The Secrets of Casanova (15 page)

“No more prisons for me, sir. My present opinion is that
studying the world on the run—instead of from a history book—suitably amuses me.”

Many faces beamed approval, but Jacques felt his mouth go dry.
These blue bloods nod, encouraging Voltaire and me to continue our sallies, one at the expense of the other.

“Signor Casanova, since you bring up history, what is your opinion? Is history—the history of mankind—created by God?”

Jacques’ eyes raced along the rows of chandeliers that crowded the ballroom ceiling. The last thing he desired was a religious debate with the sage. If Voltaire bested Jacques, Jacques would lose any standing he might have already gained. If Jacques bested Voltaire, he insulted the guest of honor. Jacques felt four hundred heads bend in his direction.
They must not laugh. I cannot stomach their scorn.

Sweat bubbled across his brow. “I believe that a history—for
God—was invented by men. I believe we’ve imagined Him, created Him, mythologized Him for such a long time that most men dare not live without Him.”

“Do you dare live without God, Signor Casanova?”

There was an awful silence in the great room.

“I dare, sir.”

Voltaire quieted the growing murmurs. “Say you this to placate the old man who now questions you? Or say you this to spite God?”

Jacques gulped a breath. “For many Frenchmen, Monsieur de Voltaire, you
are
God.”

Muttering filled the air. And nervous laughter. Also light
clapping.

Monsieur was pleased, no doubt, yet had another ready reply. How long could Jacques continue this game?

But then a tumult arose from the entrance staircase, and before the crowd’s attention left Voltaire, Jacques turned to watch a number of tall, stout men—sopping wet—quickly enter the room.

“
Vive le roi.
” someone shouted. “
Vive le roi
.” The crowd picked up the cue, and turning toward the entry doors, gentlemen bowed, ladies curtsied.

Jacques’ pulse notched higher.
He’s here. The king has come.
He and I—we’ll soon be reacquainted!
He lowered himself to a bow, his eyes scanning the scene.

Into the middle of the ballroom strutted
Louis Quinze
in golden frippery and exotic feathers, a haughty smile on his face. Accoutred to resemble an unusual bird—perhaps a cockatoo—Louis was, even in this ostentatious costume, truly majestic. Vicomte de Fragonard had claimed that he’d met God. Perhaps it was Louis XV he’d met.

It began with the physical. Louis’ head, ravishingly handsome, was set on his neck to perfection and it was often said that women fell in love with him on first sight. In the forty-fifth year of his life and the fortieth year of his reign, King Louis was yet adored by many Frenchman.

The guests lauded their monarch with spontaneous and gentle applause. A tingle raced up Jacques’ arms, but at the same time, he
couldn’t hide a frown when he considered that Louis’ inherited
position
of power gave him dominion over every single creature in France that had a beating heart. A monarchy, certainly. Not a
republic.

Jacques’ mood elevated when he noted that situated between the king and circling nobility were the stout men of Louis’ Swiss Guard, all drenched from the rainstorm but still decidedly impressive in their authority.

Cavaliere Grimani now moved out from among the ordered servants and stood ready to introduce himself and his wife. When the applause dwindled, the Swiss Guard parted, and Grimani, accepting Louis’ hand to kiss, addressed the king with grave solemnity. “My wife and I are honored Your Highness has deigned to attend our fête. This entire nation and all of Europe is pleased Your Majesty has come to honor a great son of France, Monsieur de Voltaire.”

“Did I make a wise choice, I wonder?” boomed Louis. “The
torrents of rainwater that spew from the clouds tonight tell me otherwise.” The king’s proud smile left his face. “Madame de Pompadour did not accompany me this evening. As you may know, she spits blood.”

Gasps came from the waves of onlookers who ringed the
monarch while Grimani’s face remained expressionless.

“I understand,” Louis sniffed, “there’s to be a presentation of sorts. Before that moment, this monarch wants to enjoy himself.”

“As Your Highness wishes.” Cavaliere Grimani gestured toward the balcony, and the dozen musicians struck up a sprightly tune.

