“It was the height of summer, blazing hot. A sweatbox. I worked naked, sweat pouring from me. One night, the bolt on the outer door squeaked. I hurled my spike in the hole, brushed the wood splinters in, all before pulling my bed over the hole and covering myself.
“A man entered. A new cellmate.”
Dominique gasped.
“Luckily, he stayed for only a week. After he was gone, I continued my work. At last I punched through the floor. But …,” Jacques’ tone lowered. “But my secret breach was too close to a stout ceiling beam. The hole could not be enlarged any further for my body to slip through.
“Miserable, I nevertheless resigned myself to drill again, farther over, making sure that none of my scraps would fall into the Inquisitori’s chamber below and that my lantern’s light would not be seen at night by a watchman. I planned to break out during a Venetian festival in August, when no one would occupy the room below.
“By the twenty-fifth, my new escape hole was almost finished. It was then, three days before my planned exodus, that Senator Bragadin thought to make my incarceration easier; with his influence, I was to be moved. To a better cell. One with two windows, more light, a view.
“Nearly fainting, I told Lorenzo, the jailer, that I couldn’t budge, that fresh air was bad for a man with bronchia, that the feral rats had become my friends. I pleaded to stay in my cell. Lorenzo thought me mad.”
“What happened?” asked Dominique, touching his hand. She was enthralled with his story, sympathizing with him for the trials he’d undergone and perhaps exulting in his tiny victories.
Jacques continued. “Into the new cell, the armchair was moved—iron spike well hidden in it. In the chair I sat, a wretched lump, until, as I feared, a raging Lorenzo arrived—he’d discovered my escape hole—and now threatened torture and death if I wouldn’t divulge the whereabouts of my tools.
“I’ll never quite understand how in my bewilderment I was able to respond, but because I knew jailers were easily corrupted, I simply replied, ‘You, Lorenzo, provided the tools the moment I offered a bribe, and when I’m forced to confess this, the Secretary of the Three will not be pleased.’
“Lorenzo shut his mouth. Because no one else knew of my attempt, well, he must’ve figured he yet had the upper hand—he still held me prisoner in his jail.”
The sun seemed poised on Jacques’ shoulder and appeared magically to remain there.
With bitterness ringing in his voice, he explained to Dominique that he was soon given another cellmate, certainly a spy sent by the Three, who by this time must have been alerted to his escape attempt. “Although I still had possession of the spike, I was now under constant watch. I felt defeated.
“Nevertheless, I decided to risk another escape, figuring to employ Father Balbi, a renegade priest in the adjacent cell, as my accomplice. To advance this fresh plan, the jailer was ultimately persuaded to exchange reading books between Father Balbi and me; the jailer was hoodwinked when he unknowingly transferred my spike to the priest by way of a heaping plate of pasta he balanced precariously on a large folio Bible.
“As for the spy in my cell, I played on the man’s superstitions and terrorized him into silence while Balbi, over a period of time, bored a hole with the spike in the ceiling of his own cell, climbed across, and in due course produced a similar hole in my ceiling."
The night of the escape came. Based on observations of the jailers’ schedules as well as the Inquisitori’s chamber sessions, Jacques knew he and Balbi had nineteen hours to complete their flight. The pair lifted themselves up through Jacques’ ceiling, knowing that should the spy cry out, there would be no one in the Leads—at this handpicked hour—to hear.
“Prying up the wood and the lead plates of the palace attic,” continued Jacques, “I discovered a thick fog shrouding the sloping roof and much too long a drop to the canal. Balbi and I returned to my cell and spent hours cutting up sheets, coverlets, and bedding that would act as rope.
“Returning to the roof, we were immediately struck by a brilliant crescent moon, so bright that our shadows might reveal us to anyone on the Piazza San Marco. For safety’s sake, we waited another three hours until the moon disappeared.
“After we struggled back onto the roof, I exhausted precious time in exploration but found no way down. As a last resort, we decided that we must slip back inside the palace where it was not a prison, then complete our escape when the building opened in the morning.
