When Jacques found Carlo Brose, he lay stretched out on his side, his head crooked in his bent arm, eyes glazed and distant. His skin looked gray. Certainly he was in no shape to do material harm. He cocked his head and feebly offered a wooden cup that Jacques declined.
“Two lanterns are too bright,” Brose mumbled to the floor. “Extinguish yours.”
Jacques did so.
“Lay opposite me so I may see you, Herr Adventurer. Neither of us can sit tall. You’re too large. I’m too ill.” With difficulty, Brose raised his head. “Did Piccinio Rais direct you here? It’s well. Strangely, I’ve come to believe our captain is an honorable man. In his own manner, of course.”
The ship’s hull groaned disturbingly.
Brose jingled coins in a small pouch and nudged it towards Jacques.
Jacques ignored the pouch but, before stretching to his side, double-checked for his dagger, then adjusted his weight on his forearm.
“For what wickedness did you ransom Dominique?” he scowled.
A shiver shook Brose before he spoke. “Wickedness?” He presented a fragile smile. “Well, I was tired of fingering through my own shit each morning looking for the diamonds I swallowed the night before. I figured I had two left. Those gems might as well do good for someone.”
“Why not yourself? Why’d you ransom Dominique? What trap do you plan for me?”
When Brose feebly bolstered himself up onto an elbow, the lantern light caused his face to look more somber. He stared into his wooden cup. “I’ll be brief as my temperament and the times dictate. I’ve known many women who weren’t worth a sou,” he said. “Your companion seems worth a vast fortune. Furthermore, shouldn’t a man perform at least one noble deed during his short, miserable life? Ransom a worthwhile woman?”
“I know you too well. Why did you not save the diamonds for yourself?”
“Myself? For what?” Brose wheezed. “Herr Adventurer, I have position here. I’ll stay with these men, with this ship. Yes, they’re revolted by my marked face, they know I’m dying. And yet they revere my powers of healing. Or at least they patronize me enough to make me believe so. I’m a kernel of hope for some of these wretches. Why would I relinquish my unique status?”
Brose choked down a short swig from his cup. “Praise the wine and the opium,” he gurgled. “Besides, Jacques Casanova, you once accused me of detesting life. Perhaps a just indictment. It seems, however, in these past months I’ve discovered a sweet, sweet taste for life. It’s dear. Life is dearer than …” Brose’s voice faded. Settling back down on his shoulder, he spoke hoarsely. “I pay a reasonable ransom for a woman, and you dare ask why?”
At this pronouncement, Jacques condemned himself to silence.
“Here, take this back, fool.” Brose fumbled with his grimy pocket and produced a small book, one that Jacques recognized. The book that Brose had stolen from him at L’affaire de Voltaire.
The sick man feebly pushed the volume toward Jacques. “Open it where the black ribbon lays.”
Jacques opened the book.
“Read the quote I underlined. Your man Horace is correct. Read it. It’s no secret.” Brose managed another sip from his cup.
“Seize the day,” Jacques read. “Put no trust in the morrow.”
“Sums up the wisdom I’ve gained these last several months. When Allah finds me—” The wooden cup tumbled away. It was empty.
At the clatter, Jacques looked up and found the hollow eyes of Carlo Brose.
He crawled close and touched Brose’s hand. It was cold. He touched his face, confirming that life had fled from the man who once detested it.
Unhurriedly, Jacques reached for the pouch of coins Brose had offered and withdrew two gold pieces. Rolling Carlo Brose to his back, he closed the man’s eyelids, then placed a coin upon each.
He skirted the lantern and reopened the small book.
“Cease to ask what the morrow will bring forth,” he read aloud, “and set down as gain each day that Fortune grants.”
Jacques lingered while the flame burned low, reading on, imparting the wisdom of gentle Horace to his longtime rival and long-last friend.
AUTUMN – 1755
- 30 -
“NO MORE PROTESTS, PETRINE,” repeated Jacques. “You grow tiresome.”
Petrine rammed his finger into the soft puddled candle wax before flopping his forearm on the table. “We sit, doing nothing.”
“We’ve not yet lodged a full day here,” Dominique pointed out.
“But why don’t we start? We came to Lisbon to uncover Templar clues.”
