Jacques quickly produced three sets of needles and threads and various colored patches.
“We’ll sew these to the garments to give even more humorous appeal. And lastly from my bag, three fine hats and three ceramic caricature masks with exaggerated faces. These masks of desperation, as I call them, and these gay—if ripped—costumes will show the haughty French nobility that we’ve taken the most sumptuous clothing and despoiled it. They’ll believe we’ve absolutely no regard for expensive finery, and unless I’ve missed the mark, they’ll share our recklessness—and laugh.”
“We’re insulting the aristos,” brayed Francesco. “Good.”
Jacques nodded, smiling.
Insulting, indeed! Jacques had thought ahead. He knew that in France, the aristocratic men were slaves to women, and that women were slaves to fashion. By wearing tattered costumes, he slyly winked at the fashion of the hour, and his travesty, he hoped, might have the effect of actually attracting many noble sheep to his fold. However, if the nobility took offense …
Tittering with joy, Dominique kissed Jacques on the cheek.
“Thank you, madame,” he said, carefully checking his brother from the corner of his eye. “But one word of caution. Be certain that the Cavaliere has drunk a surplus of champagne before he spots you in this, his own clothing.”
Francesco began a callous laugh and pointed the dagger at the vest he held. “Grimani’s clothing? Truly?”
“Yes. Truly. I coaxed these from the Cavaliere’s wife when last we visited him.”
“Using your charms? Perfect,” Francesco cried, slashing the vest.
“One other thing,” Jacques said. “I must confess that I persuaded Madame de Gigot to mislead you, Dominique—to say that the costume you were to borrow was given away. However, if you’d really like to wear her—”
Dominique’s eyes widened in elation, her mouth opened in laughter, and she ran out the door with a waistcoat, breeches, and jacket draped across her shoulder. “No need! Going to try on my new costume,” she shouted.
It was only a short while before Francesco put the dagger aside, massaged his scalp, and gawked at his paintings on the loft wall. Jacques watched in vain while his brother tried to recreate his earlier enthusiasm, but the wine had ceased playing its trick. Francesco stared at his canvases and wondered if the paintings—his children—were stillborn.
Finally, he stirred from his reverie. “As usual, you’ve been extravagant, brother.” He pointed at Grimani’s vest. “All for a man I neither care for nor trust. For a fête that disgusts me.”
Jacques looked at the numerous portraits, still lifes, and battle paintings on the loft wall. “At the fête when your artwork is purchased by the nobles—”
“My artwork? Bloated. Like the bluebloods who’ll gape. I abhor it all.”
Jacques smiled cunningly. “You revile everything then? Even boudin noir—the blood sausage I procured especially for you, to be served at the ball.”
Francesco turned away. “Yes, Brother, I revile even your blood. Sausage.”
- 14 -
ON JULY 21, A HALF HOUR BEFORE THE BALL was to begin, Dominique, Jacques, and Francesco Casanova arrived in fulsome style at the Grimani summer mansion. Grimani, as pledged, had provided the Casanovas his coach—a conveyance whose cab and horse trappings were decorated with the family coat of arms and—complementing the livery of the coachmen and postilions—embellished in the family colors of argent and crimson.
When the rumble of the coach wheels faded on the smooth stone of Grimani’s private road, Jacques adjusted his costume and made a funny face at Dominique and Francesco. Squealing with eagerness, Dominique smiled at the brothers and turned quickly toward the window. Her lips parted in surprise.
In the distance, the grounds of the Grimani mansion blazed with torches that swarmed like fireflies up the rounding hills. Between these fiery flambeaux, giant puffs of flowers bubbled a host of colors while stanchions of fluttering pennants—argent and crimson—teased the eye. Even the dark, low-slung clouds that embraced the mansion’s towers seemed complement to a pageant of brilliance.
Once the coach wheeled closer, the night sweetened further with the lively music of strolling musicians, the traffic of liveried servants, and the gay chatter of packs of costumed nobility.
Jacques had hand-chosen many of tonight’s guests; five years ago he’d gamboled with la crème de la crème of polite society, and he supposed that many of these Parisians still remembered him. But the French were provincial—maybe pragmatic—regarding failure: when Jacques had lost his lottery fortune, he’d lost the interest of the well-heeled.
