The Secrets of Casanova (4 page)

“My escape has a serious consequence: I may not return to Venice.”

Grimacing in pain, the old man leaned heavily on his shillelagh, then turned toward Francesco. “Gentlemen, for the present, I must
take my leave. Forgive me, please, as the catarrh continues to plague
me.”

“Perhaps the root of
Pilule cynoglossus
would help your ailment,
sir,” Jacques replied. Catching Francesco’s frown, his shoulders
tightened.
As usual
my brother thinks that when I exhibit my acumen, I play the
toady.
“I’m speaking of hound’s-tongue, sir,” he clarified for the Vicomte. “I’ll be glad to send some with my brother on his next trip
here.”

Francesco shot a concealed glare at his brother before he bent toward the canvas before him.

The old man’s lips drifted into a smile. “I will consider your
cure, Jacques Casanova, though its utility I doubt, as I frequently work with a number of chemicals. Those chemicals—and time, of course—
are my adversaries.” He raised his shillelagh, tapped the oak
fauteuil,
and turned toward the canvases. “Please commence painting,
Francesco. Call out to my majordomo if you have further requirements. As for you, come here, sir.”

Jacques stepped toward the man, stopping at a respectful distance.

“Closer,
s’il vous plaît
.”

Jacques complied until he was an arm’s length away from the Vicomte.

“Should you be wondering, Monsieur Casanova, I permit you in this workplace solely because of your abilities. And your needs.” The old gentleman leaned in close. “And you’re someone who may be suited for a need of
mine
, far greater than a simple medicament. I’ve a startling opportunity for the right man.” Fragonard eyed Jacques intensely before whispering, “I am the depository of a vital secret of which I am not free to dispose. As yet.”

“Opportunity, sir?” asked Jacques respectfully.
What opportunity could this odd man provide?

Fragonard straightened up, his whole body puffed by some new
feeling, a new confidence. He placed a finger across his lips, turned, and walked gracefully back into the darkness, calling back to the
brothers.

“I’ll not attend the main meal with you but will return late this afternoon to see you both,” he said. “You may bring the hound’s-tongue, Monsieur Jacques Casanova, on your next visit.”

“Yes sir,” Jacques called out.
If ever I come again.
Why would the Vicomte’s needs interest me?
Jacques knew what his own necessities were, and nobody could judge them better than he.

Francesco mixed paints onto his palette and slipped into his painter’s pose of absolute concentration. Jacques sat in the armchair
and looked at the canvases to be duplicated. The nautilus cross
section, although one of nature’s strange wonders, seemed a peculiar subject to copy. As for the landscape painting, it was craggy, distinctive, but of scant aesthetic interest. What artist of worth—which Francesco was—would paint
any
landscape? And why have Francesco paint them in a
cellar?

Before long, the majordomo summoned the Casanova brothers upstairs and outside, where a magnificent sycamore provided shade for the main meal of the day. The brothers shared several glasses of Chianti, some mutton, cheese, figs, and apples.

“Now that our bellies are full,” Francesco confided, “it’s time to locate the indecent miniatures.”

“As you promised.”

“Several weeks ago while I strolled the house looking for a
servant, I accidentally came upon the room containing the miniatures. I want
to see the room again alone—or with you, but I’m not asking
anyone’s permission. I’m not sure the Vicomte would want me there at all.”
He whispered, “Common sense says I’m risking my painting
commission, and maybe more.

Jacques patted Francesco’s shoulder. “Daring guides us,
Brother.”

Francesco began mumbling reasonable defenses, should he and Jacques be detected wandering the interior of the house.

“Remember this,” Jacques smiled, “the primary pleasure of life is to do what’s forbidden.”

He handed the bottle to Francesco, who gulped down the
remainder of the Chianti while they stalked to the house.

Exploring the old chateau was not a simple task. Either from the Vicomte’s frugality or from the servants’ idleness, few of the halls
were lit. Outsized furniture scattered haphazardly created
formidable obstacles. Hulking armoires appeared to prop up canted walls. Buffets jutted at odd angles, presenting unusual impediments. As the brothers picked their way to the upper floor. the stairs creaked
woefully. In one moment of crisis, the two were able to throw
themselves behind a massive armoire when a manservant unexpectedly crossed the room ahead.

