Secrets of Casanova

by Michaels, Greg

His fingers pawed the dagger underneath him, rough granules of sand biting into his cold, numb hand.

  When his eyes adjusted to the indistinct light, Jacques sat up, straining for breath. He was in a cavern as big as a ship’s hull. Squeezing his dagger and pointing it with both hands, he spun round and round, his eyes searching the rock ceiling, then the sandy ground.

  The faint illumination in the cavern came through a hole in the wall, smaller in circumference than the one he’d just traveled. Jacques would explore that presently. But first he walked the perimeter of the cavern to discover some clue, something that would give him satisfaction. No detail escaped his grim stare, ceiling to ground.

  Bare. Nothing but gritty, bare soil. Where’s my treasure? What’s the secret? He ached. He repeated his survey. Nothing.

  Collapsing to his knees, he shouted, stabbing his dagger into the ground.

  “Eeeeeeeeeeehhh.”

  Sand, gravel, rock exploded as he gored and gashed the earth.

  “Yeeeeeeeeeehhh.”

  Exhausted, Jacques let go his weapon and fell to the sandy floor. He lay flat on his belly, puffing heavily, muscles weak, played out. When at length his inflamed eyes flickered open, he observed at arm’s distance a small round object protruding on the ruptured surface. He rubbed dusty tears from his eyes. A coin. A bronze coin.

  Jacques stretched toward it, his shirtsleeve inadvertently scooping a portion of sand. Another coin peeked through. Silver! His eyes darted about. Trembling, he raked at the sand and gravel.

  More coins!

  Jacques forced himself upright and began to eagerly shave the cold granulated surface with his dagger’s blade. At finger’s depth, he discovered a solid, even base—a concretion—dotted with round depressions, each depression filled with a coin. Several more scrapes of his dagger revealed dozens of coins—side by side—all housed in the concretion.

  “Yahhhhhhh!”

  Repeating his actions in a narrow swath, Jacques worked his way to the center of the cavern. Innumerable coins, resting in the dimples of the concretion underpinning, curved outward from the cavern’s center in an ever-widening spiral. A pattern! A pattern imitating the spiraling shell of a bisected chambered nautilus!

  Jacques choked tight his fist.

  This floor is laden with riches!

  The tears in Jacques’ eyes turned into a gleam. The gleam of his eyes quickened into a tickle in his gut. The tickle transformed into a heaving laugh, and the laugh exited his mouth in a giddy shout.

  “Haaaaaaaaww.”

  The cavern resounded with grossly outrageous laughter.

  “Am I not deserving?”

  Jacques held up a gold maravedí, then reached out and seized a fistful of the largest coins, allowing sand to drain through his warming fingers. “I’m a man of wealth. From this day forward, I shall never want. Nor shall I ever again tip my hat to an unworthy. I am somebody. And to Venice I will go.”

  Jacques soon began to scrutinize the treasure more closely.

  “This is peculiar. The assortment of money—here in the spiral. Silver thalers laying beside gold ducats. But then lowly bronze—and more bronze. Doblas of gold—and Florentine florins—next to humble copper pennies that then are followed by pieces of eight—all silver.” Jacques scratched his chin with the butt of his dagger.

  When once more he worked his way from the outer spiral toward the center of the nautilus pattern, unfamiliar monies appeared—coins from antique times, denominations he’d never seen. Gaulish coins, silver shekels, gold and bronze. Coins with Greek inscriptions, even Arabic dinars. Jacques’ lips twitched fitfully. Why, for God’s sake, was the cavern’s fortune such a profusion of priceless silver and gold coins, but yet peppered with far less valued copper and bronze?

  The answer came slowly. The nautilus pattern spiraled outward, creating a history recorded in coins. The gold, the silver ones—these were placed in the spiral by kings and queens. But the smaller denominations? Men and women of lowly birth had left those.

  Still, I’m bewildered. What unites lowborn men with those on high? And men of many nations, of different cultures? Of different times?

