Truly, there is entertainment in everything!
CASANOVA
The Comte de Saint-Germain did not live in the palace of Chambord, where he had installed his pigment workshop, but in Paris, at no. 101, Rue Richelieu, in the mansion of the widow of the Chevalier Lambert. There, late in the morning, two lackeys in tobacco-coloured livery with gold braid, and collars and cuffs of blue lace, ceremoniously opened the doors to the three visitors.
The comte received them in the music room, decorated with statues of the nine Muses. Around the walls, mirrored pilasters reflected the splendid, richly varnished woodwork, alternating with others bearing garlands of golden leaves against a ground of lapis lazuli speckled with silver. With his habitual eye for detail, Volnay observed a Treatise on Engraved Stones, devoted to the art of intaglio and gem-cutting, on a side table. A print taken from the book lay unrolled beside it.
The inspector turned his attention to the Comte de Saint-Germain. Of average height, with a swarthy complexion and a high forehead topped by an expertly curled wig, the comte was elegantly dressed in a coat of Parma silk brocade with generous, turned-back cuffs, an elaborate waistcoat of many different fabrics, and a jabot and shirt-cuffs of Brussels lace. He seemed youthful and alert, though he must have been almost fifty years old. His skin was fresh and bright, and his features regular, with a hooked nose, well-defined lips and a dimple on his chin.
He had an undeniably aristocratic air, but there was otherwise no ostentation in his manner. He wore a lively, spirited expression, and his dark eyes fixed his visitors attentively. His manners were exquisite, and his bearing was one of noble, disinterested politesse. Volnay noticed the rings on his fingers, set with magnificent diamonds, and the fine rubies adorning his sleeves.
Chiara wore a damask gown embroidered with gold nasturtium flowers, and three-tiered pagoda sleeves. Her lips were coloured with Spanish vermilion, that most delicious and desirable of shades.
She is magnificent, thought Volnay, with a touch of bitterness. Clearly, the comte thought the same, for he hurried to greet her.
‘Mademoiselle, I am honoured to receive you.’
He executed a perfect bow and kissed her hand. Chiara’s cheeks flushed with pleasure. Next, the comte greeted the Chevalier de Seingalt and the Chevalier de Volnay with the courtesy he reserved for all of his guests.
‘May I offer you a glass of Jerez wine? This is the oloroso, or “fragrant”. It is aged for ten years in oak casks.’
Volnay tasted it and discovered an exquisite flavour of fresh almonds, ginger and prunes. Light conversation ensued, on topics of the day, until Casanova skilfully directed their talk to the subject of precious stones. The comte sensed his implicit request. It came as no surprise to him. All his visitors asked the same thing. He led the trio to a small side room. There, on a piece of black velvet, he emptied the contents of soft bag he had taken from a chest.
A torrent of colour seemed to pour out onto the table. The stones glittered and sparkled in the soft half-light. Volnay knew little about fine gems, but he recognized an opal of monstrous size, and a white sapphire the size of an egg.
‘How beautiful,’ whispered Chiara ecstatically.
Casanova, for his part, seemed to be weighing up the stones and estimating their value.
‘A fortune, before our eyes!’
The comte gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders and declared lightly:
‘Our riches are merely the measure of our needs.’
The Venetian gave a short sigh.
‘Your Lordship has never known want.’
The comte turned to look at him sharply.
‘I was not born to silks, Chevalier! At the age of seven, I lived a vagrant life in the forests with my governor. There was a price on my head, and my mother had fled.’
The revelation met with astonished silence. The comte held up a diamond.
‘The Queen of Stones,’ he said. ‘Hard, limpid, brilliant.’
He let it sparkle for a moment in a shaft of sunlight, then ran his hand carelessly over the stones, spreading them across the velvet cloth.
Volnay understood now why the comte was able to lead the life he did. All the riches he needed for a contented existence, for centuries to come, were kept close to hand in a single bag. And suppose for a moment, as was rumoured, that he had the secret of making precious stones such as these, too…
‘Forgive me for asking,’ he said, ‘but you must know what people are saying—that you have the art of removing flaws from diamonds.’
‘And you are equally curious to know if I can make them, are you not?’ supplied the comte, with heavy irony.
For a moment, the trio watched his lips, ready to hang on his every word. A delicate breeze blew in through the half-open window, tinkling the crystal droplets on the chandelier overhead.
‘Well, of course I don’t know how to make diamonds!’ exclaimed the comte. ‘That is a gift granted to Nature alone. Do not be tempted to believe every rumour they spread about me. The facts have always been supplanted by a wealth of supposition, in my regard. But I am merely a man of science and reason.’
‘An exceptionally gifted man of science, so they say,’ breathed Chiara, in curiously gushing tones. ‘For example, you are rumoured—’
She broke off suddenly, conscious of her clumsy intervention. Her cheeks turned a ravishing shade of red. The comte finished her phrase:
‘…to possess the philosopher’s stone,’ he said evenly. ‘And to have pierced the mysteries of matter, and eternal life—why ever not, while we’re on the subject? Every man dreams of eternal life! That’s why they all talk about me.’
