“In truth,” Jacques said, “it’s the scent of a woman that entices me to heaven.” He glanced at Dominique. “I face her, then begin the washing of her hair in tantalizing fashion, careful not to allow my building passions to overstep my artfully-laid boundaries. After a time, however, I make no pretense; I observe her body in the bath. She feels my admiration, and her excitement grows. As does mine, although I am determined to mask my ardor.
“Therefore, I bar myself from washing her breasts but instead move to the front of the tub, taking each extremity and bathing first the foot, then the calf, then the thigh. I surmise Gabriella is tingling in the special spot, but I do not give in to lust; I continue a quiet conversation, allowing myself to gaze into her eyes while they’re open and when it seems appropriate.
“Once her eyes shut, I know she’s enthralled. She enjoys this understated game of domination and no longer has a care as to who is now to be victor. I feel she may join me in the blossomed world where we shall both welcome triumph—bodies blending, senses blinded.”
Jacques saw in Dominique’s expression that, although her delicate curiosity might now be satisfied, her desire had mounted.
Their eyes locked. Slowly, Dominique pulled the bed coverlet over Jacques’ face and began to kiss the sheet where she guessed his mouth to be. Moments later, she pulled his shirt above his breeches and stretched her hand toward his warmth.
“To feel your hardness. How it thrills me.”
Jacques was aflame with passion. He threw off the coverlet and, lifting up Dominique’s simple dress, found the sumptuous favors she was eager to bestow.
“Dominique, Dominique,” came the call.
She madly leapt to the doorway.
Jacques wrested himself on his back, fastened his breeches, stuffed in his shirttail, and straightening the coverlet, flipped to a sitting position on the bed.
“I’m in the hall,” she sputtered, “talking to your brother.” She stood primly in the doorway, trying to keep her watering eyes from giving her away.
“Then, of course,” Jacques began, “I commanded two hundred francs, twelve thousand scudi in jewels and precious stones, and nearly forty thousand florins. This was the result of several good business opportunities in Amsterdam when I was hired by the French.” He fluttered his hand briefly to reassure Dominique.
A heavy clomp of boots.
Arriving at the door Francesco looked queerly about.
“My husband.” Dominique gave Francesco a slight hug. “You’re home early today.”
“I am,” snarled the hulking man, “because I’ve been puking.”
“You’re sweating badly, too,” said Dominique, pressing her hand to his forehead.
Jacques, spying the wet sheet where Dominique had kissed him, slowly shifted his hand to cover the spot. His face grew suddenly hot. “Good time for a brotherly duel?” he quipped, scratching his chin. From the way Francesco scowled, Jacques couldn’t be sure if the man was going to retch or if he’d found them out.
“You’re burning up, Francesco,” Dominique scolded. “We must cool you down. Into a bath you’ll go.”
Jacques barely squelched his laugh, wondering if Dominique’s bath comment was intentional or not.
Francesco wheeled back toward the hall, arm slung over Dominique. The pair trod down the hallway till there was not a sound to be heard.
“Does he know?” Jacques asked himself.
SUMMER – 1755
- 11 -
DOMINIQUE OPENED HER EYES, smelled the sweet night air, and felt the pillow warming her cheek. She was excited. In little more than a day’s time her prayers had been answered.
But who could she tell? Jacques was out, she remembered, and she was loathe to divulge her new idea to Francesco. Yet to succeed, her plan would have to be told to both brothers.
She climbed from the bed and paced back and forth across the room.
There was a rustling of bedcovers in the darkness. Francesco mumbled. “Is that you? Wife, is that you tramping about?”
Dominique stopped still.
“You’re not next to me snoring,” snapped Francesco, “so I know you’re awake. Come lie down.” The straw mattress crackled as he rolled to his side. “What hour is it?”
“Not late. Not too late.” Dominique opened the curtain that covered the doorframe, lit a candle, and placed it in the hallway sconce so that it shone dimly on Francesco’s face.
He strained to see.
Goodness, she thought, he looks like death with his hair poking every which way.
