Albani looked up. “Follow me,” he said, pushing by Jacques. “You may kiss the Holy Father’s foot this morning at nine o’clock.”
Now Jacques stood before the Pontiff almost fifteen years after they’d first made their special acquaintance. Cares had worn the man, but certainly he was recognizable, his features agreeable and regular. With a bow, Jacques acknowledged the head of the faithful who sat atop the papal throne; then he kissed the cross embroidered on his holy slipper.
The two exchanged warm and earnest greetings. It boded well that the Pope had invited no one else to view the audience.
“We keep in mind,” said Benedict XIV, “that as a student you attended mass every day, often went to sermons, and were exemplary in the recitation of the Oratio quadraginta horarum.” He extended his right hand to rest lightly on Jacques, whose stomach now tingled with excitement. “We also recall, signor, that you often forsook our services in Padua when we intoned the rosary.”
“Holy Father, I’ve worse transgressions,” Jacques mustered as sincerely as possible. “Although I’ve never taken the Lord’s name in vain, I’ve sinned exceedingly. I’ve not used the talents God gave me to exult His name. It’s no secret.”
“No secret.”
“I prostrate myself at your feet to receive absolution.”
The Pontiff removed his hand from Jacques’ shoulder and paused for a great while before giving his benediction. At last he asked what he could do for Jacques.
The adventurer stood straight and tall. “I ask for your intercession so that I may freely return to Venice.”
His Holiness interlaced his fingers in his lap. His features grew harder.
“It’s true, Your Holiness, I escaped from the Inquisitori’s dreadful prison in Venice, which makes me well aware of the risk I take in coming to Rome. I’m alert to the prospect of expulsion, and I would hope that you too might find that possibility distasteful.” Following this, Jacques did not look at the Pope, but resumed his speech, his eyes remaining downcast. “God has the power to change those creatures that require it. I’m in deep need of His salvation, His love, His joy, His authority.”
“We recall, Giacomo Casanova, you possessed at all times the cloak of sincerity, whether it was genuine or no.”
Jacques felt his neck tighten.
The Pope continued. “If you were to return to your motherland, you would be required to present yourself before the secretary of the tribunal of Venice.”
Jacques was prepared. “I’m willing to hazard that if Your Holiness might supply me with a letter of recommendation in your own hand. With such a letter, I would not risk being imprisoned in I Piombi again.”
Pope Benedict leaned back in his throne and steepled his fingers over his lips.
He doesn’t figure my strategy. Good. “Most Holy Father,” Jacques exclaimed, “profound remorse eats, devours my heart—for not living my life as a servant of the true Church,” he lied. “As a penance, I beg your permission to defend the Holy Roman Church with my intellect. Consider—for an infamous libertine to attack and defeat those hostile to religion and the virtues it prescribes—wouldn’t this be powerful propaganda to aid the Church? To explain: I’ve settled in Paris—”
“A wicked city.”
“A malevolent city, Your Holiness. One that is infecting the remainder of Catholic France. I’ve witnessed Monsieur de Voltaire and the philosophes assault the Holy Church in every conceivable manner, while throughout Europe other heretics also poison the minds of Catholics.” Jacques went to one knee. “I request access to the Index librorum prohibitorum.”
“Access to the forbidden books?”
“Yes, Most Holy Father. That I might study the vile arguments of the heretic to refute their godless logic. To defend and uphold your Holy Church.”
“The Vatican has theologians who act in this capacity.”
“But none such as I.”
His Holiness, the Pope, stared at the cherubim and seraphim on the ceiling, stroking his garments.
Jacques’ stomach grew hard as an oak bough. Moments passed. And now—although his bended knee was beginning to pain him—he forged a sparkle in his eye, cleared his throat, and whispered softly but firmly. “Even in these days, Eminence, you’ve the physique of a poet. And I’ve not forgotten your sweet—and most holy—touch.”
Benedict’s cheeks reddened. But at Jacques he gazed, tendering an ever-so-slight and lecherous smile. Jacques returned the kindness.
