The Secrets of Casanova (11 page)

Francesco growled, and in his state between sleep and
wakefulness, words tumbled heedlessly from his mouth. “You’re not frivolous. But you’re full of extremes. What! A ball, a fête? You’re not royalty. How will you throw a ball?”

Dominique brushed her hair harder, doubt clouding her mind. Why set upon this daunting plan to help the Casanova brothers?

It took time for an answer to come, but at last she knew. She was a woman who had a duty in life, although at the moment she wasn’t exactly sure just where her duty began and ended.

“I’m twenty-nine, Francesco, yet even when I was younger, I felt certain obligations. If I can’t fulfill these obligations to myself or the ones I love, I can have no self-respect.” Dominique set the brush aside and placed her hands on her knees. She arose from her chair, seated herself on the bed, and gently tucked the cover around her husband’s shoulder. She briefly caught Francesco’s glinting eyes. “I must tell you,” she said, “to put on the ball, I’ll seek the help of Signor Grimani.”

“Grimani? You’ll not have anything to do with—”

“I refused him years ago. Unlike the other dancers. You know that. You needn’t think otherwise.”

Long ago, Michele Grimani had supposed his money might obtain Dominique’s favors, a thought that did not upset her. Their
slender connection over the years had been one where he politely
offered and she resolutely refused. While prone to attacks of grandiose behavior, Signor Grimani had always been a gentleman with her, although she wondered why—when he had not been so with others. She concluded that he admired her strength of character, that deep in his heart he knew a gift of money couldn’t weaken her principles
.

Francesco filched his shoulder from Dominique’s touch, burying his face in the bedding so that she could barely see his profile. “
Quand’ero in parte altr’uom da quel ch’io sono.
”

“Kindly tell me what you just said. In French.”

“When I was in part a different man from the man I am,” spat Francesco. “Ten years ago. I was a
man
ten years ago.”

“And I want you to be that man again, Francesco. You and I, we deserve a family—”

“It won’t work. I can’t …”

“It’s not your fault.”

Dominique could find no more comforting words on the bitter subject. She sat quietly for a time before speaking.

“It’s important for you to know, Francesco, I’m firm in my belief that my idea will succeed. And to achieve this success is to involve Signor Grimani. As well as Voltaire. I will—”

“I
thought
you’d said Voltaire a moment ago,” Francesco
spouted, turning to face her. “Voltaire? The exalted Voltaire! How would a woman of your station reach such a luminary? Why, the man doesn’t even live in Paris. Or France. Are you without wits?”

Dominique felt her choler rise. “Am I—? What of the Casanova brothers? Overgrown children! Who both require help. And I and the good Lord will help them, regardless of their wayward natures.”

Dominique stood up, tramped to the hallway, and slung the room curtain closed. She seated herself as best she could in the hall
with the lit candle as her only companion. “Gather your notions,
Dominique,” she said. “The Savior will direct you.”

In her mind, she began to compile a list of tasks. Hours passed.
When at last she finished, she calmly opened the curtain to the
bedroom where the sun was beginning to share its yellow rays. Back into bed she crawled.

PETRINE, TRYING TO KEEP HIS SEAT
on the rear of the
rumbling
coach, hugged a small barrel. Inside the coach sat Jacques and
Dominique in morning dress, both sweating profusely from the heat.

Fate demands a sacrifice—my manuscript. That it should come to this!

Dominique ruffled her hair. “And so within one week, Jacques,
my prayers are answered,” she smiled, “and it’s likely the
Casanovas’
problems can be resolved if you still agree to donate your
manuscript to the cause.”

“But I’ll be paid to do so?” Jacques asked, pursing his lips
anxiously.

“Yes, I’ve requested a sum of gold from our patron for your donation to Voltaire. As I said, your valued manuscript is the lure that attracts the famous philosopher—who attracts, in turn, our wealthy patron—who’ll sponsor the ball. At the ball, Francesco can market his paintings, and after your donation of the manuscript, a bag of gold—from the patron—will be your reward.” Dominique threw her hands in the air, laughing. “I’m excited.”

