The Secrets of Casanova (35 page)

Jacques’ back burned in pain, but he hurried his descent until he was at her side. Blood coursed her mouth; her body trembled.

“Can you move?”

“I die.”

In mute horror—every part of him—Jacques felt his courage
wilt. “I’m putting you over my shoulder. Hold me wherever you can. Don’t let go. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

He began to lift her. Dominique shrieked.

“We’re climbing out of here,” Jacques cried. He scratched
through the thick gloom toward the light—every feeble step a torment for them both.

He stopped to rest on a crag of stone.
My lungs will surely burst
. He lay Dominique down and, as best he could, rested beside her on the narrow ledge.

“Afraid, afraid to die.” The words from Dominique, in a barely audible whisper, were accompanied by a look that vouched for its truth. “I’ve sinned. And asked so many times for forgiveness. For deliverance from my weak flesh. Help me, dear Jesus. Let me die confessed.”

“The good always are forgiven, Dominique.” Jacques wiped
blood from her lips and mist from his own eyes.

“I’ve tried to be worthy in so many ways. But God does not
grant children to a woman who …” Dominique coughed more
blood. “I want
you
more than I want a child, Jacques mia. You should know—I have grown to love you. I love you.”

Jacques’ lips twisted shut until he managed to kiss Dominique’s pale cheek. He rose to his knees, his whole body quivering from the pounding of his heart.

Gently, he helped her. “Hold on to my neck.” Her face contorted in pain.

The pair inched their way toward the light above until they
reached the brink.

With what remained of his strength, Jacques deposited himself and Dominique on the flat of the tower courtyard. He embraced her, then kneeling, rested her head on his knee so that he might see her tender face.

A low rumbling compelled his attention. He raised his head.
Through a breach in the parapet wall loomed a spellbinding sight:
the Bay of Oeiras—suddenly and with alarming speed—emptied itself as far as Jacques could see. Without the watery support from the sea, tall-masted ships bottomed and heeled over. Stranded fish writhed in the muddy reaches. Small craft smashed against rocks—rocks that had never seen the light of day.

“It can’t be,” reasoned Jacques. Yet he watched the sight, as did the still-living wretches in the rubble below, in fascination. All saw the sea before them recede and utterly disappear.

Soon a phantasm appeared on the horizon.

The phantasm, minute at first, moved inexorably closer—its
appearance that of a barber’s steely, glinting straight razor.

Now larger, the phantasm surged.

A wave.

A wave of such magnitude that, for a moment, Jacques could only marvel and try to comprehend.

Dashing lingering vessels to bits, the water advanced.

Below in Lisbon, thousands of hapless souls, coming to the realization of their hideous fate and seized by unbearable terror, cried out to their god. To these masses the thunderous raging brine brought swift, savage death. Mothers, fathers, children—all were swept into its irresistible grip.

Mad with fear, Jacques dragged Dominique from the breach in the parapet away from the tower.

On came the rapacious wave.

He covered her body with his.

The murderous wall of water crashed up the hill, hurtling itself against the citadel tower—and driven by an invisible fury, speared past the adjoining gorges, its crest persisting onward.

Jacques and Dominique careened against each other, against the rock, slammed this way, then that.

To the far wall he was tossed, suffocated by the sweeping water while it rushed over him, around him, through him, before receding.

His ribs, his insides, felt liquid. His lungs existed only as
grueling pain.
Where is she?

He spotted Dominique, crumpled against a parapet wall.
Spitting, choking, Jacques struggled to her side. After making certain she was alive, he cleared with his fingers her mouthful of sludge and vomit. Her body jerked when he stroked her shivering arms.

For the longest while, only her eyes could speak.

Cradling her head, he wiped the tangled hair from her forehead, then held her hand.

“Fragoletta?” he asked. As he gazed at her, the lump in his
throat made it almost too difficult to form words. “You are special to me. The greatest joy life has ever brought is to hold you.”

“You, Jacques mia, always give me your body in the most pleasurable manner,” she whispered. “And you long ago allowed me to surrender my soul. Tell me you’ve never called anyone else
your
Fragoletta.” Dominique closed her eyes and smiled, but her
shivering would not stop.