  Jacques rose to his feet. “I care not a whit to answer that question. What matters is that I’ve found the cache of wealth Vicomte de Fragonard foretold—and to which Esther the Israelite alluded.” He paused. “But can this be the vital secret the mighty Church of Rome wishes to keep?”

  At eye level above the cavern floor, Jacques found himself staring at the dim light coming from a modest hole in the wall. He stepped to the opening and cautiously leaned in. There were several handholds in the breach that tunneled upward at an acute angle.

  A thought stirred fleetingly in Jacques’ head. I have what I want but not what I need.

  A sweet smell pervaded the shaft.

  Driven by an acute impulse, Jacques sucked in all the fragrance he could, checked behind himself, stuffed his dagger between his teeth, then hoisted himself into the rocky notch. His skin stretched taut as fear again hardened his muscles.

  Twice the tunnel constricted and changed direction, but handholds aided his labor, and the faint light at the far end of the shaft led him forward.

  He struggled ahead until, reaching the end of the passageway, he was able to sit on his heels. He blew on his bitterly cold hands.

  Immediately, his fright and fatigue vanished as something akin to bright daylight—a radiance that bore semblance to earthly light yet illuminated the span with a supernal glow—drove away the murkiness. Jacques sheathed his dagger and eased himself down into the space below.

  At the center of a large chamber, resting on pillars chest high, stood an ogee-sided sarcophagus wrapped in a cerement of diaphanous linen. The coffin’s luminance drew Jacques forward while all intention, all restlessness in him dissolved. A sweet and familiar smell welcomed him. Ambergris, for embalming. He breathed in the fragrance, stepped forward, and peered through the nimbus of light surrounding the sarcophagus.

  Beneath the linen shroud lay the delicate figure of a man, apparently dead. A close-cropped beard enveloped the face while small beads of blood ringed the temples and forehead. Burnished hair, a narrow nose, and slender lips completed the compassionate face. The hands, Jacques saw—each showed a deep, purplish-black hole in the palm.

  Jacques closed his eyes.

  He felt a subtle lightness in his limbs and body, yet he was unafraid. Nor did he cry out as the cool air streamed past head to toe. His strange heart opened in surrender.

  And when he looked again, he had risen—to the high canopy of the rock cavern.

  Jacques existed effortlessly outside himself.

  From his lofty harbor above, he saw two men on the cavern floor—one living, one dead.

  Below was a material person—the physical person—of Jacques Girolamo Casanova, a flesh-and-blood man who, though standing, was more dead than alive, a man whose lifelong vanities and frivolous pleasures had produced a damp spirit, a stagnated self.

  Jacques thought: I clothed myself in coats of gold. It did not bring peace. I knew dishonorable women. They did not bring comfort. I sought the adulation of others. It gave little happiness. Love was offered me, but I turned away.

  He proffered a wordless cry.

  In this same simple tableau bathed in pure and ethereal light, Jacques also beheld the reclining corpus of a man who, though now conquered, emanated yet a placid contentment and serenity, the quintessence of which seemed alive, merciful, loving. The reclining man manifested the beauty of enlightenment in his face, the joy of love in his essence, the grace of God in his celestial glow.

  At this moment Jacques felt a freedom he’d never before experienced, the freedom of truth. For a moment there was meaning.

  Then the veil closed. Effortlessness ended.

  In an instant Jacques seemed to melt back to the cavern floor, once again standing beside the open coffin. A soft tear now rolled down his cheek while he quietly regarded the figure immersed in light.<
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  A treasure of inestimable value, the Vicomte had said.

  Jacques placed his hand to his throbbing chest, trying to quell the bounding blood within. He leaned over the sarcophagus, peering once again through the nimbus of light encircling the deceased man.

  “To the marrow of my bones, I now know the face of god Jesus.”

  For some time Jacques stood still, fully entranced by the tender serenity that exuded from Jesus the Nazarene. While light continued to bathe the translucent winding sheet and coffin, an ecstasy superior to all other earthly pleasures infused Jacques’ veins.

  “And now I fathom that which is beyond all earthly value, of inestimable value—the peace that passeth understanding.”

