“I was hoping to find him here already.”
“Oh, he is always very mysterious,” Antoinette said. “He likes to make a grand entrance. But this gives us time to play something together!” she said, drawing him toward the harpsichord. “We keep your flute here always.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t played much lately,” the marquis demurred, but Antoinette, pouting, said, “Not even for me?”
When the Queen of France made such a remark, it was never clear, even given their friendship, whether it was a request or an order. And when she suggested that they play “C’est Mon Ami,” he knew she would brook no denial. The lyrics of the song had been written by the poet Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian, but the music was the queen’s own composition, and she was quite proud of it.
The flute was presented to him, with an exaggerated bow and a sly smile, by the Princesse de Lamballe; he knew she sensed his reluctance. The flute itself had been a gift from Antoinette, a way to encourage him to come to the Trianon and accompany her, and now, as she launched into the tune, singing the words in a bright contralto, he had little choice but to bend his head and play the tune from memory.
“C’est mon ami, Rendez-moi,” she sang, her head erect, “J’ai son amour, Il a ma foi,” repeating the refrain. She was dressed in a gossamer peach chemise over a silk gown, with no hoops or stays, and in her hair she wore a simple aigrette of white heron feathers with a sapphire clasp. Her figure had filled out, and her Habsburg lip, with its unfortunate droop, had become more pronounced, but her grace and carriage were unchanged. Fersen, the Swedish count, watched her with a rapt gaze, and the marquis was glad that she had found someone to provide her with the passion that the king, a cold and ungainly man, with an equally dismal reputation in the bedroom, could not. (It was common knowledge that he had a physical deformity that made intercourse painful for him.)
They had no sooner finished the tune than the applause was abetted by the sound of clapping from the entryway, where a stout, swarthy man with smoldering eyes, rimmed with kohl, stood. His dark hair was swept back with pomade but no powder, and he was dressed all in black, his silk tailcoat adorned with white ivory scarabs and amber pins shaped like gargoyles.
La Medusa, on a silver chain, hung around his neck.
Even as Sant’Angelo’s eyes were riveted on the glass, Count Cagliostro’s were drawn to him. It was as if two predators had crossed paths while hunting and did not know whether to go their own way or lock themselves in combat.
The court jewelers, however, had been right—this Medusa was the same as the one on the marquis’s ring.
And it did not bear the ruby eyes of the version he had made for Eleonora de Toledo.
This, then, was the glass that possessed the power, the one that the Pope had stolen centuries before. Sant’Angelo could not imagine by what circuitous pathway it had come down to Cagliostro … but he did know that he would reclaim it before the night was through.
“I am honored,” Cagliostro said, approaching and bowing his head, “to make your acquaintance at last.”
When he looked up again, it was with a soulful but piercing gaze, and Sant’Angelo recognized that the man was taking his measure.
Just as he was doing in return.
“I have heard so much about you, in so many quarters, for so long,” the count went on, in a voice that seemed purposefully mellifluous … and difficult to trace. There was the hint of Italian in it, but also an intonation that seemed deliberately Eastern. “Your eye for things of beauty is celebrated everywhere.”
The marquis did not know if the count referred, obliquely, to the queen, or the famously orphaned diamond necklace. He suspected the confusion was intended.
“As are your powers in other spheres,” he added.
Sant’Angelo had no doubt, however, what this last sally referred to. He had acquired a reputation, wherever he went over the years, as a master of the dark arts. No one else, it was said, could have had the courage to inhabit the notorious Chateau Perdu, or have acquired such wealth and position with no known forebears. It was rumored that the marquis could read minds and foretell the future. It was a reputation that he neither encouraged nor dispelled.
“And your reputation, Count, certainly precedes you everywhere,” the marquis replied. “The queen tells me you’ll be doing some of your tricks tonight.”
A flash of anger crossed Cagliostro’s face, which he quickly disguised. “I will, of course, do the queen’s bidding, but tricks are the province of magicians.”
“Oh,” Sant’Angelo said, “I was under the wrong impression. I am so sorry if I have given offense.”
“Not at all.” His thick fingers touched La Medusa on its chain. “I can’t help but notice that you seem intrigued by my medallion.”