“Fragoletta—my little strawberry?” he said, embracing her
closer. “Never, Dominique, never.”

“I’m satisfied,” she said. “Is my crutch at hand?”

“Yes,” Jacques smiled. “I’m here.”

A calm joy connected the pair until a thundering noise lanced Jacques’ nerve.

The horror reappeared, this time gushing back down from the higher ground.

Jacques’ screams disappeared in the roar of the roiling brine. Like a wounded animal, he curled himself around her.

The world turned black.

JACQUES RAISED HIS HAND
to block the noonday sun from his
face. “How ill-beseeming your breath,” he said, looking up at Quentin Gray.

Quentin frowned and continued to administer eye drops from his quill. “Again I remind myself you’re no longer master of your moods, Jacques. Even so, you need not be boorish.”

“You need not reek.”

“My breath may stink, but I have a fine set of teeth.”

“So does a mooncalf.”

“Perturbation, man. Hold still or my quill will stick you.”

“Where’s my lackey? And where’s Dominique?”

“Petrine sits behind us, leaning against the wall. There.” Quentin straightened a thumb over his shoulder.

Jacques lifted his head from the ground and stared somberly at Petrine several paces away. “It seems I view the man’s shadow. And that shadow has a rather saturnine façade for a saucy Spaniard. Petrine,” Jacques yelled. “Petrine.”

Quentin tilted his chin, gazed at the crumbled walls of Conde de
Tarouca’s palace, and released a long sigh. “Your valet does not answer to his name. He cannot tell you who he is nor where he is. Even what year—”

“He does not know the—?”

“The quake of the earth knocked him about. He is concussive. Rest, food, and prayer are what we can provide him, and I’m thankful God has spared, for the most part, my dwelling for that. A fair amount of wall caved in, as you see. But, yes, we’re blessed to have this refuge. As for you, Jacques, you should be grateful that you’ve no broken bones—though your many bruises and this ragged wound still hurt, I’m sure.” Quentin indicated Jacques’ forearm. “For
days now I’ve cleaned you, comforted you, and repaired you the best I know how. Only this morning have you become mindful enough—”

“Where’s Dominique?”

“Dominique?” Quentin stammered. “Petrine, uh, Petrine is
senseless, but he may, in a few days or a few weeks, recover his faculties. We shall pray for him.” Quentin supported Jacques as he sat up. “Take this cup from me, O Lord,” he said quietly. He
caressed the quill of his feather and steadied his voice. “Dominique’s left us. Gone.”

“Gone?”

Still kneeling, Quentin lowered his head and mumbled words
that seemed an incantation. “Because of your quick actions, Petrine
and I made our way to higher ground. From there, I saw the backwash sweep Madame Casanova from your hold. How you survived—well, that’s God’s mystery.”

“She’s not—”

“The Psalms say that God’s loved ones are very precious to Him, and He does let them go lightly. Two days ago, God chose to take up thousands and thousands. Others were left to live. We must be grateful we remain to do God’s bidding.”

“I held her in my arms. Yet she is lost.” Jacques fiddled his brow, uncomprehending.

“You and Madame Casanova endured so much together—”

“She’s gone,” Jacques said, bereft of emotion. “Promised her—if
we
found no real treasure in Lisbon, this would be our last destination.” With his fingernails, he raked the length of his cheek. “Her last
destination.”

“Bosom,” muttered Petrine.

Jacques turned. “What?” he hissed.

Petrine’s black hair framed his vapid face. “Bosom,” he repeated. “Bosom of Abraham.”

Turning around, Jacques found Quentin Gray choking back tears.

“I recall a lesson, Jacques, I learned long ago. In times of great suffering, tears are an infallible remedy.”

Quentin stood, walked several steps away, and wept for a long while in the midday sun.

When the bulk of his grief had passed, he prayed aloud for
Dominique, Petrine, and the people of Lisbon. He prayed for Jacques. Most of all, he prayed for the strength he would need in the coming days.

Jacques lay back down, pulling at his lower lip.

***

While the clouds sped ominously overhead, Jacques crept from beneath his blanket, crawled past the rubble of the dwelling walls, and huddled over the solitary flame of the cook fire. His body ached, his mind chattered.

