The Secrets of Casanova (13 page)

“The Vicomte de Fragonard sends his warmest wishes,”
harrumphed Francesco as he cleared the last stair and entered the hall. “Hopes to enjoy your company again soon, he claims.”

“Thank you, Brother, for bearing his message. Will you and Dominique both wait here a half moment?”

Jacques entered his room and immediately returned to the
hallway, handing a bottle of Cyprus wine and three glasses to
Francesco, who made a drama of refusing before Jacque’s insistence overcame his objections.

“Please take Francesco to the loft hall, Dominique.”

The woman, a quizzical look on her face, complied by scooping up her husband’s hand and leading him toward the door.

Jacques shouted. “Drink up, you two. Don’t wait for me.” The
stratagem he’d concocted demanded that the pair soak up some
wine.

Not long after, the loft hall echoed with Jacques’ footfalls. There was a gentle spring in his step. Dominique, he found, was seated on her favorite stool while Francesco lounged on the floor. A glance at the bottle told Jacques they’d drunk a goodly amount, so without a word, he stepped back outside the door, then reentered, carrying a large trunk. Throwing open the lid, he pulled out men’s breeches, waistcoats, shirts, hose, and coats—strewing them across the floor. With a swell of pride, he proclaimed, “These are our costumes.”

When Jacques held up a blue velvet coat with white satin lining, Dominique covered her mouth in alarm.

“For Grimani’s ball?” Francesco sat up, laughing unkindly.

Dominique’s voice grew heavy. “The nobility will all be wearing masquerade costumes, while we’ll be wearing
these?
”

“You want my wife dressed as a man? As a royal?” Francesco cried.

“This fine, precious jacket—perhaps—well, since you don’t
appreciate my idea, Francesco …” Jacques drew his dagger and angrily jabbed through the pocket.

Dominique’s jaw fell open.

Jacques stabbed again at the coat. He inserted his fingers into the holes and tore them wider.

Francesco sat stunned.

Jacques slugged a mouthful of wine. “After the ball, I’ll have no need for stylish clothes, because I will be the king’s favorite and be permitted to cavort wherever, whenever, and
in
whatever
I please.”

Francesco whistled wildly. “You’re mad.”

“Close to it,” Jacques said, sheathing his poniard. He took several swigs of wine and passed the bottle to Francesco. “I’ve a plan, of course,” he said, offering a conniving grin. “You now see our
almost finished
costumes. Which promise to be the triumph of L’affaire de Voltaire.”

In an instant, Dominique digested Jacques’ design. She shouted in glee, infecting her husband with her abandon. Catching her drift, Francesco howled like a savage animal. He jumped up, and with his strong hands, ripped the sulphur-yellow jacket away from his brother, then jerked Jacques’ dagger from its sheath and began gashing the short-napped coat. Soon the batiste shirts with their fine lace cuffs, the elegant silk stockings, the breeches, the vests—all the splendid garments had been gashed.

Jacques quickly produced three sets of needles and threads and various colored patches.

“We’ll sew these to the garments to give even more humorous appeal. And lastly from my bag, three fine hats and three ceramic
caricature masks with exaggerated faces. These masks of
desperation,
as I call them, and these gay—if ripped—costumes will show the
haughty French nobility that we’ve taken the most sumptuous
clothing and
despoiled it. They’ll believe we’ve absolutely no regard for
expensive
finery, and unless I’ve missed the mark, they’ll share our
recklessness—and laugh.”

“We’re insulting the aristos,” brayed Francesco. “Good.”

Jacques nodded, smiling.

Insulting, indeed! Jacques had thought ahead. He knew that in France, the aristocratic men were slaves to women, and that women were slaves to fashion. By wearing tattered costumes, he slyly winked at the fashion of the hour, and his travesty, he hoped, might have the effect of actually attracting many noble sheep to his fold. However, if the nobility took offense …

Tittering with joy, Dominique kissed Jacques on the cheek.

“Thank you, madame,” he said, carefully checking his brother from the corner of his eye. “But one word of caution. Be certain that the Cavaliere has drunk a surplus of champagne before he spots you in this, his own clothing.”

Francesco began a callous laugh and pointed the dagger at the vest he held. “Grimani’s clothing? Truly?”