“I’ll admit it would an honor to meet Monsieur de Voltaire face-
to-face. To bask in the glow of his genius. But he reads and
comprehends the strange tongue of my precious manuscript while I always
delayed learning that language. To me, it’s disconcerting to give
away something whose value I don’t even know.”

“If you choose to help your brother—and yourself—the only hope we have is your religious manuscript.”

Jacques felt a lump in his gut. Should he bank on this plan of Dominique’s? It had the possibility of fortune. And some distinction. Whereas to consider Vicomte de Fragonard’s proposal …
The smart move is to keep all avenues open and pursue the plan that promises quicker benefit.
“As I said, I’m
willing
to give up the manuscript.”

“Please promise you’ll not withdraw your offer, Jacques.”

A moment passed before he answered yes. It behooved him to agree for the time being.

Oh yes,” added Dominique, “our patron, Signor Grimani, is
already acquainted with Monsieur de Voltaire. But let Signor
Grimani explain. He’s—”

“Grimani, you say? Michele Grimani?” Jacques felt the heat rise in his veins.

The woman nodded.

“Dominique! What have you done?”

Dominique drew a quick breath. “What’s the trouble?”

“Cavaliere Michele Grimani?” he asked, his hand wiping sweat from his chin. “Cavaliere?”

“I think. Perhaps.”

“
Cavaliere della stola d’oro,
” Jacques muttered, trying to restrain
his growing alarm. “The title ‘Cavaliere’—plus the ‘golden stole’—is
only conferred on Venetian bluebloods who have distinguished themselves in public office. His family’s been listed in Venice’s
Libro d’Oro
of notables for hundreds of years and—”

Dominique hurriedly interrupted. “Signor was fond of my skills when I danced in the
Comedie Italienne
in Paris. From time to time, I’ve reacquainted myself with him. I’m only using my connection … you and I will do the hard work and borrow his chateau and ballroom. He’ll receive the credit but he’s—”

“He was one of three members of the Inquisitori de Stato who sentenced me to prison.”

Dominique gasped, her eyes glossed with wetness. She placed her hand on Jacques’ leg. “I’d no idea this journey would—”

“Yes, Grimani.” Jacques glared out the coach window into the distance. “A brilliant politician, an inveterate gambler, a great epicure, and a gentleman highly regarded in the art of fence as well as dance. In short, an aristocrat of vast wealth, immense power, and
superb family name.” He turned to Dominique, tugging his
wrenched brow. “I was carted away to Piombi prison without ever meeting Grimani face-to-face,” he said grimly. “And now I’m surprised and stunned once again!”

Dominique was speechless, shocked. A bead of sweat dripped down her nose. “All I could think about was him lending us his country home, his
French
summer home. I’ve known him so long, it never crossed my mind that … I’m embarrassed. Mortified.”

Jacques looked hard into Dominique’s pained eyes. “Let us meet our patron Michele Grimani. Until then, I’ll withhold my opinions.”
I’ve been duped. I must keep my wits to learn their design.

Within a short while, the coach moved beneath a dense canopy
of towering trees, and when the wheels left the dirt road and
clattered across cobblestone, Jacques and Dominique, as if on cue, peered out. On the gently rolling hill in the distance was a structure of nearly
cathedral proportions, glistening in the morning sun. The tall,
straight lines of the mansion were softened by the sea of artful foliage that surrounded it; the entire home appeared to float atop a multihued cloud of budding flowers. No mere summer home, this mansion appeared a strikingly beautiful shrine to a powerful family.

Almost before the coach rolled to a stop, Petrine came forward to
the window, where he held a private conversation with Jacques.
After the valet stepped away, Jacques spoke.

“I’ve found it practical, Dominique, in my various and past
travels, to retain a valet who can, not infrequently, act as my
security. Petrine is comfortable with his role as eyes and ears for me, and in this unique instance, I most certainly shall ask him to play his part.”

A flock of liveried servants appeared as if from nowhere, and in short order, Jacques, Dominique, and Petrine were ushered to a side door of the great home by the maître d’hôtel, a man of impressive bearing who was richly clad and who flashed a ring studded with a variety of gems.

Jacques fretted.
Side door? What practice is this? Will the host clap me in chains and smuggle me back to prison?

