The Secrets of Casanova (12 page)

Even as he snugged his dagger back into its sheath, Jacques felt the harried rush to redraw his steel. “It’s only for Dominique that I restrain myself,” he barked.

Cavaliere Grimani spread his legs wide and smoothed the
peruke on his head. “I know of your career as adventurer, as some call it. Vanity, boy. You possess only, as the French say,
nostalgie de la boue
. ‘Homesickness for the gutter.’ Your notion is to spit constantly on the world, then expect the world to reward you. As a renegade from
the Venetian Republic, you have been a personal embarrassment to
me for years. If Venice cannot presently sit atop the world order as it has for past centuries, it’s because of presumptuous vulgarians such as you.”

Jacques checked his fury. “I’ll quit this house—and neither you nor Voltaire will ever possess my manuscript.”

“Do as you please. But from the inquiries I’ve made, you are one short step away from debtors’ prison. Your abysmal behaviors poise you for death.”

“So you have tentacles everywhere.”

Grimani ignored the affront while marching back and forth. “What did you expect from this little plan of Dominique’s? Ho! Signor Casanova, the worm, now has the opportunity to become a butterfly! He’s been given the main chance to consort with French
society as he did some years ago. To be able to visit the
consequential
salons again where one hears the real news that allows clever
speculation on the market, or induces one to take the correct step at
the opportune moment. Signor Casanova has need of fresh
opportunity. A fresh victim. To latch like a parasite upon some great personage. To suck them dry. As you do to that fool, Fragonard.”

Jacques’ face burned hot. “Fragonard? How—?”

“Tentacles everywhere!” Grimani grinned icily, then regarded
Jacques with renewed ferocity. “To desiccate each and every victim. That’s what your adventuring entails, does it not? To flourish, you
need Dominique’s plan. You therefore need
me
to provide a
favorable circumstance. Me!” His voice rose to a terrible crescendo. “Do not pretend otherwise.”

“It’s true that fate provides the circumstance,” Jacques lashed, “but I repeat—I own the unique manuscript on which the whole of the plan relies. Without the enticement of my manuscript, Monsieur de Voltaire won’t return to France for the fête, nor will the house of Grimani be honored for his return. And as for adventuring—sharp wits, multiple resources, and adoration from fickle Fortune—these are the ingredients of adventuring, I assure you.”

Grimani turned his back and took several steps away. “As you and I well recognize, signor, you need money, you need this fête.” He lowered his voice and faced Jacques. “Now ask why I deign to
open my villa for Madame Casanova’s arrangement? I have one
solitary reason: my great regard for Madame. I have always honored her requests, no matter how misguided.”

Jacques eyed the man whose gray hair now jutted from under his peruke in ever-larger snatches. “As you say, let us not deceive one another. To be able to coax the great Voltaire back to France after his self-imposed exile is an enormous feather in any man’s cap, even
in the cap of a Cavaliere della stola d’oro. The king himself shall assuredly attend this celebration to reacquaint himself with the renowned Voltaire.”

Michele Grimani lightly applauded. He ran the fingers of both hands down his waistcoat, took several steps toward Jacques, and spoke in a carefully modulated tone. “For now I say let business be business. I shall assist Madame Casanova in her plan, and no one, including her, will be privy to my judgment of you. But make no mistake, Casanova. To me you are neither a fellow Venetian nor a friend. And you shall not consider me either, for I am your enemy.”

“You have put me in mind of a further contract I’ll need. Before I
engage in this business arrangement, I shall want a letter of
permission,
as it were, from the Inquisitori. From you, Cavaliere Grimani.
Permission to return to our homeland, Venice.”

“You know that I alone do not possess such authority.”

“But you, powerful and prestigious, will smooth the way nevertheless.”

Grimani drew in a long breath, but Jacques fixed him with a
stare. The man slowly and coldly nodded.

“Perhaps.”

“Be advised, Cavaliere”—Jacques snarled the word—“that I cherish
La Serenissima
—
Venice—my home. On my return, ‘many there shall be restored that now are fallen, and many shall fall that now are in honor.’”

