The Secrets of Casanova (32 page)

“Two lanterns are too bright,” Brose mumbled to the floor. “Extinguish yours.”

Jacques did so.

“Lay opposite me so I may see you, Herr Adventurer. Neither of us can sit tall. You’re too large. I’m too ill.” With difficulty, Brose
raised his head. “Did Piccinio Rais direct you here? It’s well.
Strangely, I’ve come to believe our captain is an honorable man. In his own manner, of course.”

The ship’s hull groaned disturbingly.

Brose jingled coins in a small pouch and nudged it towards Jacques.

Jacques ignored the pouch but, before stretching to his side,
double-checked for his dagger, then adjusted his weight on his forearm.

“For what wickedness did you ransom Dominique?” he
scowled.

A shiver shook Brose before he spoke. “Wickedness?” He
presented a fragile smile. “Well, I was tired of fingering through my own shit
each morning looking for the diamonds I swallowed the night
before. I
figured I had two left. Those gems might as well do good for
someone.”

“Why not yourself? Why’d you ransom Dominique? What trap do you plan for me?”

When Brose feebly bolstered himself up onto an elbow, the
lantern light caused his face to look more somber. He stared into his wooden
cup. “I’ll be brief as my temperament and the times dictate. I’ve
known many women who weren’t worth a sou,” he said. “Your
companion seems worth a vast fortune. Furthermore, shouldn’t a man perform at least
one
noble deed during his short, miserable life? Ransom a worthwhile woman?”

“I know you too well. Why did you not save the diamonds for yourself?”

“Myself? For what?” Brose wheezed. “Herr Adventurer, I have position here. I’ll stay with these men, with this ship. Yes, they’re revolted by my marked face, they know I’m dying. And yet they revere my powers of healing. Or at least they patronize me enough to make me believe so. I’m a kernel of hope for some of these wretches. Why would I relinquish my unique status?”

Brose choked down a short swig from his cup. “Praise the wine and the opium,” he gurgled. “Besides, Jacques Casanova, you once accused me of detesting life. Perhaps a just indictment. It seems, however, in these past months I’ve discovered a sweet, sweet taste for life. It’s dear. Life is dearer than …” Brose’s voice faded. Settling back down on his shoulder, he spoke hoarsely. “I pay a reasonable ransom for a woman, and you dare ask why?”

At this pronouncement, Jacques condemned himself to silence.

“Here, take this back, fool.” Brose fumbled with his grimy
pocket and produced a small book, one that Jacques recognized. The book that Brose had stolen from him at L’affaire de Voltaire.

The sick man feebly pushed the volume toward Jacques. “Open it where the black ribbon lays.”

Jacques opened the book.

“Read the quote I underlined. Your man Horace is correct. Read it. It’s no secret.” Brose managed another sip from his cup.

“Seize the day,” Jacques read. “Put no trust in the morrow.”

“Sums up the wisdom I’ve gained these last several months. When Allah finds me—” The wooden cup tumbled away. It was
empty.

At the clatter, Jacques looked up and found the hollow eyes of Carlo Brose.

He crawled close and touched Brose’s hand. It was cold. He touched his face, confirming that life had fled from the man who once detested it.

Unhurriedly, Jacques reached for the pouch of coins Brose had offered and withdrew two gold pieces. Rolling Carlo Brose to his back, he closed the man’s eyelids, then placed a coin upon each.

He skirted the lantern and reopened the small book.

“Cease to ask what the morrow will bring forth,” he read aloud, “and set down as gain each day that Fortune grants.”

Jacques lingered while the flame burned low, reading on,
imparting
the wisdom of gentle Horace to his longtime rival and long-last friend.

“NO MORE PROTESTS, PETRINE,”
repeated Jacques. “You grow tiresome.”

Petrine rammed his finger into the soft puddled candle wax before flopping his forearm on the table. “We sit, doing nothing.”

“We’ve not yet lodged a full day here,” Dominique pointed out.

“But why don’t we start? We came to Lisbon to uncover Templar clues.”

“We’ll begin when I—” Jacques voice began rising. “Enough of your prattle, ronyon. Perhaps a box on the ears would satisfy you.”

“Jacques, please,” Dominique said, crossing the small room. “It’s late. You’ll wake the whole inn.”

