‘A useful phantom, for keeping unwelcome strangers at bay,’ observed Volnay.
The comte gave a small laugh.
‘You’re beginning to understand,’ he said.
‘Yes, you’re bringing me to a secret gathering—the sign you addressed to the monk indicates that you are one of them. Which is why the monk knows he can trust you. He’s a Freemason himself.’
The comte considered him gravely.
‘Yes. And you, Volnay, you once committed the folly of joining the Brotherhood of the Serpent.’
The inspector lowered his gaze and said nothing. The Comte de Saint-Germain watched him pensively for a moment, then shrugged indulgently.
‘It is time. Follow me.’
He led Volnay to the ruins of one of the castle buildings, doubtless the guards’ quarters. They entered through a narrow opening and slipped between walls of rubble and crumbling brick. Volnay spotted a door, intact in one wall, beneath an oval archway topped by a keystone bearing a Greek cross carved with the words semper dilige, semper ama. The comte pushed hard against it. The hinges were clogged with rust. They found themselves in a room open to the sky. Stone flags covered the floor, surrounded by weeds. The far end was completely overgrown by weeds. The Comte de Saint-Germain strode into the room. Clearly, others had trodden this space before him. He knelt and, with Volnay’s help, began to clear the dirt from an iron trapdoor, opening it to reveal a damp, mossy staircase, down which they carefully made their way.
Volnay was startled by a clang of metal overhead. The trapdoor has been closed behind them! His companion was unperturbed.
‘Stay close to me,’ said the comte. ‘And say nothing unless asked.’
He seemed to think for a moment, then added:
‘In fact, it would be wiser for you to say nothing at all.’
They had reached a long passageway with decaying, yellow-stained walls. They followed it to a cave with a dry well, at the heart of a veritable web of openings. Four galleries opened into the space. Without a moment’s hesitation, the comte took the left-hand passage, leading to another room with a partially collapsed, vaulted roof. Volnay felt a fresh sense of dread. The place was vast, and the darkness seemed alive. The comte took a step forward and the inspector did the same. The darkness seemed to tremble. A torch was lit, and another, and a third, until the shadows were partly consumed by a string of flames, projecting a livid red light around the walls.
The inspector shivered. Before him stood a hundred motionless shadows, all dressed in white, their faces concealed like spectres beneath their hoods. The Comte de Saint-Germain stepped forward fearlessly into their midst. They formed a circle around him and Volnay, who held his breath. They were surrounded by faceless, eyeless spectres clad all in white. He could see the outline of their swords, pistols and daggers beneath the folds of their immaculate robes.
‘Who are you?’ said a voice.
The Comte de Saint-Germain raised one hand and made a sign in the air.
‘Ego sum qui sum. I am he who is. I am the most senior of the Freemasons!’
Three men stepped forward and removed their hoods: the three mysterious visitors who had witnessed the accomplishment of the Red Work in the comte’s workshop.
‘He is who he says he is,’ they said, speaking with one voice. ‘Welcome, Comes Cabalicus, companion of the Kabbalah. Welcome to you, Sanctus Germanus, holy brother!’
A rumour ran through the rows of figures. The comte silenced it with a gesture.
‘Masters of the Grand Orient and Occident Lodges,’ he said, ‘I have come because it is time. By the particular grace of God, I have borne everything calmly, and with fortitude. But I cannot tolerate murder in the name of freedom!’
A deathly silence followed. No one moved. Every muscle was tensed to the extreme.
‘The revolution is afoot!’ declared the comte in a loud voice.
A cry of joy rose from the ranks of the white ghosts, but he stopped it with another gesture.
‘But it will not come tomorrow.’
Again, no one moved.
‘Some sought to hasten its coming and thereby destroy it altogether. One Grand Master has been killed, and all his household. An attempt was made to cut the throat of the man standing beside me here. I suspect the murderers have introduced themselves into our midst tonight! Let us all remove our hoods, and see who is who!’