“Yes. Truly. I coaxed these from the Cavaliere’s wife when last we visited him.”

“Using your charms? Perfect,” Francesco cried, slashing the vest.

“One other thing,” Jacques said. “I must confess that I persuaded Madame de Gigot to mislead you, Dominique—to say that the costume you were to borrow was given away. However, if you’d really like to wear her—”

Dominique’s eyes widened in elation, her mouth opened in laughter, and she ran out the door with a waistcoat, breeches, and jacket draped across her shoulder. “No need! Going to try on my
new
costume,” she shouted.

It was only a short while before Francesco put the dagger aside, massaged his scalp, and gawked at his paintings on the loft wall. Jacques watched in vain while his brother tried to recreate his earlier enthusiasm, but the wine had ceased playing its trick. Francesco stared at his canvases and wondered if the paintings—his children—were stillborn
.

Finally, he stirred from his reverie. “As usual, you’ve been
extravagant, brother.” He pointed at Grimani’s vest. “All for a man I neither care for nor trust. For a fête that disgusts me.”

Jacques looked at the numerous portraits, still lifes, and battle
paintings on the loft wall. “At the fête when your artwork is
purchased by the nobles—”

“My artwork? Bloated. Like the bluebloods who’ll gape. I abhor it all.”

Jacques smiled cunningly. “You revile
everything
then? Even
boudin noir
—
the blood sausage I procured especially for you, to be served at the ball.”

Francesco turned away. “Yes, Brother, I revile even your blood. Sausage.”

ON JULY 21, A HALF HOUR BEFORE THE BALL
was to begin, Dominique, Jacques, and Francesco Casanova arrived in fulsome style at the Grimani summer mansion. Grimani, as pledged, had provided the Casanovas his coach—a conveyance whose cab and horse trappings were decorated with the family coat of arms and—
complementing the livery of the coachmen and postilions—
embellished in the family colors of argent and crimson.

When the rumble of the coach wheels faded on the smooth stone of Grimani’s private road, Jacques adjusted his costume and made a funny face at Dominique and Francesco. Squealing with eagerness, Dominique smiled at the brothers and turned quickly toward the window. Her lips parted in surprise.

In the distance, the grounds of the Grimani mansion blazed with torches that swarmed like fireflies up the rounding hills. Between these fiery flambeaux, giant puffs of flowers bubbled a host of colors while stanchions of fluttering pennants—argent and crimson—teased the eye. Even the dark, low-slung clouds that embraced the mansion’s towers seemed complement to a pageant of brilliance.

Once the coach wheeled closer, the night sweetened further with the lively music of strolling musicians, the traffic of liveried servants, and the gay chatter of packs of costumed nobility.

Jacques had hand-chosen many of tonight’s guests; five years
ago
he’d gamboled with
la crème de la crème
of polite society, and he
supposed that many of these Parisians still remembered him. But the
French were provincial—maybe pragmatic—regarding failure: when
Jacques had lost his lottery fortune, he’d lost the interest of the well-heeled.

Tonight he had the opportunity to redeem himself. Feeling a
trifle pressured, he buoyed his spirits:
By dawn the name Casanova will be sounded from the lips of all Parisians of prominence.

The coach came to a rest. The cab door opened.

Dominique, reveling in the warm night breeze that caressed her face, was helped down the coach steps by a servant when, abruptly, her hand was taken up by a person wearing the black-and-white diamond-patterned costume and half mask of Arlecchino. Assisting Dominique to the ground, Arlecchino then retreated several steps before his sword hissed an elaborate salute.

When Dominique rose from her curtsy, the splendor of the
mansion grounds animated her once more. She squealed again.

“Madame Casanova is pleased to attend L’affaire de Voltaire?” asked Arlecchino.

“Since I’ve never before heard my wife screech, I presume she’s either delighted or injured,” Francesco snapped, exiting the coach ahead of Jacques.

“Delight is the order of the evening,” Arlecchino insisted.

“So says our host, Arlecchino, the crafty manservant from Bergamo,” Dominique said, and broke into tinkling laughter. “I know your voice, Cavaliere Grimani! I knew it wasn’t your maître d’hôtel behind that mask.”

“This disguise doesn’t serve me?”

