The King's Secret

 Paris, May 1920

 It would be a tragedy of immeasurable proportions, to be in Paris and not avail oneself of the couture. No, thought Rose, we wouldn’t want that.

The gown hugged her figure tight to halfway down the thigh before flaring out passed the knee and covering the toe. When she moved, it gave the impression that she was gliding or floating across the floor. Rose was pleased with the effect.

The pattern of black line on a field of white suggested a thicket of dark branches, a forest in winter. A black velvet collar decorated with a small red rose at the side of the neck, provided the colour and completed the ensemble.

The evening light poured through the skylight of the fashion house. Rose had spent most of the day at the Bibliothèque nationale and this indulgence gave her the opportunity to gather her thoughts and review the fruits of the day’s research.

The Comte de Saint Germain. Voltaire had called him “a man who never dies, and who knows everything.”  No doubt, this was Voltaire being witty. What Rose found interesting however was the context of this remark. It was a letter that Voltaire wrote to Frederick of Prussia on April 15th, 1758 wherein Voltaire hints at some sort of political involvement by the Count.

 

With a little digging, Rose found greater detail in the memoirs of Baron de Gleichen, a German diplomat in the service of Denmark. Here she noted that acting as a secret agent of the Louis XV, Saint Germain was provided with a cipher and sent to the Hague to initiate peace negotiations separately from the authorized representatives of state. Louis XV employed a network of such unofficial agents. Known as le secret du roi, these agents often worked independently of official state channels.

 

 -----

The continuation of this enmity and the suspicions of M. de Choiseul (the First Minister of State) developed a few months later. The marshal was constantly intriguing to make himself the author of a special peace with Prussia, and to break the system of alliance between Austria and France, on which the credit of the Duke of Choiseul was based. Louis XV and Madame de Pompadour desired this particular peace. Saint-Germain persuaded them to send him to the Hague to Duke Louis of Brunswick, of whom he claimed to be a close friend, and promised to succeed through this channel in a negotiation of which his eloquence presented the advantages under the most attractive aspect.

The marshal drew up the instructions, the king himself handed them over with a cipher to M. de Saint-Germain, who having arrived in The Hague, believed himself authorized enough to decide for the minister. His indiscretion caused M. d'Affry, then ambassador to Holland, to discover the secret of this mission, and, by a letter he sent, made bitter complaints to M. de Choiseul, because it was exposing an old friend of his father, and the dignity of the character of ambassador, to the insult of having peace negotiated, before his eyes, without instructing him, by an obscure foreigner.

-----

Understandably, this initiative was not well received by the Duke de Choiseul, and the Comte de Saint Germain had to flee to England. That was June 1760. Two years later, the Count appears in St. Petersburg, where, if the stories are true, he helps Catherine the Great seize the Russian throne from Tsar Peter III, her husband.

As for Louis XV, he ceded almost all French territory in North America to Britain, under the terms of the Treaty of Paris, 1763. This treaty, ending the Seven Year’s War, had been negotiated by the Duke de Choiseul. This treaty shaped the course of history. 

What had been the effect of Saint Germain’s involvement? 

Rose absently reached up and touched the flower at the side of her throat. A blossom of blood. 

The Comte de Saint Germain.  Not just a man who never dies, but a man who never dies playing at politics.

A slow smile came to Rose’s lips. It did not reach her icy blue eyes.

It was time to leave Paris.

The Nimble Rabbit

Paris, May 1920

The rabbit was caught in the moment of leaping out of a saucepan. He wore a hat at a jaunty angle, a collar and a tie. A brilliant red sash was tied about his waist. On his front paw, he balanced a bottle of wine. 

Such was the wooden sign on the outside wall.

It was a  little stone cottage located on the Rue des Saules, in the heart of Montemartre. Picasso drank here in his youth and popularized the place with a self-portrait. Modigliani, Utrillo, Apollinaire – all had gathered here. It was a meeting place of artists, poets, and playwrights.

Established before the Paris Commune, it had gone through a number of names before finding its true identity - the Cabaret au Lapin Agile.