No one moved, and the Comte de Saint-Germain strode towards one of the spectres, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
‘Wise and learned friend, uncover yourself!’
Without a moment’s hesitation, the monk threw back his hood.
The comte turned to a slender silhouette standing beside him.
‘And you, sweet friend of Italy, uncover yourself!’
The slender silhouette hesitated for a moment, then lifted a delicate hand to its forehead. Volnay stifled a cry of astonishment. The hood fell back to reveal Chiara’s beautiful, luminous features. Spontaneously, the monk reached out to grasp her hand. The wall of figures all around them seemed suddenly to collapse. Hoods were thrown back one after the other, and friends turned to one another in astonished recognition. Quickly, the Comte de Saint-Germain paced around, taking Volnay with him. Not a single face from the Brotherhood of the Serpent! The monk and the comte exchanged disappointed looks.
‘Friends,’ said the comte, ‘ensure that in each of your homes, there is a spacious, hidden chamber served by underground passageways, so that the brothers may attend meetings in safety. You must tread praise and blame, fear and hope underfoot, for your mission is none other than to do all in your power for the greater good of humanity, and never to dishonour mankind with base actions. Men have been motivated by a misplaced love of their country, to wage wars against one another, when all are brothers, differing only in the tongue we speak, and the clothes we wear. Our lodges are spread throughout the world. Today, we bring together the lights of all the nations to form a single movement, from France to the Americas! One single republic across all the world!’
Everyone left before sunrise. The comte, Volnay, Chiara and the monk were the last to leave the vaulted chamber. Carefully, they replaced the trapdoor. The ruins of the castle were bathed in moonlight. Slowly, they stepped forward, crunching the sand and stones underfoot. Volnay glanced at Chiara as she walked, her head lowered, saying nothing. The comte was pensive and silent. Only the monk showed his habitual good humour, whistling quietly between his teeth. Suddenly, he stiffened, every inch the old soldier.
‘There are people here!’
Everyone froze. It seemed to Volnay that he sensed stifled breathing in the darkness, the fever of expectation, and a flash of steel in the light of the moon.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the comte calmly, ‘it is time to draw your swords.’
Everyone did as they were instructed, and Volnay placed Chiara behind him. There was a rush of drawn steel. Ghostly figures floated towards them through the ruins, clad in long capes. They were twenty in number, their faces hidden beneath large, broad-brimmed hats. Slowly, they advanced to surround the group, swords in hand.
‘Mademoiselle… Gentlemen,’ said the monk, in tones heavy with irony, ‘it’s a fine day to die!’
The comte raised one aristocratic eyebrow. His smile flashed in the darkness.
‘My dear monk, I fear you may have spoken too soon. Remember, I am he who knows!’
As he spoke, a troop of men in black, armed with swords and pistols at the ready, jumped out behind the oncoming assailants. At their head was the Comte de Saint-Germain’s trusted guardian, the man who liked to twiddle his moustaches between his fingers. The cloaked attackers span around in panic—nothing is worse than to be ambushed from behind, just as you believe victory is assured. Pistol shots, the clatter of swords, cries and groans were heard, but a harsh, powerful voice rang out, exhorting them to group together and hold their position. Baron Streicher had no intention of surrendering.
One of the attackers,
who had approached the Comte de Saint-Germain’s little group, seemed not to have heard. He raced forward, eyes staring. The monk skewered him carefully on the point of his sword then pushed the body away with his foot, to extract the blade with greater ease. The comte had not moved a muscle. Already, another attacker was racing towards them.
‘The youth of today,’ sighed the monk, parrying a sword thrust, and attacking in turn. ‘Determined to keep us all hard at work!’
Disorderly, hand-to-hand fighting broke out in the midst of the ruins now. The blades scattered sparks in the moonlight, and the clash of metal echoed all around. From time to time, a shot lit the darkness.