The wine contributed to the elation of their venture. What
occupied only a matter of minutes took on the timelessness of a dream where each moment elongates itself.

“I, for one, feel boyish again,” whispered Francesco. “When we sneak about, I’m a warrior.”

“The Chianti goes to your head,” Jacques whispered back,
smiling. “But cover my sins with darkness and my cunning with a cloud.”

Nervousness soon replaced excitement as Francesco found that, although he’d partaken in mischief during his youth, his skills had
dulled with lack of practice. The longer the brothers explored
without reaching their goal, the more the aged house seemed an unending maze of redoubtable staircases, groaning floors, and unlit hallways.

Although Jacques’ nose was beginning to revolt from a harsh odor in one hall, he relished the game. Watching his brother stop at the end of the long hallway, he tiptoed to Francesco and saw a door some distance away with a brilliantly polished lock fastened to a gleaming hasp. Easing toward the door, Jacques pinched his nostrils. “Now I know from where the bitter smell of castoreum issues.”

“Jesus-Mary, it’s pungent,” said Francesco, aping his brother’s nose pinching.

“No, this isn’t the room that holds the miniatures,” he said in a hushed tone. “There was only a very faint smell when—”

“Then why is it fortified with such a lock?”

“It’s not the room, I tell you. But even if it were, we can’t get past that lock.”

“Nor would I want to, with that odor.”

“We’ve failed. We’ll see no miniatures.”

“We hail from Venice,” Jacques replied. “Failed? Why, as
Venetians, we don’t know the meaning of the word. Did not our forefathers, in fleeing Attila the Hun, hide themselves in the godforsaken swamps and lagoons? And by using their daring and resourcefulness, did
they not only survive but grow into the prosperous republic of
Venice? Aren’t we, as sons of this remarkable city-empire, as ingenious as our ancestors? Failed?” laughed Jacques as he rapped Francesco gently on the head. “There is
always
the main chance, Brother. And we have all the time in the world.”

“But
not
today,” Francesco frowned. “We must get back so we won’t be missed.”

Reluctantly, Jacques agreed. “Not today.” Again he eyed the door. His curiosity burned.
But what might that stinking room hold?

JACQUES AND FRANCESCO MADE THEIR WAY
back to the
sycamore tree where, in due course, they were summoned by the
majordomo. Before the brothers began their walk toward the
chateau, a cat mewed. Jacques mewed back.

When his shoe reached the hard ground of the cellar and the door behind him shut, a momentary shiver came over Jacques.
In the solitude of prison, I withered like this.

The brothers trudged through the darkness to Francesco’s workstation. Startled by a clomping noise, Jacques turned to see Vicomte de Fragonard hobble into view, pushing hard on his shillelagh.

“Good afternoon, young gentlemen.”

Without turning, Francesco defiantly thrust a fistful of brushes into the air over his head.

Embarrassed by his brother’s gesture, Jacques took several steps
toward the Vicomte and offered a short bow and a “Good afternoon,
sir.”

“I felt it urgent that I be here,” the Vicomte said, limping toward the armchair.

Jacques noted the almost-threadbare waistcoat and pants worn by Fragonard. The man’s faded velvet jacket was long ago out of fashion.

The Vicomte caught Jacques’ gaze. “Is it my garments you disdain? I tell you, sir, there are matters far more considerable than a man’s raiment.”

Jacques lowered his eyes and bobbed his head politely. In the musty air, he felt a bead of anxious sweat moisten his temple. He twisted toward his brother, who had obviously seen the exchange, but Francesco coolly returned to his work.

Vicomte de Fragonard soon initiated a conversation as if nothing inharmonious had occurred: “Have you perchance seen the Château Vaux-le-Vicomte on your travel here?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I should have my coachman take you on that route. Magnificent château, built over a century ago by Nicolas Fouquet, Louis XIV’s finance minister. Do you know Fouquet’s story?”

“No, sir. I know much of your French king, but I know nothing of Fouquet.”