“We’ll begin when I—” Jacques voice began rising. “Enough of your prattle, ronyon. Perhaps a box on the ears would satisfy you.”
“Jacques, please,” Dominique said, crossing the small room. “It’s late. You’ll wake the whole inn.”
Jacques slapped the table.
The muffled voice of someone in the next room could be heard.
Dominique tramped to the corner, returned, and stood next to Petrine. Her toe began tapping while she unlaced the strings of the purse she held.
“As Jacques has told you,” she explained, “we need a respite from our eventful voyage. Come back in three days, then we shall explore, if need be, every single church—to advance our search.” Opening the bag wide, she set it in front of Petrine. “Trust this agreement.”
The valet stole a look at Jacques before stuffing his hand into the purse. “I adore gold, gold, gold,” he said mischievously.
Jacques tightened his jaw and cleared his throat. Several coins—released by the valet—clinked back into the bag.
“But you see, I take only what I have need of, master,” Petrine said, offering a meek smile. He blew a strand of hair from his face, pulled his hand from the purse, and stood up. His brown eyes beamed when he turned to Dominique. “I’ll return in three days’ time.” He charged to the door. “Enjoy yourselves in Lisbon.”
“You also,” groused Jacques.
Shortly after midnight, Jacques and Dominique finished their supper. They dressed warmly with some of the clothes Picinnio Rais had given them and ventured from their lodgings. Guided by a brilliant moon, the couple strolled arm in arm across the sand of the town’s squares, down wide avenues, past pink marble façades. Fresh paint on the signboards, doors, and lintels told the lovers of the upcoming religious celebrations in Lisbon, the most Christian city in Europe.
Feeling carefree, Jacques hugged Dominique. From the moment they’d stepped onto the Cais de Pedra, he’d marveled anew at her artless charm, her curiosity, her vivacity. He went to one knee, cradled Dominique’s hand, and kissed it.
“In the Portuguese fashion,” he said, staring intently into her eyes. In the moonlight, he savored her blush. “It’s true, life is meant for these moments.”
The woman’s smile reflected Jacques’ earnest charm. As the breeze rustled past, it brought to Jacques a feeling of hope, a firm gladness in the fact that he shared the evening’s air with the darting birds and the thousand other amiable creatures that belonged to the night.
***
Late morning found Jacques in his lodging sitting at table with pen and paper. In the corner, Dominique busied herself mending a plain dress. “To whom do you write, Jacques?”
“Vicomte de Fragonard.”
“And what do you write?”
“That for a time we explore Lisbon, the town to which the mystery has led us. And that in spite of setbacks and imbroglios, we feel confident we’ll solve the riddle and return to his home for Francesco’s worldly goods and my friends’ correspondence.”
As the words left Jacques’ mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake. He allowed himself a glimpse at Dominique. Her barren looks wrung his heart. Why had he mentioned Francesco?
“Do you hope the Vicomte will resolve the mystery we’ve set ourselves to? Out of pity, perhaps?” Dominique asked.
“Perhaps,” Jacques said. “But truly, I find I have a fondness for the old ma
n. And, too, for the quest he’s sent us on.”
By evening, Dominique had relaxed and was chattering gaily. After sharing a glass of wine, the pair made love until night was almost upon them. In Dominique’s soft eyes, Jacques found surprise, innocence, and contentment. With himself, he felt fire, then stirring admiration.
A loud pounding on the door startled the two at sunrise.
“Manstur, mashure,” stammered Petrine.
Jacques, in a dressing gown, opened the door. The smell of liquor met him.
“Pare, prepee, prepare—”
“Prepared?” Jacques barked. “Prepared for adventure, valet? So my nose informs me.” Jacques fanned the air.
Petrine stumbled through the doorway, fell down, then rolled over, face up, unmoving.
“One of your duties this morning, ronyon, is to unpack my pistols. And lay out my smallsword and dagger,” Jacques said, running the bottom hem of his gown lightly over Petrine’s face. “Do you hear?”
“With so—some dilliculty,” answered Petrine. His open eyes wandered the ceiling.
“Are you too drunk to begin your chores?”
“Not a’all, mashure. I’ll be on ther—those—hores—chores in the flap of a wing’s dove.”
