He followed the path pointed out to him by the men, and reached the forest edge. The road passed close by, lined with stunted bushes. A short distance away, he saw the silhouette of a ramshackle inn. Windows rattled in the evening wind, shutters slammed, and the signboard creaked back and forth. Volnay approach cautiously and glanced inside. No sign of the assassins on his tail.
The inn reeked of burnt fat and woodsmoke. The floor of the ill-lit room was strewn with filthy straw. Volnay took a seat and scanned the drinkers’ congested faces. Nothing to fear. No comely serving girl either, but a tall, surly woman distributing pitchers of sour wine that grated on the tongue, with an air of fierce devotion to duty. The blood coating the inspector’s scalp had dried to a dull brown crust, and his clothes were in a pitiful state. The woman eyed him suspiciously. As luck would have it, the jacket Volnay had thrown on hastily contained his fat purse.
He ordered slices of roast bacon, devoured them and asked to see the innkeeper, bargaining with him for the price of a horse. The deal was soon struck—the price was clearly of little concern, and a worn-out creature stood patiently waiting for death in the stables. Volnay rode slowly back to Paris, taking care to avoid the busier highways. At every crossroads along the way, tall crosses and saintly shrines offered their illusory protection against the forces of destiny. But in his heart of hearts, Volnay knew that danger and death would overtake him soon enough.
At sunrise, a key turned in the lock on Volnay’s front door. A furtive shadow slipped inside. The man drew back his hood.
‘Damn the law! Damn the law!’ cackled the magpie suddenly.
The monk approached her cage, smiling.
‘I see my lessons have not gone unheeded!’ he said quietly. ‘You’re a fine pupil, sweet bird, but don’t let Monsieur de Sartine hear you say such things!’
Then he called out:
‘Are you there?’
He went to the bedroom. There was no one there, and the bed was cold.
‘He didn’t sleep here,’ he muttered, running his hand over the mattress. ‘That’s unlike him. He’s not one for staying out all night in bad company, as some of us did in our youth.’
The monk returned to the magpie’s cage.
‘Where’s your master? He was supposed to see me yesterday afternoon, but I waited in vain. He sent no word. Strange…’
He peered at the bird’s feeding dish, narrowing his eyes.
‘Well, it seems he wasn’t planning a lengthy absence—you’ve almost nothing left to eat. That’s not like him either. An unexpected occurrence, then.’
He thought for a moment, and made his decision.
‘You’ll come with me, my lovely. Your master loves you dearly, and I will not leave you here all alone.’
He took hold of the cage and placed it on Volnay’s desk.
‘I’ll leave a note. And pray there’s no trouble with the king.’
‘Damn the king!’ cried the magpie.
‘Enough of your insolence,’ said the monk amiably, ‘though it is music to my ears!’
The monk returned to his own lodgings and donned his gentleman’s clothes. He cut a fine figure, and stood admiring himself in the glass, when the magpie became suddenly agitated.
‘What is it, my lovely?’ The monk turned in surprise.
The magpie was flapping around her cage, scattering seed as she fluttered her wings. The monk stood for a moment, then hurried to the window.
‘The Royal Watch! Clever bird!’
He slipped a purse into his pocket.
‘Essential munitions. Things are clearly taking a turn for the worse…’
He climbed onto a table and opened a small window high in one wall.
‘I’ll be back for you, have no fear!’ he told the magpie. ‘But for now, I had best keep out of their way.’
He eased himself out through the narrow window with agile grace, and pulled himself up onto the roof.
‘Fine work for a man of my age!’ he muttered happily.
XV
Be of good cheer and earn your beauty!