In good time, His Holiness answered with a benediction, then spoke plainly. “No, you may not return to Venice with our blessing and recommendation. Not until I see and read six pamphlets and two books from your pen. All defending the Church. For this ambitious task, you may have access to the Index.”
Jacques could barely hide his elation. “Your Eminence, in his wisdom, pleases me so. Before long I’ll return, pamphlets in hand.”
Jacques rose and made his exit.
Winding his way back to his lodgings, he turned the corner of a narrow Roman street and, feeling a newfound spring in his step, broke into a loud laugh. His strategy had succeeded! For the time being, he was free to concentrate on the day ahead.
***
Jacques knew that Dominique would be as exuberant as a foal in a field to see the sights of the Eternal City. The Coliseum, the Piazza di Spagna, the Trevi Fountain. A leisurely tour began when he fetched her at the inn.
The lovers strolled away the early afternoon, marveling at a few local sights around the inn until, toward the end of the day, Jacques hired a cab, blindfolded Dominique, and read poetry to her as the hackney proceeded to the far north of the city. When the driver stilled his horses on the Via Cassia, Jacques carefully guided Dominique out of the cab. He stood the woman facing in the direction he wished. “You may now take off your blindfold and open your eyes.”
It took a moment for Dominique’s eyes to stop fluttering, then at the first view of the still far-distant St. Peter’s Basilica, she gasped. Her eyes fully roved the landscape. A minute more passed before words came.
“Unforgettable.” She turned to Jacques. “This is the heart of my religion. The Roman Catholic Church. Surely if the spirit of Christ lives on this earth in the hearts of men, he does so in this magnificent and dignified temple.”
A vivid image of Vicomte de Fragonard rushed through Jacques’ mind. “Here on this earth, I have met God,” the Vicomte had said. Jacques shuddered and squeezed Dominique’s hand.
On the hackney ride back to their lodgings, Dominique expressed her jubilation.
Not so Jacques.
From his carriage window, he’d caught sight of a passing coach. The colors of the coach’s trappings were argent and crimson. But what was the coat of arms on the door? Jacques could not be confident of what he’d barely seen. If it happens that the Venetian dog named Michele Grimani wants his gold louis returned, let him sniff someone else. I’ll not abide him in Rome.
- 23 -
AT DAYBREAK, JACQUES and the frail Cardinal Passonei ambled toward the humorless exterior of the Vatican Library, the sun blunted behind the stone building.
“Yesterday after your audience, His Holiness spoke exceedingly well of you, Signor Casanova,” said the old cardinal, peering over the top of his spectacles.
The man’s shallow breaths and an unusually high-pitched tone convinced Jacques the clergyman lied; he’d probably not even seen the Pope, let alone spoken to him. Assigned a lonely, humble duty, the clergyman simply yearned to feel important.
“Are you previously acquainted with the Pontiff?” Cardinal Passonei asked while ushering Jacques inside the building.
Jacques smiled and nodded, resolving to prevail in silence. He would let his silence inspire gossip. And gossip would enhance his reputation and give him standing with those in the Vatican. He might need allies in this new realm.
The clergyman and the adventurer continued their walk through a long corridor, passing several rooms filled with studious men, quills
in hand, laboring at their workbenches.
Cardinal Passonei spoke. “These scribes copy old and important documents, many of which are decaying. So sad.” After a dozen steps more, he stopped, held up a thick black key, and inserted it into the lock of the door. “Shall we enter the Index forthwith?” Moments later, Jacques stepped into the most secret of places and was pleasantly surprised that the sun shown through enormous Palladian windows and that the interior granite walls kept the temperature reasonable.
“Welcome to the Index librorum prohibitorum,” the Cardinal said. “On that table is the guide to the codices in this archive. But the manuscripts have been shifted from shelf to shelf over the centuries, so at times the guide may be of little help. As you see, most of the leather-bound books are laid horizontally, according to the ancient custom. Return them to their stack that way, please.” Cardinal Passonei wagged his finger. “Remember, please, you’re not permitted in any other room in this building. And I shall be outside the door to accompany you when you find it necessary to come or go for any reason. Have you any questions?”
