The Masquers Read online

  Up to now, in this winter of 1788, three men of the Loredan family had been elected Doge, the supreme leader of the Republic of Venice. Alessandro Loredan intended to be the fourth.

  He proceeded down the hall. He saw a glimmer of light under his mother’s door and knew she was awake. He tapped lightly and she invited him to enter.

  He found Donna Rosalba Mocenigo Loredan sitting up in bed. A mobcap covered her white hair. A mass of books and papers, pieces of fruit and sweatmeats, handkerchieves and small boxes was spread over the counterpane. A small white dog snored amid the rubble.

  “Alessandro, how kind!” His mother closed the book she had been reading.

  “Don’t you ever sleep, Mother?”

  “Oh, when I can. I find that with the onset of great age, the desire to sleep, like the craving for food or the urge to urinate, always comes over me at the most inconvenient times.” He bowed over her outstretched hand, and she patted the bed beside her. “Come and sit down for a moment before you rush off. I never see you anymore!”

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Loredan said automatically.

  “I don’t know what’s the matter with young people nowadays, always running, running, here and there—! But there I go, sounding like one of those querulous old women who thinks her children have nothing better to do than dance attendance on her! Ah, if it weren’t for dear Carlo, I would die of boredom. He’s so faithful, after all these years!”

  Alessandro nodded. Carlo Dandolo was his mother’s oldest friend, the cicisbeo or cavalier that she chose as her companion after she had been married to his father for one year.

  It had long been the fashion in Venice for married women, rich and poor, to have in almost constant attendance a gentleman, of her own age and class and not her husband, who would act as her chaperone, attending her when she went out, carrying her parcels and her prayerbook, her calling cards and fan, helping her in and out of gondolas, lending her money when she ran short at the gambling tables, flattering her and gossiping with her and amusing her. This convention freed husbands to pursue their own careers and interests, perhaps even to act as cicisbeo for another woman. There was a saying: “In all of Italy, there is no husband who knows how to love his own wife.” Women depended on their cicisbei for the attentions that their husbands neglected to give them. Children of noble families were married to each other for reasons of political expediency and social advancement. Often husband and wife had little in common, and eventually both sought amusement and often sexual satisfaction outside of marriage.

  Not that society, by encouraging women to form close attachments to men other than their husbands, condoned adultery. A noblewoman was expected never to permit her actions to give rise to gossip or scandal. Those women who carried on love affairs did so with the utmost discretion, and their affairs hardly ever involved their cicisbei; Alessandro’s mother liked to boast that she and Carlo had never been silly enough to spoil their friendship by becoming lovers.

  “Now tell me, Alessandro,” Rosalba Loredan cocked her head pertly, “where are you off to at such an absurd hour? To early mass, perhaps?”

  Alessandro shook his head. “No, I like to get in a few quiet hours of work before the Senate meets at noon, and before the pests start coming in, begging for favors.”

  The old woman shook her head. “You work much too hard, dear. They’re not going to make you Doge until you’re way past seventy, no matter what you do. Life is so short. Go out, have fun. You’ll work and work, and one day you’ll look up and realize that you’re an old man. Age will come as a dreadful shock to you, as it did to me. You’ll wonder why on earth you squandered your energies on government when you could have been enjoying yourself. Leave the worries and cares of lawmaking and governing to those men who are too decrepit to live and love boldly.”

  Loredan grinned. “From what I have seen of my esteemed elders, there isn’t a man under ninety who considers himself too decrepit for any kind of folly. You disappoint me, Mother. I thought you were proud of me.”

  “Oh, I am,” his mother assured him hastily. “Everyone is most impressed with your progress. You have come so far in the past few years. And you know, dear—but perhaps I shouldn’t tell you.”

  “What is it. Mother?”

  “Well, Carlo told me that you were very nearly elected to the Ten last month. You lost by only seven votes.”

  Alessandro frowned. “I didn’t realize it was so close.”

  The Council of Ten, elected anew every year, was the police arm of the government. Its members were respected and feared, and wielded enormous power, particularly those three of the Ten who served as State Inquisitors. People still trembled when they saw a gondola approaching with a red lamp burning in its prow. This mean that the Chief Inquisitor was abroad, personally investigating some act of treason or some violation of public morals or safety.

