yet they say you will stop at nothing to seduce a woman,’ said Maria.
‘More than you could possibly know!’ declared the Chevalier de Seingalt. ‘Once, in Germany, my determination to find a way into a certain lady’s bed led me to be locked up inside a church day after day, hidden in a confessional. Then I took a staircase leading from the sacristy to her apartments, where I would wait for up to five hours for the door to be opened. I took my delicious reward for the long hours spent waiting, but was careful not to wake her husband, sleeping soundly nearby! But the interminable waiting in the cold took its toll on my health, and I left her for another, more accessible lady.’
The girls laughed, and Casanova joined the chorus. He dispensed a constant stream of witticisms and tall tales. The trio sipped bitter orange punch in a delightful cafe in the Palais-Royal, then attended the theatre before retiring to the chevalier’s mansion for supper. Casanova ordered a magnificent table laid with oysters and lobster, truffled red partridge baked in pastry, and a ragout of escalopes of foie gras in Madeira wine.
The party uttered cries of amazement and delight while, under the table, surreptitious touches ignited their mutual desires. Feet searched and found one another; hands slipped beneath the cloth while they drank from the same glass. Oysters were passed from mouth to mouth, because, as Casanova said, an oyster should always be drunk with the saliva of one’s beloved. Naturally, the trio moved on to the bedroom, but not before Casanova had swallowed down his habitual aphrodisiac of raw egg whites.
The room was decorated with panelling painted with a shower of birds and blossoms, interspersed with small medallions depicting amorous scenes. The bed was dressed in cream muslin embroidered with small garlands of golden acorns, and scattered with far more silk pillows than was necessary. In the adjoining room, the young women gasped in admiration at the water closet, with its marble toilet bowl and flush valve, and its seat inlaid with fragrant, hardwood marquetry.
‘You may try it out later,’ agreed Casanova. ‘But for now, we have better things to do…’
The magpie cackled brightly as the first rays of sunshine touched her cage. The monk and the Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths shared a breakfast of soup, cold meats, bread rolls and jam.
‘You’re not eating much,’ said Volnay.
‘Blame it on Casanova’s Cyprus wine,’ grumbled the monk. ‘It’s left me with an almighty headache.’
There was a confident knock at the door. The monk cast Volnay a wicked glance.
‘Talk of the Devil… What a hearty constitution! A sleepless night, and you rise with the sun to tell us all about it.’
Volnay invited Casanova to sit with them. With a notable lack of ceremony, the chevalier pulled up a chair and helped himself to a chicken breast, devouring it in two mouthfuls.
‘You will be proud of me, my friends! The job was done in a matter of hours, thanks to a fat purse, natural curiosity, the promise of pleasure, a well-stocked table, fine wine and the delights of conversation.’
‘And?’ Volnay was impatient.
‘And then conversation ceased, I went into action, and triumphed!’
‘So you had a pleasant evening?’ asked the monk, wryly.
Casanova responded with a rhyming couplet:
‘Ye gods, such delight, as I pressed my suit,
And with it the juice of forbidden fruit!’
‘And what did you find out over the course of this restless night?’ asked the inspector, irritated by the monk’s complicity.
‘More than you would ever uncover in the course of your inquiries! A woman’s bed is the best place to discover the secrets of the entire world. Can you imagine—the two minxes began proceedings by undertaking together what they are in the habit of doing with their men! But we exhausted every possible combination thereafter, I do believe.’
Volnay clicked his tongue in irritation.
‘Spare us a recital of your exploits. You sniffed the sweat of their armpits. Where’s the glory in that?’
Casanova affected an air of profound astonishment.
‘For my part, I have always adored the smell of every woman I love, and the more abundant her sweat, the more I am seduced.’
Volnay rolled his eyes and said nothing. The monk smiled, with a rapt expression that spoke of old but vivid memories springing to mind. Seeing that his audience had stopped listening, Casanova sighed.
‘I admit that it was hard work bringing the conversation around to Marcoline, but I succeeded, at length.’
He pulled the last leg of chicken towards him.
‘It was the smaller of the two, the wild girl Maria, who knew her a little. Marcoline visited the house in the Parc-aux-Cerfs only occasionally. She had scarcely known the royal bed, being called upon only when the usual courtesans were unable to satisfy our beloved king. May God save him!’
He crunched the bones between his teeth and discarded what was left, with a troubled air.
‘That was all I discovered…’
The monk heaved a sigh of disappointment, and Volnay shot him a glance, as if to say I told you so!
