The Secrets of Casanova (18 page)

“Lovemaking might put you at ease, make you feel better,”
persisted Jacques. “Why discourage our pleasures?”

Dominique’s reply was firm. “I feel ample satisfaction in your delicate affection, Jacques.”

We begin with affection
.
But let us not end there. Let us taste ecstasy.

Gazing at Dominique, Jacques lay down beside her, temporarily aligned to her wishes.

To feel, to touch a woman where her waist sloped to her hip
would never lose its fascination for Jacques. When his fingers sensed that
indefinable fullness, tiny raptures stirred within him, a tingling
dizziness
held him enthralled—all but arresting his desire. This refined enchantment of nature he’d puzzled on but never unlocked—an
elusive message of
womanhood he couldn’t decode, a fact that only enchanted him
further.

With hands—he often looked forward to holding a woman’s
hands, appendages he explored and kissed in endless admiration.

Beyond these particular treasures, Jacques adored all parts of women and the discoveries that exploration afforded. He cherished a
woman’s closed eyelids, which might at any time open with the
surprise of passion to reveal her most ardent secrets.

Too, the warm, moist breath and unique flavor of a woman’s
mouth—these offered refined fulfillment. And woe be to the lover who did
not find kissing an exquisite delicacy to be enjoyed on its own
merits.

He relished the revelation of a woman’s nipples: pink or light or
dark brown, large or small, and above all, their sensitivity to
plucking, pinching, sucking, and caressing.

The ferocious odor of his lover’s most private possession was his sweetest harvest. The scent of the feminine treasure reassured him. Reassured him that this life was real, was of substance.

He was at ease with the most unfrequented portions and
passions of women, and rarely did he disdain an action or behavior that might bring his partner more pleasures.

To an onlooker, Jacques Casanova might be considered a connoisseur of the carnal; in his own estimation, the act of love
merely granted him a neophyte’s naïveté—which led him to discover and rediscover all that his female counterpart had to offer. His gift was a fascination with the female.

And yet, to gratify his own senses was his intention.

For him there was no moral dilemma, no vexing inelegance, no taint of religious sin in the act of gratification between a man and a woman. Man and woman were only natural creatures sharing in a mutual earthly paradise. Innocent and inventive as a child, Jacques rejoiced in this paradise.

But here he was. His ardor was pressing. Insistent.

He nevertheless spent the better part of the afternoon only in the tender worship Dominique so warranted.

When the light dwindled and the afternoon air lost its warmth, the pair lay side by side holding hands, enveloped in blissful reverie. The streets of Paris, the cares of life, the future—all seemed distant. When the twilight deepened in the small room but before a candle was needed to see, heartfelt words escaped Dominique’s lips. “You
don’t yet know how to surrender your soul, Jacques
mia
, but you
give me your body in the most pleasurable manner.”

As was Dominique’s wish, Jacques again went to his own bed.
He stared at the ceiling, troubled. He was concerned with
Dominique’s
welfare, yet there existed in him subtle reservations he couldn’t
explain. In past times, he’d been able to extricate himself from a woman by
shuffling her to a “worthier gentleman,” as he soothingly made
clear. That maneuver had worked more than once. But now?

Before Jacques’ breathing grew heavy, before sleep came, he
thought hard upon the delicate lies and secrets Dominique had shared that evening.

***

The following morning Jacques was disturbed by a loud clatter in the courtyard. Looking out the window, he spotted the imposing coach and horses—trimmed with argent and crimson—from which stepped Michele Grimani, Cavaliere della stola d’oro. The man, sporting a smartly painted walking cane, approached, his expression sullen. The pommel of his sheathed sword glinted in the sun.

“Jean-foutre,” cursed Jacques.

Jacques tore from his bed, threw on clothes, pushed his dagger into the back of his breeches, and moments later stood at the open doorway of Francesco’s apartment.

Jacques spoke first. “If you’ve come to comfort Dominique,
she—”

“I do not endeavor to greet Madame this morning, although—” Grimani sounded gruff.

“Were she here, I’d make certain you’d not see her.”

