The Secrets of Casanova (42 page)

I understand
.
The Templars—and those after them—guided monarchs and merchants, commoners and queens to this secret, isolated mountain. It was an ordeal, a pilgrimage, all gladly taken
.
People of different eras, of varied cultures, of stations in life poles apart—all undertook the pilgrimage. To share a most remarkable banquet. An ecstatic feast of the soul. A place where all men can belong together
.

Jacques crossed his hands over his stomach.
And now I, too, have been to table
.

He took a final look and began crawling. With prodigious effort, he succeeded in extricating himself from the series of caverns, then with some apprehension, called out to Petrine, who after a time presented himself. Great relief and thankfulness filled Jacques when he was assisted—by his valet—to the ground.

It was a full two days’ journey north before Jacques Casanova could, for his inquisitive manservant, put voice to the sublimity of what he had encountered.

When Petrine had heard the last of his master’s story, he
stiffened into the cold wind, repeating again and again. “You’ve performed nobly, sir. Nobly.”

For his part, Jacques was eager and glad to be heading for
Paris—to
be carrying a full belly of warm feelings as well as the tale of a
singular, extraordinary experience—to Vicomte Honoré de Fragonard.

“WILL THIS ONE DO, MASTER?”
Petrine asked. “Of course, by the light of lampposts, every lodging in Paris looks agreeable.”

“Any bed softer than the ground will be satisfactory,” Jacques replied. “Tomorrow we should be able to complete our journey to the Vicomte’s.”

An ebony crow, wrestling a morsel of garbage in the street,
shrieked in frustration.

“Once in our room, I’ll be retiring for the evening, Petrine, and will have no need of your services. Here’s a bit of money.”

Petrine ran his fingers through his stringy hair. “I was hoping to have time for myself, this being our first night back in fancy Paris. Just one coin though, sir. I won’t be talked into more. Keep the purse. You may need it. My wages will come soon enough,” Petrine smiled wryly.

“The door will be left open for you tonight.”

Dry mouth was the cause of Jacques’ waking the next morning. He labored to open his eyelids, but before long—surprised that Petrine’s snoring was not irritating him—he reached around his back. When no lump of flesh met his searching hand, he rolled over and saw the blanket next to him remained tucked.

“Petrine?” He sat up. The sun’s rays revealed no valet. He
worked up some spittle in his throat. “Petrine!”

All was quiet, except for the clopping of horse hooves on the
street outside. “We need an early start! Where are you?”

Soon after, with breakfast under his belt, Jacques stood at the
front door of the inn. Perhaps the valet had procured a bottle. “There’s a twice-told tale, if there ever was one,” he said quietly.

Surely trouble had not come upon the valet. But this morning Jacque’s gut told him that an excess of alcohol was not the reason the valet was missing.
I refuse to believe Petrine would betray me.

To the innkeeper, Jacques entrusted coach fare, a hand-drawn map for Petrine, and a note instructing him to meet at the Vicomte’s no later than dusk.

Then he was off.

The trip passed swiftly, the destination was attained.

Stepping to the door of the Vicomte’s chateau, Jacques was bid a high-spirited “Good afternoon and welcome” by the majordomo who stood outside. The two men entered the home.

“When my valet arrives later …” Jacques gently smiled but did not finish his statement.

The majordomo crooked his head, then continued. “The Vicomte will be most pleased to see you, Monsieur Casanova. But he is at present asleep. May I wait awhile longer before I wake him?”

“Certainly.”

The majordomo crossed the waiting room, then turned to face Jacques. “The canvases and effects you left here, sir—I’ll be happy to
show you to them. And there are a number of letters forwarded to
you from your previous address. I’ll have them in your hands posthaste.” A large smile widened the servant’s face. “The Vicomte refers to you as his prodigal son and has often said—and was certain—that one day you’d return.”

Jacques nodded appreciatively. “I’ve much to impart to your master,” he replied, turning away from the majordomo. “
Credete a chi ne ha fatto esperimento
. Believe him who has had the experience.”

“Sir?”