 

Inside, patrons sat at long wooden tables, sampling the local vintage. The chanteur hopped and pranced with a swagger in his step, and a twinkle in his eye. His accompanist, a large man, stood to one side, playing an accordion.

Je vous demande pardon, messieurs dames,
D’avoir l’air inquiet et confus
C’est que j’ai perdu, ah, quel drame !
La chose à quoi je tenais l’ plus …

[I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen,
Looking worried and confused
It’s because I lost, ah, what a tragedy!
The thing I cared about most... ]

At the chorus, the audience sang along.

Je cherche après Titine
Titine, ah Titine !
Je cherche après Titine
Et je ne la trouve pas …

[I'm looking for Titine
Titine, ah Titine!
I'm looking for Titine
And I cannot find her...]

Rose watched from the corner of the room. She stood by the mantle, smiling and sipping her sherry.

The French have a phrase. Joie de vivre. The joy of life. More than the mere experience of happiness, it is an approach to life with all its pleasure and pain. Everyone here had experienced loss, and certainly all had losses yet to come. But here, at this moment, in the Eternal Present, there was laughter and music and dance.

The chanteur hushed the audience and began the second verse with a mischievous grin. He was the trickster, the magician, weaving together the attention of the assembled into a cohesive whole.

Mais qu’est-ce que je vois dans la salle
C’est ma Titine certainement
Elle va sûrement faire un scandale
En me traitant de vieux chenapan …

[But what do I see in the room
It’s definitely my Titine
She will surely cause a scandal
By calling me an old rascal...]

The crowd listened expectantly. Some chuckled softly. Everyone smiled. With the next chorus, the room again erupted in song. Rose joined in the singing, adding her voice to the community of spirit.

Je cherche après Titine
Titine, ah Titine !
Je cherche après Titine
Et je ne la trouve pas
Je cherche après Titine
Titine, ah Titine !
Je cherche après Titine
Et je ne la trouve pas
Ah, maman ! Ah, papa !

Breakfast with Casanova

Paris, May 1920

A little bird had landed on the far edge of the table. Clearly, it was used to people and was on the lookout for biscuit crumbs and the like.

Rose became very still, holding her book on her lap, giving the little creature a chance to explore the surface of the table. The bird eyed her curiously, pecked at crumbs on the table, then flew away to a nearby tree.

 

Rose took a sip of her morning coffee before returning to her book.

It was The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt, volume three, translated by Arthur Machen, the author of the book The Great God Pan, and member of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.

On first reading, there had been a number of passages that had caught Rose’s interest. She reviewed them now. All involved Casanova’s experiences with a man known as Le Comte de Saint-Germain.

The most enjoyable dinner I had was with Madame de Gergi, who came with the famous adventurer, known by the name of the Count de St. Germain. This individual, instead of eating, talked from the beginning of the meal to the end, and I followed his example in one respect as I did not eat, but listened to him with the greatest attention. It may safely be said that as a conversationalist he was unequalled.

Further down the page,

This extraordinary man, intended by nature to be the king of impostors and quacks, would say in an easy, assured manner that he was three hundred years old, that he knew the secret of the Universal Medicine, that he possessed a mastery over nature, that he could melt diamonds, professing himself capable of forming, out of ten or twelve small diamonds, one large one of the finest water without any loss of weight. All this, he said, was a mere trifle to him. Notwithstanding his boastings, his bare-faced lies, and his manifold eccentricities, I cannot say I thought him offensive.

And later,

St. Germain often dined with the best society in the capital, but he never ate anything, saying that he was kept alive by mysterious food known only to himself. One soon got used to his eccentricities, but not to his wonderful flow of words which made him the soul of whatever company he was in.

Rose noted several characteristics of the Count.  He did not eat in public. He was a charming conversationalist. He claimed to have mastered life extension.

Casanova considered St. Germain to be a fraud. As Casanova was himself quite a rogue, perhaps he recognized the markings of a fellow swindler.  Rose wondered what really happened to those ten or twelve small diamonds.

