The Secrets of Casanova (5 page)

He peeked at his brother, then drew a breath to speak, but the Vicomte spoke first.

“I am to understand that you are a man of mathematics, Jacques Casanova. And every man who has an exacting mind must bow to the idea of ‘first cause’—God.”

“I don’t agree,” Jacques said loudly. “Even if a mind could admit to the notion—the concept of deity—the reality does not necessarily
exist.”

“I honor your sincerity. However, I prefer not to debate. We risk becoming entrenched in our positions without opening the question for authentic exchange.” Then in a whisper: “But mark my words, sir. I have met God. Here, on earth. And one day perhaps you, too, shall meet Him.”

The thin peal of a bell sounded from the darkness. A moment later, the majordomo appeared bearing the instrument and rang it softly again before helping the Vicomte to his feet.

Leaning on his manservant, the old man limped away.

THE BROTHERS WERE FORTUNATE
while they explored. A
summer rainstorm muffled the telltale creaks of the house, white flashes of lightning firing wild shadows across the windows. The search drew the brothers farther into the home until, on the third floor, they were near losing hope.

“Over there,” whispered Francesco, indicating a polished door in the far corner of the long hallway.

“Ah,” said Jacques. His heart raced with exhilaration.

They scurried to the door. Placing their ears to the cool wood, they heard nothing. They tried the knob. When it turned, they took two candles from their pockets, lit them, and entered. A garret-sized
room met their eyes, its space brimming with erotic paintings, salacious statuary, and art pieces, all neatly displayed on two huge
tables.

In moments, the brothers were pawing the private collection of miniatures belonging to the Vicomte Honoré de Fragonard.

Though in the last hundred years or so art had become accessible to the masses, the vast majority of good art was still housed in private collections. There was no collection, however, that Jacques had viewed—and there had been several—as extensive as this.

“Fragonard says this room holds artifacts from his former life,” Francesco said flatly.

“Oh, my delicious gods,” squealed Jacques, peeping over his brother’s shoulder at the dusty ivory tablet he held. The pale oval, no larger than a man’s palm, displayed a nude woman on her back, being ravished by a satyr. About to crown the lovemakers with an olive wreath was another naked girl, her voluptuous breasts peeking through her long hair. The satyr squeezed the budding nipples of the supine woman while sharing a tongue kiss.

“Stimulating,” Jacques bubbled.

“I hope so.”

The brothers were immovable for some time until Jacques gorged on a different miniature, a vibrant statue of a woman astride her partner, both lost in the uttermost moment. The artist had done his job skillfully, and although the swirling bed stuffs well hid some of the couple’s anatomical delights, there was no disguising their rapturous glory.

“Have you created pieces such as these?” Jacques whispered.

His brother shook his head, apparently despondent. “Battle scenes are what I paint.”

“Admittedly,” Jacques went on, “erotic work such as this
requires money for models but—”

“I had expected these to … but they’re no help.” Francesco’s voice had a strange yearning.

“Oh,” Jacques said, looking up. “You sound as if the miniatures are life and death to you.”

“They may be.”

Jacques wanted to ask what Francesco meant. Instead, he shot a quizzical look at his brother, then unveiled a draped easel. “Ah, the creamy-fleshed, rosy-cheeked nymphs Monsieur Boucher paints,” he
said. “And
all
have the unmistakable baby face of Madame
Boucher.”

Francesco gave a halfhearted smile before staring at the table full of erotic work. He selected a miniature and held it in his hand.

“I know I’m capable of this.” A clap of thunder startled him, and he returned the piece to the table before looking to his brother.

Jacques smiled, pointing to his swelling crotch. “Psst,” he whispered.

“Is that humor?” Francesco growled. Instantly, he wheeled about and tramped toward the door.

***

The quietude of the cellar, combined with the surrounding
darkness, captivated Jacques. The lanterns created a glittering effect so that the pale russet chambers of the nautilus seemed to expand and contract, shifting into extraordinarily vivid colors. The canvas itself at times seemed to undulate. Francesco’s intense concentration—the fluid motion of his painting arm, the confidence of his brushstrokes—all added to the spell.