“Bitter?” Grimani chided as he reached the door. “Well, let me furnish you additional bitter meat on which to chew. And I strongly suggest I provide it indoors,” he pointed with his stick, “unless you wish the passersby and neighbors to know your present lot.”

Jacques hesitated, then grudgingly moved aside.

Cane in fist, Grimani barged past Jacques and planted himself, legs wide apart, in the long entrance hall.

Jacques felt his chest swelling.
I shall beat the arrogance from this man.

“As you know, perfect success for L’affaire de Voltaire was paramount,” Grimani said, offering Jacques a sour frown. “But
success
faltered. My family’s victory was denied. Your brother’s
reprehensible and all too public suicide devastated my grand plan.”

“Not
your
plan. Dominique’s grand plan.” Jacques moved
toward the man, but Grimani’s menacing cane forced him to reconsider
.

“Dominique’s plan, then. In any case, important members of the nobility were seriously injured by your brother’s stupidity that night. Fortunately the king’s coach was one of the first to depart our home. Monsieur de Voltaire’s was not. He, like a hundred other lords and ladies, bogged down in the storm-soaked quagmire. This—in addition to the ballroom panic—seems to have horribly humiliated Monsieur. He’s left for Switzerland—without even your religious manuscript, it seems. France, you should be ashamed to know, will not clasp to her bosom her greatest son.”

Grimani strode down the hallway toward the door, passing close to Jacques. Instantly, Jacques ripped the walking stick from the man’s hand and shattered it across his knee.

Grimani backed away. “I’ll add this petty feat of yours to my list of grievances,” he barked as he clutched the hilt of his sword.

Jacques quickly reached for the dagger in the back of his
breeches.

“Your poniard challenges my rapier?” hissed Grimani. “A sorry choice.”

Grimani leisurely removed his hand from his sword’s hilt, then began spitting words at Jacques. “Everlasting exile from one’s home is hardly bearable, and I think you now recognize there’ll be no letter to smooth your return to Venice. Further, I intend to reclaim the gold I paid you.” Grimani’s tone deepened, then swelled into a cry. “You’ve violated my home. You’ve sullied my family name. You’ve debased Venice. Debased me!”

Jacques matched his adversary’s high passion. “I’ll not bear your blunt load—”

“You’ve no more leverage, Casanova. No one cares what you
do.”

“I care what—”

“You’re an adventurer,” Grimani snarled. “Find an adventure. Quit Paris. Take the widow with you. Or I shall make certain your gambling debts make prison your next rat hole.”

With that, Grimani streaked past Jacques, grinding slivers of
walking stick under his shoes. Thrusting open the door to the hot morning sun, he twisted his head back around. “Oh, yes, the rumors are rife: King Louis is certain to issue a
lettre of cachet
should you mean to stay in Paris.”

Grimani trotted out the door, slammed it closed, and was gone.

A rare sick ache tormented Jacques’ gut.
Banishment! By the king.
He felt hot bile rising up his gorge.
Who has conspired against me? Grimani? Francesco? Dominique? Grim Nature herself?

HIS STRENGTH RETURNED,
Jacques lumbered up the stairs to his room, only to find that a half hour later he was again at the front door—this time facing a servant of Vicomte de Fragonard.
Is the Vicomte’s favor still obtainable
, Jacques wondered? There was no mention of any such thing. Instead, the servant’s request was that Jacques finish Francesco’s business arrangements with the Vicomte. At this news, Jacques let go a sigh of disappointment.

It was nearly noon when Dominique reappeared from her early stroll. Jacques explained softly that, though he was legally entitled to his brother’s estate, he wished to assign Francesco’s belongings to her. These possessions, he suggested, might possibly be stored at the Vicomte’s, a request, in fact, he’d made to the servant.

Jacques then asked that Dominique accompany him to the old gentleman’s chateau.

She nodded, sadly affirming that, by contract, the following
evening must be their last night in the apartment.

By dusk, Jacques and Dominique stood outside the entranceway of the Vicomte’s home. There were no servants to be seen, so Jacques knocked on the door, waited, then carefully pushed it open. In the passageway beyond the antechamber stood Vicomte Honoré de Fragonard, scratching his sparse gray beard.

