The Secrets of Casanova (9 page)

Jacques’ face was altogether mock astonishment as he leered at Dominique’s nude body. “Ah,” he gasped. “Is
that
all for
me
?”

THE BED GROANED AS JACQUES SAT UPRIGHT
and lowered
his feet to the floor. He yawned, stretched, and slipped off his
nightcap just as the golden belly of the sun made its appearance in the eastern sky, which meant that, rising earlier than usual, Jacques might find time to answer the stack of letters on the secretary. Wherever he lived—which had been many places—correspondence arrived by
post nearly every morning, and he felt a desire to exchange ideas and fond feelings with his friends, as well as the latest gossip of the day.

He’d adventured throughout the thousand duchies, fiefdoms, and bishoprics of the Holy Roman Empire, the kingdoms of France, England and Italy, throughout Bohemia, Poland, and Switzerland. He’d had extended stays in Spain, Holland, and even Russia.

Letters he received from royalty, from poets, from philosophers and mountebanks, from ecclesiastics, light women, and chancers were proof of these journeys. He prided himself on his ability to make a legion of acquaintances from many and sundry walks of life.

Three years was a long time to be on the move, but it seemed clear to Jacques that Paris would once again elevate his fortunes.

He shook loose his mane of hair, glanced into the sizeable hand mirror he always carried, and sat next to his bed stand, where he saw his previous evening’s study, his doctoral thesis. Hunting beneath it, he found his treatise on the squaring of the cube. He paraded bedside, flipping page after page while morning sunrays snuck into the room, reminding him that his brother was seeing the sunrise from the inside of Fragonard’s coach.

“Owww.” Jacques dropped his papers, grabbed his foot, and plopped back down on the bed, a splinter from the floor fixed in his
toe. He tugged his foot toward his body and removed the
annoyance. In that instant, dread returned.

“The écorchés,” Jacques shuddered, recalling the dream from his far-too-short sleep. He’d danced away the night with a dozen demi-beasts! Each jabbering creature hobbled toward him, slithered its hand into his, and began a chaotic whirl. The nightmare had ended when he’d gazed into the face of the reclining écorché
s
.
He, the serene one, dispelled the phantoms, eased their ghastly rants.

“Sir,” called a voice from the other side of the door.

“A moment, Petrine. I’m awake far too early.” Jacques pinched a drip of blood from his toe.

“I’ve brought your coffee, sir. Are you ready for your toilet?”

“Yes.” Jacques retrieved his papers from the floor and, after
replacing them on the bed stand, rubbed his toe a final time as
Petrine entered. “Ah, the obedient valet,” huffed Jacques.

The Spaniard had a pleasant look on his face, a quality his
master
appreciated in early morning. Petrine rarely spoke at this hour
unless his opinion was requested; for this, Jacques felt absolutely blessed. He had acquired other servants in the past who chattered incessantly and on matters without a grain of substance. Jacques didn’t value idle talk from valets. At least not at sunrise.

“I will wear the embroidered garters with the gold clasps on my stockings today, Petrine. Also, you may remove those shoe buckles from that case,” he pointed. “I’ll have those.” Jacques stole a look at
the jewel box on his toilet table and decided to wear only the sapphire ring. “No periwig today, but powder my hair, if you
please.”

An hour later, Petrine had dressed his master’s hair, shaved him, brought eggs and more coffee, and polished the ever-dirty shoes.

“It was genius of me to hire a valet who once upon a time was a hairdresser,” Jacques said while admiring himself in his mirror.

“Let us not forget, sir, I was also an actor of some renown.”

“Of
some
renown.”

Jacques caught Petrine’s reflection in the mirror—screwing his mouth into some overworked expression.

“What’s your favor today, sir?”

“Until the main meal, I’ll answer these letters here. Please find me more paper and sharpen the quill.” Jacques laid his mirror on the bed and fiddled through his personal items on the secretary. “I’ve enough ink and—let me see, yes—enough sand for blotting to last the morning. This looks to be a fine summer day, although I’m not in
a particularly fine mood.” Jacques scratched his head. “Is the
mistress of the apartment awake?”

