‘Are you fond of ice cream?’ asked the monk, abruptly.
He took her to the Procope. The parlour served ices flavoured with rose petals, toasted orange flowers, brown bread and fresh butter.
‘Did you know, Léonilde, that the Chinese and Arabs had the secret of iced sweetmeats? The caliphs of Baghdad drank syrups mixed with snow—chorbet. At the court of Alexander the Great, mixtures of finely chopped fruit—macédoines—were served with honey, in dishes topped with snow. Nero would dispatch horses to gallop back from the far mountains with iced mixtures of rose water, honey, fruits and pine resin. And by the grace of God, Marco Polo brought us the sorbetière!’
‘I’ve heard that story. Yet I doubt Marco Polo ever got as far as China—in fact I even doubt he set foot in Asia,’ said Léonilde, raising a sceptical eyebrow. ‘The adventures of Marco Polo are certainly the fruit of his own imagination, and yet people still speak of him, centuries later.’
The monk nodded and steered the conversation to the subject of Marcoline. The young woman was no fool.
‘The Chevalier de Seingalt has told you about me, hasn’t he?’
‘Why should he have done that?’
She frowned delicately.
‘I spend the night with him. He asks me about Marcoline. And next day, here you are asking me the same thing.’
‘You’re right,’ the monk admitted. ‘The chevalier did indeed talk to me about you.’
‘That’s rather dishonest of him, especially after he gave proof of his tender feelings towards me, seven times over, in the course of the night.’
‘Proofs of that nature are fleeting indeed.’
‘And you,’ she stated, plainly disappointed. ‘You are a dishonest man, too.’
‘My natural disposition is to be frank, but experience has taught me to exercise caution,’ said the monk.
She stared him in the eye.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘I’m looking for the man Marcoline was blackmailing, and her probable killer.’
The blood drained from Léonilde’s face.
‘She’s dead? Dear God!’
She moved closer.
‘I never saw him, but what she told me about him seemed very strange to me.’
And she told him everything she knew.
‘Ah,’ said the monk. ‘That is indeed most peculiar.’
XIII
The most delightful place on earth loses its charm the moment one is condemned to live there in perpetuity.
CASANOVA
‘Rise, oh most desired sun!’ said Casanova on waking.
And the sun had risen at his command, so that he stepped out of bed in a thoroughly good mood, and set out to pay Chiara a visit.
The young noblewoman kept the Venetian waiting. She was washing her face with sweet almond oil, in a room decorated with crystals and seashells. A ceramic stove purred gently beside a bath filled with still-steaming water. The traces of her bare, wet feet dried fast on the marble floor. Her dressing table was covered with pots of ointment, small soaps perfumed with the rarest essential oils, and phials of rose and orange flower water.
Chiara was in a sorrowful mood, and the rituals of her toilet helped her to forget her troubles. She had offered her lips to Volnay, and now she had heard nothing from him for almost three days! It seemed clear to her now that the indifference he had shown her when he left with the comte’s assistant, proved that the inspector had accepted their reconciliation solely in order to set the trap that had delivered the charlatan into their hands. She bore a grudge against Volnay now, and against the male species in general, hence the coolness of her greeting to Casanova once she had dressed—in a long, white muslin gown tied at the waist with a pink ribbon.
‘How are you, Chevalier de Seingalt?’
‘Exceedingly well! Beset with thoughts of you, my nightly dreams are delightful indeed, and put me in the best of spirits.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
Somewhat taken aback, Casanova tried in vain to cheer her, and was on the point of leaving when Chiara spoke:
‘Give me your arm, we shall take a walk.’
They went down to the cool shade of the gardens.
‘Do you believe we can go back in time?’ she asked when they were under the trees.
‘No, Chiara, I do not,’ said Casanova firmly.
It had just occurred to him that the thought of Volnay was the only thing standing between them.
‘Truly?’
She seemed to think for a moment. Like the springtime all around them, her thoughts returned to the beginnings of life.