“I have a single question,” replied Jacques, “and it appears you are most qualified to answer it, Cardinal Passonei.”
The old churchman broke into a sudden broad smile that further wrinkled his pale, worn countenance. Jacques took a step closer.
“For reasons I had best divulge to you later, I seek knowledge of the treacherous Knights Templar. I’ve been assured,” Jacques lied, “that you, of all churchmen, know this Index intimately. Before I review the guide, would you show me the particular books in this room that contain the Templar writings?”
Cardinal Passonei looked wide eyed.
“I hope to be able to report your good works to the Pontiff,” Jacques added.
The frail man seized his thick key with both hands, then pointed with it. “Why, that entire wall of books over there,” said Passonei, “is heretical in one way or another. On that wall you will unquestionably find what you search for.”
Jacques glanced across the room. His toes seemed to curl in his shoes. He shook his head. “All those? All those books and … ” He turned back to the Cardinal. “Thank you,” he choked. “Of course, there will be some whose language is incomprehensible to me, and there may be others …” He watched the cardinal’s head slowly wilt. “But you‘ve greatly reduced my burden. The Pontiff shall hear of your excellent assistance, mark my words,” Jacques lied again.
Passonei’s eyes lit with joy.
“And now, I begin immediately.”
“I shall be in the hallway,” said the cardinal, stepping out the door.
Jacques stood as immobile as the books on the shelves. His ruse with the Pope had worked; he had admission to the Index. But now a formidable challenge: to find a book title that matched a line from Fragonard’s scroll. Jacques clapped his hands together in anticipation and began. The path to riches was before him.
After several hours, he had scrutinized hundreds of proscribed books by title. He wished to read many of these, not just to inspect their titles. Paracelsus, Ramón Lull, and the Persian Jābir ibn Hayyān. Philosophers and mystics, misunderstood by Christians. Misunderstood—and therefore the Church of Rome declared their works heretical and forbidden. And Lull, himself a lay member of the order of St. Francis. What irony.
Jacques examined a copy of the Picatrix for conjuring up the devil, as well as the infamous book on magic, Clavicula Salomonis. He perused a treatise by Artephius on the philosopher’s stone. Setting it aside, he picked up another text. It was one he had owned: Aretino’s Sonetti Lussuriosi. He sat down at a long table, opened the book, and began. Soon he was laughing aloud. If only he’d an hour to study this profound work with its thirty-two erotic positions.
At noon, Cardinal Passonei entered the room unannounced. He carried with him a lunch for the important guest of the Vatican.
Jacques knew that the more authority he presented, the more rumors would buzz about in theological circles. He decided to test his power.
“Tomorrow for lunch, I’ll require a five-egg omelet.”
The cardinal was momentarily dumbfounded. “I, sir, am neither a cook nor a servant,” he muttered, wandering back to his hall chair. “But you shall have it.”
By late afternoon, Jacques could do no more. He rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair from the table. But how fortunate he felt to browse books human hands had not touched, some for hundreds of years. A number of these most likely were the single existing copy of an original text, maybe something as pagan as Homer—the originals destroyed by ransacking barbarians or the burning of the Alexandrine Library by the Roman legions, or by floods, by book burnings, by book lice even. To actually hold these manuscripts—many containing the most precious knowledge of mankind—in his two hands: astonishing. How precarious was Truth that it could be bundled up and forgotten, shut away in a forbidden library, or utterly destroyed by marauding man?
Jacques did not tarry. His immediate antagonist was time. How much time would be required to scour hundreds, thousands of manuscripts? How long would it take before a title, a trace, a line, leapt out at him?
Jacques dug in his jacket pocket and pulled from it Fragonard’s riddle. “From one, learn to know all. / To know all, you need but three. / There is measure in all things. / Stop, Traveler.” And there were the vertical letters “S-O-N-B-O-I-S-I-L-A.” The letters, the verses—all of it remained opaque.