“Fanatically determined, I pried open the grate over a dormer window, broke the glass, then with the aid of a repair ladder I’d found on the roof, made preparations to descend into the room below. Before I could do this, I lost my footing on the slick lead sheathing and slipped to the edge of the parapet as far as my chest. The nearly fatal mistake required great courage to correct, but awhile later Balbi and I lowered ourselves to the floor of the chamber below.
“I slept for three hours until the blathering Balbi awakened me. Overcoming additional hardships, he and I broke a small lock on an exit door, passed through the empty palace, and in a hastily improvised disguise, blustered past a guard and out a door at six that morning. We made our escape by gondola.
“Free at last, I admit I broke down, sobs racking my worn-out body.
“I’d suffered fifteen months in Piombi prison—and was now essentially exiled from Venice.”
“And you said,” Dominique cooed with tenderness, “for your escape you just donned a hat and walked out the front door. Nothing to it.”
- 9 -
TWO DAYS PASSED. On the third morning, a strand of sunlight, diaphanous and delicate, pushed through the open window; soon the room shimmered with dawn’s glow. On the window’s ledge perched a pair of wind swifts, chirping mischievously, tallying perhaps the lovers’ sighs that issued from within.
Dominique’s feelings swirled like parti-colored ribbons round a maypole. Her flesh felt scorched by Jacques’ naked body atop hers. Their lips touched, kissed, and for a great while held them fast.
Soon Jacques’ soft mouth began to glide across her cheek, warming her face wherever it settled. Slowly, he brushed her ear, and she succumbed to the delight that flooded her. He proceeded silently, placing kiss after kiss on her neck; she tingled with need.
He asked her to cover her breast with her hand, then coaxed his tongue between each finger. She gasped at the unexpected pleasure and moaned into the pillow beside her while he continued his exquisite teasing. Shifting Dominique’s hand, Jacques sucked at her nipple, sending a rush of chills throughout her body.
Dominique raised her head. Her eyes held his. She felt frozen, suspended, as though one further touch might bring unbearable ecstasy.
Jacques stopped and let go her body. He rested himself on her shoulder, sniffing her sweet skin.
Her senses reeled. She tugged his hair with both hands, but he did not rouse. She pulled at his ears, lifting his mouth to hers for one searing kiss before she pressed him downward.
He offered little resistance as he slid his face between her thighs. Her moans, in turn, fostered even stronger action from him.
Rocking, pushing, aching, she continued her quest, her body racing toward the summit at the urging of his pliant tongue.
Oh, now! Now! Her body heaved. Storms of release rolled from deep within. Flash of color. Divine light, oh, precious light. Lust, love, domination, surrender—all mingled together now. She was beyond herself—beyond it.
She fell back on the pillow, closed her eyes, and sighed. Countless waves of pleasure played within her. There was a measure to the world again. All seemed robust, yet also whole and serene. She drifted in tranquility.
When she opened her eyes, she found him gazing at her.
“I lie here,” he said, “to admire the fullness of your lips, your high and even cheeks, the blonde hair that sweeps your neck. The hue of your eyes, it seems, might put an emerald to shame.”
With her long, supple fingers, she stroked Jacques’ face and hugged h
im close.
“And here, this first time—so gratifying that your body fits perfectly with mine,” he added in a whisper. Then, showing a grin, he spoke louder. “Of course, I need to remind myself that my brother is married to a strong, sturdy dancer, and that it might be wise to protect myself from her vigor.”
“A former dancer, Monsieur Casanova.” Dominique shoved Jacques to his pillow and returned his wide grin. “And to think that just weeks ago you were lodging at an inn! What kind of hostess does that make me?”
“Well, you’ve been quite courteous this morning.”
The lovers chuckled.
Dominique sat up and leaned back against the headboard.
“I’ll be forthright,” she said. Shifting slightly, she pulled Jacques’ hand to her stomach and held it. “I realize that in no way have I the right to inquire—”
“But you have rights,” Jacques interrupted, “the same as I. The rights that polite society grants to all its members. So speak to me. But I caution you. Should this be a finely tuned inquiry, I may choose to conceal certain sentiments.”
