After a few moments, he got to his feet and told her:
‘The word of the Sun is in your soul, and you shall bring forth your own self, changed to the opposite sex, early next February!’
Then he sent the marquise home, with instructions to remain in bed for one hundred and seven hours.
A window overlooked the garden, and the room was attractively arranged with furniture upholstered in moiré silk embroidered with a delicate chain motif. Casanova joined the monk after almost an hour, his face still red with effort.
‘Forgive me for making you wait, my dear friend,’ he said. ‘I was seeing to a matter, the resolution of which was rather more complicated than expected.’
‘It’s a pleasure to wait in such charming surroundings,’ said the monk politely.
He was dressed liked a cleric, in black, so as to pass unnoticed in the crowd. As often before, he found himself a fugitive in this life, though he seemed unmoved by the latest turn of events. He looked around the room. A painting on the wall caught his eye. It showed a young girl sitting on the grass with her lover beside her, attempting to slip a hand around her waist. Taken by surprise, the girl was half-turned towards the viewer, and had lost one of her shoes, revealing a seductively arched foot.
‘A fine work, is it not?’ said Casanova, walking over to the picture.
Suddenly, he froze. The monk was holding the narrow blade of a dagger to his throat.
‘Chevalier de Seingalt, you’re going to have to speak the truth for once,’ he said in a tone of quiet determination.
With six inches of steel against his windpipe, Casanova nonetheless kept his calm.
‘Gently, monk, whatever’s the matter?’
The other man grinned.
‘I have been thinking a great deal recently, and realized at length that I had been scuttling crabwise, sidelong to the truth, while staring it in the face! The Marquise de Pompadour, the Devout Party and heaven knows who else are looking for a letter. Volnay took only one from the dead woman’s body, and I trust him as I would trust my own self. What, then, happened between the moment when the young woman stepped down from the marquise’s carriage, carrying the letter, and the moment when Volnay arrived at the scene of the crime?’
He eased the pressure on the blade, for a moment, but continued talking.
‘Wallace followed the young woman as soon as she emerged from the carriage. He lost sight of her when she ventured into the small courtyard. Later, when she had collapsed in the street, Wallace approached the body but was forced to hide when others arrived on the scene. And who was out walking that night? You! I questioned the men of the Royal Watch, who were first on the scene after that. They found your lady companion unconscious, and you told them that she had fainted at the sight of the corpse. You were entirely at liberty to remove the letter. The truth shines bright: it was you, because it could be no one else! My logic never fails to dazzle me.’
‘You’re mistaken. The letter must have been stolen by the man Wallace,’ said Casanova calmly.
‘Wrong! He said he took nothing from the dead woman’s body.’
‘He was lying!’
‘Why would he? Everything about him announced that he is telling the truth. If he had taken it, he would have hurried away from the scene with it. But he did not. On the contrary, he remained on the spot, then set out to hunt for the letter.’
‘Perhaps he was looking for the second letter.’
‘Which was of no importance, given that he had the first? And if he had taken one, why not both? No, Wallace took nothing from the dead girl. It was you!’
‘Your logical mind is playing tricks,’ said Casanova, breathing more harshly now. ‘It has landed you in prison more than once, remember that!’
‘My logic is irrefutable, and we are all quite stupid not to have seen it from the very first. If you do not hand over the letter I’ll slash your face so that no woman will ever desire you again. I can do it! I’ll make you the most repugnant creature on earth!’
‘You would do no such thing—I, your saviour from the Piombi!’
The monk grinned.
‘My poor friend. I remember our escape all too well. You had me scrape so hard my arms are still stiff!’
‘You would never have succeeded without me. It was I who procured the tool you used.’
‘And once we were out, it was I who dragged you away by force when, at the sight of the Grand Canal in the sunshine, you burst out sobbing like a child that has been forced to go to school!’
‘I was thanking God with all my soul, for His mercy,’ protested Casanova, ‘and my tears expressed the gratitude I felt in my heart.’