‘We are children for so short a time, after all,’ she said.
Casanova had no idea what to say.
‘And so, do we become what we are destined to be, as children?’ she asked.
‘Indeed, perhaps we do. The world is there all around us, and the people around us affect the way we see it, from the start. Do you know who my parents were? Actors! They trod the boards, and now my stage is the royal courts of Europe. I spend my life playing my own part, and I admit that here, today, I am beginning to tire of it…’
As so often when he spoke about his life, and his boundless freedom, Chiara looked enchanted.
‘And yet your life is one great adventure book, filled with women, and gaming, and travels. You’ve even added a few touches of magic!’
Their hands joined for the briefest of moments, then parted.
‘Will you leave here, Chevalier?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Yes, one day,’ said Casanova, evasively.
‘And why? Do you not like Paris?’
‘The most delightful place on earth loses its charm the moment one is condemned to live there in perpetuity.’
She walked on a few paces, joining her hands behind her back like a little girl preparing to misbehave, or speak out of turn.
‘Would nothing keep you here?’
‘You keep me here, Chiara. You. Not this ridiculous investigation, about which I understand not the slightest thing.’
She enveloped him in a warm, appreciative gaze, then gave a doubtful frown.
‘My dear old liar. How delightful it would be to listen to your talk, and abandon myself to you, in your arms!’
She leant forward to kiss him tenderly on the lips, then stepped back. Casanova stood as if turned to stone.
‘But,’ she added indulgently, ‘I do not trust your feelings for one second—only your desire. And for me, that is not enough.’
They walked on, along a path of fine sand lined with firs and beech trees.
‘No one believes that I am capable of feelings, like anyone else,’ sighed Casanova. ‘And yet I loved my mother more than anything in the world, and she refused to acknowledge me.’
There was a long silence. A bird began to sing.
‘And so what is love, for you?’ asked Chiara.
Casanova thought for a moment, then said slowly:
‘A sacred monster that we may define only in paradoxes. A bitterness sweeter than anything imaginable; a sweetness more bitter than anything on earth.’
Chiara fidgeted uncomfortably.
‘You’re becoming melancholy and disenchanted. That’s not like you at all!’
They had reached the edge of a copse. Ahead lay a glimpse of a leafy arbour, the very spot where Volnay had kissed her. Chiara shivered and turned on her heels.
‘Let us go back inside. You can tell me the source of this melancholy.’
Suddenly, Casanova was close beside her, smiling and joking.
‘Be my princess! I’ll build you a palace of precious gems. I’m sure the Comte de Saint-Germain will be able to help!’
As if by magic, his hand closed around hers. Laughing, he led her after him, and she held him back, because she knew where he was taking her. The box hedges raced past, and the ground seemed to slip from under her feet. She pretended not to understand; she feigned reluctance, but her heart was beating fit to burst an
d the blood pounded in her ears. They ran up the steps, under the astonished gaze of the footmen, and crossed a painted, gilded passageway. Breathless, she stopped him in the doorway to her bedroom, but he laughingly slipped past her and seated himself with authority on the fringed silk covers of her bed, inviting her to join him.
Casanova breathed her scent, impatient to know where her perfume ended and the smell of her skin began. The hem of her dress was split to reveal an underskirt, explored now by Casanova’s hand, like a mariner discovering a new world. She ventured to protest, but he stopped her mouth with a long, deep kiss.
Chiara never knew how it happened. She resisted for a time, then weakened as he kissed her, before surrendering herself, trembling. The soft mattress cleaved to her body; she lay her head against the white eiderdown, and realized that she was listening to him, answering him, allowing him to touch and caress her. Casanova’s hand reached under the blue, boiled satin underskirt that flattered her waist, crushing the lace beneath. Her body surrendered, surprised and delighted at his expert touch. His weight did not oppress her, and his warmth communicated itself to her. Above them, on the canopy over her bed, plump cupids embraced solemnly. She felt suddenly transported into their midst, among the fleecy clouds that decorated her ceiling.