Grimani shifted his eyes and smiled. “Horace.” He turned,
obligating Jacques to follow him out of the library.

In the ballroom, they found Dominique standing alone and quiet at its center.

Pacing beside Jacques, Cavaliere Grimani showered sweet
words. “And thus we have an opportunity for the coup of the century,
Signor Casanova. After his self-imposed exile, Monsieur de
Voltaire’s return to his native land will be momentous. By the bye, Voltaire’s
paleographer, after examining the pages of manuscript you
submitted to him, has assured us that the date and authenticity of it are what
Voltaire hoped it to be. The great man will happily accept your
valuable gift, Signor.”

All the while Jacques remained still as a tree. He thought Grimani a true politician who did not allow his passions to impede exacting business.

The Cavaliere ushered Jacques to Dominique’s side, gazed at
her, and
cooed. “I find that this lady’s only fault is not being rich, but she only feels how great a failing it is when it prevents her from being generous.”

I must stave off the stinking odor of this dog
. Jacques slipped his handkerchief from his sleeve and stuffed it under his nose.
And I must be on guard with this woman.

Dominique arched an eyebrow at him while pinching the
corners of her dress to perform a curtsy.

“But to the affair at hand, madame,” the Cavaliere continued, his strident voice creating an echo in the cavernous ballroom. “Since I’m supplying the money to purchase Signor Casanova’s manuscript gift for Voltaire, because I’ve sway with Monsieur de Voltaire, and as I’m lending my home for the fête, I’ll expect the occasion to be flawless perfection. As you may know, madame, I—and my heralded family—are known to succeed brilliantly in all manner of things.” The Cavaliere’s eyes were now alight. But then, while he whispered almost to himself, his expression greatly altered. “My family, my potent family—well, I do
not
brook failure. Never. None.”

“We understand, Cavaliere,” Dominique said quietly.

Grimani flicked a finger toward Jacques. “Madame, you and your chaperone will plan and carry out the affair with aplomb. I, of course, shall have the final say on all matters.”

Dominique laughed. “Just this moment I’ve created a name for our fête. L’affaire de Voltaire.” Her green eyes gleamed with such joy that both men were obliged to concede a smile.

Jacques gestured grandly toward Dominique, then turned
toward Grimani to establish the full measure of his height. “L’affaire de Voltaire. So it shall be.”

Shifting a step backwards, Grimani pushed his palms together.
“L’affaire de Voltaire,” he muttered.
“Well, I’m in unqualified agreement.”

The Cavaliere congratulated Dominique on her choice plan, then walked his guests to a private study where they seated themselves around a gilded desk. For the remainder of the afternoon, the trio
worked on preliminary details. July 21, midnight, was set as the
date, a mere three weeks away.

“One item more, Cavaliere,” Dominique said. “When we reach the final preparations, may I suggest that you hang my husband’s most valued piece in the balcony just above where the musicians are to perform? All eyes will see the painting there. Dramatic. Ideal.
N’est-ce pas
? ”

“
Oui
,” said Grimani.

“Marvelous. And Francesco’s work in each and every corner of your ballroom? I know just the paintings he’ll choose.” Dominique’s expression left little doubt she was greatly excited.

“My majordomo will supply the necessary ropes and block and tackle to hang the piece in the balcony.”

A short time later, Jacques, walking Dominique toward their
waiting coach, expelled a lungful of air as if he were whistling a
harsh, silent tune. He watched Petrine climb on the back of the coach before helping Dominique inside and sitting opposite her. The orange rays of a slowly sinking sun seemed to heighten her cheer.

While she peeked out the window, Jacques pressed a hand to his forehead, pushing his hair backward as if he wanted to pry it from
his scalp. When she turned, he immediately loosened his fingers,
running his palm down the back of his neck.

“I’m so hopeful,” she beamed, leaning forward to touch his leg. “And I must tell you, Michele Grimani made us a small monetary gift for immediate needs.”

“An unlooked-for addition.” Jacques shrugged and managed to shape a smile on his face.

