Secrets of Casanova

by Michaels, Greg

  THE SECRETS

  OF CASANOVA

  GREG MICHAELS

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle WA 2013

  COPYRIGHT 2013 GREG MICHAELS

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

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  Cover Design by Greg Simanson

  Edited by Cynthia White

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-178-5

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-274-4

  For further information regarding permissions, please contact info@booktrope.com.

  Table of Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  SPRING - 1755

  - 1 -

  - 2 -

  - 3 -

  - 4 -

  - 5 -

  - 6 -

  - 7 -

  - 8 -

  - 9 -

  - 10 -

  SUMMER - 1755

  - 11 -

  - 12 -

  - 13 -

  - 14 -

  - 15 -

  - 16 -

  - 17 -

  - 18 -

  - 19 -

  - 20 -

  - 21 -

  - 22 -

  - 23 -

  - 24 -

  - 25 -

  - 26 -

  - 27 -

  - 28 -

  - 29 -

  AUTUMN - 1755

  - 30 -

  - 31 -

  - 32 -

  - 33 -

  - 34 -

  - 35 -

  - 36 -

  - 37 -

  - 38 -

  - 39 -

  AFTERWORD

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE

  “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

  SPRING – 1755

  - 1 -

  “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.”

  “I shall do so. As their uncle, I’ve had many opportunities to witness their follies.” The gentleman glanced at the bravo whose eye socket was now black with charred flesh—and thumbed his chin.

  “These two have caused my complete loss of appetite,” Jacques grumbled.

  “I understand, certainly. By the bye, I overheard, of course, your intense devotion to Venice. May I ask why you don’t live there?” Before Jacques could muster a reply, the gentleman’s eyes grew wide. “No need to look, but over your shoulder I see a goodly number of men gathering with the owner. It would appear you are to be expelled. Or worse. May I suggest a departure by the back door?” He pointed discreetly, then plopped a coin on Jacques’ table. “I’m good for your wine.”

  “Should I be grateful?” Jacques frowned. He squeezed his dagger, then glanced back over his shoulder toward the mob of patrons and the light-eyed grisette. Another time.

  The bravo on the floor, lying on his back in a puddle of blood, cursed, “Blackguard! Jean-foutre!”

  Jacques straddled the man. “I enlighten you, fellow, one last time. Venice is an empire, a republic. Its people are daring, joyful, and above all, free.”

  These soothing words encouraged Jacques to quickly address the old gentleman. “On my life, it’s my most ardent wish to breathe that city’s sweet air, where I first smiled at the splendor of the dazzling stars, where my mother cradled me in her young arms. Someday soon I’ll return to where I belong.”

  Jacques hurried from the café.

  On the long trudge to his lodgings he regained his appetite. In exchange for reciting a cheerless, extemporaneous verse to a street vendor, he was offered a shank of mutton. “Whether vice or virtue leads me onward, I do not know,” Jacques improvised, “yet onward, forward I go.” Jacques bolted down the mutton.

  His stomach was full. But with little money—and worse credit—he would be thrown in the street tomorrow. And tonight, unhappily, he would spend all alone. But for as long as Jacques cared to remember, he had lived by his wits. Something in that thought buoyed his step.

  - 2 -

  THE SILK BEDSPREAD FELT COOL and comforting to Jacques’ face. Uncurling his body, he reluctantly rose from the bed, coughing an exhale. From the sun filtering into the room, he guessed it was far past noon. He eyed his exquisitely appointed quarters and knew he would be forced to leave.

  Over his waistcoat, he strapped on the poniard he always wore; the dagger afforded stealth and quickness.

  He picked a simple cravat and took his time selecting a coat from his trunk. The spangles in the embroidery, he knew, would ensure a brilliance of effect during the remaining daylight and a delicate richness by the night’s candlelight. Slipping on the jacket, he checked its pocket for his book of quotations by Horace, a poet with whom he often found agreement. The book was there. A good omen. By nightfall, Jacques hoped to have a woman on his arm.