“Not to my knowledge. But, if it’s your wish, I’ll make it my business to spy on her,” grinned Petrine.

“I’ll make it my business to have you whipped, rascal.” Jacques took a step toward the valet, which was enough to hurry Petrine toward the door, laughing. Before reaching the knob, he swiveled on his heels, facing Jacques.

“There are no signs of the men from the debtors’ prison, sir.
But,”
he continued, knitting his brow and shaking his head, “as you
yourself said, nothing is certain.”

Jacques sucked in a hard breath.

Tiptoeing toward his master, Petrine persisted. “Sir, while we’re talking—if I, sir, may wonder aloud—”

“Speak plainly, Petrine.”

“Well, yes, master. Yesterday’s conversation—you mentioned that the old Vicomte offered you an opportunity. You implied it was balm for our—for your—financial problem. Can that be true? I mean, is it even likely that the Vicomte—”

“There is a rumor of immense wealth surrounding the Vicomte, I have it in confidence.”

“In confidence? From whom?”

Jacques crossed his arms. “What concern is it of yours?”

“None, master,” Petrine said, and bent over awkwardly to scrape mud from the top of his boot. “But since you have often scolded me that I look out for
myself
foremost …”

Jacques thumped his fingers against his arm as if to a fast
fandango. “Complete your theme.”

“Well, sir, if Vicomte de Fragonard is, as you say, balm for your problems, I can assist you in your friendship with him.”

“Why would I need—or want—your assistance?” Jacques
barked. “Oh, I see now. If there’s no bounty forthcoming from the Vicomte—and the authorities clap me in irons—
you’ve
no employer and will be out of ready money. Perpetually concerned with your own skin!”

Petrine meekly jerked at his sleeve and nodded.

“No more talk this morning.” Jacques snapped his hand hard against his leg, then busied himself with his manuscript. A moment later, he glanced at Petrine, who stood close by, eyes downcast.

“Forgive me, Master Casanova. I desire only what’s best for you.”

Jacques glared.

“And
me,
” Petrine admitted coyly. He threw back a shock of black hair that covered his eye. “I’m here to sustain you, sir.”

***

The morning hours passed quickly as Jacques wrote one letter after another. Many of the letters he composed were to women who had shared their favors with him and who were now married and in
far-flung places, though, as he knew, they would again share themselves
when he arrived in their town. Other letters relayed recent tales of Jacques’ life of adventuring to old friends, companions, and even
rivals.

One never knows when a rival might become a confederate
, Jacques thought as he signed his name with a flourish to the page before him. He was leaning forward in the secretary chair when a knock on the door stopped him; he looked up, wondering what time it was.

“Are you in?”

“Yes, Dominique.”

“May I interrupt you?”

“Only for wickedness.”

Dominique entered the room, uttered a terse “Morning,” and
quickly shut the door. It seemed to require some effort on her part to muster a brief smile. Nevertheless, the woman looked especially appealing, her abundant blonde hair banded and pulled toward the back of her head.

Jacques sat relaxed in his chair. “How do you do this beautiful morning,
Fragoletta
, my little strawberry?”

“Well enough,” answered Dominique, tousling her sack dress. She stood still and fairly glowered. “I’ve been preparing a list for the market, which I added to yours and gave to Petrine. And that’s why I’m here; because Petrine and I managed to quarrel over market money, I learned some very irregular things. Of course, I, for one, never take a servant’s word when I can find out the truth from the master.” She strode to the bed, plumped the coverlet and sat down on the corner. “So I now ask you: Is it true that when you returned to Paris, you called on your brother only as a courtesy, then left us for the highlife, gambling away everything you owned in this world?
Next you came back to us, lying about why you returned. Lying? To
us?”

Jacques sat in silence, squeezing his chin with his fingers, trying to manufacture an answer. Perhaps he’d whip his valet after all. He
listened to the uneven tapping of Dominique’s foot on the wooden
floor.

“Petrine wept,” Dominique said. “‘God help me.
Valgame Dios
,’ he cried. ‘I’m too poor and my master is destitute.’ Does Petrine speak falsely? You have no money whatsoever?”