He replaced the scroll in his coat and considered what the evening had in store. Cardinal de Bernis had asked him to a private dinner party but, contrary to Jacques’ request, had not invited Dominique. Of course, to Jacques the gist of de Bernis’ action was clear: debauchery.
He would have to invent a lie for Dominique to swallow.
He stood, stretching and yawning, before making his way to the archive door. He soon followed Cardinal Passonei down the hallway.
Wandering past an open door, Jacques noticed the scribes affixing stamps to volumina and marking notations with their quills. In the corner of the cluttered room, he also saw a water clock. He’d not seen a clepsydra since his youth. He’d arrange to take a closer look. Tomorrow.
At nine o’clock that evening, Jacques sat at table. Before him spread a culinary splendor that had been catered by Cardinal de Bernis—great epicure or great glutton, Jacques could not decide which. The cardinal’s vintner had supplied an excellent champagne with which Jacques refilled four glasses. He set the bottle under the table next to another empty.
“For my second toast of this young evening,” Jacques announced while raising his glass, “Cardinal, the loan—or shall I say the gift—you furnished has brought a sheen to my eye. And an itching to my palm.” Jacques held up the small bag of gold coins that de Bernis had earlier bestowed and flopped the purse on the table. “Be so good as to gift me any time it pleases you, Your Flatulence.”
The two actresses who sat at either end of the table joined in De Bernis’ laughter. The response rattled the table china and silverware of the intimate room, setting the two girls to more snickering and allowing Jacques to cast a further critical eye on the two votaries of Thalia that the Cardinal de Bernis had procured.
Charlotte—“La Catai” on the stage—luminous, thought Jacques. There was a reserve about her, somewhat incongruous with the abundant bosom she displayed.
The other actress—whose age could not exceed twenty—was likely the ingénue of the theatre company. Ample, attractive, with alabaster skin and blonde hair that made her nearly translucent in the candlelight. Giselle must be perfection on the stage. Downing a morsel of food, Jacques sat back in his chair, once again satisfied with the cardinal’s choice—on both counts.
Jacques guessed what was forthcoming: with two young women, a competitive rivalry often ensued, and little by little one would attempt to outdo the other. He knew that at these times his principal chore was to hearten the competition, then allow feline nature to …
Two hours and six champagne bott
les later, Jacques and the girls lazed in the center of a bed in a room of discriminating decor. The room belonged to Cardinal de Bernis, and though he was nowhere to be seen, yet he was seeing. That is, he’d taken a position in the adjacent room where, through a special notch in the wall, he could partake of the amatory exploits of Jacques and the actress pair.
Jacques, himself unclothed, reclined between the two nude girls. He cradled one in each arm so that they were face-to-face, lying on his chest. Giselle wreathed her hands, stretched her arms ever so slightly toward Charlotte, and brought the young face to her mouth before licking the full lips of the girl. Charlotte trembled, but Giselle’s hands held soundly.
Jacques drank in the soft bodies that seemed to float upon him. His mind drifted, while the lazy strum of a guitar mingled with a resonant flute in a nearby street.
As time slowed and bodies wove into surprising patterns of delight, Jacques found the two girls kneeling over his torso, each holding one another in a gentle hug. The girls kissed sweetly, lovingly, as they fused together.
For some moments, Jacques took in this amorous picture, but he was not one to admire art without conversing with the artist. He slowly, carefully extricated his body, rose to his knees, and repositioned himself next to the embracing girls—the three blending together like swaying willows—in the center of the bed.
Placing a hand around each girl’s buttocks, he began stroking, squeezing, caressing. Sliding his hand below Charlotte’s buttocks and between her spreading legs, Jacques reached his other hand likewise, between Giselle’s thighs, his fingers investigating the glossy hair of each, while he gently maneuvered toward their warmth. In Giselle, Jacques found what he desired. Then, in Charlotte.
He guessed the cardinal was also finding what he craved, that he might be particularly in the mood for the rich sensuality of the ménage à trois. In times past, Jacques had excited the clergyman with athletic feats and wildly imaginative sexual displays. But tonight, Jacques and his lovers excelled in slow and desirous lovemaking.
Secrets of Casanova Page 16