‘God is dead,’ hissed the monk, ‘and before long, you won’t be in the best of health either.’
Swiftly, he pressed the blade of his knife to Casanova’s face.
‘No woman will ever look at you again, I swear!’
A bead of blood shone on the Venetian’s cheek.
‘No! No!’ yelled Casanova. ‘A world without women is death itself. I would give you the letter, if it were still in my possession.’
‘Cunning,’ said the monk, ‘but you’re a fool. You’ve kept it, to orchestrate the bidding to the very last second. That’s enough talk. Say goodbye to your boyish good looks! Chiara will gaze in horror upon such a face as yours!’
The monk felt Casanova’s body stiffen against his.
‘Behind the painting! It’s behind the painting!’
The monk stared around the room. His eye came to rest on the young girl with her silk-stockinged foot. He pushed Casanova in front of him, then struck him hard in the nape of the neck with the handle of his dagger. He held Casanova’s body against him, then let him fall to the floor. He approached the painting and examined it once again, reflecting that truly there was nothing more enchanting than a young girl’s tender abandon, in the grip of love’s first pangs, nor anything more sensual than a pretty foot without a shoe. Alas, all that was behind him now! Carefully, he took down the picture. Behind it, a letter was fixed with two nails. He prised them away, took the letter and read it.
Anyone watching would have seen a look of utter stupefaction paint itself over the monk’s features.
‘Would you care to hand it to me now?’ said a cold, calm voice behind him.
The Chevalier de Seingalt had recovered and got to his feet. He stood massaging his skull and pointing a pistol. The monk froze.
‘I’m too kind… I should have struck harder. Now Volnay is done for!’
Volnay walked across to the window and opened it wide. The air was mild and sweet. He breathed deeply. Gathering his strength, he pushed open the shutter slats and glanced down into the crowded street. One had left his cart, laden with cabbages, carrots and leeks, immediately underneath the window. He saw the door open and close below, and sighed at the thought of the flirtatious young woman now climbing the stairs. He opened the shutters wide, then turned. Three men walked into the room, dressed like gentlemen and each wearing a sword at his side. Volnay’s blood froze in his veins. Sartine had found him!
One of the men stepped forward. He had a swarthy complexion, and his face was sharpened by a soft moustache twisted into long, slender points. He rolled one end carefully between his fingers before he spoke.
‘Monsieur, no harm has come to the two women sheltering you here. You have my word. Come with us, we’re here to help you. We must act swiftly. I fear this may not be a safe house much longer.’
Volnay nodded.
‘Lead the way, gentlemen.’
He gestured for them to walk ahead of him down the stairs, then turned suddenly and leapt from the window, hoping the vegetable cart was still standing just below. He landed on a bed of watercress and leeks, then jumped down to the ground in a flurry of greens and began to run. He collided with a water-carrier, who cursed him roundly, and overturned a basket-seller’s stall.
‘Quick, this way!’
An old man with a faintly familia
r face was gesticulating for Volnay to follow him. Cries rang out behind him. The inspector hesitated for a second, then hurried after the man through a door and down two covered passageways leading to a small courtyard. They crossed it and found themselves in another, narrower street. The old man hurried to a door studded with thick black nails, pushed it open, then clutched Volnay by the wrist, pulled him inside and slammed it shut behind them. He pressed his hands against Volnay’s mouth, urging silence. They heard the sound of running feet outside, then nothing. A candlestick on a table shone a faint light around a sparsely furnished room with a beaten earth floor. The stranger’s lips stretched in a thin smile as he moved to the centre of the room. With one hand he tore off his knitted hat and wig, and his false moustaches. As if by magic, he seemed to straighten up. When he turned, the candlelight cast a discreet glow on a high forehead furrowed with discreet thought lines.
‘You!’ cried Volnay. ‘God in heaven! Whatever are you doing here?’
