Secrets of Casanova

by Michaels, Greg

  “I will wear the embroidered garters with the gold clasps on my stockings today, Petrine. Also, you may remove those shoe buckles from that case,” he pointed. “I’ll have those.” Jacques stole a look at the jewel box on his toilet table and decided to wear only the sapphire ring. “No periwig today, but powder my hair, if you please.”

  An hour later, Petrine had dressed his master’s hair, shaved him, brought eggs and more coffee, and polished the ever-dirty shoes.

  “It was genius of me to hire a valet who once upon a time was a hairdresser,” Jacques said while admiring himself in his mirror.

  “Let us not forget, sir, I was also an actor of some renown.”

  “Of some renown.”

  Jacques caught Petrine’s reflection in the mirror—screwing his mouth into some overworked expression.

  “What’s your favor today, sir?”

  “Until the main meal, I’ll answer these letters here. Please find me more paper and sharpen the quill.” Jacques laid his mirror on the bed and fiddled through his personal items on the secretary. “I’ve enough ink and—let me see, yes—enough sand for blotting to last the morning. This looks to be a fine summer day, although I’m not in a particularly fine mood.” Jacques scratched his head. “Is the mistress of the apartment awake?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But, if it’s your wish, I’ll make it my business to spy on her,” grinned Petrine.

  “I’ll make it my business to have you whipped, rascal.” Jacques took a step toward the valet, which was enough to hurry Petrine toward the door, laughing. Before reaching the knob, he swiveled on his heels, facing Jacques.

  “There are no signs of the men from the debtors’ prison, sir. But,” he continued, knitting his brow and shaking his head, “as you yourself said, nothing is certain.”

  Jacques sucked in a hard breath.

  Tiptoeing toward his master, Petrine persisted. “Sir, while we’re talking—if I, sir, may wonder aloud—”

  “Speak plainly, Petrine.”

  “Well, yes, master. Yesterday’s conversation—you mentioned that the old Vicomte offered you an opportunity. You implied it was balm for our—for your—financial problem. Can that be true? I mean, is it even likely that the Vicomte—”

  “There is a rumor of immense wealth surrounding the Vicomte, I have it in confidence.”

  “In confidence? From whom?”

  Jacques crossed his arms. “What concern is it of yours?”

  “None, master,” Petrine said, and bent over awkwardly to scrape mud from the top of his boot. “But since you have often scolded me that I look out for myself foremost …”

  Jacques thumped his fingers against his arm as if to a fast fandango. “Complete your theme.”

  “Well, sir, if Vicomte de Fragonard is, as you say, balm for your problems, I can assist you in your friendship with him.”

  “Why would I need—or want—your assistance?” Jacques barked. “Oh, I see now. If there’s no bounty forthcoming from the Vicomte—and the authorities clap me in irons—you’ve no employer and will be out of ready money. Perpetually concerned with your own skin!”

  Petrine meekly jerked at his sleeve and nodded.

  “No more talk this morning.” Jacques snapped his hand hard against his leg, then busied himself with his manuscript. A moment later, he glanced at Petrine, who stood close by, eyes downcast.

  “Forgive me, Master Casanova. I desire only what’s best for you.”

  Jacques glared.

  “And me,” Petrine admitted coyly. He threw back a shock of black hair that covered his eye. “I’m here to sustain you, sir.”

  ***

  The morning hours passed quickly as Jacques wrote one letter after another. Many of the letters he composed were to women who had shared their favors with him and who were now married and in far-flung places, though, as he knew, they would again share themselves when he arrived in their town. Other letters relayed recent tales of Jacques’ life of adventuring to old friends, companions, and even rivals.

  One never knows when a rival might become a confederate, Jacques thought as he signed his name with a flourish to the page before him. He was leaning forward in the secretary chair when a knock on the door stopped him; he looked up, wondering what time it was.

  “Are you in?”

  “Yes, Dominique.”

  “May I interrupt you?”

  “Only for wickedness.”

  Dominique entered the room, uttered a terse “Morning,” and quickly shut the door. It seemed to require some effort on her part to muster a brief smile. Nevertheless, the woman looked especially appealing, her abundant blonde hair banded and pulled toward the back of her head.

  Jacques sat relaxed in his chair. “How do you do this beautiful morning, Fragoletta, my little strawberry?”

  “Well enough,” answered Dominique, tousling her sack dress. She stood still and fairly glowered. “I’ve been preparing a list for the market, which I added to yours and gave to Petrine. And that’s why I’m here; because Petrine and I managed to quarrel over market money, I learned some very irregular things. Of course, I, for one, never take a servant’s word when I can find out the truth from the master.” She strode to the bed, plumped the coverlet and sat down on the corner. “So I now ask you: Is it true that when you returned to Paris, you called on your brother only as a courtesy, then left us for the highlife, gambling away everything you owned in this world? Next you came back to us, lying about why you returned. Lying? To us?”