  ***

  When finally Jacques descended to the lower cavern, he reburied each coin he’d excavated from the ground. Then taking his own purse from his boot, he set—with care and precision—half of his money in the outward spiraling tail of the nautilus.

  I understand. The Templars—and those after them—guided monarchs and merchants, commoners and queens to this secret, isolated mountain. It was an ordeal, a pilgrimage, all gladly taken. People of different eras, of varied cultures, of stations in life poles apart—all undertook the pilgrimage. To share a most remarkable banquet. An ecstatic feast of the soul. A place where all men can belong together.

  Jacques crossed his hands over his stomach. And now I, too, have been to table.

  He took a final look and began crawling. With prodigious effort, he succeeded in extricating himself from the series of caverns, then with some apprehension, called out to Petrine, who after a time presented himself. Great relief and thankfulness filled Jacques when he was assisted—by his valet—to the ground.

  It was a full two days’ journey north before Jacques Casanova could, for his inquisitive manservant, put voice to the sublimity of what he had encountered.

  When Petrine had heard the last of his master’s story, he stiffened into the cold wind, repeating again and again. “You’ve performed nobly, sir. Nobly.”

  For his part, Jacques was eager and glad to be heading for Paris—to be carrying a full belly of warm feelings as well as the tale of a singular, extraordinary experience—to Vicomte Honoré de Fragonard.

  - 37 -

  “WILL THIS ONE DO, MASTER?” Petrine asked. “Of course, by the light of lampposts, every lodging in Paris looks agreeable.”

  “Any bed softer than the ground will be satisfactory,” Jacques replied. “Tomorrow we should be able to complete our journey to the Vicomte’s.”

  An ebony crow, wrestling a morsel of garbage in the street, shrieked in frustration.

  “Once in our room, I’ll be retiring for the evening, Petrine, and will have no need of your services. Here’s a bit of money.”

  Petrine ran his fingers through his stringy hair. “I was hoping to have time for myself, this being our first night back in fancy Paris. Just one coin though, sir. I won’t be talked into more. Keep the purse. You may need it. My wages will come soon enough,” Petrine smiled wryly.

  “The door will be left open for you tonight.”

  Dry mouth was the cause of Jacques’ waking the next morning. He labored to open his eyelids, but before long—surprised that Petrine’s snoring was not irritating him—he reached around his back. When no lump of flesh met his searching hand, he rolled over and saw the blanket next to him remained tucked.

  “Petrine?” He sat up. The sun’s rays revealed no valet. He worked up some spittle in his throat. “Petrine!”

  All was quiet, except for the clopping of horse hooves on the street outside. “We need an early start! Where are you?”

  Soon after, with breakfast under his belt, Jacques stood at the front door of the inn. Perhaps the valet had procured a bottle. “There’s a twice-told tale, if there ever was one,” he said quietly.

  Surely trouble had not come upon the valet. But this morning Jacque’s gut told him that an excess of alcohol was not the reason the valet was missing. I refuse to believe Petrine would betray me.

  To the innkeeper, Jacques entrusted coach fare, a hand-drawn map for Petrine, and a note instructing him to meet at the Vicomte’s no later than dusk.

  Then he was off.

  The trip passed swiftly, the destination was attained.

  Stepping to the door of the Vicomte’s chateau, Jacques was bid a high-spirited “Good afternoon and welcome” by the majordomo who stood outside. The two men entered the home.

  “When my valet arrives later …” Jacques gently smiled but did not finish his statement.

  The majordomo crooked his head, then continued. “The Vicomte will be most pleased to see you, Monsieur Casanova. But he is at present asleep. May I wait awhile longer before I wake him?”

  “Certainly.”

  The majordomo crossed the waiting room, then turned to face Jacques. “The canvases and effects you left here, sir—I’ll be happy to show you to them. And there are a number of letters forwarded to you from your previous address. I’ll have them in your hands posthaste.” A large smile widened the servant’s face. “The Vicomte refers to you as his prodigal son and has often said—and was certain—that one day you’d return.”