Jacques reassured himself that he would again acquaint himself
with King Louis on the presentation dais. Until then, he’d mix with
the
blue bloods.
They were the much-needed hors d’oeuvres
for his
palate.

Jacques threaded his way through the dancers to an impossibly
beautiful buffet table swollen with pâte of partridge, shellfish,
turkey, filets of exotic fish, ortolans, larks’ tongues, and blood sausage. He
popped a plump red strawberry into his mouth while deciding
whether to nibble on the blueberries, melons, or peaches. Maybe the white truffles. But, oh—to slurp a raspberry fruit ice from Venice!

While he sampled the confections, the creams and puddings, the elaborate vegetable dishes, and assorted meats and delicacies—while he salivated over the endless delights—he chatted amiably with a pack of gluttonous nobles, who congratulated him on his exchange with Voltaire. Jacques was elated.

Tonight my good fortunes begin! At this very moment wagging tongues throughout this party bolster my repute. Certainly my presentation of the religious manuscript to Monsieur will cement my triumph with these aristocrats and the king. Moreover, I’ll be richer by a purseful of Grimani’s gold. And most importantly, I’ll see that he recommends my return to cherished Venice.
What do I care if I wear a shredded costume!

Jacques wanted to shout in jubilation, until he spotted the
toothless Marquise D’Ampie loitering at the perimeter of the ballroom. He turned quickly on his heel and headed into a throng of celebrants.

While the night wore on, the thundershowers grew fiercer; yet
the
storm seemed to drive the partiers into a gayer humor. Guests
chattered at the buffet; another hundred danced the contra dances. Servants poured champagne while the mass of partiers swilled and swooned.

“It’s time to demonstrate my dancing skills,” Jacques smiled. “For that I will need Madame Dominique Casanova.”

AFTER SEARCHING THE GROUNDS
and hunting Francesco
throughout the ballroom, Dominique discovered her husband on the stairway to the balcony. She led him to a partially-concealed alcove located beside one of his battle paintings.

While small bands of partiers paraded by, Francesco squatted on his haunches, eyes downcast. Dominique stood over him, one hand on the ceramic mask resting on his head, her other hand stroking a scrap of his outfit.

“Stand up, please, Francesco,” she said. “It’s important that you show your handsome face and that you and I promote your work.”

Francesco’s response was a loud exhale.

“I do no good here,” Dominique fumed. “You’ll quit fretting when you wish to quit fretting.”

A shrill creak distracted her. She glanced at a man in knight’s armor, dressed as Mars, the god of war. The fat man, gripping the steely visor of his beaver, studied Francesco’s canvas. An audience of old women, all of them with cowls spilling over their cloaked shoulders, circled behind Mars.

“Battle,” flapped the fat cheeks of Mars. “Artist’s colors—all
wrong. Base should have been dark, not light. Underlying
perspective—execrable.” He flung his arm upward making his armor squeak. “And all these billows of cannon smoke certainly hide details that this tyro is too inept or too lazy to paint.”

Dominique seethed.
Descending vultures, these people
. She noted
Francesco still hunched over, motionless; she stepped from the
recess, clenching her fists, wondering how she might squelch fat Mars’ grating squawk.

“This artist has never been to war—as I have. Does not
comprehend it—as I do. Just look at the soldiers’ angelic faces.” The old women nodded.

That instant, Francesco heaved to his feet, eyes dull and distant.

Fat Mars continued. “These are not the faces of horror. They are the faces of … Punchinello.” The man held his armored belly as he vomited a guttural laugh.

In a single, swift movement, Francesco drew a small knife from his boot and lurched from the alcove to stand nose to nose with his critic. The old women shrieked and backed away.

Francesco whipped the knifepoint just below his own chin. “This is the face of horror. This is the face of the artist. Casanova!”

“Husband,” wailed Dominique, rushing toward him.

Francesco leapt at his painting, plunging his weapon into the canvas. With one powerful rip, the painting gaped wide. Just as quickly he was back before Mars, hissing viciously.

A shudder ran through the fat man’s body. His armor clanked.

“Francesco,” Dominique pleaded. She positioned herself beside her husband but dared not touch him.