Dazzled, Casanova covered her smooth, radiant body with a thousand kisses. He made love to her passionately, but when he pulled away to spare her, she held him to her and whispered:
‘Draw blood!’
‘I want to melt into your body,’ Volnay had written, thinking of Chiara.
The setting sun cast a strange glow over the streets as he stepped outside. After the storm, the bright puddles looked like sky holes in the street. He thought of the rain that had brought them together in the leafy arbour. The rain was his ally. He set out for the mansion of the Marquis D’Ancilla.
Her body breathed once more. She had experienced the climax of passion. Overhead, the cupids gazed sadly down. Chiara lay across her bed like a discarded flower. She turned her head slightly to one side and saw that it had rained during their love-making. The windowpanes were dotted with constellations of teardrops. She thought of another shower of rain, from which she had sought refuge in another man’s arms, and her eyes brimmed with tears.
‘There are caresses that wound, like repeated blows,’ she whispered.
‘Cheer up,’ said Casanova. ‘Gloominess is the death of me.’
*
Volnay watched as Casanova’s carriage drove out from the forecourt. He saw the Venetian’s profile framed in the coach window. Driven by a sudden sense of impending disaster, he hurried forward. The gates had not closed. He saw Chiara, who had accompanied Casanova to his carriage, pacing the courtyard. Her soft, dream-like expression told him straightaway what had happened. He froze, struggling to master the pain that spread through him now, like poison. Then, silently, he turned and walked away.
XIV
Is there a living soul on this earth who has seen me eat or drink?
COMTE DE SAINT-GERMAIN
The comte’s trio of visitors bowed. One was a man in his seventies, of dignified bearing, with a white beard covering a determined chin. The other two men, both of mature years, were utterly dissimilar from one another. The face of one was adorned with a nose shaped like a potato, and eyes that sparkled with intelligence. The last, but far from least, of the three was painfully thin and starved-looking. The skin of his face lay close over the skull beneath; his cheeks were hollow, and dark, yellow-brown rings circled his eyes.
The Comte de Saint-Germain greeted them with his habitual show of politesse, addressing each in turn: ‘Monsieur le Duc,’ ‘Master’ and, finally, ‘Captain.’
‘Monsieur le Comte,’ said the oldest of the three, the man whom his host had addressed with the title of duke, ‘we have come at your invitation. We represent the Masonic lodges of Saint-Pierre and Saint-Paul, the Arts Sainte-Marguerite, the Parfaite Union, the Louis d’Argent, the Loge de Buci and many others besides. All stand ready to unite and take action, but not as a federation under a single leader.’
‘Do you know who I am?’ asked the comte.
‘I know who you claim to be!’ said the other man delicately. ‘But I am none the wiser for that. The Marquise de Pompadour speaks very highly of you. But that will not suffice, though we hold her in the very highest esteem.’
The comte said nothing, but walked over to his desk and opened a locked drawer, from which he removed a sheet of parchment.
‘Here is the document you have come for.’
The three men studied it closely; then the oldest man muttered:
‘The man who must come will show three signs: the parchment, the talisman and the gold. You have shown us the parchment, which is in order. Do you have the talisman?’
The comte presented it to them, folded in a piece of purple silk. It was a polished, round plaque, encased in metal and imprinted with curious designs. The obverse showed the mysterious number ‘two hundred and sixty’, arranged over eight lines; the reverse showed the planet Mercury as an angelic youth with wings on his back and heels, brandishing a caduceus like a sceptre in his right hand, and with a star on his head bearing the Latin name ‘Mercurius’.
The two younger men were unstinting in their compliments, but the oldest man smiled into his beard.
‘They say this talisman has the gift of eloquence, and the power to incline its owner to learning in every branch of the sciences. It suits you perfectly, Monsieur le Comte, no doubt about that!’
His companions glanced at him in surprise, then nodded silently.