Taking a bristle brush from the bedside table, she seated herself on a chair at her husband’s back but decided against grooming him. Instead, she brushed her own hair. Each stroke reinforced her courage.
Although for some time Dominique had held vague notions on how to advance her husband’s success, she now had the leverage to make her plan work. Leverage—in the form of Jacques’ antique manuscript—was the element she’d been missing.
“I’ve an idea, dear Francesco. A plan that helps you. And that will also help your brother.” She took in a heavy breath. “God has answered my prayers.”
“Prayers. Claptrap.”
Dominique stopped brushing but ignored her feelings and continued. “I have to make certain inquiries beginning tomorrow morning, and all must go according …”
Francesco rolled over to her, but before he could finish his yawn, she added, “I ask you to listen to me. As you know, I’m not a silly woman who involves herself in folly.”
Somewhere in the Parisian street below, a pack of dogs began barking.
“First,” she began, “I’ll find out the value of a religious manuscript your brother owns and have him alert Monsieur de Voltaire by swiftest post that the manuscript at last can be had. Then using Voltaire as bait, I’ll exact a promise from a reliable patron to host a ball at his country chateau.
“Patron? What patron do—
“Please listen, Francesco. At this fête, this ball, you’ll exhibit your best paintings, not your copies of other artists. When your originality is admired—and purchased—well, it may—”
Francesco growled, and in his state between sleep and wakefulness, words tumbled heedlessly from his mouth. “You’re not frivolous. But you’re full of extremes. What! A ball, a fête? You’re not royalty. How will you throw a ball?”
Dominique brushed her hair harder, doubt clouding her mind. Why set upon this daunting plan to help the Casanova brothers?
It took time for an answer to come, but at last she knew. She was a woman who had a duty in life, although at the moment she wasn’t exactly sure just where her duty began and ended.
“I’m twenty-nine, Francesco, yet even when I was younger, I felt certain obligations. If I can’t fulfill these obligations to myself or the ones I love, I can have no self-respect.” Dominique set the brush aside and placed her hands on her knees. She arose from her chair, seated herself on the bed, and gently tucked the cover around her husband’s shoulder. She briefly caught Francesco’s glinting eyes. “I must tell you,” she said, “to put on the ball, I’ll seek the help of Signor Grimani.”
“Grimani? You’ll not have anything to do with—”
“I refused him years ago. Unlike the other dancers. You know that. You needn’t think otherwise.”
Long ago, Michele Grimani had supposed his money might obtain Dominique’s favors, a thought that did not upset her. Their slender connection over the years had been one where he politely offered and she resolutely refused. While prone to attacks of grandiose behavior, Signor Grimani had always been a gentleman with her, although she wondered why—when he had not been so with others. She concluded that he admired her strength of character, that deep in his heart he knew a gift of money couldn’t weaken her principles.
Francesco filched his shoulder from Dominique’s touch, burying his face in the bedding so that she could barely see his profile. “Quand’ero in parte altr’uom da quel ch’io sono.”
“Kindly tell me what you just said. In French.”
“When I was in part a different man from the man I am,” spat Francesco. “Ten years ago. I was a man ten years ago.”
“And I want you to be that man again, Francesco. You and I, we deserve a family—”
“It won’t work. I can’t …”
“It’s not your fault.”
Dominique could find no more comforting words on the bitter subject. She sat quietly for a time before speaking.
“It’s important for you to know, Francesco, I’m firm in my belief that my idea will succeed. And to achieve this success is to involve Signor Grimani. As well as Voltaire. I will—”
“I thought you’d said Voltaire a moment ago,” Francesco spouted, turning to face her. “Voltaire? The exalted Voltaire! How would a woman of your station reach such a luminary? Why, the man doesn’t even live in Paris. Or France. Are you without wits?”
Dominique felt her choler rise. “Am I—? What of the Casanova brothers? Overgrown children! Who both require help. And I and the good Lord will help them, regardless of their wayward natures.”
Dominique stood up, tramped to the hallway, and slung the room curtain closed. She seated herself as best she could in the hall with the lit candle as her only companion. “Gather your notions, Dominique,” she said. “The Savior will direct you.”