‘Once I had found out where you were, I rented this house by the week,’ said the monk. ‘Your place was under close surveillance.’
‘Surveillance? By who?’
‘Who knows who the spies are working for? That was why I sent you a message. I planned to get you out of there by night, dressed in women’s clothes. You would have made a most charming hostess! But instead, here you are in broad daylight, with a posse on your heels.’
‘I scarcely had any choice in the matter,’ grumbled Volnay. ‘A group of men came for me.’
‘What did they look like?’
Volnay described them briefly. The monk nodded thoughtfully.
‘I see. Ham-fisted lot!’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘I’ll explain later. For now, you’re going to throw on these vegetable-seller’s rags and come with me, and hope there’s no one on our tail. Hold fast! Things can only get better.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Volnay, though he was resigned to understanding nothing of the monk’s schemes.
‘To see the only person who can protect you now: the Comte de Saint-Germain!’
XVII
By the particular grace of God, I have borne everything calmly, and with fortitude.
COMTE DE SAINT-GERMAIN
The Comte de Saint-Germain was impeccably attired, as ever. He held a phial sealed with wax at arm’s length, as if to verify the perfect whiteness of its contents. Quietly, the monk cleared his throat to announce their arrival.
‘Come hither, Chevalier de Volnay,’ said the comte, turning to greet them. ‘And my thanks to you, my friend, the mysterious monk, for bringing him to me. You are aware of what remains to be done now?’
The monk nodded silently, clasped Volnay tightly in his arms, then left the room. The inspector was beyond surprise now. The comte pointed to a tray on a table covered with a red velvet cloth.
‘This carafe contains a maraschino liqueur, with black cherries. You’re quite pale. Take a glass. You’ll find it’s softer and sweeter than a kiss.’
The inspector stood motionless.
‘And this,’ said the comte in a soft voice, ‘is the universal spirit of nature.’ He shook the phial gently. ‘Atoétér.’
He spoke as if to himself:
‘Stir all things, that the truth may surface, nothing but the truth…’
‘The truth!’ said Volnay, bitterly. ‘Where can the truth hide now? Everything exists in appearance only, and behind your fine painted panels, appearance itself is an illusion. The truth is nowhere!’
‘Or rather, the truth lies elsewhere,’ said the comte.
‘You have used me!’
‘And what would you have me do otherwise?’ exclaimed the comte. For the first time, there was a note of irritation in his voice. ‘You were charged with a criminal investigation by the king himself, and everyone was watching you! When I learnt of the theft of the letter, from the Marquise de Pompadour, our suspicion fell straightaway on Mademoiselle Hervé, because it could only have taken place in the carriage. And we already suspected her of spying for Monsieur de Sartine. Which is why the young woman’s death caused us such torment. We thought that you had kept the letter. The marquise sent Chiara to your house, and we had it searched, unbeknown to you, unlike Wallace, who turned the place upside down. After that, we tried the monk’s lodgings—’
‘You didn’t dare!’
The comte signalled for Volnay to calm himself.
‘Again, the Devout Party were ahead of us. We would never have made an attempt on the life of our illustrious monk, for whose science and humanity we have the utmost respect. But to them, he is a worthless heretic whose very existence is an aberration in the sight of God. Which explains the murderous attack on him. But they were no more likely to find the letter with him, than with you—were they not? The mystery thickened. Mademoiselle Hervé’s murder, and its appalling consequences, tormented us still. Who could have committed such horror? And why? Fortunately, you gave us the key to the mystery when you brought my assistant’s trafficking to light. A misappropriated concoction, not the letter, was the cause of Mademoiselle Hervé’s death. Sadly, as fate would have it, the missing letter was in her possession.’
‘And the second victim?’ asked the inspector.
‘With a second murder, the mystery thickened, as you are aware!’ said the comte. ‘We feared some ill-judged action on the part of the Brotherhood of the Serpent, to discredit the royal house. The Brotherhood had joined the dance. They were impatient, eager to outstrip the Freemasons in the Western world, and the Orient. But remember that all the while, Sartine—though careful to keep a low profile—was keeping watch. He set his spies to follow your every move.’