Looking into Dominique’s green eyes, Jacques pawed his cheeks’ scars.
I’d rather be looking down the bore of a loaded musket
.

“What I have—what I still own is my gold snuffbox, a religious manuscript I smuggled out of Constantinople, my pistols, and one-
half of a case of smallswords worth fifty louis. The snuffbox and
sword were gifts from Mother, and I’ll go to the grave with them. But my
prized manuscript may bring a price, possibly. At least the
paleographer whom I hired long ago—and who authenticated it—thought so. I have sent several pages of the manuscript to Voltaire, who claims he’ll purchase it. He is, in equal parts, a flatterer and philosopher, and in his letters for the last two years, he’s offered me extravagant praise in an attempt to possess the relic. The French lion is arrogant and vainglorious, but his quest for knowledge is unquenchable.”

“What about these?” Dominique stroked the precious stones in the jewel box on the toilet table.

“Those are imitations, all imitations.” Jacques glared at the gold clasps on his stockings. “Even these—elaborate fakes.” He gouged his finger into his palm as the hot words came pouring out. “Just five
years ago, I was my own man. I had friends, a furnished home, a
country house, a carriage at my disposal, an excellent cook, three manservants, and a housekeeper. Now I have Petrine. And he stays only for a wage.”

Dominique’s green eyes flared. “He stays for adventure, he
claims.”

“The truth is that my personal standing is at stake. And my freedom. Two bills of exchange are due from my gambling debts. Oh, I have friends, many friends—who are scarce, now that I have a need. This time I’m indeed ruined.” Jacques turned away. “This has never before happened. Never.”

Glancing up at Dominique sitting on the corner of the bed, Jacques supposed he might propose a joke, but he could not marshal one. “I came to your household to ask Francesco for a loan. My little brother—his manners not polished for good society—said nothing to me when I made my request. His manner—”

“Francesco is polished enough.”

Jacques swallowed hard and forbade himself to tell Dominique
that once, some years back, when he had stood security for
Francesco, he had been forced to sell his horses, carriages, and all his furniture so that Francesco might repay his debt to a landlord.

“Perhaps Francesco didn’t answer you,” Dominique chided,
“because he didn’t want to refuse you. Finances are difficult, even
for a capable artist like Francesco. We’ve little money but many creditors whom we barely keep satisfied. To let these three rooms and Francesco’s painting loft is not cheap. His dream to go to Dresden as
an artist is fading. He paints at Vicomte de Fragonard’s for a
pittance, and he despises the work besides. And, yes, you might have noticed he’s been riding rather high since you arrived, had you cared to look.
But I fear—I fear the terrible lows, the blackness he more often
knows.”

“He
is
painting. He’s an artist. What more could—”

“He’s painting?” cried Dominique. “Copying. Mundane
mountain landscapes. Do you think that suits an artist of his temperament? You think that with his talent and experience it’s his artistic ambition to scratch out sea urchins over and over?”

“Now, I know my brother—”

“You know Francesco. Phht! I hardly know Francesco,” she said,
her mouth creasing spitefully. “Do you recognize his artistic
dreams?” The woman’s face hardened.

“If it were me—”

“You, you, you,” shouted Dominique, rising from the bed.
“Pardon me, Jacques, but you’re selfish. Self-serving. You act like a child, not a middle-aged man. France is choking with men like you. Self-serving, deceitful.” Her eyes reddening, she turned away. “God help you. God help France.”

A housefly buzzed around her; she swung twice, catching the insect midflight before hurling it to the floor.

Jacques balled his hands into white-fingered fists. He rose from
the chair, walked slowly around Dominique, and stared out the
window. He recalled when money was no object, when he’d been the toast of Paris, an advisor to the government, the man who had succeeded in raising millions for King Louis by instigating the Parisian lottery.

“Five years ago, I turned the king’s debts into gold. I succeeded in transforming—”

“So you’re an alchemist.”

Jacques faced Dominique. “As you see,” he pointed behind him to the secretary, “I’ve been writing my patrons and my supporters. I’ve certain plans: I have vast knowledge of mining and geology, a feel for the silk industry. More. I would need capital, naturally, to begin these keen business ventures. I would need …”