He stole a quick kiss. Dominique’s stomach eased under his touch.
“I want to know. How is it women grant you their favors? Do you have methods to—” She covered her mouth. “What are your means to their charms?”
“Means? A subtle question, indeed, Madame Tigress,” he laughed.
Dominique pulled the bed sheet tight to her shoulders. The morning sun’s rays glistened through the half-empty wine bottle on the table next to the bed. She smiled when Jacques gently laid his head on her leg, and a slightly questioning expression crossed his face.
“If you’re wondering, Francesco had a taste for his models,” she said. “But after all, he’s an artist, we live in Paris, and he may take a lover. And so may I.” Rearranging the sheet so that the breeze from the open window would not chill Jacque’s naked body, she stroked his thick hair from his forehead to the nape of his neck. “Now, mon ami, are you willing to answer my question?”
“Yes,” Jacques replied, but then proceeded to lie in silence.
“By century’s end?”
Both laughed.
“All right, all right. What is my method? How is it I …”
He picked up the empty glass standing on the floor next to the bed and passed it to Dominique, who filled and returned it. Reclining, he steadied the drink on his chest.
“I once seduced a wonderful girl by playing my violin.”
She slid under the sheet beside him. “Tell me more.”
“Well, I discovered as a young man that I had not beauty but something far more valuable, though I can’t define it. Perhaps an unbridled confidence. Certainly a clip of courage. And always the benefit of good fortune. Even while recognizing that love is a grand game, I took seriously those attributes which nature bestowed upon me.” He ran his hand down Dominique’s silky arm. “I’ve always believed that seduction is one of the higher arts, but higher still, in fact, is the art of making others laugh—not by coarse or vulgar means but with wit and artfulness, from a joyful observation of humankind.”
Dominique poured herself another glass and clinked the bottle against his.
Jacques continued. “In seduction, I’d like to believe I’ve never been calculated; I feel that would imply a cold detachment. I have been meticulous on occasion. Sometimes that’s required, and it’s certainly in my nature. Improvisational, too. One must be able to improvise.” He put his glass to mouth but took it away before drinking. “It goes without saying, a successful seduction must end with physical proof. Consummation.”
Dominique’s face flushed.
“So,” Jacques added, “when first meeting a woman I wish to have, I allow her physical and emotional impression to work upon me. I want her magic to inspire me. I guess her dreams and desires and attempt to achieve my aim through the direct attentions I pay her. Not words. Words alone are a fool’s game. When I haven’t the leisure to pay her my attention, I present an appropriate gift, maybe a chemise, some lace, cambric for handkerchiefs, dimity for petticoats, sometimes something golden. Gold, you see, is a powerful god who can often perform miracles. What I’m saying is that a well-conceived gift is visible evidence I’ve meditated on her person. I’ve listened to her, then revived her in my thoughts in order to select the perfect bauble. A woman’s nature dictates she be foremost in a man’s thoughts and heart.”
Jacques drank the remainder of his wine. “When all is said and done, time is truly the most valuable commodity we share with another human on this earth. This is the significance of the gift—which lends itself to, but does not guarantee, a seduction.”
“But, monsieur,” she pouted, “just this morning you seduced me without a single gift. What does that say?”
“I seduced you, madame? I believe you seduced me.”
“Rascal. Why on earth would I seduce you?”
“Nitimur in vetitum semper cupimusque negata. ‘We ever strive for what is forbidden and desire what we are denied.’ Ovid.”
Dominique blew a tress of hair from her face. “If it’s true I lured you, why would I do so?”
“Reputation, of course—my reputation.”
“As a libertine?”
“Yes.”
“In the beginning, Francesco called you ‘the chaste.’ I actually took him seriously then.”
Jacques lips curled upward.
“Francesco, of course, is not easy to read. When I confessed that I’d misunderstood his irony, he confirmed in great detail your dissolute manner. I began to form an image of you in my mind’s eye. My imagination fired my desire. I’d never known a man who was a lover, a lover of many. A man …” Her voice began to falter. She spoke low. “A man who—”
Jacques lifted Dominique’s arm and gently flapped the bed sheet so it billowed between the bedposts.