In her mind, she began to compile a list of tasks. Hours passed. When at last she finished, she calmly opened the curtain to the bedroom where the sun was beginning to share its yellow rays. Back into bed she crawled.
- 12 -
PETRINE, TRYING TO KEEP HIS SEAT on the rear of the rumbling coach, hugged a small barrel. Inside the coach sat Jacques and Dominique in morning dress, both sweating profusely from the heat.
Fate demands a sacrifice—my manuscript. That it should come to this!
Dominique ruffled her hair. “And so within one week, Jacques, my prayers are answered,” she smiled, “and it’s likely the Casanovas’ problems can be resolved if you still agree to donate your manuscript to the cause.”
“But I’ll be paid to do so?” Jacques asked, pursing his lips anxiously.
“Yes, I’ve requested a sum of gold from our patron for your donation to Voltaire. As I said, your valued manuscript is the lure that attracts the famous philosopher—who attracts, in turn, our wealthy patron—who’ll sponsor the ball. At the ball, Francesco can market his paintings, and after your donation of the manuscript, a bag of gold—from the patron—will be your reward.” Dominique threw her hands in the air, laughing. “I’m excited.”
“I’ll admit it would an honor to meet Monsieur de Voltaire face-to-face. To bask in the glow of his genius. But he reads and comprehends the strange tongue of my precious manuscript while I always delayed learning that language. To me, it’s disconcerting to give away something whose value I don’t even know.”
“If you choose to help your brother—and yourself—the only hope we have is your religious manuscript.”
Jacques felt a lump in his gut. Should he bank on this plan of Dominique’s? It had the possibility of fortune. And some distinction. Whereas to consider Vicomte de Fragonard’s proposal … The smart move is to keep all avenues open and pursue the plan that promises quicker benefit. “As I said, I’m willing to give up the manuscript.”
“Please promise you’ll not withdraw your offer, Jacques.”
A moment passed before he answered yes. It behooved him to agree for the time being.
Oh yes,” added Dominique, “our patron, Signor Grimani, is already acquainted with Monsieur de Voltaire. But let Signor Grimani explain. He’s—”
“Grimani, you say? Michele Grimani?” Jacques felt the heat rise in his veins.
The woman nodded.
“Dominique! What have you done?”
Dominique drew a quick breath. “What’s the trouble?”
“Cavaliere Michele Grimani?” he asked, his hand wiping sweat from his chin. “Cavaliere?”
“I think. Perhaps.”
“Cavaliere della stola d’oro,” Jacques muttered, trying to restrain his growing alarm. “The title ‘Cavaliere’—plus the ‘golden stole’—is only conferred on Venetian bluebloods who have distinguished themselves in public office. His family’s been listed in Venice’s Libro d’Oro of notables for hundreds of years and—”
Dominique hurriedly interrupted. “Signor was fond of my skills when I danced in the Comedie Italienne in Paris. From time to time, I’ve reacquainted myself with him. I’m only using my connection … you and I will do the hard work and borrow his chateau and ballroom. He’ll receive the credit but he’s—”
“He was one of three members of the Inquisitori de Stato who sentenced me to prison.”
Dominique gasped, her eyes glossed with wetness. She placed her hand on Jacques’ leg. “I’d no idea this journey would—”
“Yes, Grimani.” Jacques glared out the coach window into the distance. “A brilliant politician, an inveterate gambler, a great epicure, and a gentleman highly regarded in the art of fence as well as dance. In short, an aristocrat of vast wealth, immense power, and superb family name.” He turned to Dominique, tugging his wrenched brow. “I was carted away to Piombi prison without ever meeting Grimani face-to-face,” he said grimly. “And now I’m surprised and stunned once again!”
Dominique was speechless, shocked. A bead of sweat dripped down her nose. “All I could think about was him lending us his country home, his French summer home. I’ve known him so long, it never crossed my mind that … I’m embarrassed. Mortified.”