‘The parchment, the jewel—both are here, although you might have stolen them both,’ said the gaunt-faced man. ‘But if you are truly who you claim to be, then you must be in possession of the lapis philosophicae, the philosopher’s stone!’
‘O ye of little faith!’ exclaimed the comte. ‘And your faith in God depends on the proof of miracles, no doubt?’
Still, he led them smiling into his laboratory, picked up a phial and held it before their eyes.
‘Behold, and honour the aqua Tofana,’ said the comte.
The three men clustered around him, feverish with excitement. The Comte de Saint-Germain prepared the mixture using the aqua Tofana and a little mercury ore, then left it to heat in a crucible over a hot flame.
‘This, mixed with aqua Tofana, is the philosophers’ mercury, whose secrets I cannot reveal. But know that I have used a mercury ore known as terre d’Espagne, filtered through a fine linen cloth to remove any remnants of slag. This mercury is essential to the Work, for it combines both sun and moon. The mineral alloy obtained is sufficiently subtle that it can withstand the tyranny of fire. I reduce it to ashes, to cleanse it of its impurities, then I make it react, to gold or silver. At this stage in the process some call it the Virgin’s milk, or the dragon’s tail.’
The group watched in fascination as the mixture putrefied and turned black.
‘This phase is termed the Raven, or the Dark Work,’ said the comte.
The heat was tremendous, but the comte showed no sign of sweating. He took another phial filled with a greenish liquid and mixed its contents with the black amalgam.
‘The green lion’s blood, one of the Work’s most secret materials.’
He poured the resulting mixture into an athanor, and continued heating it.
‘The Work is wholly natural, but we control its circumstances, and an even distribution of heat is primordial. The virtue of a well-directed fire operates upon our Work.’
After an hour, the mixture turned sparkling white.
‘The White Work…’ breathed the oldest of the three onlookers in admiration.
The group held its breath. They knew that, at this stage, the stone was capable of turning lead into silver, but that if it was heated further, the white would turn red, the colour of the perfect philosopher’s stone—the Red Work, through which the dead entity of gold would be wholly transformed, and brought to
life.
‘This all seems quick enough to you,’ observed the comte, ‘but make no mistake, I have laboured for months and months to produce the aqua Tofana, and the green lion’s blood.’
The comte poured the White Work into a long-necked glass bottle and sealed it, then placed it to heat in the athanor.
‘The longer the mixture is cooked, the more subtle it becomes, and the more subtle the mix, the better it is able to penetrate and transform the material.’
He continued heating the mixture, and added a little mercury.
‘Mercury alone perfects the Work,’ he said solemnly.
When the mercury began to give off black smoke, the comte hurried to another furnace, from which he removed a glowing piece of charcoal, using tongs to transfer it to the bottom of the crucible, where he gave it a sudden blast of fire. Melted in the flame, the mixture turned saffron yellow. The comte added a few pinches of powdered gold. The composition turned orange, then took on the appearance of coagulated blood, then turned a glossy red.
‘The Red Work!’ chorused the trio ecstatically.
Deftly, the comte poured the mixture into an ingot mould, and the group watched in amazement as it cooled, turning gradually to a beautiful golden hue.
‘You hold a boundless fortune in your hands!’ declared the oldest of the three men.
‘Gold is never an end in itself, gentlemen,’ replied the Comte de Saint-Germain sagely, ‘but we shall use it to finance a revolution one day!’
*
The Master’s estate was thoroughly well maintained, with a judicious mix of woodland, vineyards, orchards and fields. Blossoming apricot and peach trees greeted Volnay with a first wave of colour as he entered the property. Further along, roses, narcissi, amaranth and daffodils spread carpets of colour at his feet, and in the heady bouquet of fragrance, Volnay recognized the scent of jasmine, tuberose and roses, mixed with the subtler perfume of lilac, almond blossom and gardenias. The gentle murmur of streams rose to his ears, accompanied by birdsong. Fountains burst skywards, filling the air with the glitter of silver and gold.
Casanova and the Faceless Woman Page 27