A hornet struck the window with a dull thud that startled them all, though not the comte.
‘Strange indeed,’ he observed delicately. ‘Our philosophers preach the strictest logic and reason, and yet, in this era of universal incredulity, we prefer to question nothing, and to believe anything at all!’
‘What of the dinner with Madame the Comtesse de Gergy, who seemed to recognize you as a man she had known in her youth?’ ventured Volnay, as much out of his own curiosity as to come to Chiara’s rescue: the young woman clearly felt she was being targeted. Her cheeks were still flushed scarlet.
The Comte de Saint-Germain gave a slight smile.
‘Madame the Comtesse de Gergy confused me with another man she had known. All I did was ask whether the man in question, a Marquis de Baletti, had enjoyed an upstanding reputation. She said that he had, and I laughingly told her that, in that case, I would happily adopt him as my grandfather. That’s the whole story! And so the rumours run…’
He stared Volnay in the eye.
‘As an officer of the police, you will know that my enemies have hired an actor to impersonate me and discredit my reputation, throughout Paris. It doesn’t do to be an intimate of the king and the Marquise de Pompadour; it incites mortal enemies.’
Volnay blinked nervously. So the Comte de Saint-Germain knew his profession, though he had been presented only under his—in this instance highly convenient—title of chevalier. An uncomfortable silence fell between them. The comte smiled impassively, while Casanova cast the inspector a knowing smirk.
‘In truth, Monsieur le Comte,’ said Volnay, recovering his sangfroid, ‘I take little interest in Paris gossip. I prefer to concentrate on my work—a rather particular speciality.’
The comte’s smile brightened.
‘And you think I don’t know that you are the king’s Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths?’
Seeing his guest’s growing expression of surprise, he added quickly:
‘I don’t have the gift of divination, but people talk about you a great deal—and your mysterious colleague in his hooded habit, who reads corpses like books. Between you, you have solved a number of complicated cases. At least, that’s what they say. There was the affair of the young nobleman who claimed to have been pursued by a vampiress who had granted him her favours, or the priest who was found in his confessional with his throat cut.’
Volnay seized the moment.
‘I am currently investigating the murder of two young women, both of whose faces were cut away.’
The comte’s expression was impassive, filtering nothing but polite curiosity.
‘Doubtless you have heard talk of that?’ Volnay persisted.
‘None whatsoever.’
Another silence, which no one felt emboldened to break. At length, the comte addressed Volnay with a question, more out of politeness, it seemed, than any real interest.
‘And do you have any suspects?’
The inspector held his gaze firmly.
‘I cannot say, Monseigneur.’
‘Of course, I understand…’
Volnay fished for a way to open up the conversation. In desperation, he asked:
‘You are a man of reason—perhaps, with your enlightened mind, you are able to proffer me some advice?’
The compliment was heavy-handed, and the comte ignored it. He shook his head lightly.
‘None that I can think of…’
Then his eyes lit up, and he added:
‘I must, however, recommend the greatest caution. Such murders, in Paris, are likely to cause a considerable stir. I imagine they have already provoked much talk and dismay in many circles. You have very little time before others will start to encroach on your territory. Be careful, discreet, and trust to your intuition, more than the facts.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
The comte stared at him gravely.
‘Often, we form an opinion, and then we bend the facts until they correspond…’
At that moment, a door opened abruptly, and a young man entered the room, making his apologies. He had a frank, pleasant face below a high forehead, framed by a long, curled grey wig. He wore a purple velvet coat over a yellow doublet. Shreds of tobacco dotted his lace jabot: clearly, he had just taken a pinch of snuff.
‘Forgive my intrusion, Monsieur le Comte, but you asked me to inform you when your carriage was ready, for your appointment.’
His message delivered, he bowed to the visitors with some ceremony.
‘Allow me to introduce my assistant!’ exclaimed the comte. ‘Monsieur Mestral, I give you the Marquise Chiara D’Ancilla, the Chevalier de Seingalt and the Chevalier de Volnay.’
The assistant bowed a second time. He was about thirty years old, and his manners were every bit as polished as those of his master.
‘I am most honoured to meet you. The comte is an extraordinary man. You will have heard many wonderful things about him already, but the truth is more remarkable still. Did you know that he mixes elixirs for the common good? There is nothing in this world which he cannot improve upon and make use of.’
For the first time, the Comte de Saint-Germain showed a glimmer of embarrassment. He rebuked his assistant gently, and asked him to wait outside. The comte excused himself to his guests: he would have to curtail their visit. They took their leave with great civility. On their way out, the comte signalled to Volnay and whispered quickly in his ear:
‘Do not forget that however complex the situation, its causes are often very simple.’
Volnay pondered the phrase as he made his way down the staircase. Turning, he saw that the comte’s eyes were fixed upon him still.
