The marquise touched him gently on the arm.
‘And I should never have taken the letter. Too dangerous…’
Her pale eyes surveyed the company.
‘Now you understand why so many people were searching for the letter so actively. To compromise the comte is one thing, but to compromise me is to thrust France into the hands of the Devout Party, or the first adventuress with an ounce of brain between her ears to slip between the king’s sheets.’
The Comte de Saint-Germain held out the letter to Volnay, who refused it politely.
‘I do not need to read it, Monseigneur; your word is enough.’
The comte gave a slight nod of the head, before offering the letter to Chiara, and the monk. Each refused it with the same courtesy. And so the Comte de Saint-Germain held it over a candle flame, before carrying the burning paper to the chimneypiece, where it was consumed. Only when the flames licked at his fingers did he let it go.
At that moment, a liveried servant knocked and entered.
‘Monseigneur, they are here,’ he said simply.
The comte sighed and turned to Volnay.
‘Monsieur the Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths—I trust you know what you are doing! There can be no turning back now.’
At that moment, Sartine entered the room, and the temperature seemed to drop by a good ten degrees. A heavy silence engulfed everyone present. Only the monk’s eyes sparkled, as always at the beginning of a fine experiment, or a thorny problem. The comte stepped forward, frowning.
‘Thank you for coming, sir.’
Sartine bowed gallantly before the Marquise de Pompadour, then greeted the comte.
‘It is my duty,’ he said in grandiloquent tones, ‘to present myself wherever Madame la Marquise commands.’
He glanced around the room and fixed his gaze on Volnay.
‘Though it brings me into strange company indeed,’ he said gruffly.
‘Monsieur de Sartine,’ said the marquise hurriedly, ‘listen to me, I beg you. Have you followed my instructions?’
Sartine bowed once more, with extreme deference, but his eyes were as cold as ever.
‘Madame, as you suggested in your letter, I have been to the ruins of the castle you named, and found the bodies of a number of fanatics, identified as members of the Brotherhood of the Serpent. One corresponded exactly to the description given by the peasants who saw them hurry away from the home of the former Grand Master of the aforementioned Brotherhood. Next, I summoned the person you indicated. My obedience is blind, as you see, but I hope that it will not provoke any trouble…’
‘Have no fear,’ said the marquise. ‘The king will be most grateful to you.’
Another knock at the door. The same servant opened it a fraction and whispered a few words to the comte, who nodded.
‘Here is our man,’ he said solemnly.
‘And so it is time for me to go,’ said La Pompadour.
The comte prepared to leave the room with her, but she stopped him with a gentle, weary gesture.
‘Stay there, my friend—Chiara and the Chevalier de Seingalt will accompany me.’
She left, accompanied by Casanova and Chiara, who refused the offer of his arm. Volnay stared after them, darkly. In the doorway, Chiara turned and addressed him:
‘Chevalier, please come to my residence as soon as you are able.’
Volnay’s heart skipped a beat. He turned white as a sheet, then deep red. The monk suppressed a smile and the comte pretended not to have noticed. He sat down heavily in an armchair. The burden of worry had caught up with him, and for the mere shadow of a second, Volnay thought he saw the weight of the years on his shoulders. More years than any of them could imagine.
The door opened once again. Father Ofag entered the room and stood stock-still when he saw the inspector and the monk.
‘What does this mean, Sartine?’ he asked hurriedly. ‘Why am I called with no explanation to Monsieur le Comte’s residence?’
He broke off to greet the comte with a brief nod of the head. Lowering his eyes, he was dazzled by his host’s sparkling shoe buckles and diamond-encrusted garters.
‘You will excuse my humble appearance,’ muttered Ofag sarcastically. ‘Our Lord Jesus Christ owned nothing more than the clothes on his back.’
The comte ignored the slight and bowed graciously. Ofag stared around the room and caught sight of the monk.
