The Secrets of Casanova (10 page)

He stopped talking when he found Dominique’s eyes riveted to the bed between them. Neither said anything for a great while.

“This debt business could cost you your very life.”

“It could.” Jacques’ voice lightened. “It’s said that he who is
without money, means, and contentment is without three good friends.”

Dominique offered no reply.

“What are we to do then? We have no money to speak of.” Jacques stressed the “we,” careful not to use “I.”

“Sit down on the bed.”

Jacques did so.

Dominique stood next to the chair, her fingers strumming its
spindles.

“I grew up poor,” she said. “I’ve felt the constraints of penury most of my life. For that reason I’ve put aside small sums of money from time to time. This savings we’ll use for food for this evening. As we’re at the end of the week, Francesco will be paid. We’ll solve
our problems one at a time. And,” she added, “I appreciate your
small generosities. Although I wonder how you manage to provide them.”

When Dominique slid into the chair opposite Jacques, his eyes softened.

“I, naturally, am prepared to pawn all the rest of my fineries,” he lied. “That will aid us.”

For a time, they talked. He spoke of when he had been young, of
his roguish life in Venice, of his brother and family. “As for
freedom,” he said, “I have prized it above everything else. And freedom, in some ways, has forced me to this woeful financial precipice.”

Dominique nodded.

“I’ve considered selling the manuscript to Monsieur de Voltaire. I’ve considered selling even my gold snuffbox and my smallsword and pistols. But I can’t bring myself to part with them. I may become a fatality to my sentimentality.”

Dominique laughed at his inelegance.

Jacques felt ridiculous, but he found his lips curling upward into a grin.

He was pleased when Dominique spoke—not so much of her past—but of her learning. “I was inspired by my father, who labored continually, a cobbler by day and at nightfall—not so much a scholar but a man of intelligence, intent on satisfying his questions about the world. He borrowed books, he solved riddles, he conversed with learned clients—anything to challenge his mind and soul. That he barely scratched out a living never seemed to matter. He always
spoke of his ‘authority of inward assurance,’ which is a phrase,
although I may be mistaken, from John Locke, the English
philosopher. My father, it seems, had that assurance. I perhaps inherited it from him and Mr. Locke.”

The noonday sun had by now passed the window. Francesco would not be home from Fragonard’s before dark.

The conversation, more relaxed, seemed to be winding down. Dominique again bathed her hands in the strongbox full of imitation stones. There were red ruby rings, yellow chrysolite, sapphires, diamonds, oriental topaz, and at least two women’s brooches with inlaid lapis lazuli.

“How does one know if a jewel is genuine?” she asked.

“Well, with a diamond, for example, I would lick it. Stones are cold to the tongue. Composition is not. The lapis you hold, of course, is genuine.”

Dominique’s green eyes flashed slyly as she placed the stone back in the pile. “You’ve not brought me a pretty bauble, monsieur.”

It took a moment for Jacques to comprehend her meaning. “On the contrary. All the baubles now at your fingertips are yours, if you desire. And further, for you—the seasoned maiden who stands before me—I’ll impart yet another seduction, as you requested at our first amorous meeting.”

“Yes, that’s my wish.” Dominique stood up, and wandered
toward the window of the small room, interlacing her fingers behind her.

Jacques lay back on the bed, propping himself on an elbow. “I’ve used this course of action more than once, although there’s no guarantee that consummation will necessarily come from it.”

Dominique smiled again. “Certainly. No guarantees. And,
please, no more of your law school language.”

“Fair enough,” he nodded. “I begin my intrigue with a shy waifish girl, she of the ripening figure whose expressive brown eyes show kindness and trust. One late afternoon, I slowly and earnestly convince her that it is her duty as chambermaid to scrub not only the floors but also her lodger. In this case, me. It took some chat on my part, and a small gift of a ducat in her palm helped my cause.