Outside in the courtyard, the inspector stopped the servant who had accompanied them and slipped an écu into the man’s hand.
‘Rumour has it your master is two thousand years old…’
‘I cannot say,’ said the other, coldly, as he handed back the money. ‘I have only been in his service these past three hundred years!’
Chiara giggled, and Casanova burst out laughing. Volnay clenched his teeth and climbed into the carriage after them. They had just driven out into the street when he saw the comte’s doorman hurrying along with a letter in his hand. He asked the driver to stop, and climbed down just as the man was passing.
‘One question, friend!’ he said. ‘We have just come from Monsieur le Comte’s. You are the servant who admits anyone who comes to his door, am I right?’
‘Myself, or another by the name of Jean Folioure,’ said the man, clearly uncomfortable at being addressed in the street.
Volnay pressed a louis into his hand.
‘Has the comte received a visit lately from a young woman named Mademoiselle Hervé?’
‘I don’t know, Monseigneur,’ replied the man, pocketing the coin. ‘But when the Marquise de Pompadour paid the comte a visit yesterday evening, she was accompanied by a young woman. The lady waited in a side room while her mistress visited my master. Then she left with her in her carriage, one hour later.’
‘Did she have anything in her hand?’
‘I don’t remember, Monseigneur.’
Volnay dug in his pocket.
‘This, my friend, is for you to forget these questions were ever asked.’
The servant bowed solemnly.
‘So be it, Monseigneur.’
Volnay turned to see Chiara and Casanova poking their heads out of the carriage windows, listening attentively. Casanova laughed quickly, as he caught the inspector’s eye.
‘Truly, there is entertainment in everything!’
They walked in the Tuileries gardens, and the sun beat down on their shoulders. Streams of water flowed from the stone-rimmed ponds; antique statues were glimpsed in the copses, watchful guardians of their secret pleasures. Chiara seemed to delight in the play of the fountains, and the formal gardens with their charming borders of flowers. Along an avenue of fine sand, they came to a ring of box hedges and the statue of a lightly clad nymph, reclining on one side atop her plinth, lazily trailing one of her arms.
Casanova gazed attentively at the statue. His eye followed its seductive forms, then shifted nonchalantly to Chiara, who looked away sharply. Volnay’s own thoughts at the sight of the nymph had taken a quite different direction.
‘Do you really believe the Comte de Saint-Germain has broken the boundaries of human existence?’
The inspector’s question was addressed to no one in particular, as if he were enunciating the parts of an equation. Chiara spoke up straightaway, nonetheless, but adding further questions of her own.
‘None can escape death, the destiny of us all. Nature will not allow it, but what if scientific research could alter Nature? Has the comte discovered an elixir of life in his laboratories?’
Volnay stared at her in surprise.
‘You seem beset by the question: you asked it at dinner last night. Never have there been so many fake healers and false prophets as now, in our age of reason. And you are like all the rest, in spite of your science and culture. You are fascinated by the regeneration of the body, and the soul!’
‘I am not talking about magic, but about science, indeed!’ said Chiara, in clipped tones. ‘In particular, I am thinking about chemistry, in which the comte seems well versed.’
She turned to Casanova.
‘What do you think?’
The Venetian gave a small laugh.
‘I have seen plenty of conjuring tricks and outrageous impostures in my life.’
‘Seen and practised,’ grinned Volnay.
‘But this is different,’ Casanova continued, ignoring him. ‘The comte speaks better than anyone. His tone is decisive, and pleasing, because he is erudite and at ease in every language. He cuts an agreeable figure and is skilled at befriending every woman he meets. He flatters them, too. He gives them creams for their complexion, and he alludes not to the possibility of restoring their youth, because that is impossible, as he tells them, but rather to the preservation of their present appearance by means of a special water, which costs a great deal, but which he most kindly presents to them as a gift. He possesses a kind of universal medicine; he can make Nature do his bidding—in short, he is most surprising, and never fails to astonish. He is, then, the cleverest and most seductive of impostors!’
They turned back the way they had come, along the shady avenues. And it seemed their thoughts had effected an about turn, too.
‘They say the Comte de Saint-Germain is very close to the king, and La Pompadour,’ said Volnay. ‘Perhaps they know his secrets?’
‘I’d be surprised,’ said Casanova, wickedly. ‘Two things are required to seduce the great and powerful of this world: first, you must agree with them, and second, you must retain a reasonable air of mystery. There is nothing a great man or woman likes better than to be flattered by a person who is themselves out of the ordinary.’
Volnay glanced at him sharply, but at a warning look from Chiara, he bit back the retort that was burning his lips. He addressed the young Italian:
‘We speak of the Marquise de Pompadour, but they say her star is in the descendant and that her sworn enemies, the Devout Party, exercise a growing influence over the king.’
Chiara straightened her shoulders briskly.