Dominique laughed.
With great effort, Petrine lifted himself and slouched his way toward the travel trunks. “Set t’ go in no time, mashure.”
Some hours later, on a hillock above a church, the trio of adventurers stood. The intense late afternoon sun showered the basilica, throwing attention on the dome’s regal but long-faded colors. By Jacques’ count, it was the eleventh church they had scoured today.
“Look down there,” Dominique said in a hushed voice. “That man—the one in the frock.”
“Where?”
Dominique tugged Jacques’ sleeve. “There,” she said, subtly nodding. “Rubbing that sheet of paper against the church wall.”
Jacques shaded his eyes with his hand and saw the profile of a fellow with a light complexion and gray hair. His narrow eyebrows signified—according to Lavater’s doctrine—that this was not a man given to anger. “I note him, yes.”
“See what he rubs? An intaglio! The intaglio we hope to find.”
“Intaglio,” Petrine said. “Same as the Templar intaglios we found in the stables?”
“Seems so. I see it clearly, now that he’s lifted his arm.” Jacques peeked quickly at Dominique and Petrine. “Step behind that rise of earth over there—we’ll have a bird’s-eye view of the church below and be mostly concealed.”
Petrine moved at Jacques’ signal and, arriving at the appointed spot, whispered to his companions. “Our hunt’s not in vain—”
“See the pale-skinned ruffian crouching beside that far colonnade?”
“Where?” Dominique and Petrine both asked.
“Dozen paces to the right of Signor Intaglio.”
“Lurker on the far left, too, Master Jacques. And he—”
“I see both. What troubles you, Jacques?”
“They hang back—either side of Signor Intaglio—loitering. Performing no industry. Both keep a keen eye on him.”
“Yes. And an eye on the few passersby on the street also,” Petrine said. “Irregular.”
“Shall we intrude? A risk.”
“Let’s not give ourselves the go just yet,” Jacques said. “If the frocked man is in danger, it’s not our business. He makes a simple gravestone rubbing. May be an innocent, even a fool. May—”
“But if —”
“He might know much more,” Petrine quickly added.
“You read my thoughts, Petrine,” Dominique said. She turned to Jacques. “If Signor Intaglio is a piece of our treasure puzzle—if he’s privy to information—we mustn’t allow him to come to harm.”
“Voices low, please. I’m thinking,” Jacques said, surveying the scene below. Snaking his hand around his back, he felt his dagger. “We’ll undertake to scare the ruffians away. But we’re new to this town. No unnecessary trouble.”
“Agreed.”
Jacques handed each of them a pistol.
“I’m not as good with this as I am with a sword,” Dominique whispered, pointing to her pistol, “but I’m good enough.”
Petrine and Jacques smiled.
Before the sun could dip behind the basilica, Jacques trod down the stairs to the cobblestone street, then motioned Petrine and Dominique to veer left. Placing his back momentarily to the church, Jacques unsheathed his smallsword, obscuring it behind his leg, then turned around and began a leisurely flanking movement to the right of the ruffian, who, he now saw, clenched a low-slung knife. From the corner of his eye, Jacques monitored Dominique and Petrine while the pair stalked their prey at the opposite side of Signor Intaglio.
A pistol fired. Smoke. Near Petrine.
Immediately, the nearest ruffian sprang into action toward Signor Intaglio.
Sword raised, Jacques stormed forward. The ruffian redirected his blade at Jacques, who, like a torero, arched free of the man’s fury, then with his sword met his enemy’s forearm, sending the knife clattering.
The ruffian screamed in pain and hurtled down the nearby lane.
All passersby had scattered from the scene. The street was empty.
Beside the church wall, Dominique’s head lay in Petrine’s hands, her face contorted.
“Master!”
Jacques ran fast, knelt beside her and, seeing the open cut in her pant leg, sucked in a lungful of air. His gut stung as if the barbs of a spiked hook dug into him.
“Here,” Signor Intaglio said, arriving at Jacques’ side. “Will you use this?” Without waiting for a response, the man tore a portion of his clothing and shoved it toward Jacques, who, already pressing on Dominique’s thigh, strapped and tied it just above the crimson gash. He twisted the cloth.