The comte interrupted his own account.
‘You supplied the letter, and we could all breathe once again, but only for the briefest of moments: the letter was not the one we had all been expecting. Who could have imagined our king would supply Mademoiselle Hervé with such a message, for me!’
His eyes blazed with a brief flash of anger, but he continued in the same measured tone:
‘Everything was suddenly more complicated. But I had plenty to occupy me: the new leader of the Brotherhood, Baron Streicher, feared the Grand Master’s return. I went by night to warn the Master and bring him back with me to Paris, but he would not hear of it. I did not know you were a guest in his household, or I should have guessed what would happen next, and brought you both back by force! Your visit to the Grand Master must have precipitated things. They understood you had come to warn him, and in so doing you signed the death warrant for the entire household. “He who betrays the Brotherhood, dies by the Brotherhood.”’
‘But after that…’
‘I tried to protect you as best I could, once I had picked up your trail in Paris. I had the house, and your enemies, watched. I feared for your safety, and I decided to have you captured and brought here. Alas, you preferred to escape by jumping out of the window. But here you are nonetheless, happily enough!’
‘How did the monk know he could trust you?’ asked Volnay, thinking aloud.
‘Because I gave him a sign.’
‘A sign?’
The comte made no reply, but smiled mysteriously. Volnay was exasperated.
‘Where is the monk? I demand his return!’
The comte took him gently by the arm.
‘We shall go and join your friend. He has gone ahead, and is following my instructions. A man can hope for no better lieutenant than him!’
‘How can you send him your orders?’ asked Volnay.
‘You’ll see soon enough.’
Volnay followed the comte. He was dumbfounded. They left the mansion by a hidden door and climbed into a carriage stationed a few streets away. A swarthy man stood beside the door, twirling his moustaches between his fingers and watching them as they approached with a meditative air.
‘Here is a man we can trust,’ said the Comte de Saint-Germain, pointing to him. ‘I gave him
the task of bringing you to me.’
Volnay was beginning to understand. He addressed the man:
‘Forgive me, Monsieur, for not following you earlier.’
‘No matter, sir,’ said the other politely.
His hand touched the hilt of his sword as he added evenly:
‘I failed to exert my full powers of persuasion!’
The carriage seats were upholstered in beribboned grey velvet and set with silken cushions. A leather blind protected the passengers from the gaze of the street. The carriage moved forward slowly, and little by little, the din of the city ceased. The road was bumpier; the vehicle shook and lurched. The first, scattered trees gave way to woodland of oak, wild cherry and larch, dotted with yellow shoots. A dense pine forest swallowed them whole, and spat them out. Lifting the curtain over the door, Volnay saw the proud ruins of a castle on a distant crag.
‘One thing bothers me,’ he said. ‘Why, in your position, would you bother to circulate such rumours about yourself?’
‘I am not their source!’ declared the Comte de Saint-Germain. ‘But I have made use of them, indeed, because what police force would suspect me, a man whose name is on everyone’s lips, of being a man of the shadows, operating in secret?’
Night was falling when they stopped. It seemed to Volnay that they were in the midst of the ruins he had seen earlier. A round, half-collapsed tower stood beside a ditch filled with rubble and a few, scattered pools of dark, stagnant rainwater. A tall, round keep was still standing, peppered with holes. For the rest, all that remained were crumbling expanses of wall, foundation stones and pillars strewn over the ground and overgrown with ivy and weeds. They followed a barely distinguishable path covered with moss and ferns.
A silhouette wearing a white veil materialized from behind a column. Volnay felt an icy sweat drench his back. The spectral apparition seemed to float towards them. His heart pounded, but he soon recovered his reason: beside him, the comte showed no surprise or fear.
Casanova and the Faceless Woman Page 31