“Reputation, reputation, reputation,” he repeated as the cool sheet molded over their forms and faces. Jacques spoke softly beneath the sheet. “Before I ever arrived here, I knew Francesco would tell you of my past, glorious and galling as it may be. Your husband is, after all, a younger brother who looks for my lead, who admires my exploits—although he’ll most likely never admit to it, even to himself. I felt then you might be tempted to discover—or rather uncover—my nature for yourself. Is that true?”
“You and Francesco are indeed fruits of different vines.” Dominique’s laughter carried through the sunlit room. “It appears that when I have the purple grape, I prefer the green grape; when I possess the green grape, I want purple.”
“Fickleness,” Jacques hooted. “Grapes! Madame Tigress is not to be contented then?”
“Contented? Contented, Monsieur Jacques Casanova? Let me put a stop to this bloated conversation in a language you will clearly understand. Il cazzo non vuole pensieri. ‘The prick does not want to think,’ is that not so? But for my delight in the days ahead,” she added, “I’ll be pleased to hear of more seductions from you.” With that, Dominique whipped the sheet high, ballooning the canopy of coverlet above her and Jacques.
Jacques’ face was altogether mock astonishment as he leered at Dominique’s nude body. “Ah,” he gasped. “Is that all for me?”
- 10 -
THE BED GROANED AS JACQUES SAT UPRIGHT and lowered his feet to the floor. He yawned, stretched, and slipped off his nightcap just as the golden belly of the sun made its appearance in the eastern sky, which meant that, rising earlier than usual, Jacques might find time to answer the stack of letters on the secretary. Wherever he lived—which had been many places—correspondence arrived by post nearly every morning, and he felt a desire to exchange ideas and fond feelings with his friends, as well as the latest gossip of the day.
He’d adventured throughout the thousand duchies, fiefdoms, and bishoprics of the Holy Roman Empire, the kingdoms of France, England and Italy, throughout Bohemia, Poland, and Switzerland. He’d had extended stays in Spain, Holland, and even Russia.
Letters he received from royalty, from poets, from philosophers and mountebanks, from ecclesiastics, light women, and chancers were proof of these journeys. He prided himself on his ability to make a legion of acquaintances from many and sundry walks of life.
Three years was a long time to be on the move, but it seemed clear to Jacques that Paris would once again elevate his fortunes.
He shook loose his mane of hair, glanced into the sizeable hand mirror he always carried, and sat next to his bed stand, where he saw his previous evening’s study, his doctoral thesis. Hunting beneath it, he found his treatise on the squaring of the cube. He paraded bedside, flipping page after page while morning sunrays snuck into the room, reminding him that his brother was seeing the sunrise from the inside of Fragonard’s coach.
“Owww.” Jacques dropped his papers, grabbed his foot, and plopped back down on the bed, a splinter from the floor fixed in his toe. He tugged his foot toward his body and removed the annoyance. In that instant, dread returned.
“The écorchés,” Jacques shuddered, recalling the dream from his far-too-short sleep. He’d danced away the night with a dozen demi-beasts! Each jabbering creature hobbled toward him, slithered its hand into his, and began a chaotic whirl. The nightmare had ended when he’d gazed into the face of the reclining écorchés. He, the serene one, dispelled the phantoms, eased their ghastly rants.
“Sir,” called a voice from the other side of the door.
“A moment, Petrine. I’m awake far too early.” Jacques pinched a drip of blood from his toe.
“I’ve brought your coffee, sir. Are you ready for your toilet?”
“Yes.” Jacques retrieved his papers from the floor and, after replacing them on the bed stand, rubbed his toe a final time as Petrine entered. “Ah, the obedient valet,” huffed Jacques.
The Spaniard had a pleasant look on his face, a quality his master appreciated in early morning. Petrine rarely spoke at this hour unless his opinion was requested; for this, Jacques felt absolutely blessed. He had acquired other servants in the past who chattered incessantly and on matters without a grain of substance. Jacques didn’t value idle talk from valets. At least not at sunrise.
Secrets of Casanova Page 6