“Serves you well,” Dominique replied, “but only under these
clouds. You’ll be easily recognized beneath the ballroom’s candlelight.”

Jacques’ foot met the ground. “The Cavaliere wears many masks. Of that I’m sure.”

Grimani smiled strangely. When he began to raise his sword point, Jacques knew he’d exacted flesh from the man.
With this man, I will watch my front and my back.

Dominique had a ready word. “And what do you think of
our
costumes, Cavaliere?”

Behind his half-mask, Grimani’s eyes narrowed—when a female came skipping awkwardly to his side. She seemed all rouge and hair.

“May I introduce my saucy sweetheart, Columbina?” Grimani said.

The costumed female flaunted her multiple rings, curtsied, and in a comic falsetto voice, trilled a high note.

Jacques bowed. “I’d recognize that voice anywhere.”

Everyone, except Francesco, laughed.

“Allow me to introduce this worthy woman—my wife, Signora Grimani,” said the Cavaliere, sheathing his sword.

Francesco bowed unenthusiastically and turned slightly away while Dominique curtsied to the woman.

At that moment, two youths made their way into the circle of revelers.

“And these gentlemen,” Grimani said, “who follow my wife as
chicks to the hen, are my two sons. My oldest, Alvise, rides well,
plays
the flute excellently, and dances and fences in a nimble manner.
Antonio
is our erudite son who will demand you test him in heraldry, a
science so necessary to a nobleman. Both sons, we know, will carry on the supremacy of the Grimani name.” The Cavaliere batted his taller son on the shoulder while pleasantries were offered all around.

An enchanting madrigal obliged the group to face the troupe of
performing singers. After the song, Jacques stepped under the
dancing
blaze of a flambeau and opened his arms wide to the glittering
summer
home and his high-spirited collaborators. “Signora Grimani, you
have
fashioned a most worthy welcome for the French sage whose
reputation shimmers throughout Europe.”

“Yes. The wondrous Monsieur de Voltaire.”

“And does the king come?” Dominique asked earnestly.

Jacques felt his knees weaken.
Should the king attend, my stock surely soars.

“Oh, King Louis,” Signora Grimani said. “If that boorish man refuses to appear, I’ll not be displeased.”

“Never you mind what my wife says about the king,” the
Cavaliere said. “She’ll be the first to bend her knee when he arrives.”

Signora Grimani waggled her finger in the air. “No, I will not.
Neither to him nor to his consort who—even with her gold lice
needle—remains unquestionably a commoner.”

There was silence among the group.

Francesco’s head bent low. His voice shuddered. “Commoner? Then am I not a man? Is
my
blood not prized?”

Cavaliere Grimani placed a firm eye on Francesco. “It need only be said: it is sure that France depends on
everyone’s
sedulous actions
here tonight.” Huffing breathlessly, he tugged a watch from his
costume.
“
Nearly midnight. Time’s wasting. Before more guests arrive—late, I suspect, as is the French fashion—I must check the details of the ballroom. Oh, Casanova, if you’ve brought your valet, post him in the kitchen where he can be out-of-the-way—and fed.”

Jacques reluctantly nodded.

The Cavaliere continued his palaver. “The servants must
transport
the dozen closestools I ordered to wherever necessary. These
Frenchmen may defecate in the galleries at Versailles, but not here!”

“What?” Francesco snapped. “Don’t tell me these people are
vulgar commoners?”

Dominique glared. “Husband, aren’t you,” she began, her voice
growing out of tune, “aren’t you privileged—aren’t we all
privileged”—she gestured frantically to everyone in the circle—“to celebrate this historic occasion when Monsieur de Voltaire returns to France’s
heart?” She forced a smile. “Let us proceed, Cavaliere Grimani.
We’re ready. All of us.”

Jacques spoke up. “Oh, but we ask one final time, Signor
Grimani: what is your opinion of our costumes?”

Dominique moved closer to the torchlight and began a slow pivot, showing off her jacket and breeches, beaver tricorne hat, and ceramic mask.

“Ah, your costumes? Of course.” Grimani posed hand on elbow, chin on palm—as a tailor might study attire—and surveyed all three
revelers. “Your costumes? Unconventional, certainly.” Grimani
suddenly
recognized his shredded garments and sputtered irritably. “Audacious—”