  Jacques sat in silence, squeezing his chin with his fingers, trying to manufacture an answer. Perhaps he’d whip his valet after all. He listened to the uneven tapping of Dominique’s foot on the wooden floor.

  “Petrine wept,” Dominique said. “‘God help me. Valgame Dios,’ he cried. ‘I’m too poor and my master is destitute.’ Does Petrine speak falsely? You have no money whatsoever?”

  Looking into Dominique’s green eyes, Jacques pawed his cheeks’ scars. I’d rather be looking down the bore of a loaded musket.

  “What I have—what I still own is my gold snuffbox, a religious manuscript I smuggled out of Constantinople, my pistols, and one-half of a case of smallswords worth fifty louis. The snuffbox and sword were gifts from Mother, and I’ll go to the grave with them. But my prized manuscript may bring a price, possibly. At least the paleographer whom I hired long ago—and who authenticated it—thought so. I have sent several pages of the manuscript to Voltaire, who claims he’ll purchase it. He is, in equal parts, a flatterer and philosopher, and in his letters for the last two years, he’s offered me extravagant praise in an attempt to possess the relic. The French lion is arrogant and vainglorious, but his quest for knowledge is unquenchable.”

  “What about these?” Dominique stroked the precious stones in the jewel box on the toilet table.

  “Those are imitations, all imitations.” Jacques glared at the gold clasps on his stockings. “Even these—elaborate fakes.” He gouged his finger into his palm as the hot words came pouring out. “Just five years ago, I was my own man. I had friends, a furnished home, a country house, a carriage at my disposal, an excellent cook, three manservants, and a housekeeper. Now I have Petrine. And he stays only for a wage.”

  Dominique’s green eyes flared. “He stays for adventure, he claims.”

  “The truth is that my personal standing is at stake. And my freedom. Two bills of exchange are due from my gambling debts. Oh, I have friends, many friends—who are scarce, now that I have a need. This time I’m indeed ruined.” Jacques turned away. “This has never before happened. Never.”

  Glancing up at Dominique sitting on the corner of the bed, Jacques supposed he might propose a joke, but he could not marshal one. “I came to your household to ask Francesco for a loan. My little brother—his manners not polished for good society—said nothing to me when I made my request. His manner—”

  “Francesco is polished enough.”

  Jacques swallowed hard and forbade himself to t
ell Dominique that once, some years back, when he had stood security for Francesco, he had been forced to sell his horses, carriages, and all his furniture so that Francesco might repay his debt to a landlord.

  “Perhaps Francesco didn’t answer you,” Dominique chided, “because he didn’t want to refuse you. Finances are difficult, even for a capable artist like Francesco. We’ve little money but many creditors whom we barely keep satisfied. To let these three rooms and Francesco’s painting loft is not cheap. His dream to go to Dresden as an artist is fading. He paints at Vicomte de Fragonard’s for a pittance, and he despises the work besides. And, yes, you might have noticed he’s been riding rather high since you arrived, had you cared to look. But I fear—I fear the terrible lows, the blackness he more often knows.”

  “He is painting. He’s an artist. What more could—”

  “He’s painting?” cried Dominique. “Copying. Mundane mountain landscapes. Do you think that suits an artist of his temperament? You think that with his talent and experience it’s his artistic ambition to scratch out sea urchins over and over?”

  “Now, I know my brother—”

  “You know Francesco. Phht! I hardly know Francesco,” she said, her mouth creasing spitefully. “Do you recognize his artistic dreams?” The woman’s face hardened.

  “If it were me—”

  “You, you, you,” shouted Dominique, rising from the bed. “Pardon me, Jacques, but you’re selfish. Self-serving. You act like a child, not a middle-aged man. France is choking with men like you. Self-serving, deceitful.” Her eyes reddening, she turned away. “God help you. God help France.”

  A housefly buzzed around her; she swung twice, catching the insect midflight before hurling it to the floor.

  Jacques balled his hands into white-fingered fists. He rose from the chair, walked slowly around Dominique, and stared out the window. He recalled when money was no object, when he’d been the toast of Paris, an advisor to the government, the man who had succeeded in raising millions for King Louis by instigating the Parisian lottery.

  “Five years ago, I turned the king’s debts into gold. I succeeded in transforming—”

  “So you’re an alchemist.”

  Jacques faced Dominique. “As you see,” he pointed behind him to the secretary, “I’ve been writing my patrons and my supporters. I’ve certain plans: I have vast knowledge of mining and geology, a feel for the silk industry. More. I would need capital, naturally, to begin these keen business ventures. I would need …”

  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.