Upon entering Grimani’s mansion, Petrine and Dominique were struck by a prominent feature: the archways, enfilade, created an unobstructed view from this part of the house. As each room opened
into the next, the three guests marveled at the fine china, linen, and
grand furnishings. Affixed to one entire wall was a collection of magnificent basket hilt swords. “Slavic mercenaries hired by the
Doge of Venice wielded those,” Jacques whispered in Dominique’s ear.
“Are we to be impressed by Grimani’s tie with the high and
mighty?”

Her casual reaction told him nothing.

The maître d’hôtel stopped. “The Cavaliere shall attend you here in the library.”

While Jacques pretended to look at the handsome lacquered bookcases, behind his back he squeezed his fist until the skin grew taut.

No sooner had the maître d’hôtel escorted a reluctant Petrine to the far corner of the room than in sauntered a gentleman.

The man was not of lordly stature but of genteel comportment,
appearing fit and well proportioned in his unadorned coat,
embroidered waistcoat, and breeches. Thin lips, aquiline nose, and piercing azure eyes perched on a moonish face. His skin was pale with snatches of gray hair protruding from under his neatly dressed and powdered brown wig
.

After the unpretentious man passed his maître d’hôtel, he
momentarily fingered a calling card Jacques had presented upon arrival. Pocketing it, he continued his leisurely gait past Petrine.

Watching Dominique rouse her weary body, Jacques wondered what Michele Grimani meant to her.

A short distance in front of Dominique, Grimani stopped and
lowered his eyes, his full attention showering her. He bowed
vigorously, accepted Dominique’s hand, and kissed the air above it. Dominique blushed pink.

Jacques bristled.
Grimani treats her as an equal, though she is not of his class. Exceptionally decorous.

Dominique smiled, as did her host: “This girl’s beauty reduces
me to slavery each and every time I see her. And her vivacity
enslaves me even more.”

In his gut, Jacques felt the insistent tightness of cold jealousy.

“Madame Casanova,” said Grimani, “please present your chaperone.”

Dominique took in Jacques’ blazing eyes and spoke. “
Con
grandissimio piacere
.” “With great pleasure.” Her voice grew honeyed while she reeled off what little Italian she knew. “
Cavaliere, ti presento il Signor Don Giacomo Casanova veneziano amico mio
.”

“Your friend from Venice? Ahh.” Scarcely turning in Jacques’ direction, Grimani nodded.

Jacques held his tongue, hoping to see what gesture of war or peace the man might make.

After introductory formalities were completed, Jacques could no longer resist. “It’s well we meet, Cavaliere. I knew you by reputation
when I was younger and yet able to reside in our homeland.”
Jacques heard Dominique’s sudden inhalation.

Cavaliere Grimani opened his arms wide and laughed. “Is that a refined way of saying that I’m older than you?” He crooked one arm back toward his barrel chest and, with a tap of his finger, summoned his maître d’hôtel to his side. “Send Signor Casanova’s valet to the kitchen to have some food. And please show Madame from this gloomy library to our ballroom. Signor Casanova and I shall join her there momentarily.”

Cavaliere Grimani once again bowed to Dominique, who, with a baffled expression, was immediately escorted from the room.

Jacques’ hackles were up. He threw a quick glance at the
departing Petrine.

“Now that we are alone, Signor Casanova, will you join me?” Cavaliere Grimani extended a snuffbox of light-colored tortoiseshell encrusted in gold. Jacques grudgingly accepted, inhaled the tobacco through his nose, and handed back the box.

“Fine Spaniol, is it not?”

Jacques nodded. As he did so, Grimani, swift as a snake, slapped him hard across the face.

Jacques seized his stinging cheek, then reached for his dagger.

Grimani, already two steps away, faced Jacques. “Drawing that poniard would be an egregious error,” he hissed in a withering tone. “Do not presume to enter my home and insult me. Insolence.” He clapped his hands together as if he were quashing a fly. The man paced angrily and continued his vociferous cry. “You
deserve
exile from Venice. You earned imprisonment.”

“I did nothing to—“

“In some circles you are a champion—for your escape—and
because of this momentary notoriety, the government shies away from jailing
you. But in better circles, people ask the cause for your
imprisonment. Always they reach the correct conclusion: you’re an affliction who should be gotten rid of.”