This is all for cleanliness’ sake, I say, and she agrees. Gabriella,
let us call the waif, draws the hot water I require. I stand and
casually
peruse the gazette, at all times maintaining the appearance of
propriety. Finally when the bath is ready, I ask her to turn her back while I go behind the screen, remove my clothes, reappear in a towel, and at last, dip my nude body into the warm water. I make sure that my masculinity is covered by soap bubbles or a cloth so as not to cause undue consternation on Gabriella’s part. It’s true I wanted love’s reward from her, but more importantly, I wanted her love. Without love, this seduction business is a vile thing.”

Jacques watched the sunlight, gauzed by the window curtains,
dance across Dominique’s face.
How fetching this woman is
, he
thought.

“Reminding myself that the chase is more than enough
adventure,
that the crowning moments may never occur—or only in due
course—I request she wash my neck with the sponge. I relax, even with her
tentative gestures. From time to time, I let out an earnest sigh,
always encouraging any true pleasure she may innocently bring by washing my hair, my neck, my arms and back. It’s at this point, I recall, that I ask her to sponge my chest. She’s reluctant. I speak of her efficacious manner. I talk of her professional diligence. I quote Ariosto. My waif gives over to the moment.

“At the first touch of my nipples, she says nothing, but I myself cannot contain a delicate moan.

“It’s plain to us both that by now I’m the schoolgirl, you see. Gabriella, the waif, realizes she dominates the state of affairs, and
that nothing may get out of hand without her consent. This
chambermaid feels supremacy, maybe for one of the few times in her life.

“I make one last request: that she bathe each of my legs. I help
the process by extending my legs from the bath while continually making sure that the wet cloth covers my love prick. I am discretion
itself.

“Finally, I ask her to again turn her back. I take the towel, dry myself, and lo and behold, realize that liberality must carry the day; I tell her I feel compelled to return the favor. To bathe her. She, of course, is hesitant. But she wavers when I subtly convince her that she’s in no danger—is, in fact, in complete command of her faculties and of the situation—and is bound, moreover, by courtesy to receive a pleasure in return.

“Still I remind myself that the final outcome of the rendezvous is not forecast.”

Dominique started. Holding her breath, she withdrew herself from the window and trained her eyes at the courtyard below.

Jacques’ heart chilled. But his ears told him the clatter below didn’t belong to Francesco’s coach
.

Moments later, she relaxed her fists, allowed herself a gentle
exhale, then lay on the bed next to Jacques while he casually
resumed his story.

“Dressing hurriedly—and only in my breeches—I make as if to button up but, in fact, expose a bit of my masculinity to her. I pretend not to notice that Gabriella has perked up, and I quickly begin my work: first of all, to talk her out of her clothes. I persuade her, turning my back, and my waif slips hurriedly into the bath.

“I pour ever more warm water from the ewer and continue the game, not by delighting her senses but by delighting her soul. Small compliments are coupled with soft touches. While talking, I lightly dote on her, nosing her hair, her neck.

“In truth,” Jacques said, “it’s the scent of a woman that entices me to heaven.” He glanced at Dominique. “I face her, then begin the washing of her hair in tantalizing fashion, careful not to allow my building passions to overstep my artfully-laid boundaries. After a time, however, I make no pretense; I observe her body in the bath. She feels my admiration, and her excitement grows. As does mine, although I am determined to mask my ardor.

“Therefore, I bar myself from washing her breasts but instead move to the front of the tub, taking each extremity and bathing first the foot, then the calf, then the thigh. I surmise Gabriella is tingling in the special spot, but I do not give in to lust; I continue a quiet
conversation, allowing myself to gaze into her eyes while they’re
open and when it seems appropriate.

“Once her eyes shut, I know she’s enthralled. She enjoys this understated game of domination and no longer has a care as to who is now to be victor. I feel she may join me in the blossomed world
where we shall both welcome triumph—bodies blending, senses blinded.”

Jacques saw in Dominique’s expression that, although her
delicate curiosity might now be satisfied, her desire had mounted.

Their eyes locked. Slowly, Dominique pulled the bed coverlet over Jacques’ face and began to kiss the sheet where she guessed his mouth to be. Moments later, she pulled his shirt above his breeches and stretched her hand toward his warmth.

“To feel your hardness. How it thrills me.”