CASANOVA
Volnay entered Paris at dawn. He must warn the monk immediately. His friend and the magpie were the only creatures he cherished now, in this miserable world. He wound his way through the narrow, dirty streets of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine to avoid being seen. He held a handkerchief to his nose, against the stench of urine. The destitute, filthy, ragged crowd parted to let him through. He left his horse at an inn, and mingled with the throng, anxious to discover whether his house was being watched. He saw two riders posted outside, their hats pulled low over their faces, capes around their shoulders, swords at their sides. They were waiting for his return. The monk must be either dead or in hiding. Slowly, he turned around, careful to resist the urge to run. A firm hand was placed on his shoulder. He turned, and found himself face-to-face with three archers of the Royal Watch, in their grey jerkins and red coats.
‘Chevalier de Volnay? You are under arrest. Kindly come along with us.’
They led the inspector to a carriage drawn by four horses, and ordered him to climb inside. Seated in the coach, Sartine eyed him coldly.
‘Better late than never, Monsieur the Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths!’
One of the watchmen saw Volnay into his seat, then climbed down from the coach.
‘The riders are mine,’ Sartine continued. ‘As soon as I heard what had happened at the Master’s house, I had your house searched, and the monk’s. We found nothing in either, only your strange collaborator’s cursed alembics and furnaces, for his heretical experiments!’
A cold smile lit his face, but stopped short of his eyes.
‘The monk has had the good sense to make a run for it, at least. He’s a skilled dissembler, always able to disappear in plain sight on the streets of Paris, as you and I well know. But I’ve got you! Murderer! The Master’s entire household!’
‘It wasn’t me!’
Sartine trained his lifeless eyes on Volnay.
‘The question is not whether you are the murderer, but whether you can prove that you are not.’
He rapped the coach window, ordering the coachman to move off.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To the Châtelet. We’re delivering you in comfort, at least!’
Volnay ventured a glance through the carriage window. The two riders had placed themselves either side of the vehicle.
‘Don’t even think of it,’ said Sartine, reading his thoughts. ‘They would strike you dead on the spot, and I have another armed man seated next to the coachman, under the same instructions.’
All was lost! Volnay felt the tears well in his eyes.
‘The killings were ordered by the Comte de Saint-Germain!’ he yelled.
‘Oh, indeed?’
Sartine shot him an ironic look, then continued:
‘The king greatly enjoys the company of the Comte de Saint-Germain. He delights in the tales of his travels through Africa and Asia, his anecdotes from the courts of Russia and Austria, even the sultans! There is little prospect of my calling on the king, to tell him—on the word of a police inspector arrested for murder—that his friend the comte has connections to a dangerous brotherhood.’
‘A brotherhood?’
Sartine tore off his wig in a sudden access of rage.
‘Do you think me an utter fool? Did you truly believe that because you had been placed at the head of this investigation, I would charge no one else to shadow your inquiries on my behalf?’
Volnay sighed, thinking of the many spies that he knew had swarmed around him from the beginning.
‘I knew you would,’ he whispered, at length, as much to himself as to Sartine.
The chief of police stared at him scornfully.
‘As for the people killed at the estate, are they not members of some secret brotherhood, to which you yourself belonged in the past? You joined the police, and by a remarkable stroke of luck—or careful planning
—you brought yourself to the attention of the king and secured the post you hold today. I’ve been making inquiries about you. Dear God, the things I discovered! I could have withdrawn your commission, or had you clapped in prison, but I did neither. It pleased me to think that my Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths was a man with a past even stranger than the crimes he was investigating. It gave me a hold on you, should the need arise. But that’s of no use to me now. You are a man without a future.’
Volnay shook his head, bitterly.
‘You knew I had been a member of the Brotherhood of the Serpent? You’re like the Cyclops in the legend of Ulysses. You do me the favour of eating me last…’
‘You have a talent for stirring things up,’ said Sartine.
He fell silent. Volnay glanced out of the window. They were crossing the Pont-Neuf. Crowds thronged the bridge. In the distance, the grim silhouette of the Châtelet rose like a bird of prey. They heard the coachman cursing and calling out as he pulled the horses’ reins to the right or left.