Suddenly, a man threw himself forward, whirling his sword and clearing a path through the dark silhouettes. He was followed by another swordsman. He caught Volnay’s eye for an instant. There was a howl of rage, and the man chased after him, followed by his accomplice. Volnay recognized his pale, weasel face. With extraordinary presence of mind, he blocked the fatal blow the man was preparing to bring down upon him, and delivered a sharp stab with his dagger, then parried another thrust, crossing blades with such force that his fingers ached. From the corner of his eye, he saw the comte fighting with a new arrival, equally determined to try his luck. The monk was also locked in combat, his forehead pouring sweat.
‘Forgive me for not asking first,’ he told his adversary, ‘but I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill you.’
Volnay fought with clenched teeth, but found it hard to face the crazed onslaught of the heavily armed man. He retreated in despair, anxious to ensure he remained between his attacker and Chiara. Suddenly, the weasel-faced man gave a howl of pain. Chiara had hurled a sharp rock directly at his head. Volnay struck his sword from his hand, and swiped the tip of his blade along the man’s throat without a second thought.
The fighting was coming to an end. The comte and the monk had each dispatched their adversaries, and were congratulating one another. Some of the attackers lay groaning on the ground. The men in black were running them through, one after the other. Their leader delivered his report to the comte, with his usual sangfroid.
‘All dead—’
He broke off at the sound of a scream of agony in the night, followed by a hideous gurgle.
‘All dead now,’ he corrected himself, with not a shadow of a smile. ‘Baron Streicher was with them. He fell in the midst of our assault, but the others carried on fighting without him.’
‘After what they did to the Grand Master and his household, they could expect little clemency on our part,’ said the monk. ‘Which is just as well.’
Slowly, they returned to the comte’s carriage. White-faced to the point of translucency, Chiara held back. The monk offered her his arm. Volnay fought not to turn around and clasp her to him. Seated facing her in the coach, he tried to catch her eye but failed. At length, he turned to the comte.
‘Monseigneur, there are two mysteries that remain to be resolved. Where is the letter you were looking for, and who took it? And who killed and disfigured the second victim, Marcoline?’
The comte nodded gravely.
‘I shall solve the first before your eyes, at my mansion, but to my great consternation, I have no answer to the second!’
Volnay smiled, and his face seemed to flood with renewed happiness.
‘As to the latter, Monseigneur, I have an idea, but I need you to make it a reality!’
XVIII
My memories are a constant source of happiness. I’d be a fool to make regrets that serve no purpose.
CASANOVA
They stood in the comte’s laboratory, a splendid room that was its owner’s pride and joy, and which Chiara and the monk seemed greatly to appreciate, commenting in detail on the many different experiments a person might carry out with such fine equipment. A furnace glowed red in each corner. The monk scurried from one copper crucible to the next like an excited child, inspecting the spatulas and the residues at the bottom of the dishes, admiring the acids, and the phials sealed with wax, discovering gold and silver dust here, mercury or copper vitriol there.
In particular, the comte was experimenting with coloured pigments, and explained how he hoped to discover a new blue dye that would earn fortunes for French traders.
‘But the Great Work?’ Chiara pressed him, breathlessly. ‘The Great Work?’
The comte smiled indulgently.
‘My experiments have resulted in three types of product: a volatile fluid, an oily substance and lastly a solid residue. Too often, alchemists use the four elements: earth, air, fire, water. But I mix them with three substances: sulphur, mercury and salt, because the three together form a solid body. When alchemy decomposes something into its constituent parts, the sulphurous principle separates like a combustible oil or resin. The mercurial principle flies into the air like smoke, or manifests itself as a volatile liquid, and the saline principle remains, as a crystalline material, or an indestructible amorphous substance. Take a piece of wood and set it on fire—the sulphur burns, the mercury is exhaled as smoke, and the salt remains in the ashes.’
Unlike his two companions, Volnay was thoroughly bored by the Comte de Saint-Germain’s explanations. He was far from displeased when a servant appeared to interrupt them.
‘Forgive me, Monseigneur,’ announced the newcomer with all due ceremony. ‘Madame la Marquise is here.’
‘Hurry, man! Show her in,’ said the comte briskly.