  “Yes, it was very close. Carlo said—and I trust his judgment in these matters—that perhaps some of the older members of the Senate didn’t quite approve of the way Fosca has been comporting herself.”

  “Fosca!” Alessandro’s face was grim. “I hadn’t thought—but of course. They would think her unsuitable. These stupid pranks of hers!” He stood up abruptly. The little dog growled and shifted in its sleep.

  “She is still very young, Alessandro,” his mother said soothingly. “She will settle down, I’m sure. If you would like me to speak to her—”

  Loredan paid no attention. “It’s deliberate. It must be. It’s got to stop.”

  “Don’t be too harsh with her, son,” Rosalba warned. “You will do more harm than—”

  “I’ll be going now,” he said briskly. His lighthearted mood was gone. He leaned over and kissed his mother’s pale cheek. As he did so he noticed the title on the spine of the book she had been reading: La Nouvelle Héloise. “Rousseau, eh? For shame, Mother. Don’t you know that French authors are forbidden?”

  “Oh, really?” Her eyes gleamed wickedly. “But this book came from your own library, dear.”

  “What? Oh, well, one had a responsibility to monitor—”

  “Of course,” she said smugly. “Besides, I’d like to see one of your officious young men try and take a book away from me.”

  “They wouldn’t dream of it. You have a fine mind and you’re quite capable of knowing what is seditious nonsense. But most people are not so discriminating, and it is for their good that the law—”

  “Don’t preach, darling,” his mother begged. “It makes me dizzy. You don’t need to convince me that you are the ablest man in government; I know it already. Run along now. When you see Fosca, tell her that I’m very angry with her for neglecting me.”

  “I will. Good day, Mother. Don’t let your revolutionary reading upset you.”

  “Revolutions!” she sniffed. “What a lot of nonsense. I’d like to give the King of France a good talking-to. All of this letting the lower classes speak their minds can only lead to trouble.”

  “I quite agree with you.”

  Outside, the light of day was growing stronger. The waters of the lagoons and canals caught the sun and cast back a bright sheen over the pastel-colored façades of the buildings, giving them more depth and solidity, accentuating the dark eyes of shuttered windows and the lacy filigree of carved marble balconies. At six o’clock the iron throats of a thousand bells sang out, calling the faithful to mass and announcing the start of a new day. ,

  Alessandro Loredan spent an hour in his library, one floor below the bedrooms, where he scanned the work he had done the night before. At seven o’clock his valet appeared with his cloak and hat, and informed him that his gondola was ready. He left the library, passed through an elegantly appointed drawing room, and crossed the immense gilded and frescoed ballroom, the first room that visitors to Ca’ Loredan saw.

  Three enormous chandeliers hung from the ceiling, which was decorated with an earthling’s view of godly goings-on, complete with hosts of mythical figures in classical tunics
, billowing clouds, and horses’ bellies. The ceiling was supported at the corners and at periodic intervals by small winged cherubs whose airy looks belied their strength. Ranks of carved blackamoors, life-sized and turbaned, their loins modestly girded, stood against the walls. Each held a bronze tray in one hand and hoisted a candelabrum in the other. The morning light streamed in through the tall windows at each end of the room and gleamed on the highly polished marble floor, which looked as slick and smooth as a frozen pond.

  The valet scurried ahead to open the vast double doors at the other side of the room. These led to the great marble staircase and the lower regions of the palazzo. Like all of the most elegant structures in Venice, and even some of the humble ones, Ca’ Loredan was designed so that all living space was at least one story off the ground. This minimized the inconvenience of occasional spring floods. Ca’ Loredan was a rectangle built around a central courtyard, so that most of the rooms in the house could boast windows on both sides. The space underneath was used for storage and for the family’s private boat landing.

  Alessandro stood at the top of the staircase and pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders to ward off the chill dampness of the morning air. He jerked his head up. Merry laughter echoed through the arched caverns under the house.