‘The Devout Party have no influence except with the dauphin. The Marquise de Pompadour retains all the king’s favour and friendship. And the enlightened minds and freethinkers of this country all fall into rank behind her, while the Devout Party rallies those who, lacking any special merit, press their court upon persons of power for the lowest of motives. They ruminate and plot against intelligence and reason.’
Casanova shot Volnay an appreciative glance that seemed to say: Cunning, my friend! You have led her to confess which side she is on. Now try the same with me…
But Volnay was taking no such risk. He had no need. He knew full well that Casanova took no side but his own. For his part, the Venetian had a great many questions for the inspector, but no guarantee of an answer.
They emerged from the circle of box trees to see the city bathed in scarlet sunlight. They paused for a moment to admire the effect, then made their way down a flight of steps towards a shimmering water basin. Chiara tripped, and both men reached out to stop her falling. Each held out his arm. Smiling, she took both, and they walked on between flower beds overflowing with blooms. Soon, it was Chiara who dictated the pace and direction of their stroll. And soon after that, the direction of their conversation.
‘We all know,’ she said, addressing the inspector, ‘that you are determined to solve the murder of the young wig-maker…’
Casanova was unable to suppress a frown of disapproval. Volnay dropped the young woman’s arm roughly and planted himself in front of her, outraged.
‘What in heaven possesses you to talk about that in front of this man? I insisted you keep it secret.’
‘But,’ she stammered, ‘you told him about it yourself.’
The inspector turned abruptly to Casanova.
‘Explain yourself!’
Casanova gave a resigned shrug.
‘Paris is such a small city, everything gets around very quickly. And so I learnt the identity of the victim whose body I had discovered.’
Volnay’s logical mind worked fast.
‘And so,’ he said, ‘you confirmed the information by making this young lady believe you had heard it from me.’
Casanova pursed his lips. He ventured a glance at Chiara, and saw the storm clouds gathering in her eyes.
‘I was wrong, I confess,’ he said, contritely.
‘You have no excuse!’ said Chiara.
The Chevalier de Seingalt glanced at Volnay out of the corner of his eye. The inspector appeared overjoyed at the young Italian’s words.
If he thinks he’s keeping her for himself, thought Casanova, then he has surprises aplenty in store!
‘Mademoiselle, I beg your forgiveness.’
‘Out of the question!’ ordered Volnay.
Chiara’s face flushed with rage. No one decided on her behalf.
‘We three must be united,’ she decreed. ‘It is necessary, I feel it. This is how it must be.’
She spoke as a woman of reason, and Casanova cast her an admiring glance. He liked people who kept their composure. Volnay found it harder to contain himself, so great was his aversion to this notorious womanizer. Chiara soothed him with a smile, and this time, as a subtle punishment to Casanova, she took only Volnay’s arm, as far as the cafe to which, with signal determination, she had decided to take them.
A bright, friendly atmosphere reigned in the Petit Café des Tuileries. The place was a little noisy, but that suited their confidential talk. Mirrors dotted around the walls reflected paintings of restful Tuscan landscapes and scenes of the grape harvest, populated by country girls dressed quite inappropriately for the task. Despite the early hour, Chiara ordered a rossolis—an aperitif scented with rose petals, orange flower water, jasmine, aniseed and cinnamon, with a few cloves. The two men drank coffee, with an aroma of toasted bread.
‘What a curious drink this coffee is,’ pondered Casanova. ‘The more one drinks, the less one sleeps, and the less one sleeps, the more one needs coffee.’
‘I can understand why it should be your favourite drink,’ taunted Volnay, ‘you who go about your business by night.’
‘Monsieur,’ retorted the other sharply, ‘I am no night owl; I live quite as much by day. Besides, I am known in every court in Europe.’
‘Indeed,’ Volnay persisted, ‘the Chevalier de Seingalt has conquered the whole of Europe with his… swordsmanship. Did you know, Chiara, that he refers to that sword of his as “the principal agent for the preservation of the human race”?’
‘Monsieur,’ cried Casanova, squaring his broad shoulders, ‘you forget yourself!’
Chiara was plainly amused.
‘Please stop bickering, you two. Whoever saw such behaviour?’
She looked at them both for a moment, Casanova bubbling with vitality, enthusiastic and voluble, Volnay grave and self-contained, thoughtful, but driven by cold determination.
Which of the two might I choose, if ever I were forced to choose just one?
She dismissed the thoroughly improper thought and focused her attention on the conversation. She must play her cards carefully.
‘So, Messieurs, let us speak frankly. A young wig-maker in the employ of the king has been killed, and you must do everything in your power to find the culprit.’
The two men said nothing. Both were on the defensive. Chiara placed a pretty hand on the inspector’s wrist, and felt it tremble.
‘Chevalier de Volnay,’ she said, ‘you first. Tell us everything.’
Volnay blinked rapidly. Ignoring Casanova, he gazed into the young Italian’s eyes.
‘I have sought no confidences from the Chevalier de Seingalt.’