‘On the other hand,’ Casanova went on, ‘my good lady Léonilde, whom I should be delighted to see again, delivered up some precious information. Shortly before her death, Marcoline had bagged herself a fine pigeon: a mature gentleman, not especially handsome, but with a decent fortune that more than made up for his shortcomings. She had loosened his purse strings all right, and intended to continue, though the man had shown greater reluctance of late.’
‘Blackmail?’ asked the inspector.
Casanova’s expression was non-committal.
‘She did not pronounce the word, but it was in her eyes!’
‘And that’s all?’
‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Casanova. ‘I’m no policeman!’
He held out a glass and the monk hurried to fill it, satisfying his own thirst for information as he
did so.
‘Was this Léonilde able to give you a description of the man?’ asked Volnay insistently.
‘A vague portrait: fifty to sixty years of age, no distinctive characteristics, but a remarkably maladroit lover, it seems.’
The monk rose quickly to his feet.
‘I take it from all this that our victim was leading her lover a fine dance! I’ll take care of young Léonilde, though, alas, I’ll not follow your interrogation techniques. Where can I find her?’
Casanova gave a sly smile.
‘She left my residence less than an hour ago, and is probably now enjoying a well-earned rest. Otherwise, she plies her charms in a house on the Rue de Savoie, near the Palais-Royal.’
‘Noted. I won’t hurry there now, though. I have an experiment to finish first.’
He turned to Volnay.
‘I suggest you call on Marcoline’s landlady and question her neighbours. Perhaps one of them can tell you more.’
The inspector nodded. Left alone, he and Casanova stared at one another in silence.
‘I’m going home to bed,’ said the Venetian. ‘I’m quite exhausted.’
But he made no move and peered at Volnay with sudden interest.
‘You said you were tired,’ said the inspector, irritably.
‘Yes, those ladies were an inexhaustible fount of sensual delight.’
‘Like any whore.’
‘No, Volnay,’ said Casanova, insistently. ‘Like every woman. Their bodies are charged with a living energy all their own. A life source. If God exists, she is a woman!’
‘I cannot follow you into such terrain.’
Casanova gave him an understanding look.
‘I understand your difficulty, Volnay. You do not love women, you fear them.’
‘I don’t fear them,’ retorted Volnay. ‘I merely protect myself from any source of pain.’
Casanova shook his head disapprovingly. Volnay’s words ran counter to his entire philosophy of life, and he felt a sudden urge to share it with this young man.
‘Pleasure is never a source of pain.’
‘But true feelings are! And that, you cannot possibly understand.’
‘Do not believe it,’ said Casanova, vehemently. ‘I have feelings for every woman I bed, and the pleasure she takes is four-fifths my own.’
‘Truly, Casanova, you make me laugh! You seduce women in order to advance your own position in society.’
Casanova’s expression darkened.
‘My conquests are rarely of such quality. Let me tell you a story: one evening in London, I encountered a young lady with whom I made love on the spur of the moment, in a carriage. When we parted, I asked her to introduce me to her friends. She answered coldly that such a thing was impossible, as she did not know me. “I have told you my name,” I said. “Surely you know who I am?” “I know very well who you are,” she replied, still more coldly, “but escapades such as these are not a letter of introduction.”’
He looked up and stared the inspector hard in the eye.
‘Believe me, the touch of naked skin on skin changes nothing. To the aristocracy, we are less than flies!’
The inspector said nothing. Casanova’s face clouded like a sky turning to rain.
‘I know you despise me, Volnay. That’s unimportant. True, I adore parties and whoring. I have sacrificed everything for my one delight, the pursuit of desire, rich one day, poor the next, but losing none of my good cheer along the way. I have known the best and the worst of times, but I have always been my own master, and no one has ever held me in their power. Can you say as much?’
‘Yes. No one has power over me,’ said Volnay, adding sourly: ‘And I flatter no one.’
Casanova was unperturbed. There was a hint of defiance in his reply:
‘I have achieved my wealth by my own talents and merits. The nobleman takes the trouble to be born, and nothing more. And still he takes pride in the fact, the imbecile. He shines by the accident of birth, not the brilliance of his intellect. He pressures his subjects, shearing the wool from their backs, and you find me more dishonest than such as he? Ha! You have no idea what it is to come from nowhere, and to arrive somewhere.’
‘I am a self-made man,’ said Volnay coldly. ‘I’ll take no lessons from anyone on that score.’
The two men locked eyes for a moment, challenging one another. Casanova was indifferent to the inspector’s hostility, as he was to the hostility of any of his own sex. He felt no hostility in return, either. Rather a sense of respect, and a measure of indulgence, as for a wayward student who stubbornly refuses any advice he may be offered. For his part, Volnay grudgingly admitted that Casanova was possessed of some talents. He was brave and daring, despite his faults. He even secretly admired the essential components of Casanova’s life: his high spirits, good humour and wit, his love of intrigue, his courage, his travels, his light-heartedness, and his passion for women.
