the queen’s mind.
Over dinner, the conversation quite naturally turned to the royal jewels-many of which Boehmer had created-and the marquis casually asked, while another bottle of Sancerre was uncorked, if any new trinkets had recently come to light. The royal coffers were deep, and Sant’Angelo evinced a particular interest in antique silver, perhaps with the old-fashioned niello finish. Boehmer was flattered to be asked, but, really, who was more in the queen’s confidence than the marquis?
“As you know, the queen favors more… glittering fare,” he said, nicely paving the way for what was to come.
It was only after the brandy had been served, along with platters of candied fruits and a redolent Feuille de Dreux-a soft, flat cheese topped with a chestnut leaf-that the more abstemious Bassenge caught his partner’s eye and laid a hand on the walnut box that had never left his side. The marquis did not miss the signal, either.
“The light will be better in the salon upstairs,” he said. “Come.”
The marquis led the way up the grand escalier, its two white wings ascending from the main hall, then down a long corridor lined with Gobelin tapestries (Boehmer’s eye never failed him) that rippled in the draft from the mullioned windows; a violent wind was blowing outside, rattling the iron frames and whistling through the cracks. At the end of the hall a warm light beckoned, and Boehmer, followed by Bassenge, entered a salon to rival the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.
The walls were made of molded glass and gilded bronze, each of the mirrors long enough to reflect a man in his entirety, and alternated with bookshelves lined with ornately tooled volumes. The cost of such a room-a pentagon, oddly enough, in shape-must have been extraordinary. An enormous chandelier, its hanging crystals sparkling from the light of no less than a hundred white wax candles, hung overhead. The floor was covered with intricately woven Aubusson carpets, and on an oval table, in a corner of the room, a sturdy serving man was just setting down a silver pot and china cups.
“I thought you might like some hot chocolate,” the marquis said. “I’ve grown very fond of it myself.”
Boehmer, too, liked it, though Bassenge, he knew, was never much interested in anything to eat or drink. Already he had drifted over to the books, and with his head tilted to one side was scanning the titles.
Boehmer accepted a cup of the chocolate, thick and aromatic, and took it to the French doors that looked out into the night. He had to put his face close to the glass and shield his face with one hand, but then he could see past the reflection.
They were at the top of one of the towers, and just outside there was a slate terrace; beyond that, he could make out the tops of some very tall and ancient oaks, bending in the wind. Past the trees was a sheer cliff, falling away to the Loire, the longest river in France. Its surface glistened dully in the moonlight, like an enormous black serpent lying across the land. Boehmer imagined that the view might be quite spectacular by day, though right then it was both vertiginous and oddly disquieting.
“Haven’t you carried that box long enough?” the marquis said to Bassenge, who was indeed still clutching it under one arm.
Bassenge tore himself away from the books long enough to come to the claw-footed desk in the center of the room, where a bust of Dante had been moved to clear some space. He glanced at his partner to be sure that the time was right, and Boehmer said, “Open it, Paul.”
The box was the size of a chessboard and sealed with six brass clasps. Each one clicked as it was flicked back, then Bassenge lifted the gleaming lid, reached inside as delicately as if he were picking up a living thing, and withdrew a diamond necklace of such surpassing brilliance that it rivaled the chandelier above. Boehmer could not have been more pleased with the way the stones caught and magnified the light.
Bassenge’s bony fingers held it up by the two ends of its topmost loop-there were three in all-made up of exactly 647 of the most perfect African diamonds, some as large as filberts, culled from the inventory of dealers in Amsterdam, Antwerp, and Zurich. Weighing two thousand eight hundred carats, and accented by several red silk ribbons, it was the single most elaborate and costly necklace in the world-a piece that only royalty could afford to own, or bestow.
Which had been its original purpose. Boehmer and Bassenge had created it for Louis XV, as a gift for his mistress. But the king had died before it was done-before it could be given to Madame du Barry, and before it could be paid for… leaving it the most valuable, but most bereft, masterpiece in all the world.
Boehmer watched now as the marquis’s eye traveled over it, appraisingly, and he wondered if he was as amazed by its audacity and execution as he hoped. Would he be so favorably impressed that he would recommend it to Marie Antoinette? Could he persuade her to purchase the necklace herself? At 2 million livres, it was an astronomical sum, even for the Queen of France. But if she didn’t buy it, to whom else could Boehmer and Bassenge hope to sell it?
“Is there a diamond left in the world?” the marquis finally said, and Boehmer beamed.
“Not one to match the quality of these.”
“May I?” Sant’Angelo said, and taking it in his own hands, he held the necklace up to the light, gently turning it this way and that and studying the way its thousand facets captured and refracted the glow of the candles. Boehmer noted that the marquis himself wore a simple silver ring on one finger, cast in the shape of the Medusa. Bassenge must have noticed it, too.
“Like Count Cagliostro’s,” he said to his partner, sotto voce.
“What’s that about the so-called count?” the marquis said, his attention still riveted on the necklace.
“He is quite the rage at Versailles these days,” Boehmer said.
“So I’ve been told,” the marquis replied disdainfully.
“And he wears a medallion much like your ring,” Bassenge explained.
The marquis stopped, as if frozen for an instant, before saying, with affected nonchalance, “Does he now?”
Boehmer nodded his agreement.
“Did you know that I made this ring myself?”
“I had always understood that Your Excellency was proficient in our trade,” Boehmer said-which wasn’t to say he understood why. A nobleman who was also a silversmith? But then the king himself had a passion for locksmithing. Who could understand all their idiosyncrasies?
“And you say it resembles this Medusa?” Sant’Angelo said, keeping the necklace in one hand while holding out the other that wore the ring, so that they might more closely inspect it.
“Yes. Identical, I would hazard,” Boehmer said.
“With ruby eyes?”
“No,” Boehmer said, “unless they have been removed. It is really quite plain.”
Sant’Angelo’s face betrayed no emotion, but he carefully placed the diamond necklace back in its velvet- lined casket, then offered to refresh their hot chocolate from the still-warm pot.
“Why should I simply write a letter?” he said, pouring another dollop into Boehmer’s waiting cup. “I will accompany you to Versailles tomorrow.”
“And you will personally speak to the queen about the necklace?” Boehmer said, beside himself with joy. The sale might yet be made and the fortune he had invested in the piece recovered!
“I can promise nothing,” the marquis replied, “but I will indeed speak to her about it.”
All that night, the Marquis di Sant’Angelo paced the floor, waiting for the dawn to break. If he could have wrenched the sun into the sky with his own bare hands, he would have done it.
Boehmer and Bassenge had gone to bed, but he remained in the mirrored salon, sometimes stepping out on its balcony, where the cold wind rippled the sleeves of his shirt and whipped his black hair into a frenzy. The barren branches of the old oaks creaked like hinges, and a pack of wolves, hunting along the banks of the Loire, howled at the moon. The sky was clear, and the stars twinkled as white and bright as the diamonds in the necklace he had been shown a few hours before.
But it wasn’t the necklace that occupied his thoughts. The queen knew it had been made for her nemesis, du Barry, and for that reason alone, even if it were the most beautiful necklace in all the world, she would never buy it.
No, what occupied his thoughts was La Medusa… apparently adorning the greatest charlatan in France-a man who claimed to be three thousand years old. A patent sham, professing to know the wisdom of ancient