The latter grunted scornfully, then swore in Italian, causing Chiara’s cheeks to flush pink. Volnay continued, unperturbed:
‘And so I am not about to confide in him now.’
The Venetian leant towards him, threateningly. His gaze was ice-cold. All trace of enthusiasm and good humour had disappeared.
‘You are swift to judge me, and to condemn me out of hand, but beware! I may be a good-natured fellow in a lace collar, but I can soon take that off.’
The inspector paled.
‘You would threaten an officer of the king’s police! I can have you interrogated…’
Casanova threw himself back in his chair and laughed. People were starting to look in their direction. His laughter died suddenly in his throat, and he whispered quietly:
‘And will you also interrogate the man who is concealing vital evidence?’
He glared at Volnay.
‘Shall I elucidate?’
The inspector closed his eyes for a moment. No, the Venetian would not go so far as to say it out loud. Not here, not in front of Chiara. This was a cunning scheme to buy his silence, or worse.
‘Mademoiselle…’
Casanova had turned to the young woman, who sat listening intently.
‘Our friend Volnay removed a letter from the victim’s body and has kept it hidden from everyone.’
‘Did you really do such a thing, Monsieur de Volnay?’ Chiara’s voice sounded oddly choked.
She had not noticed the inspector’s fingers closing around the hilt of his sword, nor that he was beginning to draw it from its sheath. But Casanova had caught the hiss of metal. He watched as the blade emerged. Chiara followed the Chevalier de Seingalt’s gaze. She saw the inspector’s clenched fingers.
‘Volnay! Return your sword to its sheath this instant!’
Her voice was commanding, authoritative and utterly unexpected, thought Volnay, in such a charming creature. Almost in spite of himself, he obeyed. She leant towards him, and for a moment he thought she would slap his face, but she did nothing of the kind, and the closer she came, the faster his heart beat, for he suffered a new discomfort now. Casanova stared hard at them both.
‘Volnay…’
For the first time since they had met, Chiara covered Volnay’s hand with her own. A wave of tenderness broke over him.
‘Do not allow yourself to be ruled by anger,’ she said gently. ‘Anger kills the intellect, and the spirit.’
She gazed deep into his eyes. Her own were dark as the blackest pearls, but softened by the same iridescent light.
‘Do not act alone now, Volnay. No man can fight alone against the whole world.’
A heavy silence ensued, but the inspector felt strangely soothed by the contact of her hand on his.
‘The letter exists,’ he hold Chiara, ignoring Casanova. ‘I can say nothing more, but it concerns—’
‘The Comte de Saint-Germain, am I right?’ she asked. Casanova accompanied her question with an approving nod of the head.
So they had guessed that, too.
‘Indeed, the comte. But the letter is unconnected to the murder,’ he added, sharply.
The magical moment had passed. Chiara’s hand deserted his own, and he felt again that familiar, aching void. He remembered his discussion with the monk, on the subject of clothing. If the patina of a fabric could capture the accelerated passage of time, his own clothes would fall to shreds and rags when Chiara took her distance once more.
‘Mademoiselle Hervé was meant to deliver the letter to the comte, is that it?’ asked Chiara, in an odd tone of voice.
Instinctively, she sensed his distress. And placed her hand on his once more, as if she had guessed this was the sole precondition for his answer. Her touch was light and tremulous. He sensed her vivacious, ardent nature.
‘Yes.’
‘Then why didn’t you ask the comte if he knew of it?’ she asked in surprise.
This time, Casanova intervened.
‘To ask such a thing would be to reveal the existence of the letter, in the hands of an officer of the police. It would serve to warn the comte, too, and perhaps others besides… Is he not a friend of the king and La Pompadour? Besides, we know now, though neither of you seems inclined to mention it, that the victim was a creature of the marquise.’
The Venetian stared deep into Chiara’s eyes, causing her to blush and look away, at Volnay.
‘And the servant you questioned acknowledges that a girl accompanied La Pompadour to the comte’s residence,’ ventured Chiara. ‘You might ask the comte whether he received the girl together with her mistress? And why?’
‘And the comte would tell me that she came to adjust his wig, or to proffer any other kind attention you please! I should be no further advanced…’
Volnay turned to Casanova.
‘And on the subject of kind attentions, might this Mademoiselle Hervé have been a visitor to the Parc-aux-Cerfs?’
The Venetian made a show of pondering the question, his fingers tapping delicately on the rim of the porcelain saucer under his coffee cup.
‘She was doubtless a little too old for the king’s fancy, but certainly, nothing in her private morals would have prevented it.’
He shot Volnay a piercing look.
‘Is there something in the letter you found that gives you reason to suppose she might have gone there?’
The inspector struggled to retain his composure, cursing himself for asking the question, whose answer he had already guessed. Mademoiselle Hervé was carrying the king’s child. Clearly, she had enjoyed his favours, no matter where. And here was Casanova reading him like an open book, matching one piece of information with another, honing his intuitions.