‘What do you know about the Brotherhood?’ asked Volnay, quietly.
He was trying to distract Sartine’s thoughts, so that he might drop his guard. The chief gave a short laugh. He liked to display his vast knowledge, especially of things that were supposedly secret.
‘The Brotherhood of the Serpent! A conspiracy acting in the shadow of royal power, which aims to bring down the latter and replace it with government by and for the people. Its current motto is Lillias pedibus destrue—“Crush the fleur-de-lys underfoot!” A pyramid structure: novices observe a five-year probationary period before being initiated into the first of twelve levels of knowledge. There are secret signs and sacred words that allow members to communicate under cover. They say the Brotherhood of the Serpent survived the fall of ancient Sumer by joining with the Egyptian mysteries, and establishing itself in Europe with the rise of Christianity.’
He paused, and lovingly stroked his wig.
‘Its ancient motto is Novus ordo seclorum: “The new order of the ages”. And it has recently adopted another: Annuit coeptis: “Our endeavours find success”.’
Sartine recited the information like a diligent schoolboy. He continued in the same, neutral tone:
‘Recruitment to the Brotherhood is chiefly limited to France, Italy and parts of Germany. The Brotherhood of the Serpent has not agreed to join the wider Freemasonry movement, because the two hold somewhat different beliefs. Your own, murdered Master was the architect of the attempted rapprochement. Which suggests the existence of a violent faction, of which you are very probably part, that has secured the upper hand and seeks to uphold the Brotherhood’s independence, by force if necessary.’
‘You’re remarkably well informed,’ said Volnay, with studied indifference.
Barely had he spoken the words, when he dived towards the carriage door, slipped through Sartine’s hands, startled the escort’s horse and raced to the parapet of the bridge. The crowd stared as Volnay jumped down into the Seine, while the first shots rang out above him.
Volnay stayed huddled in a warehouse until dark, shivering in his wet clothes. When he emerged, they were almost dry, but his sorry appearance left much to be desired. Worse, he was coughing, and had lost his purse in the river. Staggering with exhaustion, he wandered the loud, busy streets thronged with hurried passers-by and beggars, peering enviously into the windows of shops selling hot pastries and meat pies baked in wood ash. Standing back to let a carriage pass, he glimpsed a familiar profile silhouetted in the window and threw himself at the coach door.
‘Hands off my master’s carriage, peasant!’
The coachman’s whip cracked across his face and Volnay yelled in pain. Casanova put his head out of the coach window.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘This villain was blocking our path, Monseigneur!’
Volnay tried to move closer. The whip cracked overhead.
‘Chevalier de Seingalt!’
He fell to his knees.
‘Chiara!’ he cried, without knowing why.
‘One moment!’ Casanova called out. ‘I’ll have no one whipped like a cur. And who is this queer fellow, who knows my title, and the name of my love?’
Cautiously, he climbed down from the coach and approached the inspector.
‘Chevalier de Volnay? Is that you? What a state you are in! Whatever has happened?’
Volnay staggered to his feet. His cheek burnt.
‘I cannot go on—I beg your sanctuary.’
Gently, the Venetian took him by the arm, glanced briefly around the street, then helped him into the carriage.
‘You have got yourself into a fine tangle, my young friend,’ he said, feelingly. ‘You’re wanted for the murder of an entire household to the south of Paris!’
Volnay nodded. He was dazed.
Casanova continued:
‘Knowing your exceedingly upright character as I do, I should be surprised if there were any truth in the rumour. But a rumour it is…’
He gave Volnay an ironic smile.
‘Rumour, Inspector! Perhaps now you understand how its victims suffer!’
Volnay said nothing. To have fallen into the hands of the man who had stolen Chiara from him was unbearable. But he was too weak to leave.
Casanova shot him a swift glance.
