The Secrets of Casanova

T
HE
S
ECRETS

OF
C
ASANOVA

G
REG
M
ICHAELS

Booktrope Editions

Seattle WA 2013

COPYRIGHT 2013 GREG MICHAELS

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“I have lived as a philosopher and die as a Christian.”

GIACOMO CASANOVA’S DYING WORDS, 1798

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny

matters compared with what lies within us.”

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

“I’VE ALWAYS KNOWN THAT VIRTUE’S NOT THE AIM
in
Paris,” Jacques cheered himself. “‘Give me too much’ is the motto here. And when people live with that philosophy, there’s ample opportunity for one such as I am.”

Outside the Hôtel du Saint Esprit, Jacques Casanova decided to
chance the Rue de la Grenouille. Once before he
’d hopped from
cobblestone to cobblestone to avoid the mud and the rushing
carriages, and although the foul wastewater streams assaulted his nose again tonight, he knew he must brave the streets—for what he utterly craved was food in his belly and a woman in his bed. He tugged at his wig and set off.

Reaching a crowded thoroughfare, Jacques ordered a sedan chair and directed the footmen to a
caffè della Nobiltà
, a “coffeehouse for nobles,” where he hoped to sup. He’d had high times here before, but who knew what had changed in five years?

A short while later, he tipped the footmen from the trifling
pocket money he still possessed. The café, redolent of garlic,
beckoned.
The tangy aroma made Jacques think of home; he smiled at the
thought while he strode imperiously toward the coffeehouse, where he was met by the chuffy proprietor and a young serving girl, both of whom had black hair in coiled ringlets.

The grisette stepped forward. Jacques assessed her. Light eyes, rawboned features, including a nose quite sizeable for her face. But her cheeks dimpled when she smiled. And she did smile—at him, bidding him to follow.

Passing waves of tables, he was pleased by the social prospects. A blonde aristocrat leered at him, but he found her too abundantly larded. Or perhaps—not.

At his table, the attractive grisette finally faced him.

“How do you do, sir?”

“Surpassingly well,” Jacques lied. “I see you serve more than coffee.”

The girl leaned forward to light the table’s candle, dipping her chin seductively.

“May I have a carafe of the house wine?”

“Will that be one glass or two, monsieur?”

“Let me begin with one glass.” Jacques held the girl’s gaze until he noticed that the proprietor at the entrance did not appear pleased. “Are you, by chance, married to the gallant near the front door, mademoiselle?”

“When it is convenient, monsieur,” she said. “One glass, for
now.”

Jacques felt a crackle of pleasure in his veins while he again
surveyed
the crowd. Silk and finery at every turn. Conversations in a half-
dozen languages. People drinking and eating with might and main.

As nearby customers puffed on their pipes, clumps of sultry smoke seemed to gobble up the remaining air—just as it had two nights ago at the faro tables of the Palais-Royal. An evening’s entertainment for Jacques, a turn of cards, his magnificent wager—
sept et la va
—seven times his original bet. Then, full defeat. Throbbing financial loss. Ruination. And as further insult, his dalliance with the disgusting and toothless Marquise D’Ampie.
Do I sleep these days with anything that snores?

A carafe clinked on the table. Next, a single glass. Jacques followed the grisette’s rough hand to her face.

She smiled. “You know, you’re not the prettiest man I’ve ever seen, but you caught my eye—and held it.” She finished pouring the wine, then asked with a grin, “Will that be all?”

Jacques smiled back. He enjoyed the hunt almost as much as the sweet rustle of underclothes. A fleeting memory entertained him when he remembered the singular sweetness of—what were their
names? It was so long ago that those two sisters, although
pretending to sleep, had allowed his advances. Was a boy’s loss of innocence ever so agreeable? Jacques’ smile grew wider.

The grisette peeked slyly over her shoulder and whirled away—waving her derrière fearlessly, but Jacques’ enchantment was cut short by a croaking male voice.

“And so I tell you—dancers, actresses? Sluts. One and the same.”

Jacques had heard that kind of talk many times—his mother was an actress—so it shouldn’t have pained him. He turned to see two drunken men at the next table. Neither, it seemed, knew how to stop a belch, but their noble status was confirmed by the jewel-encrusted pommels of their swords and their red-heeled shoes.

One of the garrulous bravos, whose face was severely spoiled from a bout with the pox, felt Jacques’ glance. “You, fellow, what say you about dancers and actresses?”

“The company of women is to be enjoyed,” Jacques said curtly.

“Flat on their back,” the noble laughed.

“Yes, I prize them in bed. But some men prefer to triumph rather than to enjoy.”

The pair squirmed in confusion, apparently unable to decide if Jacques had slighted their honor.

The scarred bravo grunted. “Was that an accent I heard?”

His friend, who had bulging eyes, pounded the table with his fist. “You’re so stupid,” he said. “This man has a Venetian accent.”

“You’re Italian?” the scarred man asked.

“
Not
Italian,” Jacques insisted. “Venice is quite separate—and superior—to those Italian territorial disasters, I assure you.”

“Venetian, eh?” Bulging Eyes said. “Venice is clearly under our good King Louis’ protection.”

“Venice is not—nor ever has been—under France’s protection,” countered Jacques. “Venice has been a republic for nearly eleven centuries. Eleven. Centuries. A republic.”

“Oh, toad,” the scarred bravo intoned, “I know something of the world. Your Venice is controlled by a handful of grasping aristocrats who—”

“Every major European state
except
Venice is a monarchy.”
Jacques’ voice began to quiver. “What this means to most human beings who live in these nations is that they’re treated like herds of swine by a hereditary king.”

“Do I seem a penned pig?” cried the bravo.

Other patrons, sensing the argument, craned their necks.

Jacques felt his gorge rise. “Venice, in contrast, is a republic, and consequently, its people are—”

“—full of pus,” slurred Bulging Eyes. His friend howled and slapped the table again and again. The surrounding patrons convulsed in laughter. Raucous, demeaning laughter.

Hot anger seared Jacques’ belly. Reaching past the carafe, he grabbed the candleholder and, in one swift move, forced the flame into the eye of the jeering man.

“
Morbleu
!” yelled the scarred bravo.

Jacques flipped the candleholder in his hand and lurched toward the other—who fumbled to unsheathe his sword—striking him with the butt end directly across the temple. Bulging Eyes sank to the floorboards while customers emptied the near vicinity, screaming. The odor of burned flesh filled the café.

Jacques’ hand shook violently as it reached his dagger.

At the same time, a well-dressed older gentleman stepped across the incapacitated man on the floor and forced a handkerchief into the hand of the cursing bravo collapsed in his chair. The gentleman cautiously handed Jacques his calling card.

“These two may demand satisfaction from you—although from where I sat and from what I heard, you are to be commended. They should’ve shown respect for you. And for Venice.

“Undoubtedly.”

“Men of their stamp, well, it’s perfectly simple. They want for
nothing. They believe in nothing. Nevertheless,
sieur,
you are
fortunate you did not kill them.”

“
They
are fortunate I did not kill them,
sieur.
” Jacques slammed his poniard back into its sheath. “I have no need to further defend the honor of Venice, but if these two so desire, they may find me at the Saint Esprit. Tell them I have a dangerous sword, so perhaps
instead of choosing to die, they will view this tête-à-tête as a
classroom for learning.”