Jacques looked back at the manservant. “In the meanwhile, may I see my brother’s belongings?”

“Sir, I was saddened,” said the majordomo, taking a step
forward, “I was greatly saddened to hear of your brother’s death. A tragedy.” The man leaned nearer Jacques. “You know what Monsieur Voltaire
says of the theatre? ‘Tragedy instructs the mind and moves the
heart.’ If I may say so, I have found this true with art—and with life itself.”

Jacques raised his head and looked deeply into sincere eyes.

Quite soon he supped—then recognized he was not in the
humor to examine Francesco’s effects but had a greater want to satisfy that need not wait for the Vicomte’s waking.

He sought out the steward and spoke softly.

“The what, sir?” the majordomo asked.

“The écorchés,” Jacques repeated. “I’d like to see them once more.”

A perplexed expression sat on the majordomo’s face.

Jacques asked: “May I be so presumptuous as to have you follow me?”

“Gladly, sir.”

In short order, they stood in front of the door that Jacques and his brother had visited months before. The impressive lock was still intact.

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Casanova. I’ve ignored this room so long, it’s all but erased from my mind.”

Jacques gave a sly smile.

“No sir, you see, sir—” stammered the servant, “well, over the years in other quarters, rumors have been spread about a certain
cabinet of curiosities and what a strange wonder it is.” The
majordomo cleared his throat, stopped still, and directed his gaze to Jacques. “I tell you truly. In thirty years’ service to the Vicomte, the contents of this room were shared with me only twice. Not that I wish to see the écorchés a third time,” the manservant whispered under his breath. “Certainly I know the Vicomte’s passion—embalming—but his cabinet of curiosities was far stranger than anything I’d imagined. As
for the key to the lock, its whereabouts are known only to the
Vicomte.
He’ll take great pleasure, I warrant you, in showing you his
fantastical creations himself. Actually, sir, while we’re upstairs here, why don’t
I go ahead and wake the Vicomte? His room, you may be well
aware, is the one at the end of the hall.”

Through a side window, Jacques watched while the last vestiges of winter’s cold light closed out the day. “I suppose we might rouse him,” he smiled. “It’s not every day his prodigal son—”

“He’ll be much pleased. Allow me a few moments to light these candles, then we’ll proceed.”

The majordomo moved to the wall sconces while Jacques seated himself in a chair by the locked door from which a hint of pungent
castoreum wafted. A different odor—sharp and repellent—led
Jacques to recall the contrary feelings the écorchés had engendered at his first viewing.

When the majordomo finished his work, he summoned Jacques to the Vicomte’s door.

“Sir, may I awaken you? You’ve an important guest who wishes your audience.”

When no response came, Jacques, on a whim, removed a lit
candle from a nearby sconce and edged just ahead of the servant. Knocking
briefly, then pushing lightly
against the door, he eased into the
room.

“Vicomte de Fragonard, please excuse my—”

A blistering stench threw him back, but in an instant he was
beside
the bed, the uneven flame of his candle revealing the Vicomte’s
twisted
body. The old man’s mouth bowled wide, as if blaring a silent,
unbearable pain. His eyeballs spilled from their sockets like a gaffed fish.

Jacques turned, thrusting his candle into the darkness of the
room.
Across the carpet ran a torrent of vomit and syrupy brown
excrement.

“Oh, horror,” the majordomo cried as he angled across the floor, his hand covering his nose.

Jacques shoved the candle to the nightstand, wilted to the bed, and did his best to straighten the Vicomte’s fingers, close his eyes, and wipe his lips.

“Your master,” he said quietly to the majordomo, “your master has met his end.”

A heartfelt moan escaped the servant.

Jacques turned and scanned the revolting carpet. “Something the Vicomte ate or drank. Swift in its action. Most likely poison.”

He stood, eyeing the manservant anew, but it was obvious the man was grief stricken.

“On my life, sir, it was not I. Nor could it be any others of my small staff. This room has three doors.”

Jacques’ mystification must have shown on his face.