She took a bite from her croissant. These were curious observations, nevertheless. She reflected, there may be some benefit in a close examination of Le Comte de Saint-Germain.

The City of Light

Paris, May 1920

The journey to Paris from Salamanca was lengthy but uneventful. Rose had packed a small bag. She did not want to be encumbered with quantities of luggage, a steamer trunk or hat boxes. She wanted to retain the option of movement with minimal fuss, especially when transferring trains.

Rose had decided to make Paris her stop on the way to Berlin and beyond. She would spend a few days here before continuing her travels. A friend, a visual artist, had given Rose a key to a pair of rooms in Montmartre. Her friend would be out of the country and so Rose would have her privacy.

She hired a taxicab from Gare d’Orsay and instructed the driver to drop her on the Rue des Abbesses. It was a short walk from there to her friend’s pied-à-terre.

By the time she arrived, night had fallen. The skies, which had been threatening rain all afternoon, finally opened up and released a deluge. Rose was undeterred. The storm cleared the streets. The heavy rain veiled her passing.
 
Pass unnoticed. Leave no trace.

The door to her friend’s rooms was down a short alley way. She slid the key home and let herself into the apartment.

It was dry and welcoming.

Framed prints decorated the walls. A small piano sat patiently near one end of the room. There was a comfortable chair to one side. A small wood stove stood ready to be lit in one corner.

Rose locked the outer door and made her way to the next room.

It was obvious that the bedchamber belonged to an artist. Sketch books and art supplies were scattered throughout, occupying the shelves, the floor, and most flat surfaces.  A tall easel dominated the center.

The room was disorganized but cozy. Rose nodded to herself. This would make a suitable retreat space.

She set her bag down next to the bed and proceeded to remove her wet clothing.  From her bag, Rose took a loose-fitting garment and dressed for bed.

---

Sleep would not come. Rose was feeling restless.

The storm outside was raging. Through the thin curtains, each flash of lightning lit up the room. Rather than lying on the bed, counting the seconds between flash and thunder, Rose elected to explore her surroundings.

Her friend had left some bread, some cheese and a small carafe of wine. It was a simple refreshment but it meant that Rose was now fully awake.

She regarded the blank canvas her friend had left on the easel. It was as inviting as the unlit fire prepared in the wood stove.

With a deep, calming breath, she took up a small stick of sepia and began to sketch. As her hand darted across the canvas, the image took shape of two young women. There was enough of a similarity between the two faces that one would naturally assume them to be sisters. 

 

Satisfied with the result, Rose set down the sepia and took up the oils.

The Annex

Salamanca, April 1920

The library annex was silent this time of night. There were no sounds of pages turning, no soft footsteps nor gentle coughing from other patrons. Here were books, old and rare, volumes forbidden by the church, hidden away from public viewing. At the busiest of times, access to the annex was restricted. Rose found it an ideal environment to complete her private correspondence.

She settled herself at a small desk against the wall. For illumination, she lit three pillar candles. No lamp for her this evening. Rose was, as she would put it, in a nostalgic mood.

 

She was a tall woman, with classic features. Her hair was dark and curly, thanks to an Italian grandmother. Her eyes were a shade of aquamarine, unsettling when enraged, bewitching in times of passion. She kept them concealed behind a pair of wire frame spectacles.

With long, slender fingers, she took up her pen.

Tonight, she would write a letter to a man. She spent the past few days composing her thoughts, debating how she might reach out to him. Her motivation she fully intended to remain private. However, when necessary, there were  layers of truth she was prepared to reveal - in the fullness of time and certainly not in writing. For now, she decided brevity was the correct course of action. After all, the best kept secrets are those no one knows exist.

She selected a sheet of heavy cream paper and with a bold black ink, she began:

Professor Serendipity, 

Sir - I am currently studying at a university on the Iberian Peninsula researching aspects of Central and Eastern European folklore with particular connection to members of the aristocracy. Would you be willing to meet privately to discuss this topic?  I shall be traveling to Berlin next month should you be in Europe. 

Yours Respectfully,

Rose Arcana