  He watched silently as three masquers started up the stairs. They giggled and sang snatches of popular songs. Their progress was slow, for they bumped and lurched against each other and they seemed to fall back two steps for every one they climbed. Finally the slight figure in the middle, the one in the black mask, broke free and skipped ahead.

  “Sleep? I never want to sleep again! Sleep is boring, sleep is dull! Listen, we shall refresh ourselves with coffee and some food, and then go forth to serenade the entire city!”

  “No more serenades, I beg you!” one of the others gasped. “Gods, after tonight I want to sleep for a week. I hope I never live through another night like this one.”

  He removed his pink mask and pressed a strongly scented handkerchief to his nostrils. Alessandro Loredan, standing unseen above them, wrinkled his nose in distaste.

  “You’re the most dreadful coward, Giacomino!” Black Mask sighed. “We are troubadours! It is our duty—and our delight!—to make music, to amuse. I want to serenade the world, the universe! Ah, what a wonderful night it’s been! I wasn’t bored once! But look, here’s our god, our little patron saint, waiting to welcome us!”

  They halted on the first landing, in front of a statue of Cupid that stood on a pillar at the turn of the bannisters. The imp was demurely posed with his characteristic weapons, his small mouth pushed into a mischievous pout. The three swept off their hats and made a deep obeisance.

  “If you only knew, O God,” said the third wearily, removing his white mask, “what gallant deeds we have performed in your service this night.”

  “Poor little fellow,” cooed the slender figure at his side. “He must stand here, day after day in the cold and damp. Is he waiting for a kiss to free him? What a pity that he can’t enjoy Carnival as we do!”

  “Would that he had been in my place tonight,” muttered Giacomo, “and I in his!”

  “He must have a mask,” Black Mask decided. “It’s Carnival! Everyone must mask!”

  “No, child, he does enough harm as it is, unmasked!” the other two protested. “Take pity on poor lovers!”

  “No, I insist! Take my lute, Antonio. Giacomo, hold my hat and bauta while I take off—”

  The face under the mask was a woman’s. It was smooth and lean, with dark brows arched over dancing grey eyes, a rather distinctive nose, long but rounded on the end and with large nostrils, thin cheeks, a wide mouth. Her hair, tied in a queue at the back of her head, was pale red-gold, the color immortalized by Titian and achieved by generations of Venetian women through artifice if it was denied to them by heredity.

  “How beautiful he is!” the woman exclaimed. “But he looks cold, poor naked baby. Wait, we’ll give him my cloak—and the bauta. Now, mask and hat, and look, my lute as well!” She propped the instrument between the statue’s arm and chubby thigh. “See, he’s a real little masquer now! A beautiful young man for you, Antonio, to take my place when I tire of you.”

  “I swear, Fosca,” Antonio sighed prettily, “that his stone heart is softer than yours!”

  Fosca Loredan laughed delightedly, and slipped her hand through the curve of her friend’s arm. “Ah, dearest, do I really make you suffer so? I’m sorry if I do. I shall be kinder to you in the future, I promise. And to you, Giacomo. ” She grasped her other friend’s hand and gave him a dazzling smile.

  Laughing softly, the three proceeded up to the second landing. As they turned and started up the last flight they halted abruptly. Their bright laughter faded and died, like sparks smothered by a blanket.

  Alessandro Loredan loomed over them. The light from the tall window at his back illuminated the faces of the three merrymakers but left his own partially in shadow, making him look rather sinister and forbidding.

  “Like the Angel of Death,” Fosca thought.

  His black eyebrows were lifted in an expression of mild astonishment and disdain, although his dark eyes were expressionless. His cheeks were gaunt, pinched, exaggerating the sharp thrust of his nose. His black hair, lightly touched with gray, was cropped short and brushed straight back from his forehead. He spurned wigs and only wore them when the duties of his offices required it. He was taut, spare, tightly controlled, like a Spanish mystic or an El Greco saint, consumed by inner fires that he tried to dampen by the coolness of his intellect.

  Fosca, recovering from her surprise at seeing him, smiled broadly and advanced up the stairs to greet him. When she reached the top she extended her hand. He bowed over her fingertips.

