Casanova and the Faceless Woman

by Olivier Barde-Cabuçon

  ‘Dear God! What has brought you to such a place as this?’

  ‘Chiara!’

  He felt a wave of happiness and suffering that was quite detached now from the simple pleasure of the kisses they had exchanged just a few days before.

  She seized his hands.

  ‘The Chevalier de Seingalt told me you were here. He can help you. He is accustomed to… complicated situations.’

  Volnay stared at her delicate, blue-veined hand, and covered it with his own. She shivered, then gazed deep into his eyes. She stayed that way for some minutes, and much was shared, though unspoken. Then their tongues loosened and they began to talk. Volnay told her about his visit to the Master, and everything that had happened since. Chiara listened with the careful attention accorded when visiting the sick, then cleared her throat, and spoke in turn:

  ‘I am going to see the Marquise de Pompadour. At this stage, she alone can help you and save you from that wicked man Sartine, and the Brotherhood.’

  She rose to leave.

  ‘Chiara, I…’

  A tear shone in the corner of the young woman’s eye.

  ‘I know, yes.’

  Volnay was unsure they were referring to the same thing, but he sensed the strength of her feelings, and said nothing. He felt a fleeting urge to go to her, collect the teardrop on his fingertip and put it to his lips, to savour its taste. The taste of happiness, perhaps?

  ‘The Chevalier de Seingalt is waiting for me,’ she said, in more confident tones.

  ‘Casanova…’

  ‘He saved you, and has treated you as a friend, remember that! I must go now, but I shall be back, with good news.’

  She opened the door, and turned to him one last time. But Volnay lay stretched out on his bed, as if in a faint. To associate Chiara and Casanova in his mind demanded an effort of will quite beyond his powers. He heard her light footsteps on the stairs. Just as on that terrible night at the Master’s house, his curiosity, and his despair, got the better of him. He emerged from his room and stood motionless at the top of the winding stair. He bent forward to listen.

  Casanova was waiting for Chiara downstairs.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘He needs help. I will go to the marquise.’

  ‘The wisest course, indeed…’

  Casanova’s finger followed the trace of Chiara’s tear.

  ‘Gaiety, Mademoiselle, is shared by a happy few, but sorrow mirrors the ghastly sufferings of souls condemned to eternal punishment. Be of good cheer and earn your beauty!’

  He wanted to embrace her, but she pushed him away.

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘One kiss…’

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps later. Volnay is here…’

  ‘Upstairs, in his room.’

  There was a rustle of silk, and a woman’s stifled sigh, then:

  ‘No, I say, not here!’

  Volnay was destroyed. He returned to his bed; he did not hear the rest of their conversation on the doorstep.

  ‘Chiara…’

  ‘No, I tell you! You will never have me again if you carry on so. I never want to feel your hands on me again!’

  ‘Then what about my mouth?’

  He pulled her roughly to him and forced his lips on hers. She yielded briefly to the pleasure of his kiss, then pulled away, trembling.

  ‘You are exceeding the bounds of decency, Monsieur! If you dare take me one more time, I’ll have you roundly thrashed by my lackeys!’

  ‘But Chiara…’

  ‘There is nothing more to say, Chevalier. Neither my heart nor my body are yours. Oh, and one more thing—you are old, sir, and your kisses are marred by the unpleasant smell of an older man’s mouth.’

  They both turned to see the young woman who had answered the door to them standing in the kitchen doorway, watching them attentively. She wore a pale-coloured dress that showed her slender hips to fine effect. Her breasts were prominently displayed atop a tight corset, barely covered by a delicate lace handkerchief tucked into the low neck of her dress.

  ‘Let us go,’ muttered Casanova, uncomfortably.

  Sylvia watched them leave, with the beginnings of a smile at her lips. She went up to Volnay’s room and asked innocently:

  ‘Who was the gentleman who accompanied that young lady here? He seems much taken with her…’

  She stole a sidelong glance at Volnay. He was staring into space, and said nothing.

  ‘The young lady, too, indeed,’ she added quickly. ‘She was kissing him most passionately on the doorstep.’