A whiff of bitter castoreum greeted Jacques, quickening his blood and forcing his own urgent and bleak situation to the forefront of his mind.

“Monsieur Casanova,” the Vicomte said, “good to see you, good
to see you. And this lady as well, although I did not expect her. I
dismissed the staff for this evening. I therefore welcome you
myself.” The old man, using his shillelagh for support, offered as deep a bow as he dared and ambled into the circular antechamber.

Dominique waited until he stopped several paces from her. She returned his welcome with a curtsy and hurriedly glanced at Jacques as if to say “You told me he might be old but …”

Jacques shrugged. “Vicomte de Fragonard does not customarily stand on ceremony, madame,” he said, “although he seems to do so tonight.”

He shut the front door, turned toward the old gentleman, and
bowed. “Good evening, sir. May I introduce my sister-in-law,
Madame Dominique Casanova?”

“You may. Charmed to meet you, madame.”

Jacques and Dominique advanced to the center of the
antechamber.

“Follow me, please,” said Fragonard.

Castoreum fouled the air more. With a shudder, Jacques recalled the cabinet of curiosities.

“You look well, Vicomte,” Jacques said, passing a handkerchief to his nose.

“You need not equivocate, young man,” chided the old
gentleman as he led Dominique and Jacques into a sparsely decorated sitting room containing three chairs figured in a triangle. “I grow weaker with each passing day, but as long as I’m in the vertical vein, most Frenchmen consider me alive. But then Frenchmen are relatively
polite. They, for instance, step
around a starving peasant. The
Russians? They slay the peasant, slice open his belly, and shove their feet inside to warm their toes.”

Jacques glanced at Dominique’s blanching face.

“May I request,” he growled, “you save these tales for another evening?”

The old man whirled around and spoke firmly. “These are not tales, I assure you both. I have witnessed such things, things most human beings might find more than extraordinary.”

Dominique gave a heartening nod to Jacques while the old gentleman lowered himself into a fragile-looking chair facing them.

“Come, madame, if you please.”

The Vicomte again spoke to Dominique, who now stood
between him and Jacques. “I’m glad I lit this small room well, for I see that you are lovely, dear woman. Exquisite. Unblemished.”

Dominique nodded. “I thank you, Vicomte de Fragonard. As I thank the Lord above for bestowing what qualities He deemed necessary to make me worthwhile in His sight.”

The Vicomte’s lips parted in a smile while Dominique moved to the remaining chair and sat.

Once all were seated, the old man bowed his head graciously, raised it, and setting his shillelagh across his knees, eyed Jacques. “Dismaying as it is to admit, the failure of the Voltaire ball has
sealed your fate. To be plainspoken, your role is written out.
Henceforth, you are persona non grata in Paris.”

Although he was convinced of the Vicomte’s steadfast truth, Jacques wanted to protest the declaration; instead, he sat stunned, wordless, his gut churning, wondering how the old man had even found out about the tragedy.

The Vicomte addressed Jacques and Dominique. “Naturally, I will retain all the nautilus and landscape paintings Francesco reproduced for me, and tomorrow my servants will deposit to my cellar all of his personal paintings that you brought. You have my word—all of his possessions will be safe until you’re ready to reclaim them.”

“Sir,” Jacques said, twisting his fingers together, “a small
kindness I ask of you? If for a while I’m to be without an address, may I have my mail forwarded to your home? There are many acquaintances far and wide with whom I correspond, and it would—”

“I will think on it and have an answer for you by the end of our meeting.” Fragonard smiled. “I’ve something to say about your well-being, your eternal well-being, but let us converse a bit more.”

The three talked of Francesco’s death. No, Dominique had not fully sensed the desperate despondency that caused Francesco’s suicide. Yes, she believed God would take Francesco to Him, in spite of what the Church said.

The Vicomte offered his opinions on the matter and ended with: “Yes, Time brings death to all individuals.
Ars longa, vita brevis
,” he intoned. “‘Art is long, life is short.”’