  After brushing his hair and setting his wig, several dull thuds in the hallway compelled him to open the door of his room—and to watch his manservant, Petrine, shuffle directly into the wall.

  Jacques sighed. “Your condition, Spaniard, is appalling.”

  “Master, master,” slurred Petrine, falling to one knee. “Last night I met—“

  “Before I go out, I have a chore to give you.”

  “Yes, mast—” The manservant dropped his empty wine bottle, pressing the floor with his knuckles to steady himself. His swarthy face brightened considerably as he spoke. “But last night I met a queen. A goddess.”

  “You confuse me. Is she a queen? Or is she a goddess?”

  Petrine heeled over, sobbing. “No one wants me. A lowly mule carries fewer burdens. My life! My life began at the bitter end.”

  “So you’ve told me several times.” Jacques patted Petrine’s shoulder, then stepped around his valet into the hall. “Let me once more remind you that you embarked on the high road two long years ago—the instant you took employment with me. Now, rouse your wits and listen well.”

  Petrine lifted up his face. Tears channeled his cheeks. He wiped them away.

  Jacques made known his desire: to move to a less conspicuous lodging. His only stipulation was that the room have a bed.

  Drunk as he was, Petrine knew what changing residences meant: his master’s purse had shrunk. Or was empty. He wasn’t pleased; he’d felt enough hardship in his life. But for now, he told himself, he was still in work.

  The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. Like a hound with a nose for the scent, Petrine found a decrepit inn located in a questionable part of the city and, after transferring Jacques’ effects, met up with his master and led him to a new lodging.

  Shielding his eyes from the setting sun, Jacques instructed his manservant to visit the Saint Esprit once more to retrieve handkerchiefs that were missing; Jacques then vanished up the narrow Parisian street with “I’ll be back.”

  For the time being, Petrine felt free to follow his fancy, which included ministering to his throbbing headache.

  That night, the door of Jacques’ room eased open. Petrine leaned into the darkness. A soft whimper marked time with the rhythmic squeak of the bed.

  “Sir, it’s me,” the valet whispered. “A short while ago I ran your errand to the Hôtel du Saint Esprit. I’ve frightful news.�
�

  The squeaking stopped. “If you can see the nightstand, find the candle.”

  Petrine picked his way across the floor and lit a match, flushing light into the small room.

  Jacques shifted upright, huddling under the thin blanket, his long hair hanging loose. Next to him, a curly mound of brown hair mushroomed just above the coverlet.

  Petrine stared at his master. “May I speak freely, sir?”

  “Of course you may. This is the girl I will most certainly marry.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “What news?” Jacques barked.

  “As it happened, the proprietor of the Saint Esprit didn’t see me as I walked in, but it was plain, sir, three men were there to arrest you.”

  Jacques nodded.

  “Your financial obligations, bills of exchange, they said. From your night of gambling at the Palais-Royal? The three men mentioned For-L’Éveque several times.”

  “For-L’Éveque. What’s that?”

  “The prison for debtors, sir. On Tuesday, Desgaliers died there.”

  “Desgaliers? Dead? In prison?” Jacques’ voice grew shrill and fretful. “I’ll die before I go to prison once more. I’ll never again lose my freedom.” His face grew stony. “Did the owner inform these men where we now stay?”

  “He doesn’t know, master—nor, I’m certain, will these men find out.”

  “Nothing is certain.”

  While the slight figure under the bedcovers drew her legs into a ball, Petrine searched his master’s widening eyes. “Sir, is there good reason for these men to be hunting you? Are your debts so huge this time?”

  Jacques’ expression told the valet everything he needed to know.

  “Shall I pack immediately?” he asked.

  “Yes, be prepared to move my belongings at a moment’s notice.”

  “We may be obliged to leave behind your personal pleasures,” the valet said gently.

  “Such as?”

  Petrine gestured to the orange pomatum, lavender water, essence of bergamot, the oil of jasmine, and eau de cologne on the nearest of the three trunks. “We might need to part with your less necessary goods.”