“The ruffian attacked, I shot at him,” Petrine said, huffing. “I think I hit home.”
Jacques glanced quickly about. “Let’s hope neither man has friends close by who want cold revenge.”
The tie slowed Dominique’s bleeding.
“You’ve lost some blood, young woman,” Signor Intaglio said, stepping closer. “And I’ve lost some smock. Ho, ho, ho.” The man began a belly laugh that brought a meager grin to Dominique’s lips. “Yes, you’ll be fine. And well taken care of. I shall see to that. My name is Quentin Gray, and unless I’ve miscalculated, you three have prevented my early exodus to heaven. But I believe I’ll get there soon enough, so I forgive your mistake. Ho, ho, ho, ho.”
Quentin Gray was unscathed, but his laughter seemed to reveal his distress.
While the man daubed blood from Dominique’s leg, Jacques studied him.
“Signor Gray is right, Dominique,” Jacques said while he used another piece of cloth to swab her leg. “The cut, I’m glad to say, does not look too serious.”
Dominique squeezed her eyes shut, then looked up at the men kneeling around her. “Get me back to the inn?”
“Yes. Right away.”
“Your perfect pronunciations tell me you’re from France,” Quentin Gray continued in French. He wiped his bloody hands on his ripped smock. “I live humbly, since I no longer have a vocation. Yet I do have a calling. You must stay with me and share my modest means as long as you care to.”
“I’m not sure that—” Dominique stammered.
“Perturbation,” the man declared. “I’m sure. I insist. After all, madame, you require my medical aid and I have a cask of hydromel at home. Let us make the proper introductions, let me gather today’s work together, then we shall fetch your belongings at the inn and be started before you can say ‘Alameda de São Pedro de Alcantara’.” The man burped another “ho, ho.”
Quite soon, Quentin Gray led them away toward the hill country.
“You’ll see when we round that last knoll ahead, I live on a hillside where there is less humanity. Then, too, rent is cheaper the higher up Lisbon’s seven hills one travels. Not that I p
ay rent.” Quentin let out a laugh. “I have no colleagues left in Portugal. I find myself quite alone,” he sighed. “Quite alone. Certainly none of my English countrymen to share my good fortune with—my good fortune being the Conde de Tarouca’s palace, the roof over my head.”
In truth, Quentin Gray did reside in a palace. But arriving at the destination, the adventurers saw that the roof looked as if it might collapse any day, as did the crumbling walls.
Quentin snickered. “As you can see, the actual construction was never completed. But the grounds, while not hugely expansive, are more than sufficient for my needs. Credit the good Lord.” Quentin slung his bundle from his shoulder.
“The Lord works in wondrous ways,” Dominique replied as she slipped from Jacques’ shoulder. “We accept your invitation to stay, Signor Gray.” She clutched Jacques’ arm and gave him a sideways glance.
He returned it, dubious.
“An adventure,” Dominique said, smiling.
Inside, Quentin examined Dominique while she rested on a makeshift bed.
“Lie still and gather your strength,” Jacques said. “And allow this gentleman to apply his medicines.”
“We’ll either fashion a litter or some crutches. But that will be tomorrow.”
Within a short while, Quentin Gray stood by an earthen fireplace just outside his palace walls stirring a pot of olla podrida. “Your valet’s pistol shot may have been on its mark. But the assassin might have been saved by the silver plate he wears over his abdomen.”
“Silver plate?” asked Jacques.
“Yes. To prevent a hernia. I fit it to Fernando myself. It was in consequence of a saber cut he‘d received at some previous time.”
With Jacques’ help, Dominique scooted closer to the fireplace. “You know the man who attacked you?”
“Both men, I believe. The man you wounded, Monsieur Casanova, did he have a brand on his hand?”
“I believe he did.”
“Well, that is most probably Jonathan Tillson. You see, in England, my home, they brand a manslayer’s hand. Mr. Tillson has that brand.”
“So Tillson is a known criminal?”
“Yes. Certainly a known Catholic.” Quentin threw his head back and howled a long laugh. He straightened up. “Seldom is the twilight breeze this bothersome,” he observed. “Come, let’s take these dinners inside. The walls won’t provide much of a windbreak, but they’ll help.”
Secrets of Casanova Page 24