Francesco, barely glancing at Dominique, made his way again to his painting, and sinking the knife into the canvas, let it stay. He spoke flatly. “I destroy all that I love.”

Mars, in the meantime, withdrew from the scene and crept
warily toward the entourage of old crones who grimaced and one by one
covered their heads with their cowls. “Feeble-minded f-f-fellow, my
dears,” Mars’ voice trembled. “I … I … I shall insist he not bother us
again.”

Dominique wiped her eyes and in a whisper tried to console herself and Francesco. Before she was able to touch his shoulder, he spun toward her, speaking rapidly, heatedly.

“I’ve robbed you of joy. I’ve clawed away your confidence. I’m a vandal.” He quickly fled into a crowd of passersby.

“Francesco!” Shaking mightily, Dominique slunk back into the alcove, pressing herself hard against the wall. Through watery eyes,
she watched the gawkers hurriedly return to their drinking and
discourse. “What’s happening? What am I to do? What?”

She rubbed a tear from her cheek and edged from the alcove.
“Among these unforgiving people, I will comfort him.” Dominique hovered just above the crowd on a stair step and stared out into the ballroom.

She spotted familiar tattered clothes. Jacques was finishing a dance at the far end of the ballroom, and judging by the servants’ activities and the tides of people mulling in that direction, the time for the manuscript presentation neared.

FROM A SERVANT’S TRAY, JACQUES SCOOPED
a glass of champagne, congratulating himself for the superb vintage he’d
substituted at the last minute for the
oeil de perdrix
. Tipping his glass to his mouth, he glanced at the small dais that had been erected near the entrance of the ballroom.

While the servants made their brief announcements, he finished his drink and headed toward Cavaliere Grimani, who signaled the orchestra to end their music. The king was immediately seated at the head of the chattering crowd.

Cavaliere Grimani stepped to the platform, then stood next to the lectern holding the manuscript. Warily, he eyed Jacques on the floor to his left, bowed to Louis Quinze, then nodded to the Swiss Guards and noble guests.

Without delay, he issued an introduction of Monsieur de
Voltaire, who ascended the dais and faced the sea of guests, all clapping hard as they might. After the crowd calmed, Grimani stepped down,
leaving the sprightly philosopher—Roman robes adorning his
thinness—roosting above the king and ranks of nobles.

Voltaire took a sidelong glimpse at Jacques and hailed his audience.

“I once estimated the average longevity of a Frenchman at twenty-two years,” he began. “I’ve already lived three times longer than the average human of this century, and it’s my age, I suppose,
that has motivated even my critics to credit me with certain
attributes,
among which is eloquence.” He grinned impishly. “The Abbé
Galiani, as you may know, defined eloquence as ‘the art of saying something without being sent to the Bastille.’”

Nervous laughter trickled from the crowd

The philosopher rested his eyes on the Louis Quinze. “Tonight, I hope to be eloquent.”

The king proceeded to drain his champagne glass, the crease of a drunken grin crossing his mouth. He dipped his head at Voltaire. The onlookers sighed a relief.

“For forty years, I’ve railed against the Church and its god,” Voltaire said. “And I will rail another forty. If
God
grants it.”

Laughter pitched the air.

The playfulness on Voltaire’s face disappeared. “In my
theological
studies, I have begun to look into the very beginnings of
Christianity. What I’ve discovered is that in the first three or four hundred years after Jesus of Nazareth’s death, there were many variations of Christianity. One variety of early Christianity that greatly interests me was called Gnosticism. This is why we are here tonight.” Voltaire gestured toward Jacques and his manuscript. “Some of us think that the true and original form of Christianity was Gnosticism.”

Several grumbles rippled through the crowd. Jacques’ gut
pinched in anguish.

“To digress, the Catholic Church believes that their god—Jesus
the Christ—through His gift of sacrifice allows us a free pass to
heaven. The Gnostics, conversely, believe a man may create his own pass to heaven—that a man or woman, without mediation from others, has
the potential in his lifetime to achieve godhead. Gnosticism
maintains that God is to be found exclusively within one’s own self.”