  “Good morning, Madame.” His tone was cool and polite. He gave her companions a nod, and his eyebrows hitched up another notch when he saw Giacomo’s gay costume of pink silk and green brocade. Giacomo, painfully aware of the holes in his stockings, went suitably pink with shame. Both he and Antonio returned Loredan’s greeting.

  “Ah, Signor, what an early riser you are, to be sure!” Fosca observed brightly. “As you can see, we three rogues haven’t been to bed at all! Aren’t we terrible?”

  Her voice sounded slightly strained, higher pitched than usual, unnatural. Antonio Valier stared at his shoes. The misgivings he had felt about their scheme welled up again as he remembered its unpredictably dangerous outcome. He couldn’t meet Loredan’s icy gaze. At his side, Giacomo Selvo shifted nervously.

  Alessandro gave his wife’s costume a swift appraisal. His glance swept over her slender figure, taking in the slim legs encased in ivory satin breeches and mud-splashed stockings, the dainty pumps decorated with satin bows, the embroidered waistcoat with contrasting collar, the froth of rich lace at her throat and cuffs. Her man’s coat was well-fitted and beautifully cut. He felt a sharp tightening in his middle, like a fist closing.

  “You’re enjoying Carnival, I see,” he said.

  Her mocking smile came too quickly, and he realized how lame the remark had sounded.

  Fosca assumed a bold stance in front of him, one hand propped on her hip. “Yes, we are indeed, Signor. Do you approve of my disguise? I was a great hit at the Ridotto tonight. Several young ladies flirted with me quite shamelessly! I didn’t dare speak to them, lest I give myself away, and they were quite distressed by my coldness.” Laughter bubbled under her words. Her husband’s eyes glittered disapprovingly. She plunged on breathlessly. “I think the costume is practical as well as attractive, don’t you? I really can’t think why women haven’t adopted breeches before this, except for the old Alviso sisters, of course, and they have always been more male than female, as everyone knows. But you must permit me to give you the name of my tailor, Signor! He is a truly excellent craftsman and his price was quite reasonable. He did say, though, that he would gladly have done the job for nothing, because I had the most delightful figure he ever fi
tted!” She laughed lightly and looked down at Antonio and Giacomo, who managed to join in, although somewhat feebly.

  “Yes, I would like to know his name,” Alessandro said. “I should like to call upon him myself.”

  “An old man, near San Geremia,” Giacomo offered. “A Jew by the name of—of—.” Loredan’s eyes bored into him. He floundered helplessly and turned desperately to Antonio.

  “Leone,” his friend said quickly. “On the Calle Cendon, near the ghetto.”

  “Thank you,” Loredan said graciously. “Will you excuse me, Madame?” His wife offered her hand and he kissed her fingertips lightly. “Gentlemen.” He nodded curtly to the two cicisbei and started down the stairs past them. Fosca disappeared into the ballroom and Giacomo hurried after her. Antonio had to wait until Loredan passed him before he, too, could go up. As he turned he heard a soft, “Signor Valier.”

  He looked down. Alessandro Loredan was hidden in shadow at the bottom of the staircase. His voice came up, like a knell from Hell.

  “I would be happy if you and Signor Selvo would call upon me in my chambers at eleven o’clock this morning.”

  “Of course. Signor.” Antonio swallowed. “It would be a pleasure.”

  He waited. He heard Loredan cross the courtyard to the boats and bark an order to his gondolier. A moment later he heard the muffled bump and scrape as the man entered the boat and was borne away.

  Antonio let out his breath in a long sigh, and realized that he was sweating.

  The three tired troubadours sat in front of the fire in Fosca’s boudoir. They sipped strong coffee and laughed a little at their hair-raising adventure and exchanged some desultory gossip about their friends, but they were really too exhausted to be very lively. From time to time Antonio read aloud an amusing item from the Gazzettino. He didn’t mention the forthcoming interview with Loredan, which was guaranteed to be unpleasant. Why spoil the morning for Giacomo, who was terrified of the man? He would tell him about their appointment as soon as they left Fosca.