So, Grimani would receive social acclaim for enticing Voltaire
back to France. Francesco would exhibit and sell his art. And
Jacques, to his benefit, would gain access to the very best of French society, as well as obtain a purseful of gold from Grimani for his manuscript
gift to Voltaire. Most importantly, Jacques would also acquire
Grimani’s letter to ease his entry into Venice.

Dominique, of course, had devised all of this in her lovely head, although she would answer that her god was solely responsible. It
seemed she was never happier than when able to give to others.
Such was her nature, and such was the course she was on.

A jolt of the coach roused Jacques.
As for Vicomte de Fragonard’s opportunity—whatever it is—it must, after all, take a far backseat.

On the ride home, Dominique engaged Jacques’ interest about
everything from the invitation list to the floral decoration for
L’affaire de Voltaire.

“This ball,” said Jacques, “will not take place in Versailles with three or four thousand people. We will make it intimate with three or four hundred.”

“Intimate? Four hundred,” laughed Dominique. “And all ladies and gentlemen of the highest nobility.”

Jacques knew that the fewer invitations he, Grimani, and
Dominique doled out, the more prized they’d be—adding to the event’s cachet as well as to the reputation of Jacques Girolamo Casanova.

“And why deny the king our presence?” he asked.

Dominique squealed excitedly. When she quieted, Jacques felt her eyes fasten on him.

“I’m imagining,” she said, “your sweet mouth on mine.”

“Must you have physical proof?”

Dominique at once sat forward and kissed him. The coach
bounced, separating them. He watched Dominique playfully wrinkle her nose.

“What?” he asked.

“A kiss like that leads me to consider …” She did not finish her thought, but the communication was clear.

“In the service of the queen, then?”

“What?”

“Why, this must be our pet name for the sweet delights my
mouth and tongue will provide to you. In the service of the queen.”

Dominique fairly blushed, glanced hurriedly out both coach windows,
then leveled her gaze to Jacques. “Yes, our pet name for my
second
favorite pleasure, yes,” she purred. “Please, in the service of the queen.”

It was not long before the shameless words “must have you” flowed from Dominique’s lips.

Jingling laughter punctuated by sighs of ecstasy spilled into the twilight while the coach bumped onward to Paris.

TWO DAYS BEFORE THE FÊTE,
Dominique lay on her bed,
speaking more to herself than to Jacques who rested beside her.

“This morning Madame de Gigot told me that she’d given away the costume she’d promised to loan me. Inconceivable that she would do that! Saturday is almost here, and I’ve no outfit.” Dominique sucked in a deep breath and mantled her hands against her stomach. “But it’s important to remind myself, I’m privileged to attend this ball; I’m not, after all, nobility. Further, it’s not likely I’ll ever again attend a magnificent gala, costume or no costume.”

“Dear Lord Jesus,” smiled Jacques, “please bless this sinner with yet another grand idea.”

Dominique did not return the grin.

Jacques sat up. “Let’s not forget it was my brother who proposed the fête be a masquerade. For his idea, he should be thanked.”

“Yes, very much so. Although you realize he was dryly sarcastic when he made that suggestion?”

“I hadn’t.” Jacques rose from the bed with a loud yawn, his voice ringing through the room. “I think I hear Francesco’s coach, dear Fragoletta. What—”

“Oh,” wailed Dominique, “I’ve just remembered his remaining piece of artwork. He’ll fall into his deep, black hole if we don’t—”

“I’ve seen to it,” Jacques said calmly. “I sent Petrine to Cavaliere Grimani’s earlier this afternoon with it. My brother will only have to suffer the torments of not knowing if the painting’s hung precisely as he wants. So be it until Saturday.”

Dominique blew a strand of hair from her face. “Yes, Saturday—the ball and—”

“You’ll have no costume. I know.”

Dominique hissed lightly.

“I relish the thought of you attending the ball—a mere garland as your attire.”

“How can you joke?”

“Ah,” whispered Jacques “I believe I hear the artist of the castle plodding up his steps. When he arrives, I’ll surprise you both.”

“Surprise us? How? How?”

Jacques quickly stepped into the hallway, followed instantly by Dominique. “Brother, is that you?”