‘What do I see here?’ he hissed, sounding for all the world like a human snake. ‘A heretic in the dwelling place of an immortal!’
The monk shrugged lightly.
‘If I must be dismissed as a reprehensible thing, I should prefer to describe myself as a philosopher.’
‘Sinner!’
‘I was indeed a sinner in my younger days,’ admitted the monk. ‘And I have aspirations to return to that noble estate in the very near future.’
Sartine stepped forward. His expression remained neutral. He was venturing into unknown territory.
‘The Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths in the city of Paris thought it best to gather us all to hear what he has discovered…’
Volnay interrupted him. ‘It would be proper, first, to give thanks to God for permitting me to solve this case,’ he said, firmly.
The monk’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing and did as Volnay said. The others followed suit. As if on a reflex, Father Ofag pulled out his rosary. The inspector looked up suddenly.
‘That’s a fine boxwood rosary you have there, Father Ofag.’
Everyone stared at him as if he had gone quite mad.
‘May I see it?’
The inspector held out his hand. Ofag hesitated for a moment, then handed him the string of beads. Volnay walked over to the window, to examine it in the daylight. The room held its breath.
‘There’s a bead missing, Father Ofag,’ said Volnay coldly.
‘Indeed, Inspector, I lost one, and have had no time to time to take it to be repaired. It is a family heirloom.’
Slowly, the inspector put his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a handkerchief and unfolded it with extreme care, before removing a boxwood bead.
‘Would this be the one?’
Father Ofag’s assurance deserted him.
‘It may be.’
Volnay walked slowly across to where he stood. His eyes were twin points of steel.
‘Do you know where I found this?’
The other man’s breathing was faint. He avoided Volnay’s gaze. He shook his head, but made no attempt to speak. The inspector continued, in icy tones:
‘I found this wooden bead beside the corpse of a young prostitute who officiated from time to time at the Parc-aux-Cerfs. The young woman was a venal creature, as it appears, and she had found herself a plump game bird to pluck. A man whom she was blackmailing.’
‘You are building a case on the head of a pin!’ cried Ofag.
The inspector drew closer to him, seized his wrist and pushed up his sleeve, revealing a forearm marked by three long red scars. He glared at Ofag, who cowered in shame at the thought of what was coming next.
‘Three long scratches, all drawing blood. The blood beneath the fingernails of your victim! You preach virtue all day long, but the beast is there within you, as it is inside us all. You needed a woman. You happened upon a certain Marcoline. You became infatuated with her. But women like Marcoline are obsessed with their personal gain, and nothing else. She decided to blackmail you, under threat of selling your secret to the highest bidder—which she might very well have done at some point.’
Volnay stepped back, blinking, under the force of the implacable hatred he read in Father Ofag’s eyes.
‘You committed a sin of the flesh with a prostitute of the king,’ he continued. ‘We may turn a blind eye in the case of a prelate like the abbé de Bernis, but when the perpetrator is the moral conscience of the Devout Party, it’s a different matter altogether.’
‘She was a whore! The Great Whore—
the Whore of Babylon!’ spat Ofag suddenly.
His terrifying expression startled everyone in the room. He recovered himself and added, unctuously:
‘Until now, the dignity of my office has preserved me from temptation, but the flesh is indeed weak, and the Devil has the art of erasing all trace of grace from our souls. I was seized with the full horror of my sin—it disgusted me…’
‘Omne animal triste post coïtum,’ sighed the monk.
Ofag gave no reaction, but continued his solemn confession.
‘I wanted to terminate our arrangement, but she refused—she relished her hold over me!’
His lips parted in an unpleasant grin.
‘I could not allow that woman of low virtue to bring down the good name of the party of God! May the archangel Michael protect me, I accept my due punishment. And may God and the Blessed Virgin herself support me and come to my aid! I shall answer for my sins to them, and never to you.’
Volnay nodded. He looked sickened.
‘Not an ounce of remorse!’