They all left the laboratory for an adjoining salon, its floor covered by a vast carpet or Persian silk.
‘Your Lordship…’ said the servant.
The comte bowed low and the marquise entered. She urged the comte to stand up straight, pressing his hand.
‘Do not bow, my friend,’ she said. ‘You are my equal, if not my master.’
She turned to Volnay, who stood watching, dumbfounded.
‘Such is the case, Chevalier. Things are not always as they seem, and he who trusts to appearances is but a fool.’
Volnay watched as the marquise’s shadow obliterated the silk carpet’s elaborate arabesques.
‘Do you have the second letter, Madame?’ asked the comte.
The marquise gave a solemn smile.
‘Thanks to the monk, to yourself and to our friend here.’
On cue, Casanova entered the room, drawing a gasp of surprise from Volnay and Chiara together. He was magnificently dressed and wore an expression that was bold and contrite in equal measure. Solemnly, he held out the letter, to the Marquise de Pompadour.
‘Madame, I was wrong to conceal the letter, but now I can make amends. For you, Madame…’
And he bowed, adding, for Chiara’s benefit:
‘And for the young lady’s beautiful eyes!’
Chiara flushed with indignation. She seemed to be discovering the man’s extraordinary duplicity and audacity, all at once. Volnay, for his part, would happily have ripped out the Venetian’s guts there and then. So many days, so much effort wasted in search of a letter that had been in the hands of their accomplice all along! The monk simply rolled his eyes to heaven, in which he had little enough faith as things stood. He could not believe Casanova had been touched by the grace of God. But the fact remained that the Venetian stood smiling sweetly at Chiara like a love-struck boy, as if he had just proved his undying passion, and his natural good faith.
‘You have done a great wrong,’ said the marquise, with great severity.
Then her features softened.
‘But you have done the right thing, at last. All is well that ends well.’
The Chevalier de Seingalt bowed once more.
‘And besides,’ added La Pompadour, ‘I am not so very surprised by your good deed. Did you not write in one of your letters: “Wretched the nation that dies of hunger and poverty or is massacred by all Europe to fill the coffers of he who has betrayed it”? Because that is indeed what you wrote to one of your friends—is it not, Chevalier?’
Casanova paled very slightly, t
hen nodded.
‘Ah yes, Monsieur,’ said the marquise, ‘we intercept letters, and open them here in France, just as they do everywhere else. The postal inquisition is a thing to be feared. You should take greater care in future, brother…’
Everyone in the room started at the word, except the comte.
‘Yes,’ said the Marquise de Pompadour, ‘the Chevalier de Seingalt, like everyone here, is a Freemason, though he has taken a very different path from ours!’
‘As for you…’
She turned to the monk.
‘Monsieur, or dear brother—since the term has a second meaning in your particular case—you were the first to solve the riddle. You called the Chevalier de Seingalt to order, and reminded him of his duties. I cannot express my gratitude too highly. You are the bearer of a fine name, a great name, and I hope to recover it for you one day. No one deserves it more than you.’
The monk acquiesced with a gesture of exquisite humility though his eyes sparkled with his characteristic intellectual pride.
Carefully, the Marquise de Pompadour opened the letter and read it slowly, with an air of intense concentration. Finally, she gave an indecipherable nod and held the letter out for the comte to take.
‘Kindly burn this.’
The comte took it carefully, as if he dreaded to touch it, then read it through. He looked up.
‘Have you read it?’ he asked Casanova.
The Venetian gave a wry smile.
‘Of course! I needed to know its true value.’
The comte smiled briefly.
‘Thank you for your honesty.’
He turned to the others.
‘Each of you played a part in this adventure, and each of you was initiated into certain truths, this past night. You may read the letter, then, like the Chevalier de Seingalt. You will see that it designates me as the leader of the Freemasons in France and throughout Europe. I gave it to the Marquise the Pompadour so that she might make me known to certain of her friends, but I kept a copy as a precaution.’
Casanova and the Faceless Woman Page 32