“When the eighteen thousand workmen finally completed their
labors on the château, Fouquet invited the young king to a
resplendent celebration. King Louis seemed well pleased, yet a short time later Louis had the man arrested. Although the official charge was
embezzlement, the real reason for Fouquet’s arrest was that he
refused to divulge a secret to the king, a secret of spellbinding significance. Louis ordered Nicolas Fouquet’s head bound in a mask of iron, and he was locked away for the remainder of his life. King Louis, it is certain, never obtained the secret.”

Jacques’ gut wrenched at the thought of an iron mask on a human head. But then his mind began to race.
Is the old man about to reveal his vital secret?

“You will visit Fouquet’s wondrous château, Monsieur Jacques Casanova?”

“Certainly, Vicomte.”

Fragonard, momentarily transfixed by a flitting moth, extended
his index finger before him, where the moth alighted before
fluttering away toward the row of lanterns. “Your brother, sir, has told me you are unmarried.”

“Unmarried, yes. Willfully so.”

“I also was heedless in my bachelor days. We roués, a dozen of us, squandered small fortunes in venery. We furnished our homes with expensive art, sexual stimulants, and extravagances. Can you imagine a twenty-year-old Frenchman requiring cantharides to
fornicate? I remember Duclos—he later died a horrible death from
the pox—once spent over ten thousand louis on a gilded
siege a deux
so he could, from that golden armchair, seduce a new debauchee every night. What an era of indulgence.”

The Vicomte stared at Jacques as a crack of thunder sounded in the distance. Then with a calm matter-of-factness, he asked Jacques, “You are a libertine, are you not?”

“I greatly
enjoy
life,” Jacques said with a smile. “If others accuse me of excess, so be it.”

“Indeed,” Fragonard said. His eyes gleamed brighter in the
lantern
light as he stared resolutely at the landscape canvas Francesco painted.

“Your gifted brother is executing divine and worthy work, I assure you.”

Francesco, hands on hips, eyes on canvas, seemed impervious to the compliment.

Though Jacques put little capital in the Vicomte’s stories, could he forestall his now-growing curiosity of the old gentleman’s secret? Should he broach the subject in private to the Vicomte and risk
Francesco’s anger? When, if ever, might the Vicomte reveal his
hand? Jacques wondered if he could check his own irritability at being in this dark, dank below with little to do. Patience was not one of his strengths, but he decided he would bide his time, at least until the circumstance might be more suitable.

The Vicomte spoke. “I believe Francesco told me you have other siblings?”

“As well as our Mother, Zanetta—”

“Living somewhere in this world—far away from us,” Francesco muttered.

Jacques continued. “Speaking of the world, Vicomte, you seem a man who has seen quite a bit of it. Why—”

“I moved to this mansion with my wife. Consequently, I built my wealth with my wife’s fortune. Perfectly shameful.”

To Jacques, the old man’s guilt was mystifying. Marriage was assuredly intended to further a man’s fortune.

“Now I live in this out-of-the-way place,” the Vicomte said. He sat down, laid his shillelagh across his lap, and patted his short beard. “This corrupted flesh has led me to places that I, as a young
blood, would never have dreamed. I was a perfumer’s son who,
being
crippled, forfeited my right of primogeniture. Shunned by the
military as well as by my father, I became a surgeon. I confess there was not much occasion to practice my profession here in this remoteness, except to bleed, to cup, and to advise bed rest and medicaments. How was I to know that I would be led in midlife to embalming? And to serve mankind?”

Jacques and Francesco glanced at each other, surprise on their faces.

“But long ago, after my wife died and after a certain
extraordinary and crucial experience, I decided to remain in this place, this distant place. As I participated less and less in the world, I became, finally, a philosopher—a pursuit that aids the spirit and men’s hearts.” The Vicomte cleared his throat. “So this day you have heard a large piece of my story.”

“Intriguing, sir.”

“Significant is a better word.”

Jacques blinked at the peculiar statement.
Leading an embalmer’s life, what could be significant?
The old gentleman made everything sound substantial, when all Jacques wanted to know was his secret and what opportunity might be in store.