  Sylvia watched the blood drain from Volnay’s face, with satisfaction. She came to his bedside, hesitated for a moment, then ran her hands though his mane of black hair.

  ‘It’s all a mess!’ she whispered.

  Only afterwards did she see the tears in his eyes.

  The beggar narrowed his eyes and peered at the front door of the house.

  ‘Is this the place?’ he asked the coachman who accompanied him.

  ‘Yes. I got down from the carriage out of curiosity, and watched them as they walked along the street. I saw them go in through that door. Now give me that second coin.’

  The monk’s face shone with a cold smile, in his beggar’s rags.

  ‘Take it. And may God forgive you for betraying your master, the Chevalier de Seingalt, poor Christian as you are!’

  ‘I should not have betrayed, him, as you say,’ said the other man bitterly, ‘if you had not also promised to reveal to me the secret of heightened vigour, when I honour my wife in the performance of my conjugal duties.’

  ‘She or any other of her sex,’ joked the monk.

  ‘Hold to your promise!’

  The monk sighed.

  ‘Very well. All you have to do is urinate three times into the wedding ring while reciting In nomine Patris. And if you’ve lost the ring, the keyhole of any church door will do.’

  ‘Is that all?’ asked the man, doubtfully.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the monk solemnly. ‘Alternatively, eat a roasted woodpecker seasoned with holy salt before the conjugal act. For identical results.’

  ‘Very well…’

  The monk sighed as he watched the man walk away.

  ‘People will believe anything in this day and age.’

  XVI

  I feel the thunder anew but am powerless to strike the bolt

  CASANOVA

  Father Ofag narrowed his eyes. His fingers drummed absently on the table as he waited for the person who would deliver him the letter at last. The letter that had caused the death of his beloved Wallace, a pure heart in a rugged setting. The letter had alarmed the Marquise de Pompadour and the proud, sinister Brotherhood of the Serpent. Perhaps even Sartine knew of its existence. All Paris was looking for it and now, at last, it was to be brought to him on a silver platter. Naturally, the seller was asking a great deal of money, but what was gold compared to the downfall of the Marquise de Pompadour and her henchmen?

  A few minutes more… Ofag was modest in triumph. He was a man of the shadows, a soldier of God. He cared little for monuments or statues, so long as his life’s work was complete.

  The sound of boots echoed on the stairway. At last, the bearer was announced—the bearer of the letter that even the most capable police officer in Paris had failed to find. The man stepped into the room, and Father Ofag exclaimed:

  ‘Chevalier de Seingalt! What a pleasure!’

  He disliked the new arrival thoroughly, but hid his aversion beneath a forced smile. Casanova strode towards him. For once, he was plainly attired in a generous black cloak. A long sword hung at his side, and a dagger was tucked into his belt.

  ‘So! Has my favourite thief brought me the letter?’ asked Ofag, in an access of uncharacteristic cheer.

  Casanova looked offended.

  ‘I am not in the habit of thieving, and I am disappointed that you should hold me in such low esteem. Here is the truth of the matter: I come to the aid of a woman who has been struck
to the ground, I kneel beside her, and discover that she is dead, and her face torn away. My companion falls into a faint. And as I prepare to come to her aid, too, my hands discover a letter on the body of the dead woman. Alas, it finds its way into my pocket!’

  ‘And so it occurred to you to offer it for sale.’

  ‘I soon saw that the letter was of interest to a great many people! Be thankful I have chosen to sell it into the hands of good, Christian folk.’

  ‘May God forgive you, for you have sinned indeed,’ said Father Ofag indulgently.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t think there’s much to forgive,’ said Casanova smoothly. ‘An honest ruse is the sign of a cautious mind. And he who is incapable of exercising that, is a fool.’

  ‘Have you got the letter?’ asked Ofag impatiently.

  Casanova gave a cold smile that stopped short of his eyes.

  ‘The bidding has been intense,’ he said solemnly. ‘You’ll have to double your price if you wish to remain in the running.’