Soon the old Vicomte entered, thwacking the thick support
timbers with his shillelagh. He put on a proud air and took a seat in the chair Jacques had vacated. All but swallowed by the cavernous armchair, he said nothing. Occasionally he leaned forward or waved his finger as if it were a baton, tapping it rhythmically on the fauteuil’s arm, while his eyes searched every inch of each canvas as if it held some long-lost secret.

The two brothers shared a glance before Francesco mumbled something and refocused on his canvas.

At last the Vicomte spoke. “I sought fame—or infamy, some might say. I wanted my song to be heard, perhaps above others.” His voice held much sadness. He thrust his shillelagh towards Jacques. “I recognize that very characteristic in you, my son. Vanity drives you to indulgence. Your compulsion to have your song heard is your cross, a burden you will not or cannot lay down. I was of that nature. But you shall perhaps discover it’s not a true path.” He leaned back. “For me, in one astonishing experience, only in an instant, I was able to recognize much of my authentic nature, and I was transformed. Profoundly, believe me. And Jesus of … well, I had much to learn.”

Jacques pulled out his snuffbox, offering its ingredients to his brother and the Vicomte. Both declined.

“I am decided,” Fragonard said to Jacques. “I am decided.”

He pointed his shillelagh at Francesco. “Because I am paying
wages to this talented artist to paint and not to prod in other business, and
as you,” he pointed his stick at Jacques, “are the one whose character I feel free to dissect, you are chosen to accompany me. I invite you
alone.”

Jacques, wondering how soon he would be visiting the erotic
miniatures, reminded himself to be surprised when the old owl
showed them. He bowed.

“I gratefully accept, Vicomte de Fragonard, and look forward to your company.”

Fragonard lifted himself from the chair and retrieved his
shillelagh.

“No doubt that much of what I have said seems to have little importance from your vantage point, Signor Casanova. But grant credit to a man with many years and some wisdom. Truly, I confide I’ve had an experience that most men may only imagine.”

“My inquisitive nature, sir, near overwhelms me.”

The Vicomte beckoned the younger man with an outstretched finger.

***

Once into the upper house, the Vicomte and Jacques made their
way with only a single candle between them and an occasional wall sconce for illumination. Jacques’ nose was beginning to react to a familiar odor.

“I rely on your reputation as an understanding man and a citizen of the world,” the Vicomte said as he stepped into the dark void of a hallway, a rash of thunder echoing from the storm outside.

Jacques was anxious; he didn’t recognize where he was.
Certainly it wasn’t the corridor that led to the miniatures, but while he and the Vicomte lumbered down the hallway, he stayed abreast.

The unmistakable smell of castoreum engulfed Jacques. In
moments, the sight of a gleaming lock told him he was standing at the door that had first attracted his attention that day. He heard a creaking sound and lifted the candle to see the Vicomte replace a key into his vest pocket. What lay behind the door?

“Remove the lock from the hasp, if you please,” said the
Vicomte, “then stand aside.”

After Jacques complied, Fragonard spoke. “I invite you to view my cabinet of curiosities, Signor Casanova. Few others have seen this work of mine. But you are a freethinker. What I have gleaned of your character interests me—and more importantly, what I intuit to be true of you confirms your usefulness.” The Vicomte de Fragonard edged toward the younger man. “Earlier I readied the cabinet. Now I ask your opinion of my creations.”

The Vicomte pushed hard, and the door swung wide. A jewel box of iridescence blinded Jacques, and in the moment he tried to regain sight, the sickly sweet smell nearly overpowered him.

The Vicomte ushered him into the chamber while Jacques shaded his eyes against what seemed a ceiling full of candles. When he stepped forward, his slowly returning vision was drawn to the far end of the room where, high at the ceiling, a black scrim draped downward, partitioning a portion of the large space.

He followed the scrim to the floor. His chief view was the dark outline of a stationary horse, a rider seated upright, arms flexed as if to grasp reins. Moving slowly into the room, he saw the horse had no skin. Every cord of its musculature was visible.