Jacques looked hard into Dominique’s pained eyes. “Let us meet our patron Michele Grimani. Until then, I’ll withhold my opinions.” I’ve been duped. I must keep my wits to learn their design.
Within a short while, the coach moved beneath a dense canopy of towering trees, and when the wheels left the dirt road and clattered across cobblestone, Jacques and Dominique, as if on cue, peered out. On the gently rolling hill in the distance was a structure of nearly cathedral proportions, glistening in the morning sun. The tall, straight lines of the mansion were softened by the sea of artful foliage that surrounded it; the entire home appeared to float atop a multihued cloud of budding flowers. No mere summer home, this mansion appeared a strikingly beautiful shrine to a powerful family.
Almost before the coach rolled to a stop, Petrine came forward to the window, where he held a private conversation with Jacques. After the valet stepped away, Jacques spoke.
“I’ve found it practical, Dominique, in my various and past travels, to retain a valet who can, not infrequently, act as my security. Petrine is comfortable with his role as eyes and ears for me, and in this unique instance, I most certainly shall ask him to play his part.”
A flock of liveried servants appeared as if from nowhere, and in short order, Jacques, Dominique, and Petrine were ushered to a side door of the great home by the maître d’hôtel, a man of impressive bearing who was richly clad and who flashed a ring studded with a variety of gems.
Jacques fretted. Side door? What practice is this? Will the host clap me in chains and smuggle me back to prison?
Upon entering Grimani’s mansion, Petrine and Dominique were struck by a prominent feature: the archways, enfilade, created an unobstructed view from this part of the house. As each room opened into the next, the three guests marveled at the fine china, linen, and grand furnishings. Affixed to one entire wall was a collection of magnificent basket hilt swords. “Slavic mercenaries hired by the Doge of Venice wielded those,” Jacques whispered in Dominique’s ear. “Are we to be impressed by Grimani’s tie with the high and mighty?”
Her casual reaction told him nothing.
The maître d’hôtel stopped. “The Cavaliere shall attend you here in the library.”
While Jacques pretended to look at the handsome lacquered bookcases, behind his back he squeezed his fist until the skin grew taut.
No sooner had the maître d’hôtel esc
orted a reluctant Petrine to the far corner of the room than in sauntered a gentleman.
The man was not of lordly stature but of genteel comportment, appearing fit and well proportioned in his unadorned coat, embroidered waistcoat, and breeches. Thin lips, aquiline nose, and piercing azure eyes perched on a moonish face. His skin was pale with snatches of gray hair protruding from under his neatly dressed and powdered brown wig.
After the unpretentious man passed his maître d’hôtel, he momentarily fingered a calling card Jacques had presented upon arrival. Pocketing it, he continued his leisurely gait past Petrine.
Watching Dominique rouse her weary body, Jacques wondered what Michele Grimani meant to her.
A short distance in front of Dominique, Grimani stopped and lowered his eyes, his full attention showering her. He bowed vigorously, accepted Dominique’s hand, and kissed the air above it. Dominique blushed pink.
Jacques bristled. Grimani treats her as an equal, though she is not of his class. Exceptionally decorous.
Dominique smiled, as did her host: “This girl’s beauty reduces me to slavery each and every time I see her. And her vivacity enslaves me even more.”
In his gut, Jacques felt the insistent tightness of cold jealousy.
“Madame Casanova,” said Grimani, “please present your chaperone.”
Dominique took in Jacques’ blazing eyes and spoke. “Con grandissimio piacere.” “With great pleasure.” Her voice grew honeyed while she reeled off what little Italian she knew. “Cavaliere, ti presento il Signor Don Giacomo Casanova veneziano amico mio.”
“Your friend from Venice? Ahh.” Scarcely turning in Jacques’ direction, Grimani nodded.
Jacques held his tongue, hoping to see what gesture of war or peace the man might make.
After introductory formalities were completed, Jacques could no longer resist. “It’s well we meet, Cavaliere. I knew you by reputation when I was younger and yet able to reside in our homeland.” Jacques heard Dominique’s sudden inhalation.
Secrets of Casanova Page 8