‘Tell us, then, Volnay,’ the Chevalier de Seingalt continued. He seemed to be following a thread, from one thought to the next. ‘Was the second victim a prostitute?’
If only I knew for certain! thought Volnay. He almost spoke the words out loud.
‘The victim was unable to be identified,’ he said drily, ‘for reasons you may imagine. And we have no other clues.’
‘Such a shame! But she may have been, surely?’
‘What are you trying to say?’ asked Chiara impatiently, leaning in more closely to her two companions.
Casanova settled himself squarely in his chair, focused all his attention on Volnay and pronounced eight words as distinctly as if he had counted them off on a rosary.
‘She was found at the Parc-aux-Cerfs.’
Adding modestly:
‘Otherwise, why would our friend Volnay have mentioned the latter?’
Volnay blinked rapidly. Nothing escaped the cunning Venetian. Chiara, for her part, was staring at them with unfeigned astonishment, struggling to grasp what lay beyond the words uttered by both men.
‘One moment!’
The Chevalier de Seingalt leapt up from his seat. A familiar figure had just passed in front of the cafe window.
‘The comte’s assistant!’ exclaimed Chiara, and her eyes followed Casanova as he rushed outside and urged the man to join them, with his usual infectious enthusiasm.
The comte’s assistant was fulsome in his polite protestations while the others pressed him to take some coffee. But Chiara’s charm and quiet authority broke his resistance, and she withdrew her hand from Volnay’s once again, to focus all her attention on the new arrival. He had an open face, and the broad brow of a man accustomed to deep thought. He spoke readily on the subject of his master, heaping him with praise.
‘Believe me, Monsieur le Comte de Saint-Germain is motivated solely by the good of all mankind. I have never seen anyone so attentive to others. He is a friend to man and beast alike—his heart beats for the happiness of his fellow creatures.’
His tone was perfectly sincere.
‘He knows everything and foresees everything. I have never known such a clairvoyant mind as his.’
‘Does his clairvoyance extend to making predictions?’ asked Casanova innocently.
Volnay shot him an acerbic look. Even a scoundrel like Casanova could not suppress an interest in the esoteric sciences. The rumours regarding the comte’s discovery of the philosopher’s stone, and the secret of longevity, clearly excited him, despite his natural scepticism.
‘Well, as you know, the past is more the comte’s terrain,’ said his servant adroitly.
Chiara moved forward as if transfixed.
‘But people say he wrote the alchemical treatise The Most Holy Trinosophia!’
‘The comte is well versed in chemistry, that is true,’ acknowledged his assistant, cautiously.
‘In chemistry and alchemy alike?’ Chiara insisted.
The other gave no immediate reply, but applied himself to stirring his coffee with great thoroughness. Just when his silence was beginning to seem impolite, he answered:
‘A great deal is said and thought about the comte. For my part, I have witnessed only scientific experiments, with convincing results.’
‘Such as restoring purity to a flawed diamond,’ suggested Chiara, who was leading the conversation now, while her two companions watched with interest.
‘Mademoiselle, I can say nothing about the comte’s experiments without betraying the trust he has placed in me.’
Volnay listened intently. For reasons unknown, the man’s declarations sounded false. He decided to play along.
‘They say that people visit the comte to obtain certain potions from him.’
The assistant paled very slightly. Volnay fixed him with a firm stare and delivered his well-aimed strike.
‘Has the comte been visited recently by Mademoiselle Hervé, the king’s wig-maker?’
The inspector thought the other man might faint. The assistant’s complexion had turned deathly white, and his mouth opened and closed as though he lacked for air. Fat beads of sweat dotted his forehead, along the line of his wig.
‘I have no idea. Excuse me,’ he gasped, ‘it’s so very hot in here, I think I need to step outside.’
He rose clumsily, overturning his coffee cup and apologizing profusely until Volnay stopped him with a raised hand.
‘You haven’t answered my questions.’
The assistant avoided his gaze.
‘I do not know the lady, and I know nothing about her visit. I wish you good day.’
He hurried away. Casanova eyed Volnay with a look of cold derision.
‘So, what are you waiting for, to clamp him in irons? The man’s as forthcoming as an ass digging in its hooves. If anyone deserves to be taken in for questioning, it’s him!’
Both men sensed Chiara’s disquiet. The assistant’s reaction had done nothing to satisfy their curiosity. Casanova attempted to smooth her ruffled composure, without success. Soon, they took their leave, with many a sidelong glance, and a host of unformulated questions on every side. Volnay watched sadly as Chiara’s carriage drove away, then bade Casanova a frosty goodbye. Suddenly, Chiara’s carriage shuddered to a halt, and her slender, bare wrist was thrust through the window.
‘Monsieur de Volnay?’
He ran after her and reached the carriage, panting for breath. The young woman’s face peered anxiously out. Hastily, she opened her lips to speak.
‘I must see you tomorrow, on the subject of the letter in your possession. Do nothing until then! Do you promise?’