‘She was a whore, and deserved nothing more,’ said Ofag.
The inspector blinked briefly.
‘A fine demonstration of the esteem in which you hold your fellow man.’
He continued speaking, rapidly now, as if eager to finish.
‘You killed Marcoline with your own hands, to be certain no ruffian would try to blackmail you in turn. But you were unsure whether she had spoken about you to someone, and whether the crime could be traced back to you. And so you had an idea. The death of the young, faceless woman had horrified the whole of Paris. By reproducing the act, you would deflect suspicion. But the act revolted you. You butchered Marcoline’s face, and in so doing you signalled the distinct nature of your own murder. But you couldn’t have known that.’
Father Ofag showed not the slightest reaction, but fixed his icy gaze on Volnay. Volnay walked across to the window. A carriage lurched forward in the courtyard outside, taking a beloved creature with it.
The monk crossed the room first, and placed a hand on Volnay’s shoulder.
‘When did you discover this?’
‘When I returned to Paris, I saw the crosses standing at every crossroads, and experienced a kind of revelation. The clue I had recovered at the scene of the first murder, the boxwood bead, was from a rosary! I remembered Father Ofag’s rosary, and his fascination for Mary Magdalene. An irrational suspicion was born, and it was confirmed when we were all reunited just now. You told me that Léonilde had confided that Marcoline’s lover often made the sign of the cross, and that he liked to keep his hands out of sight, in his sleeves. All that remained was to find three bloodied scars on Ofag’s arm, matching the blood under three of Marcoline’s fingernails. There we have it.’
‘We do indeed. But you might equally have found nothing,’ said Sartine.
‘Intuition, sir. Intuition.’
For the first time, the police chief’s face showed the hint of a smile.
‘Well played, Volnay! Failure would have sent you straight to the Bastille, for good, but your success absolves you of all blame.’
He turned very slowly to Father Ofag.
‘You will come with me.’
The cleric took a step forward. He stared into Sartine’s eyes.
‘We need to talk, sir. Now!’
Sartine nodded vaguely.
‘Let us go and join the Marquise de Pompadour in another room.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Ofag and Volnay, together.
‘She is waiting for us in a side room, right here.’
The monk and Volnay exchanged glances.
Sartine and Ofag left the room without a word.
‘Whatever’s happening?’ Volnay asked the comte, who responded with an embarrassed gesture.
‘We have discussed it with the marquise; it’s better this way,’ he said.
The two men soon returned. Father Ofag appeared in sombre mood, but relieved. Sartine was unruffled. He spoke in icy tones:
‘We have struck a deal, endorsed by the marquise. My heart and mind are saddened to think of it, but some interests must be held above all others, and the interest of France is one such. The murder of the girl Marcoline will never come to light, and I have promised to ensure that what has passed here is dismissed from their memories by all present.’
He turned sharply towards the inspector and the monk.
‘And that goes for both of you!’
The monk placed a hand on Volnay’s arm, refraining him from giving an ill-considered answer, in the heat of the moment.
‘So be it,’ he said, simply.
The chief of police showed a gleam of satisfaction. He took his leave of his host and led Father Ofag from the room. The comte accompanied them.
‘So there it is, my son,’ said the monk philosophically, when they were alone.
And he accompanied his exclamation with the comforting smile of a parent to a child who has just discovered all the misery and wickedness of the world.
‘I shall never become accustomed to it, father!’ said Volnay.
‘What of it? The marquise has muzzled her worst enemy and Sartine will become chief of police for all France.’
‘And justice?’
‘Justice will wait, my son, she will wait a while longer…’
There was a long silence.
‘Father?’
‘Yes, son…’
Their story had taken a decisive turn, thought Volnay. He had lost his father as a boy and found him again too late. He had forged his own character, for the most part, and kept his distance from the world now. He had kept his doubts, his questions, and his feelings to himself.