‘Have you never wished to stop and settle somewhere?’ asked the inspector.
Casanova made no attempt to disguise his surprise at Volnay’s sudden curiosity.
‘At a woman’s side, often. But the feeling soon passes. And never in a city, except Venice…’
He seemed overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of nostalgia.
‘Ah, Venice! Her palaces cast their shadow over my mind. The water she bathes in courses through my veins. Venice lives within me, wherever I go. Venice is a woman: she is mine; she is chastity itself, and a thorough wench. Venice gave herself to me like a whore, then cast me aside. And now I am her client, he who wakes alone, with his purse stolen.’
It was the lament of a soul in exile. Volnay knew Casanova was speaking from the heart, and considered him in a new light.
‘Why don’t you return home?’ he asked.
‘Home! Where is home?’ exclaimed the Chevalier de Seingalt. ‘I was born in Venice, and if I were to return there, I would be left to starve. I was raised in Venice and thrown into prison in Venice! And to think…’
His expression darkened.
‘And to think that I do not even know the whereabouts of my own mother.’
There was a long silence. Volnay was discovering Casanova’s true nature, more profoundly human than he could have imagined, and the prospect frightened him. Chiara would never succumb to an unscrupulous adventurer, but to a vulnerable wounded man…
‘Leave Paris,’ said the inspector, suddenly.
‘What?’
‘You’ll never have Chiara!’
Volnay had shouted the words, and Casanova gazed at him with compassion.
‘Woman is the undisputed centre of our world,’ he said gently. ‘No one could feel more desire, more concern for womankind than I do. I love each one as if she were the first, and the last. That’s my secret. But it seems that Chiara may indeed be the last.’
Volnay swore vehemently under his breath. There was a fluttering of feathers in the magpie’s cage.
‘Casa’s a cretin! Cretin Casa!’ cackled the bird suddenly.
Casanova peered inquisitively at Volnay.
‘What did your magpie just say, Monsieur?’
The monk donned a coat, gilet and breeches in striped blue taffeta, and made his way to the Rue de Savoie, in search of Léonilde. She was nowhere to be found. He visited a number of houses frequented by girls of her kind, to no avail, and set out instead for those other notorious dens of pleasure and solicitation: the cafes of the Palais-Royal, where young women of the world were very much at home. The city buzzed like a hive in the early afternoon sunshine. The monk was delighted to walk out in his finery, proud of his new-found elegance and the admiring looks he drew from the females of the species. He found her walking in the gardens of the Palais-Royal, and greeted her. She seemed to fit Casanova’s description.
‘A piece of gold, young lady, if you will tell me the nicknames our esteemed monarch applies to his girls!’
Taken by surprise, the young woman eyed his fine clothes and flowing,
needle-lace cuffs.
‘I have no idea, Monsieur. Grace, Belle, Beloved?’
The monk laughed aloud.
‘Our beloved king calls them Ride, Rag, Grub and Sop!’
The girl was speechless.
‘But you couldn’t know that, of course,’ he continued. ‘Take this coin—it suits your complexion better than mine!’
She took it without a word.
‘May I know the name of the charming person here before me?’
‘Léonilde.’
The monk hid his satisfaction.
‘Do you read, Mademoiselle?’
Léonilde stared at him. What a curious question!
‘No, sir. I have no use for books.’
‘That’s a shame—a pretty girl like you would have much to gain by expanding her knowledge.’
‘I received a religious education, sir.’
The monk nodded approvingly.
‘Tell me more. I am interested in matters of religion.’
‘Not I, Monsieur. Whenever I misbehaved, my punishment was to be shut in a cellar where they buried the nuns. I wept in terror for hours at a time.’
A ray of pity lit the monk’s face.
‘We each have our cross to bear. Indeed, that’s why I never rush to judge my fellow man.’
She considered him with curiosity and liking. It was her lucky day. After a fine, wealthy nobleman, she was being accosted by a man of quality, to all appearances good-hearted and intelligent. She wasn’t always so fortunate. Two days ago, she had spent three hours attending to the needs of a vegetable-seller from Suresnes, with rotten teeth and an inability to ejaculate. She had suffered his foul breath and his ineffectual thrusts until he had decided to hit her, at which she had cried out, until the madam intervened, remonstrating gently with the sheepish offender. When her client had left, the wicked woman had scolded her, and even slapped her for rousing the entire household over so little.
Casanova and the Faceless Woman Page 26