Jacques slapped the table.

The muffled voice of someone in the next room could be heard.

Dominique tramped to the corner, returned, and stood next to Petrine. Her toe began tapping while she unlaced the strings of the purse she held.

“As Jacques has told you,” she explained, “we need a respite
from our eventful voyage. Come back in three days, then we shall
explore, if need be, every single church—to advance our search.”
Opening the bag wide, she set it in front of Petrine. “Trust this agreement.”

The valet stole a look at Jacques before stuffing his hand into the purse. “I adore gold, gold, gold,” he said mischievously.

Jacques tightened his jaw and cleared his throat. Several coins—released by the valet—clinked back into the bag.

“But you see, I take only what I have need of, master,” Petrine said, offering a meek smile. He blew a strand of hair from his face,
pulled his hand from the purse, and stood up. His brown eyes
beamed when he turned to Dominique. “I’ll return in three days’ time.” He charged to the door. “Enjoy yourselves in Lisbon.”

“You also,” groused Jacques.

Shortly after midnight, Jacques and Dominique finished their supper. They dressed warmly with some of the clothes Picinnio Rais
had given them and ventured from their lodgings. Guided by a
brilliant moon, the couple strolled arm in arm across the sand of the town’s squares, down wide avenues, past pink marble façades. Fresh paint on the signboards, doors, and lintels told the lovers of the upcoming religious celebrations in Lisbon, the most Christian city in Europe.

Feeling carefree, Jacques hugged Dominique. From the moment
they’d stepped onto the Cais de Pedra, he’d marveled anew at her
artless charm, her curiosity, her vivacity. He went to one knee,
cradled Dominique’s hand, and kissed it.

“In the Portuguese fashion,” he said, staring intently into her eyes. In the moonlight, he savored her blush. “It’s true, life is meant for these moments.”

The woman’s smile reflected Jacques’ earnest charm. As the
breeze rustled past, it brought to Jacques a feeling of hope, a firm gladness in the fact that he shared the evening’s air with the darting birds and the thousand other amiable creatures that belonged to the night.

***

Late morning found Jacques in his lodging sitting at table with pen and paper. In the corner, Dominique busied herself mending a plain dress. “To whom do you write, Jacques?”

“Vicomte de Fragonard.”

“And what do you write?”

“That for a time we explore Lisbon, the town to which the
mystery has led us. 
And that in spite of setbacks and imbroglios, we feel confident we’ll solve the riddle and return to his home for Francesco’s worldly goods and my friends’ correspondence.”

As the words left Jacques’ mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake.
He allowed himself a glimpse at Dominique. Her barren looks
wrung his heart. Why had he mentioned Francesco?

“Do you hope the Vicomte will resolve the mystery we’ve set ourselves to? Out of pity, perhaps?” Dominique asked.

“Perhaps,” Jacques said. “But truly, I find I have a fondness for the old man. And, too, for the quest he’s sent us on.”

By evening, Dominique had relaxed and was chattering gaily.
After sharing a glass of wine, the pair made love until night was almost
upon them. In Dominique’s soft eyes, Jacques found surprise,
innocence, and contentment. With himself, he felt fire, then stirring admiration.

A loud pounding on the door startled the two at sunrise.

“Manstur, mashure,” stammered Petrine.

Jacques, in a dressing gown, opened the door. The smell of
liquor met him.

“Pare, prepee, prepare—”

“Prepared?” Jacques barked. “Prepared for adventure, valet? So my nose informs me.” Jacques fanned the air.

Petrine stumbled through the doorway, fell down, then rolled over, face up, unmoving.

“One of your duties this morning, ronyon, is to unpack my
pistols. And lay out my smallsword and dagger,” Jacques said, running the bottom hem of his gown lightly over Petrine’s face. “Do you hear?”

“With so—some dilliculty,” answered Petrine. His open eyes wandered the ceiling.

“Are you too drunk to begin your chores?”

“Not a’all, mashure. I’ll be on ther—those—hores—chores in the flap of a wing’s dove.”

Dominique laughed.

With great effort, Petrine lifted himself and slouched his way toward the travel trunks. “Set t’ go in no time, mashure.”