‘One question has always tormented me. Perhaps now is the time to ask it.’
‘I’m listening, my son.’
‘On the pyre, when did you decide to recant?’
The monk gazed at him, feelingly.
‘When you began to weep, my child.’
Volnay lowered his head. A tear welled in the corner of his eye.
He knew me too late, thought his father, fleetingly. How to recover so much lost time, and tell him my love?
‘Let us meet at home tonight,’ said the monk, clasping him in his arms. ‘We have so much to say to one another.’
‘Tomorrow, father. This evening, I must meet someone else.’
The monk’s face lit up with a smile.
‘Of course, my boy. And a most delightful person at that!’
Before leaving, Volnay brushed his father’s beard with his lips, in an extraordinarily gentle embrace.
Through the window of her music room, Chiara spotted Volnay in the forecourt. She watched him, and saw an impossibly upright and sincere heart, and islet of loyal devotion in an ocean of turpitude. And the young woman knew, at the same time, that he would never be hers because it was too late, for him and for her. Suddenly, unexpectedly, Volnay’s eyes gazed into hers. Calmly, she faced her fate, like the Spanish regiments at the Battle of Rocroi when, deserted by their every ally, they had made a final stand, forming squares to resist the French cavalry charge on a devastated battlefield.
They gazed at one another for a long time. There was no anger in Volnay’s face. She understood then that he had loved her more than any other man before him, more even than Casanova, whose heart he knew she had touched.
A passing adventure, she wanted to tell him. And you see, it has not lasted. You and I are not like that. There is little I can give you. I could probably never make you laugh, but I place my heart in your hands, if you will have it.
She gazed into his eyes and saw that he was deeply troubled.
Does he still want me? she asked herself. All he need do is give me a sign, take one step towards me. He hesitates. He’s coming towards me. No, he stops. Surely he will not turn away? There, he has turned his back on me. He is leaving. Wait! Turn, and you will see my tears. No, it is over. He’s gone. He cares nothing for my love.
Casanova had cla
sped her lightly around the waist, but Chiara resisted vigorously, and pulled herself away.
‘Your boldness knows no limits,’ she growled. ‘You betrayed us in the most appalling manner, by hiding the letter in the hope of selling it, and still you dare to call on me! To think you reproached me for spying on behalf of the marquise!’
Casanova frowned.
‘I am not a wicked man, Chiara, but a man of instinct. I behaved badly when I followed that instinct, I admit.’
‘You betrayed us all!’
‘That was before I knew you. I would never have sold the letter!’
‘After the monk unmasked you.’
‘Oh, that… He was my good conscience—proof that I am possessed of one!’
Chiara opened her eyes wide.
‘To hear such a thing coming from your mouth, I might faint away!’
‘It is a mouth that longs to place itself upon yours!’
Casanova was pressing his suit once more, and Chiara pushed him away unceremoniously.
‘You seduced me, you took me, and you were going to abandon me like all the others. I know you handle these things very capably, and no one ever holds anything against you. Your visits become less and less frequent, you become less and less insistent, and then one day you leave for another country, and that’s that.’
Casanova frowned in annoyance.
‘No, Chiara! That’s not how I want things to be between us. There is nothing I will not do for a glance, or a smile, from you.’
He added, huskily:
‘I would even stoop to kiss the ground beneath your feet…’
Chiara was standing at some distance now.
‘Yes, you still desire my body, very much, and my heart, too, because you have a great need to be loved, and perhaps you even love me a little.’
She continued, staring into space:
‘But that love is light, and fleeting: it passes like a cloud in the sky. You are sincere in the heat of the moment, but what remains over time? You’ll be sorry to have lost me, tomorrow, but the day after, you won’t give it a second thought. Next week, your gaze will alight on a seductive figure with a slender waist and fine, white skin. The death of one love fills you with sorrow, but the promise of new love fills the void in your heart.’
Casanova and the Faceless Woman Page 33