Tonight he had the opportunity to redeem himself. Feeling a trifle pressured, he buoyed his spirits: By dawn the name Casanova will be sounded from the lips of all Parisians of prominence.
The coach came to a rest. The cab door opened.
Dominique, reveling in the warm night breeze that caressed her face, was helped down the coach steps by a servant when, abruptly, her hand was taken up by a person wearing the black-and-white diamond-patterned costume and half mask of Arlecchino. Assisting Dominique to the ground, Arlecchino then retreated several steps before his sword hissed an elaborate salute.
When Dominique rose from her curtsy, the splendor of the mansion grounds animated her once more. She squealed again.
“Madame Casanova is pleased to attend L’affaire de Voltaire?” asked Arlecchino.
“Since I’ve never before heard my wife screech, I presume she’s either delighted or injured,” Francesco snapped, exiting the coach ahead of Jacques.
“Delight is the order of the evening,” Arlecchino insisted.
“So says our host, Arlecchino, the crafty manservant from Bergamo,” Dominique said, and broke into tinkling laughter. “I know your voice, Cavaliere Grimani! I knew it wasn’t your maître d’hôtel behind that mask.”
“This disguise doesn’t serve me?”
“Serves you well,” Dominique replied, “but only under these clouds. You’ll be easily recognized beneath the ballroom’s candlelight.”
Jacques’ foot met the ground. “The Cavaliere wears many masks. Of that I’m sure.”
Grimani smiled strangely. When he began to raise his sword point, Jacques knew he’d exacted flesh from the man. With this man, I will watch my front and my back.
Dominique had a ready word. “And what do you think of our costumes, Cavaliere?”
Behind his half-mask, Grimani’s eyes narrowed—when a female came skipping awkwardly to his side. She seemed all rouge and hair.
“May I introduce my saucy sweetheart, Columbina?” Grimani said.
The costumed female flaunted her multiple rings, curtsied, and in a comic falsetto voice, trilled a high note.
Jacques bowed. “I’d recognize that voice anywhere.”
Everyone, except Francesco, laughed.
“Allow me to introduce this worthy woman—my wife, Signora Grimani,” said the Cavaliere, sheathing his sword.
Francesco bowed unenthusiastically and turned slightly away while Dominique curtsied to the woman.
At that moment, two youths made their way into the circle of revelers.
“And these gentlemen,” Grimani said, “who follow my wife as chicks to the hen, are my two sons. My oldest, Alvise, rides well, plays the flute excellently, and dances and fences in a nimble manner. Antonio is our erudite son who will demand you test him in heraldry, a science so necessary to a nobleman. Both sons, we know, will carry on the supremacy of the Grimani name.” The Cavaliere batted his taller son on the shoulder while pleasantries were offered all around.
An enchanting madrigal obliged the group to face the troupe of performing singers. After the song, Jacques stepped under the dancing blaze of a flambeau and opened his arms wide to the glittering summer home and his high-spirited collaborators. “Signora Grimani, you have fashioned a most worthy welcome for the French sage whose reputation shimmers throughout Europe.”
“Yes. T
he wondrous Monsieur de Voltaire.”
“And does the king come?” Dominique asked earnestly.
Jacques felt his knees weaken. Should the king attend, my stock surely soars.
“Oh, King Louis,” Signora Grimani said. “If that boorish man refuses to appear, I’ll not be displeased.”
“Never you mind what my wife says about the king,” the Cavaliere said. “She’ll be the first to bend her knee when he arrives.”
Signora Grimani waggled her finger in the air. “No, I will not. Neither to him nor to his consort who—even with her gold lice needle—remains unquestionably a commoner.”
There was silence among the group.
Francesco’s head bent low. His voice shuddered. “Commoner? Then am I not a man? Is my blood not prized?”
Cavaliere Grimani placed a firm eye on Francesco. “It need only be said: it is sure that France depends on everyone’s sedulous actions here tonight.” Huffing breathlessly, he tugged a watch from his costume. “Nearly midnight. Time’s wasting. Before more guests arrive—late, I suspect, as is the French fashion—I must check the details of the ballroom. Oh, Casanova, if you’ve brought your valet, post him in the kitchen where he can be out-of-the-way—and fed.”