Jacques was aflame with passion. He threw off the coverlet and, lifting up Dominique’s simple dress, found the sumptuous favors she was eager to bestow.

“Dominique, Dominique,” came the call.

She madly leapt to the doorway.

Jacques wrested himself on his back, fastened his breeches,
stuffed in his shirttail, and straightening the coverlet, flipped to a sitting position on the bed.

“I’m in the hall,” she sputtered, “talking to your brother.” She stood primly in the doorway, trying to keep her watering eyes from giving her away.

“Then, of course,” Jacques began, “I commanded two hundred
francs, twelve thousand scudi in jewels and precious stones, and nearly forty thousand florins. This was the result of several good
business opportunities in Amsterdam when I was hired by the
French.” He fluttered his hand briefly to reassure Dominique.

A heavy clomp of boots.

Arriving at the door Francesco looked queerly about.

“My husband.” Dominique gave Francesco a slight hug. “You’re home early today.”

“I am,” snarled the hulking man, “because I’ve been puking.”

“You’re sweating badly, too,” said Dominique, pressing her
hand to his forehead.

Jacques, spying the wet sheet where Dominique had kissed him, slowly shifted his hand to cover the spot. His face grew suddenly hot. “Good time for a brotherly duel?” he quipped, scratching his chin. From the way Francesco scowled, Jacques couldn’t be sure if the man was going to retch or if he’d found them out.

“You’re burning up, Francesco,” Dominique scolded. “We must cool you down. Into a bath you’ll go.”

Jacques barely squelched his laugh, wondering if Dominique’s bath comment was intentional or not.

Francesco wheeled back toward the hall, arm slung over
Dominique.
The pair trod down the hallway till there was not a sound to be
heard.

“Does he know?” Jacques asked himself.

DOMINIQUE OPENED HER EYES,
smelled the sweet night air,
and felt the pillow warming her cheek. She was excited. In little more than a day’s time her prayers had been answered.

But who could she tell? Jacques was out, she remembered, and she was loathe to divulge her new idea to Francesco. Yet to succeed, her plan would have to be told to both brothers.

She climbed from the bed and paced back and forth across the room.

There was a rustling of bedcovers in the darkness. Francesco mumbled. “Is that you? Wife, is that you tramping about?”

Dominique stopped still.

“You’re not next to me snoring,” snapped Francesco, “so I know you’re awake. Come lie down.” The straw mattress crackled as he rolled to his side. “What hour is it?”

“Not late. Not too late.” Dominique opened the curtain that covered the doorframe, lit a candle, and placed it in the hallway sconce so that it shone dimly on Francesco’s face.

He strained to see.

Goodness,
she thought,
he looks like death with his hair poking every which way.

Taking a bristle brush from the bedside table, she seated herself on a chair at her husband’s back but decided against grooming him.
Instead, she brushed her own hair. Each stroke reinforced her
courage.

Although for some time Dominique had held vague notions on how to advance her husband’s success, she now had the leverage to make her plan work. Leverage—in the form of Jacques’ antique manuscript—was the element she’d been missing.

“I’ve an idea, dear Francesco. A plan that helps you. And that will also help your brother.” She took in a heavy breath. “God has answered my prayers.”

“Prayers. Claptrap.”

Dominique stopped brushing but ignored her feelings and
continued. “I have to make certain inquiries beginning tomorrow morning, and all must go according …”

Francesco rolled over to her, but before he could finish his yawn, she added, “I ask you to listen to me. As you know, I’m not a silly woman who involves herself in folly.”

Somewhere in the Parisian street below, a pack of dogs began barking.

“First,” she began, “I’ll find out the value of a religious
manuscript
your brother owns and have him alert Monsieur de Voltaire by
swiftest post that the manuscript at last can be had. Then using Voltaire as bait, I’ll exact a promise from a reliable patron to host a ball at his country chateau.

“Patron? What patron do—

“Please listen, Francesco. At this fête, this ball, you’ll exhibit your best paintings, not your copies of other artists. When your originality is admired—and purchased—well, it may—”