The Glassblower of Murano - Marina Fiorato [93]
CHAPTER 34
The Mask Falls
The Salon de The in Petit Trianon reminded Corradino very much of the Cantina Do Mori and as he entered the cafe for his assignation he missed Venice like a blow to the belly. As he sought the privacy of the backroom as instructed in Duparcmieur's note he passed the patrons who had borrowed the latest eastern fashions for their dress - the Byzantine look was the latest in style, and the gaudy velvets made these genteel Parisians resemble Venetians. The enclosed and exclusive rear area of the cafe was highly decorated with frescoes and mirrors.
The French, it seems, steal all of their ideas from Venice. Even me they stole.
As he sat and waited he began to wonder anew why Duparcmieur had chosen to meet here, in a mirror image of their first interview. Duparcmieur had been in the habit of coming to Corradino's house, or talking to him in the Palace itself. It was no secret to his colleagues that Duparcmieur was his protector, and that through him, Corradino had a loftier patron; the King himself.
Perhaps there were some delicate negotiations to conduct which demanded a convivial atmosphere. After all it was close on a year since Corradino had come to France, and they were nearing the appointed time for Leonora to come to him. Corradino set his jaw. He would not budge in the matter of Leonora. Every day he thought of her and how it would be when they were together at last - holding her sweet face in his hands, playing in the palace gardens as he worked, or touching their fingers together in their special way - this time without the grille of the Pieta in between. Unconsciously, Corradino spread out his hand in a star of longing - he could almost feel her little pads pressed to his hard, printless fingertips.
I hope she has not forgotten. I cannot wait.
He felt a back settle against his - the bones of a spine behind the nap of fine velvet.
Duparcmieur.
`Why here?' asked Corradino.
`Why not?'
The voice was not French. Not Duparcmieur. But the perfect, aristocratic patois of the Veneto. As he had done a year before at the Cantina Do Mori, Corradino glanced into the mirror at his side. His guts shrivelled within him.
`I apologize for this unconventional meeting,' said Ambassador Baldasar Guilini smoothly. `However, as we have met before, I thought such convivial surroundings would not offend you. Do you recall our meeting?'
Corradino swallowed. His thoughts flapped like moths in a bottle. He must not give himself away.
`At the Palace, Excellency?'
`Yes, then. But before, a long time before. At the Arsenale. You came with your father - he was ratifying a trading treaty with the Dardanelles. Saffron, was it? Or Salt? Forgive me, I forget the particulars of the case. But I remember your father - a noble fellow, Corrado Manin.You resemble him physically, which is your good fortune' The Ambassador shifted. `Your ill fortune, of course, is that you resemble him also in your propensity for treachery to the Republic.'
Corradino's frozen heart plummeted. He knew that it was over.
I am unmasked. I am dead. Should I run?
Corradino cast swift glances left and right at the laughing patrons. Any one of them could be assassins, agents of The Ten. It was no good.
As if echoing his resignation, the Ambassador continued. `It's too late for you, of course. But if you make certain amends, you may be able to save your daughter.'
Fear clutched Corradino's throat with a strangling grip.
How could they know? Dear God, please, not Leonora.
`What do you mean?' he choked, in a last desperate parry. `What daughter?'
`Signor Martin, please. The one in the Pieta of course. Leonora. The issue of your little amour with her mother Angelina dei Vescovi. We knew of the affair, of course. But not of the child. I expect old Prince Nunzio was ashamed of the matter, as well he might be. No, we are obliged to your mentor Giacomo del Piero for that information. It's too late for him as well, of course' Baldasar Guilini sniffed fastidiously, as if he smelled rotten carrion.
Corradino felt his