  A heavy silence ensued. The clergyman was the first to speak:

  ‘Heathen! For the salvation of your soul, and your duty to the preachings of Our Lord Jesus Christ, you should seek lasting treasure in heaven, over temporal riches here below!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Casanova. ‘I bring you your enemies’ heads on a plate, and here you are haggling over the price and telling me to take my payment in heaven?’

  ‘Tum podex carmen extulit horridulum!’ growled Father Ofag, green with rage.

  Casanova stiffened. He understood perfectly well what he had just heard. He was accused of farting out of his own mouth!

  ‘We shall strike a bargain right now, or not at all!’ declared Ofag. ‘I’ll agree to your price, but I must have the letter!’

  Casanova tensed at his threatening tone. He had arranged a motley escort of hired thugs, who stood waiting outside, on the stairs. Ofag knew they were there, but doubtless had other tricks up his sleeve. The Venetian’s fingers closed tight around the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Gently, my friend, gently…’

  Father Ofag had spotted the gesture, and it unsettled him.

  ‘There will be no attempt made against you. I gave you my word at the outset of our dealings. I am acting for the greater good of Christendom, you know that.’

  ‘I’m sure Christendom will be most grateful,’ said Casanova, without a trace of a smile.

  ‘Do you have the letter with you?’

  The Venetian sighed. It pained him that anyone should still think him as naive as all that.

  ‘Of course not! Send a man to me with the money, and I will hand him the letter.’

  He paused for a moment, then added:

  ‘Please.’

  The monk was escorted into the Comte de Saint-Germain’s workroom with all due ceremony. Left alone, the two men eyed one another at some length.

  ‘I’m delighted to see you again, Monsieur de—’

  ‘No names, please!’ interjected the monk. And he softened his brusque tone with a polite bow of the head.

  ‘As you wish,’ said the comte. ‘But I know who you are, by any name.’

  The monk frowned slightly.

  ‘In truth, it matters little who either of us is.’

  ‘There’s truth in that,’ breathed the comte, with a brief gesture of the hand, to which the monk responded in kind.

  ‘I honour and respect the aqua Tofana,’ intoned the monk serenely. ‘I am the sword of fire that chases out the impurities of this earth. I am the invisible and unavoidable blade that will reach you wherever you may be.’

  The comte nodded. He showed no sign of surprise.

  ‘I am the diamond scales,’ he responded. ‘I weigh the fate of mankind.’

  A long silence ensued.

  ‘I believe I know whence you come,’ said the monk. He held his breath. ‘Am I right? Are you who I think you are?’

  ‘You will have no firm answer, my friend. I am of no place, and no time,’ replied the comte, and his voice was like the faint murmur of a stream. ‘Beyond time and space, my spiritual being lives its eternal existence. By diving deep into my thoughts, journeying back down the ages, I may become whomsoever I desire.’

  ‘In that case, I believe we can do business,’ concluded the monk, with an impish gleam all his own.

  There was a knock at the door of Volnay’s new lodgings. Sylvia went to open it. Outside, there was no sign of the Chevalier de Seingalt, no elegantly dressed noblewoman, but an old man with a basket of eggs, who addressed her straightaway, before she had a chance to speak:

  ‘I’ve come with the eggs you ordered for your patient. Give me a coin—we may be watched. There is a letter for him under the straw.’

  ‘A letter for who?’ asked Sylvia, pale-faced.

  ‘For your patient. Quickly, the coin! I may be watched!’

  The young woman did as she was asked. No sooner had she done so than the strange peddler turned on his heels and hurried away. He disappeared around the corner of the street, limping as he went. Thoughtfully, Sylvia closed the door and slipped her hand beneath the eggs. She found a sealed letter at the bottom of the basket. She held it up in front of her in hopes of reading something, but to no avail. Slowly, she climbed the stairs. When the handsome young man had read the letter and fallen asleep once more, she would discover its contents for herself.

  Volnay was sitting in the room’s only armchair, lost in thought. He received the letter with surprise, but read it attentively. Sylvia busied herself about the room, dusting the shelves unnecessarily, straightening the sheets, passing back and forth behind Volnay in the hope of catching a line or two of the letter’s fluent hand.