He nodded mechanically. The coachman whipped his horses and Volnay stood watching with a strange pang as the carriage moved off. A new question posed itself: could Chiara be trying to get her hands on the letter, too?
Volnay smiled as he returned home and stepped through the door. The monk was giving the magpie a lesson in Latin rhetoric. He sighed, pointing to the bird:
‘“Science without conscience is but the ruin of the soul.” Alas, your very fine bird is capable only of repeating things, but not understanding them. Like much of the human race, indeed!’
He walked over to the table, on which he had placed a glass of wine.
‘Forgive me for helping myself, but my excitement at the sight of a fine bottle is hard to contain! The Devil knows, it’s barely three years since I was in prison, me! And making do with tepid water.’
He took a mouthful and smacked his tongue against his palate.
‘A Suresnes. A distinctive flavour, but one gets accustomed to it. You should mix it with a little cognac—that would improve it.’
‘I’m so glad it meets with your approval,’ said Volnay, still smiling.
‘Few things on this earth delight the heart of man so much as this sweet beverage.’
The monk’s expression turned melancholy.
‘There was a time in my life when I thought I would die. Since then, I consider every day a marvellous stay of execution which I am eager to enjoy.’
Volnay almost shrugged, but stopped himself. He knew that except for the occasional, very good wine, which he drank sparingly indeed, and one or two roast meats, the monk’s pleasures were wholly of the intellect. He gave a brief account of his visit to the Comte de Saint-Germain, and his walk in the Tuileries afterwards, with Chiara and Casanova.
‘Splendid,’ said the monk, and he quite literally jumped for joy. ‘You have just confirmed one of my more brilliant hypotheses!’
Volnay showed no reaction. He was secretly annoyed at the monk’s visit, though his colleague kept a key to his house and could enter whenever he pleased. His mind remained focused on Chiara’s hand, whose slightest touch brought devastation in its wake. He remembered the almost physical pain he had suffered when she removed it from his, leaving it orphaned. He was lost for words to describe the happiness that accompanied this suffering. The monk had no such thoughts. He consulted his scant notes and frowned.
‘No news from the Brotherhood of the Serpent?’ he asked amiably.
‘You know we must never speak its full name,’ Volnay reprimanded him, white-faced. ‘Only “the Brotherhood”.’
‘Absolutely. And so?’
‘Nothing!’
The monk seemed to have recovered his serene calm.
‘Good! First, then, I shall tell you what I have discovered about the Comte de Saint-Germain before his arrival in France. In England, the comte is greatly appreciated in musical circles. His talents as a violinist are in great demand, and the composer Gluck has dedicated a work to him: Reasonable, Well-ordered Music, for English Ladies Who Appreciate True Taste in Art. He has his work cut out!’
The monk paused and moistened his lips.
‘And so our comte left England in 1746. He reached France last year—April 1758. I regret to inform you that no one seems to have any idea what he did in the intervening twelve years. The comte’s path through life is like the flight of a bird: it has left no trace. It is rumoured that he was in the Indies, and Tibet, or at the court of the shah of Persia. Which is quite possible, because he seems to have deep knowledge of the Orient. That said, when asked, the comte explains that he retired to his own estates, in Germany, in order to pursue his researches in chemistry, and even alchemy.’
‘Is that all?’ Volnay was disappointed.
The monk’s eyes glittered.
‘The comte’s conduct is exemplary. He is rich but benevolent. There was never a more charitable man, nor one possessed of such perfect manners. The mystery of his own origins, and the origin of his fortune, remains.’
He paused to check his notes.
‘He receives no income, but pays everything in cash and never asks for credit. You have seen his lifestyle at first hand, and there is no trace of money changing hands! As if he slept on a hoard of treasure.’
‘Are you going to tell me about the philosopher’s stone?’ Volnay was sceptical.
The monk burnt with enthusiasm now. ‘I have another theory about that. One connected to his birth. My research has led to the elaboration of a number of hypotheses: the first is that the man is of unknown parentage. Ex incognitis parentibus! The other is that he is the illegitimate child of a great figure in Europe.’
He broke off and stroked his beard.
‘I’ll spare you the avenues I explored and abandoned: his Rákóczi ancestors in Transylvania, the San Germanos in Savoy, even the one who calls himself Comes Cabalicus in Bohemia…’
He narrowed his eyes and frowned as if trying to put his thoughts in order. Volnay watched him, smiling. He knew the mime was purely for show, and that the monk’s prodigious memory demanded no effort of retrieval.
‘Let us consider the confirmed facts, like proper investigators,’ the monk continued. ‘When the comte was in England, a Jacobite rising broke out in Scotland and marched south. Foreigners were hastily rounded up, as enemies of the state. Among them, the Comte de Saint-Germain, who refused to reveal his true identity to anyone but the king of England. Do you hear me? His true identity! He acknowledged that he was not the Comte de Saint-Germain, and would only reveal his identity to a person of royal blood! Ergo, he was questioned by the king’s foreign minister himself, the Duke of Newcastle, and released immediately.’