Jacques reluctantly nodded.
The Cavaliere continued his palaver. “The servants must transport the dozen closestools I ordered to wherever necessary. These Frenchmen may defecate in the galleries at Versailles, but not here!”
“What?” Francesco snapped. “Don’t tell me these people are vulgar commoners?”
Dominique glared. “Husband, aren’t you,” she began, her voice growing out of tune, “aren’t you privileged—aren’t we all privileged”—she gestured frantically to everyone in the circle—“to celebrate this historic occasion when Monsieur de Voltaire returns to France’s heart?” She forced a smile. “Let us proceed, Cavaliere Grimani. We’re ready. All of us.”
Jacques spoke up. “Oh, but we ask one final time, Signor Grimani: what is your opinion of our costumes?”
Dominique moved closer to the torchlight and began a slow pivot, showing off her jacket and breeches, beaver tricorne hat, and ceramic mask.
“Ah, your costumes? Of course.” Grimani posed hand on elbow, chin on palm—as a tailor might study attire—and surveyed all three revelers. “Your costumes? Unconventional, certainly.” Grimani suddenly recognized his shredded garments and sputtered irritably. “Audacious—”
“Au courant,” piped in Signora Grimani, who now identified her husband’s clothes.
“Stylish? That’s what we felt,” said Dominique, laughing gaily.
A cackle broke from Francesco’s mouth. Signora Grimani joined in. At once, Jacques felt a satisfaction in his belly: his costume idea had stung the Cavaliere.
“Shall we attend the masquerade?” asked Signora, taking the arm of her glowering husband.
“Francesco and I will join you in a few moments,” Jacques said. He pinched Francesco’s sleeve and waved off the rest. Together, they watched the revelers float toward the entrance of the mansion.
“A word, please?” Clearing his throat, Jacques gently led his brother beneath a high torch. “You, your wife, and I—all have much to gain tonight.” He pitched his eyes toward the diminishing figure of Dominique, looked back to his brother, and hushed his voice. “I recall you telling me of the first time you ever saw her, Francesco. Wasn’t she walking a colt through a lush, yellow meadow?”
Arms lank at his sides, Francesco stared eye to eye with Jacques.
“You couldn’t see her face, yet her walk captivated you. Isn’t that so? You noticed her turned-out feet and knew she must be a dancer. There was something bold and joyful in her step. She possessed a confidence. A lusty confidence, you told me. I plainly say,” Jacques said, his voice filled with sincerity, “remember who this woman is. What she’s done for you. And how she maintains—well, you and I—because of her, you and I stand to achieve much success by night’s—”
“My insolent ways.” Francesco’s eyes misted momentarily, but he said nothing more.
“What?” Jacques asked. “What? Talk with me, Brother.”
A mischievous flame from the flambeau darted toward Francesco. He dodged low, then wheeled back and, coming to his feet, veered away, stalking toward the Grimani residence.
Jacques twisted his fist into his palm and took a step to follow.
“Brothers Casanova? Are you coming?” Dominique wandered in from the dark, stopping at Jacques’ side. “Where’s my husband?”
“He went to inspect his paintings,” Jacques lied. His voice grew reassuring. “He’s in good humor. He and I have an understanding.”
“I’m anxious for tonight,” she said with a slight catch in her voice. “For success.”
“As am I,” Jacques said. “Shall we start with this view?” With a gentle touch to her elbow, he turned her in the opposite direction.
Scanning the huge courtyard, Dominique was awestruck by the partiers now fanning from the opulent coaches. The costumes were more varied and astonishing than in her imagination. Knights in armor, ballerinas, unicorns, pirates of the Spanish Main. And the omnipresent fragrances of the flowers seemed as if they might transport her to heaven. She turned to Jacques, her voice leavened with pleasure. “To the reception vestibule! I’m excited to watch the nobility announced. We’ll join Francesco inside.”
“We shall.”
Keep on your guard. Jacques tightened his mask and gave Dominique a playful squeeze on the arm. A clap of thunder boomed while they slipped into a throng of drifting partygoers.