‘My friend, I cannot take you to my mansion. My coachman is a trustworthy fellow until his tongue is loosened by a well-stocked purse, and Paris swarms with spies, as you know. The higher orders may be unaware of a connection between you and me, but I am a well-known figure, and as such I am under constant surveillance from the king’s police.’
He narrowed his eyes and considered Volnay with a mixture of gravity and human sympathy.
‘Here’s what we shall do: we’ll get down from the carriage in a moment or two. I’ll order the coachman to wait, and take you to a house where you will be well treated, and where you may even find a measure of enjoyment. With discretion, mark you. A young woman, Sylvia, lives there with her mother. They rarely entertain at home; they both work in a very respectable house. The women are in my debt—I have done them one or two small services. I should add that when I call on them, I honour mother and daughter together in the same bed. Neither is jealous of the other. There, you have it all!’
The street was crowded with an endless stream of vehicles, riders, fruit-sellers, water-sellers and passers-by. Casanova and Volnay strode into the throng and were soon lost to sight. They reached a street lined with improvised stalls selling an array of spices. Tooth-pullers plied their trade, too. Casanova led Volnay to a tall, two-storey house. Grey columns decorated its facade, supporting a flower-decked balcony. He gave a series of loud knocks on the door, followed by another series of quieter knocks. Shortly, footsteps were heard inside, and the door opened.
‘Chevalier!’
A tall woman stood in the open doorway. She was not yet forty, but her appearance suggested a faded flower. Despite her regular, pleasant features, she exuded a dry, authoritative air, likely to appeal to admirers of severe, self-assured women.
‘Madame, may we come in? My companion is dead with fatigue, and needs to rest.’
At that moment, Volnay suffered a violent coughing fit and shook from head to foot.
‘Is he ill?’ asked the woman anxiously, frowning.
‘As ill as any man who has spent the day in wet clothes after suffering two or three blows in a sword fight,’ said Casanova hurriedly. ‘The poor fellow was forced to leap into a tub of water to escape a jealous husband who came home too early, after which he spent all day shivering in a leafy arbour before slipping discreetly away. I found him in this sorry state. Obviously, I could have taken him back to my residence, but the jealous husband is aware of our friendship, and may well have come calling. If you were able to lodge him here, discreetly, for a few days, I should be forever in your debt.’
The Chevalier de Seingalt spoke with such conviction that the inconsi
stencies in his story were quite forgotten. As if by magic, he also produced a pretty purse, bulging with coins. The door closed behind them. Safe at last, Volnay felt his legs give way beneath him. The shock of the previous night, the murder of the Master and his household, his flight through the forest, the encounter with the wolf, his ride through the night to Paris, and his spectacular escape from Sartine’s carriage swam before his eyes, and he was close to collapse.
‘Quick! He is about to faint!’ cried the woman.
Casanova supported Volnay. With the help of the robust woman, he took the inspector to a neat, clean bedroom, where a decent mattress awaited. Volnay opened his eyes one last time, and saw the woman’s dress stretch under the weight of her bosom as she bent over him.
‘You need to rest,’ she said in a husky voice. He felt her remove his boots. A freshly laundered sheet covered him like a shroud. Immediately, he sank into a deep sleep, like an exhausted child.
The mistress of the house treated Volnay with almost maternal care, and was at equal pains to keep Sylvia, her undeniably charming daughter, at a safe distance. The girl had her mother’s regular features, and chestnut curls framed her pretty oval face. She had a slightly aquiline nose, and hazel eyes with long, dark lashes. Only her somewhat calculating eye hinted that here was a woman of pleasure, with no small experience of the world.
The mother closed the door firmly behind her. She had brought the inspector a bowl of chicken broth, wine, cheese and a thick slice of white bread. Volnay devoured his meal and fell asleep again immediately. A small noise woke him, several hours later. He opened his eyes. With the shutters closed, and the slats pulled down, the room was almost completely dark. He saw the gleam of a pair of eyes in the shadows.
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