Certain of his audience’s undivided attention, the monk continued, with evident zeal:
‘And so, here in France, our own notoriously starchy monarch Louis XV receives the man as a close friend and speaks of him as if he were the scion of some noble family. And once, in public, the comte let it be known that he “is from a place that has never been ruled by foreign hands”.’
To give greater emphasis to what he was about to say, the monk rose and paced about the room. His right hand slashed the air around him, as if wielding a sword.
‘One family alone answers that description: the Wittelsbach male line, which reigned over Bavaria, Zweibrücken and the Palatinate. Ask me now where the comte’s vast estates lie? In the Palatinate! One of its princesses was married off to a king of Spain. The Comte de Saint-Germain does have the look of a Spaniard, wouldn’t you say?’
Volnay agreed, cautiously.
‘You told me,’ the monk continued emphatically, ‘that the comte described how, at the age of seven, he lived the life of a fugitive, in the forest, with his governor. That there was a price on his head, and that his mother had fled. We know that the Palatine princess Maria Anna of Neuburg married the king of Spain, and had a secret liaison with a nobleman of the kingdom, the Amirante of Castile, a man of immense wealth, exemplary learning and a fine intellect.’
The monk stood on the spot and raised a finger in triumph.
‘The man was a skilled painter and sculptor, too, and spoke several languages. On the death of her husband, a war of succession broke out, and Maria Anna of Neuburg suffered the pain of losing her lover: he died of apoplexy on the wrong side, the losing camp. She was forced into exile in France and lived for thirty-six years in Bayonne, under the surveillance of the royal authorities, having sent all her jewellery and gold abroad for safe keeping. The amirante’s bastard was forced to flee with his governor, to escape being killed by his father’s many enemies.’
The monk held both hands out in front of him, palms turned outward, in a gesture of further triumph.
‘Which explains the Italian connection, subsequently, because it is said the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Maria Anna of Neuburg’s uncle, sheltered the Comte de Saint-Germain as a child, in the Pitti Palace in Florence. The grand duke, the last of the Medici, was an excellent musician, spoke several languages, and was well versed in the sciences, in particular chemistry. Hence, the comte’s impeccable education and gifts, inherited from his parents and honed by his guardian. Later, Saint-Germain passed himself off as a Sicilian gentleman. And the Grand Duke of Tuscany possessed vast estates in Sicily. The comte’s wealth is easily explained: gold and jewellery—the famous gems he shows to everyone—from his mother; paintings from his father, who owned the finest art collection in Europe, and the amirante’s bottomless deposits in banks in Venice, Amsterdam and Genoa. From which I am able to calculate, with equal logic, that the comte is sixty years old, though he looks at least ten years younger thanks to his impeccable diet!’
Volnay clapped his hands. He was genuinely impressed. The monk bowed modestly.
‘It is nothing. Am I not the most brilliant mind in Europe after Monsieur de Voltaire?’
The inspector stifled a grin. The monk was an admirable fellow, if somewhat proud of his own intellect, a failing that had brought his near-downfall in the past. But he had learnt no lesson from that.
‘Interesting, but inconclusive for our inquiry,’ said Volnay, pragmatically.
The monk sighed.
‘Well it gives me food for thought! What news with you?’
‘I am now persuaded that Mademoiselle Hervé visited the comte’s mansion on the day of her death, and that she was seen there by one valet at least, and doubtless also by the comte’s assistant, though not by the comte himself.’
‘She was not invited into his presence, and could not have the letter delivered to the comte by a third party.’
‘Which would explain the acute discomfort shown by the comte’s assistant when we questioned him at the coffee house,’ agreed Volnay. ‘Perhaps he was the person she saw. He was clearly hiding something from us, whatever, but I cannot prove what that might be, as things stand.’
‘I’ll see to that,’ said the monk serenely.
‘Understood. I must report again to Sartine, and tomorrow I am summoned to Versailles, to see the king!’
The monk nodded.
‘Watch yourself!’ he said, pointedly. He thought for a moment. ‘As to the second dead woman, I went walking in my habit in Versailles, in the Parc-aux-Cerfs. I described her to a number of shopkeepers, without showing the death mask, so as not to arouse suspicion. I said I had found the ring you removed from her finger, the one you entrusted to me.’
He opened his hand, revealing the ring, as if by magic, shimmering in the light.
‘A woman shopkeeper recognized the ring, and my approximate description of the victim, in particular her clothing. She was indeed an occasional resident at the Parc-aux-Cerfs, known by her first name—Marcoline. She was one of a band of prostitutes who are accustomed to liven things up when the king tires of his little girls and hungers after some professional entertainment.’
Volnay nodded darkly. His investigation was becoming more convoluted by the minute.
‘If only I could gain entry to the king’s residence at the Parc-aux-Cerfs,’ he sighed.
‘A privilege granted solely to juvenile prostitutes and their matronly madams,’ said the monk. ‘And the occasional amorous adventurer…’