  ‘I am here,’ wrote the monk simply. ‘Do not venture out. Tell the mistress of the house that I will visit you at nightfall.’

  Tired of waiting, Sylvia wrapped her arms around Volnay’s neck and read the letter outright.

  ‘So you’re to have a visitor. I am forewarned!’ she said. ‘Another lady?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Volnay, unsure whether to unfasten the arms from around his neck, or to stay caught in their delightful embrace.

  So the monk had escaped from Sartine and picked up his trace! Perhaps he was there right now, below the window, doubtless heavily disguised. Life had taught him the hard way to exercise caution when required.

  ‘Good!’ said Sylvia, in satisfied tones. ‘I must go out now. Promise me you’ll be good while I’m gone? I shan’t be long.’

  She sat herself on his lap. Volnay showed no reaction, so she placed a kiss on his lips, then rose and left the room, laughing. Volnay sat alone in the darkened room, lost in thought. He barely seemed to have noticed Sylvia’s departure.

  The oracles had spoken. The Marquise d’Urfé must be inoculated by Casanova that very day, in order to be reborn later in the body of a male infant. Casanova had prepared the credulous, superstitious noblewoman for the procedure, over a period of months—and Chiara and Volnay had denounced the proceedings from the moment they had all first met. To support his actions with the ageing marquise, whose fading charms did little to spur him on, Casanova was accompanied by a young assistant, charged with restoring his vigour, if such were to prove necessary. She was presented to the marquise as a water sprite, freshly risen from the waters of the Seine, and readily accepted as such. The water sprite had presented the marquise with a slip of paper, upon which was written: ‘I am mute, but not deaf. I rise from the Seine to bathe you. The hour is upon us. We must do the bidding of Oromasis, king of the Salamanders.’

  Assisted by two servants, they had first made an offering of gold to the Seven Planets. The Marquise d’Urfé had provided the requisite coin, but little suspected that the coffers which were subsequently tossed into the waters of the Seine contained nothing but lead. After that, they had repaired to La Petite Pologne, the residence of the Chevalier de Seingalt, for a purifying bath, before taking their places in a spacious bedroom. The windows stood open, f
or it was a hot day, and Casanova was to perform the act of inoculation three times, for enhanced credibility. And so, as the monk approached along the central avenue leading through the grounds, he was greeted by the mingled cries and moans of two women.

  ‘The monk!’ growled Casanova, emerging from the bedroom when his servant came to announce the caller. ‘He can come back another time, or wait!’

  The chevalier was in a bad temper. The second assault had continued at some length, and his hair was plastered in sweat, mixed with powder and ointment. The elderly marquise had encouraged him by wiping his brow as he worked, and the young water sprite delivered caresses calculated to help him retain his habitual vigour. He could have cheated and faked the climax of their coupling, of course, but he disliked such stratagems and wanted to give the marquise proper value for her money.

  And so the monk was asked to wait in a small room set aside for coffee. Encouraged by the water sprite, Casanova was able to prepare for the third act of coitus, dedicated to the god Mercury. The chevalier was accustomed to fresh, youthful bodies. The marquise’s withered breasts, wrinkled skin, black-painted eyebrows and furrowed complexion caked in white make-up robbed him of his powers. Conscious of the situation, the water sprite demonstrated considerable feats of imaginative intervention, but alas, the instrument of the marquise’s pleasure remained dormant. Confronted with the chevalier’s impotence, the water sprite saved the situation by drawing on her extensive learning in the Venetian arts, and initiated the marquise in the delights of Lesbos. The spectacle stirred Casanova to renewed action, grunting and sweating under the younger girl’s encouraging eye, congratulating him on his ability to satisfy the god Mercury. But he whispered in her ear:

  ‘I feel the thunder anew, but am powerless to strike the bolt.’

  The water sprite assisted the Marquise d’Urfé in her attainment of la petite mort, but gave Casanova an unequivocal sign: he would have to fake his climax, though he disliked cheating. Casanova sighed, stiffened and simulated an impressive series of convulsions that left the marquise quite speechless.