“Anyone might have come and gone,” said the majordomo. “The
Vicomte on occasion entertains company informally here in his
bedroom, as they do in the fashionable Parisian salons. Given my master’s egalitarian nature, associates often feel comfortable to enter this house unannounced. Unnoticed, even, I’ve come to learn. Unnoticed by my staff or by me.”

There was a palpable stillness.

The majordomo bent over and, carefully maneuvering the thick candle in his hand, looked at the old man’s face. He clubbed the bed with his fist. “A bitter curse on the party who caused this.”

At once he stood straight, composing himself. “I must inform the
others. Then I must return to prepare my master,” he said in a
hollow, icy breath.

Jacques laid his hand on the man’s shoulder until he once again calmed.

The servant carefully picked his way toward the door, but
reaching it, he stopped, glaring at a side table next to the couch. From it he lifted two short-stemmed goblets.

“This is the Vicomte’s glassware. His other matching goblets, next to the brandies, are over there,” he pointed to a corner cabinet. “But why two? And snuff also?” He set down the glasses and picked up a small silver snuffbox. “My master, I know, hasn’t taken snuff since he was a young man.” He presented the box to Jacques.

Jacques took a pinch of its contents and held it to his nose. “Fine
tobacco. Spaniol, possibly. If a person were here in this room, I
believe they made a central error in leaving this snuffbox behind. But the dreadful act of raw murder can defeat even a well-planned scheme.”

“Shall we allow the authorities their say and expertise?”

Jacques paused before offering a reluctant “yes.”

“Then I will send one of my staff for them. They must surely be shown these objects we have here in our hands.” The majordomo looked askance. “It’s plain you’re not in any way connected to this grim deed, but I understand your hesitance, sir. Given your standing with the king—I was told by the Vicomte some time ago—you may not wish to chance the authorities. Should you decide to leave before they arrive, there need be no mention of your presence here.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Jacques said. “In any case, you must perform your duties.”

The majordomo excused himself.

Left alone, Jacques went to the bed and sat next to the body of Vicomte de Fragonard. “Who has stolen your life? Who has reason to perform such a brutality?”

He held the old man’s hand for some time until his anger cooled. “I’ve come back. And now I understand Francesco’s paintings—all
to keep the secret alive. You, sir, set me on my journey. A
pilgrimage, I recognize, you yourself long ago must have undertaken. One that cannot be described with mere words. Treasure of inestimable value, you said. In my ignorance, I misunderstood.” Jacques placed his hand on the Vicomte’s cheek. “This evening, I honor your wisdom. I
forever cherish your trust. In my heart, gentle sir, I now feel your
warm
presence. You bow splendidly, you stand tall and dignified, you
unwrinkle before my very eyes. So profoundly pleasing it is—that you display such vigor upon the return of your prodigal son.”

It was not long before the majordomo returned to place a sheet over the Vicomte. He then handed several letters to Jacques, who, lost in sorrow, offered a nod of his head.

“The post on the very top was delivered only late this
afternoon.” The majordomo extended his arm. “I’ve work here. Please allow me to escort you downstairs, sir.”

“Yes.”

Alone in the antechamber moments later, Jacques trembled, his
whole being shaken by the sight of the topmost letter, a letter
directed to him from their Excellencies the Inquisitori de Stato
,
fixed with the official lion seal of the Republic of Venice.
Having this seal, the letter cannot be counterfeit.

Slowly, he unfastened the seal and read.

We, Inquisitori de Stato, for reasons known to us, grant Giacomo Girolamo Casanova the right and privilege to return, provisionally, to the republic of Venice. He will present himself at the stated address of Signor Zorzi Contarini dal Zaffo at noon on the first day of January M.V., 1756; then as directed, submit the following day to further interview. Until the prescribed time, Giacomo Girolamo Casanova is sanctioned to come and go
within the republic, traveling wheresoever he pleases without let or
hindrance.

Should he fail to appear for the arranged appointment, his safe-conduct is rescinded, and efforts at repatriation, as stipulated, will be null and void. Such is our will.

Wavering to-and-fro, Jacques kissed again and again the letter he
held.