Jacques’ throat dried. He was sickened but couldn’t keep from looking. Neither man nor horse was a skeleton or a corpse but an
amalgamation of red veins, brown ligaments, and yellowish
tendons—all power and rawness, frozen in grotesquerie. The rider’s teeth were gritted, his nostrils flared, eyeballs expressionless. A nightmare of fiendish vulgarity.

“What is the purpose of …” Jacques stammered, nearly voiceless.

The Vicomte said, “I, naturally, cannot disclose my recipe,
though I
have, by determined experiment, improved upon a Templars’
formula, which was revealed to me many, many years ago. My
écorchés
are preserved, I may reveal, by soaking the cadaver in eau-de-vie, mixed with aloe, myrrh, and pepper, among other substances.”

“What I meant was—”

The Vicomte broke in. “After draining blood and removing the vital organs, I employ my prescription, then inject the arteries, veins, and bronchial tubes with tallow mixed with turpentine. Sometimes
arsenical salts. I then—” The Vicomte stopped, frowning. “No, I
forbid myself to give away the embalming process. That is my private domain. I will say my method is far, far superior to, say, that of Czar Peter, who knew how to decapitate his unfaithful lover but knew only to put her head in spirit of alcohol. Spirit of alcohol. Primitive, do you agree?"

“So the castoreum I smell—?”

“Covers the occasionally distressing odors from my work.
Sometimes I use ambergris or styrax for a sweeter fragrance.” While the Vicomte ambled forward, he spoke. “You realize, of course, that in France we anatomists receive convicted assassins for dissection. That is the law of the land
. Fiat experimintum in corpore vili.
‘Let experiment be made on a worthless body.’ The gentleman you see here was in several pieces when the authorities turned him over to me. It seemed he had become an acolyte of the diocese, but the Sacred Orders refused to accept him in the priesthood. The distraught fellow attempted to murder the bishop outside his episcopal quarters. The attempt failed,
and in due course, he was sentenced. His fist was broken on the
stake. His arms, legs, thighs, and loins were broken on special
scaffolding. And his body, which was to be reduced by fire to cinders and scattered to the wind, was instead given to me. How one may suffer from the boot heel of the Church. But as you see from this bust, I was able to retrieve some of the …” The Vicomte threw his arm wide. “These are my écorchés
.
”

Staring at the stark remains, Jacques felt his face grow
blisteringly hot.
Is man no more than this?

“As to the purpose about which you asked? There is a far greater intention to my work than one would suppose,” the Vicomte admonished.

Beside him, a menacing figure, possibly once human, was posed midstride, brandishing a large mandible. The pit of Jacques’ stomach grew cold and hard. Yet almost against his will, he found himself following the Vicomte into the larger chamber beyond.

In its corner, beyond more than two dozen gnarled demi-beasts
of exposed viscera and swollen veins, hung the dark scrim.
Approaching,
he recognized the sweet smell of ambergris before stepping around the
curtain.

A figure with skeletal hands, palms pressed together, reclined in
a bath of fluid. The being, slumbering on his back, had not been
managed or mangled like the rest. Jacques stepped toward the figure
. This once lived as a man; amid all the hellish figures, this one alone is transformed.
The face had an enigmatic, almost serene expression.

Jacques turned upon hearing Fragonard clubbing across the
parquet floor.

“All the other écorchés you have seen are my earliest
experiments,” the Vicomte said, “rudimentary labors in progress, really. This is the zenith toward which I have worked. He was created from a devout inspiration of the spirit, born from an experience that changed me once and forever.”

“I find myself oddly touched by him,” Jacques admitted.

“That is vastly pleasing.” The Vicomte’s face softened. He made one final review of the chamber, punching his shillelagh in staccato thrusts at airy nothings, then strode toward the door.

Jacques followed.

DOMINIQUE CASANOVA WAS FASCINATED.
She didn’t wish to be. But her kind and inquisitive nature found her houseguest fascinating. Jacques’ stories of faraway places, of charlatans he’d
met, of bluebloods he’d known, as well as his variety of
occupations—adventurer, gambler, secretary, soldier, preacher, musician, writer—all excited her.