Once inside the ballroom Dominique gasped. “A transformation indeed! Just as Signora Grimani boasted.”
The walnut ceiling decorated in silver and gold now repeated its pattern on the floor. Pale blue area carpets contrasted with the ormolu scrolling, and all reflected in the finely wrought serpentine mirrors lining the walls. A joyous tune from the balcony orchestra wound its way through the ballroom where in every corner of the huge room hung Francesco’s art. High in the balcony, too, was the artist’s most colorful canvas.
From the corner of his eye, Jacques noticed a guest slink past, his peculiar gait displaying cunning malice in each step.
Certain that Dominique was tucked safely behind him, Jacques edged alongside the man outfitted as Pierrot: full mask, frilled collaret, loose blouse, pantaloons, and dunce’s hat. He leaned close and spoke. “You’ll not wreck this ball. You’ll behave.”
The man turned, his eyes shining through his face mask. “Why, the last time I saw the detestable Casanova, I was—”
“At the point of my dagger, which sits even tonight at my side.”
“Particularly humiliating, that dagger experience,” growled Pierrot.
Disregarding Dominique, Jacques grasped the man by the arm and shuffled him away from the crowd. ”I made up the invitation list and you, it’s certain, weren’t included. How did you manage—”
“Please keep your voice down.” The man cocked his masked head, jaw jutting upward at Jacques. “And how, friend, is the life of adventuring treating you?”
“I might ask you the same, Brose,” Jacques barked. “Again, how did you manage to gain entry?”
“Ingenuity.” Brose pointed over his shoulder. “And the fact that I diddle the blue-blooded slut lolling against that far painting.”
Jacques glanced toward the corner of the ballroom and saw a woman leaning against one of Francesco’s large paintings, purple fan limp at her side.
“One of the richest widows in Paris—she was included in the invitations, was she not? Oh, by the bye, how is it that you, one of the rough trade, were allowed to assemble the invitation list?”
Jacques felt Dominique draw next to him. Still staring at Brose, he spoke to her. “I won’t introduce you to this pimp, poetaster, and thief, for if you were to examine his physiognomy beneath that oversized mask, you would see he stands for duplicity and cynicism. Above all, Carlo Brose hate
s life. For that, he can never be forgiven.”
“Charmed, madame,” intoned Brose, shaking his arm free from Jacques’ grip in order to bow. “I see from the identical ceramics you and Signor wear that you’re a matched pair.” He pointed at Jacques. “This man hasn’t the heart to introduce his wife to a well-known rival.”
“I’m his brother’s wife, signor.”
“Brother’s wife?” Brose repeated slowly. “How practical. So at hand.”
Jacques glared. “Watch your tongue, or I’ll cut it out and feed it to you.”
“You’d do that? Why, if you were to complete even a portion of what you say you’ll complete, you might claim accomplishment.”
Dominique fixed her stare on Brose, then Jacques. “I’ll find my husband.” She turned on her heel and marched away.
“Calm yourself, Casanova,” said Brose. “I’ve reason to behave tonight. If I suitably dote on the Marquise all night long, she’ll marry me tomorrow—and the day following, her pretty fortune will be at my command.”
“Phhtt!”
“In your eyes, I see envy.”
Jacques took a long moment gritting his teeth before he looked away.
“Then doting I shall go.” Carlo Brose waved coyly and loped toward a mass of onlookers.
Jacques’ attention was mastered by a new sight: Cavaliere Grimani strutting down the steep balcony stairs to the middle of the resplendent ballroom. When Grimani began his speech, Jacques quickly fell into a lighter mood, amused at the pompous voice stemming from the man in Arlecchino tights.
Jacques now considered: introductions to la crème de la crème, he told himself, would be far more beneficial after his manuscript presentation to Voltaire, so the adventurer began to flow casually around the outskirts of the crowd, nibbling the food, listening to conversations, taking in the gentlemen and ladies decorated in gold braid, tassels, frills, ruffles and ribbons, plumes and puffery. The glittering hues of painted faces, masks, and costumes, the redolent perfumes, the rapid movement of a hundred fluttering fans—all seemed to intoxicate Jacques.
Secrets of Casanova Page 10