Some hours later, on a hillock above a church, the trio of
adventurers
stood. The intense late afternoon sun showered the basilica,
throwing attention on the dome’s regal but long-faded colors. By Jacques’ count, it was the eleventh church they had scoured today.

“Look down there,” Dominique said in a hushed voice. “That man—the one in the frock.”

“Where?”

Dominique tugged Jacques’ sleeve. “There,” she said, subtly nodding. “Rubbing that sheet of paper against the church wall.”

Jacques shaded his eyes with his hand and saw the profile of a fellow with a light complexion and gray hair. His narrow eyebrows signified—according to Lavater’s doctrine—that this was not a man given to anger. “I note him, yes.”

“See what he rubs? An intaglio! The intaglio we hope to find.”

“Intaglio,” Petrine said. “Same as the Templar intaglios we
found in the stables?”

“Seems so. I see it clearly, now that he’s lifted his arm.” Jacques peeked quickly at Dominique and Petrine. “Step behind that rise of earth over there—we’ll have a bird’s-eye view of the church below and be mostly concealed.”

Petrine moved at Jacques’ signal and, arriving at the appointed spot, whispered to his companions. “Our hunt’s not in vain—”

“See the pale-skinned ruffian crouching beside that far
colonnade?”

“Where?” Dominique and Petrine both asked.

“Dozen paces to the right of Signor Intaglio.”

“Lurker on the far left, too, Master Jacques. And he—”

“I see both. What troubles you, Jacques?”

“They hang back—either side of Signor Intaglio—loitering.
Performing no industry. Both keep a keen eye on him.”

“Yes. And an eye on the few passersby on the street also,” Petrine said. “Irregular.”

“Shall we intrude? A risk.”

“Let’s not give ourselves the go just yet,” Jacques said. “If the frocked man is in danger, it’s not our business. He makes a simple gravestone rubbing. May be an innocent, even a fool. May—”

“But if —”

“He might know much more,” Petrine quickly added.

“You read my thoughts, Petrine,” Dominique said. She turned to Jacques. “If Signor Intaglio is a piece of our treasure puzzle—if he’s privy to information—we mustn’t allow him to come to harm.”

“Voices low, please. I’m thinking,” Jacques said, surveying the scene below. Snaking his hand around his back, he felt his dagger. “We’ll undertake to scare the ruffians away. But we’re new to this town. No unnecessary trouble.”

“Agreed.”

Jacques handed each of them a pistol.

“I’m not as good with this as I am with a sword,” Dominique whispered, pointing to her pistol, “but I’m good enough.”

Petrine and Jacques smiled.

Before the sun could dip behind the basilica, Jacques trod down
the stairs to the cobblestone street, then motioned Petrine and
Dominique
to veer left. Placing his back momentarily to the church, Jacques
unsheathed his smallsword, obscuring it behind his leg, then turned around and began a leisurely flanking movement to the right of the
ruffian, who, he now saw, clenched a low-slung knife. From the
corner of his eye, Jacques monitored Dominique and Petrine while the pair stalked their prey at the opposite side of Signor Intaglio.

A pistol fired. Smoke. Near Petrine.

Immediately, the nearest ruffian sprang into action toward Signor Intaglio.

Sword raised, Jacques stormed forward. The ruffian redirected
his blade at Jacques, who, like a torero, arched free of the man’s fury,
then with his sword met his enemy’s forearm, sending the knife
clattering.

The ruffian screamed in pain and hurtled down the nearby lane.

All passersby had scattered from the scene. The street was
empty.

Beside the church wall, Dominique’s head lay in Petrine’s hands, her face contorted.

“Master!”

Jacques ran fast, knelt beside her and, seeing the open cut in her pant leg, sucked in a lungful of air. His gut stung as if the barbs of a spiked hook dug into him.

“Here,” Signor Intaglio said, arriving at Jacques’ side. “Will you use this?” Without waiting for a response, the man tore a portion of his clothing and shoved it toward Jacques, who, already pressing on Dominique’s thigh, strapped and tied it just above the crimson gash. He twisted the cloth.

“The ruffian attacked, I shot at him,” Petrine said, huffing. “I think I hit home.”

Jacques glanced quickly about. “Let’s hope neither man has friends close by who want cold revenge.”

The tie slowed Dominique’s bleeding.