“A rather sullen sky,” cracked a voice from behind.

Jacques did not answer. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Bread and porridge?” Quentin asked. “I prepared it earlier at daybreak and have already fed Petrine over there.”

Jacques shrugged off the Jesuit.

“Bread is hard to come by. We mustn’t squander what God
provides.” Quentin sidestepped a thin column of smoke to the
opposite side of the
small fire and stood, hands on hips. “I dislike leaving you and
Petrine each day, but there are others in Lisbon who also need
succor. I welcome you, Jacques, to accompany me. Perhaps it will do you good. Perhaps you will do others good.”

Jacques spat at a burning ember.

“Let us talk sensibly before I depart, Jacques. My Templar scroll has disappeared in the earthquake, although, needless to say, I long ago memorized its Latin verses. You possess the remaining copy, if indeed you still have it.” Quentin moved in Jacques’ direction. “In my recent forays to Lisbon, I’ve seen many, many animals that were
freed by the earthquake, so I’ve no doubt that other beasts—
criminals and galley slaves—escaped their confinements, too. Stay doubly alert and keep your sword and dagger close. We must think of your well-being. And Petrine’s. And the remaining scroll.”

“Well-being?” Jacques pointed to himself. “Hook your eyes on
the valet there who is senseless and—well-being? A fruitless endeavor.”

“Perhaps,” Quentin said, kneeling next to Jacques over the smoldering fire. He blew into the coals, and a flame arced
momentarily.

Jacques again spat at the fire, dousing the flame. Dropping to all fours, he crawled across the ground, removed two stones in the wall, returned with his scroll, and tossed it into the fire.

Quentin scrambled madly before retrieving the scroll. He raked the horizon with his eyes, then spun around and quickly tucked it back behind the stones. He spoke gruffly. “I tell you to keep the scroll here where either of us may have access to it.” Slinging a small leather sack across his shoulders, he retrieved a piece of bread from his pocket and turned into the morning sun. “I’ll be back here to the hill after sundown. If your mind is changed and you wish to go with me now, you could be of great value to those whose bodies—”

“And souls need restoring,” Jacques bleated, finishing Quentin’s thought. “Your efforts are wasted on me.”

By afternoon, Jacques was hunkered on the ground like a
squirrel,
nibbling from his cupped hands the nuts and bread Quentin had left
him.

His mind now wandered fitfully far.

“Am I in Spain? Or am I dreaming?” he whispered to himself.
“Spain—in former times I imbibed the Peralta wines from Pamplona,
supped choice white truffles, excellent oysters, and shellfish. In
Seville—heard the enchanting hornpipe played by blind musicians, danced by naked girls. Great times, those. Yes, marveled at castratos’
duets, danced the seguidilla with ravishing partners, mimed
copulation during fandangos. Ahh!

“And isn’t it true I was handsomely paid to advise the
government on mining? That I was received, in times not long past, by some of the most prominent grandees in Spain? Now I’ve no need to mix with those titled few, be their honorifics genuine or factitious. Of late, I have other callings.”

A light flared into his eyes. Jacques slapped his hands to his face. “Be gone,” he muttered. “Be gone.”

The maddening glimmer persisted. Jacques, charging to his
knees, howled. “I do not stutter. Be gone!” The irritating glint disappeared.

“I do command the universe,” he smirked, his lips twisting into a scowl. Before he bent to finish his bread, a small patch of light shimmered again upon his body. “What reflects the scalding sun? Bores holes into the sockets of my skull?” He smacked his chest, then
jerking his head up, glared in the direction of Petrine, who sat
propped
upright, a rumpled blanket supporting him. Scattered around
Petrine were some of his belongings.

“This irritation stems from the lackey,” Jacques threw his
victuals at the dilapidated wall and stumbled across the rocky soil. Standing at full height above the valet, he crooked over, then yanked an object poking out from Petrine’s shirt.

Suddenly, Jacques’ stomach churned. “My gold snuffbox,” he whispered, “reflects the sun. My prized snuffbox! The lackey,” he said, “how did this come to be here in his possession?”