  Jacques nodded appreciatively. “I’ve much to impart to your master,” he replied, turning away from the majordomo. “Credete a chi ne ha fatto esperimento. Believe him who has had the experience.”

  “Sir?”

  Jacques looked back at the manservant. “In the meanwhile, may I see my brother’s belongings?”

  “Sir, I was saddened,” said the majordomo, taking a step forward, “I was greatly saddened to hear of your brother’s death. A tragedy.” The man leaned nearer Jacques. “You know what Monsieur Voltaire says of the theatre? ‘Tragedy instructs the mind and moves the heart.’ If I may say so, I have found this true with art—and with life itself.”

  Jacques raised his head and looked deeply into sincere eyes.

  Quite soon he supped—then recognized he was not in the humor to examine Francesco’s effects but had a greater want to satisfy that need not wait for the Vicomte’s waking.

  He sought out the steward and spoke softly.

  “The what, sir?” the majordomo asked.

  “The écorchés,” Jacques repeated. “I’d like to see them once more.”

  A perplexed expression sat on the majordomo’s face.

  Jacques asked: “May I be so presumptuous as to have you follow me?”

  “Gladly, sir.”

  In short order, they stood in front of the door that Jacques and his brother had visited months before. The impressive lock was still intact.

  “I beg your pardon, Monsieur Casanova. I’ve ignored this room so long, it’s all but erased from my mind.”

  Jacques gave a sly smile.

  “No sir, you see, sir—” stammered the servant, “well, over the years in other quarters, rumors have been spread about a certain cabinet of curiosities and what a strange wonder it is.” The majordomo cleared his throat, stopped still, and directed his gaze to Jacques. “I tell you truly. In thirty years’ service to the Vicomte, the contents of this room were shared with me only twice. Not that I wish to see the écorchés a third time,” the manservant whispered under his breath. “Certainly I know the Vicomte’s passion—embalming—but his cabinet of curiosities was far stranger than anything I’d imagined. As for the key to the lock, its whereabouts are known only to the Vicomte. He’ll take great pleasure, I warrant you, in showing you his fantastical creations himself. Actually, sir, while we’re upstairs here, why don’t I go ahead and wake the Vicomte? His room, you may be well aware, is the one at the end of the hall.”

  Through a side window, Jacques watched while the last vestiges of winter’s cold light closed out the day. “I suppose we might rouse him,” he smiled. “It’s not every day his prodigal son—”

  “He’ll be much pleased. Allow me a few moments to light these candles, then we’ll proceed.”

 
The majordomo moved to the wall sconces while Jacques seated himself in a chair by the locked door from which a hint of pungent castoreum wafted. A different odor—sharp and repellent—led Jacques to recall the contrary feelings the écorchés had engendered at his first viewing.

  When the majordomo finished his work, he summoned Jacques to the Vicomte’s door.

  “Sir, may I awaken you? You’ve an important guest who wishes your audience.”

  When no response came, Jacques, on a whim, removed a lit candle from a nearby sconce and edged just ahead of the servant. Knocking briefly, then pushing lightly against the door, he eased into the room.

  “Vicomte de Fragonard, please excuse my—”

  A blistering stench threw him back, but in an instant he was beside the bed, the uneven flame of his candle revealing the Vicomte’s twisted body. The old man’s mouth bowled wide, as if blaring a silent, unbearable pain. His eyeballs spilled from their sockets like a gaffed fish.

  Jacques turned, thrusting his candle into the darkness of the room. Across the carpet ran a torrent of vomit and syrupy brown excrement.

  “Oh, horror,” the majordomo cried as he angled across the floor, his hand covering his nose.

  Jacques shoved the candle to the nightstand, wilted to the bed, and did his best to straighten the Vicomte’s fingers, close his eyes, and wipe his lips.

  “Your master,” he said quietly to the majordomo, “your master has met his end.”

  A heartfelt moan escaped the servant.

  Jacques turned and scanned the revolting carpet. “Something the Vicomte ate or drank. Swift in its action. Most likely poison.”

  He stood, eyeing the manservant anew, but it was obvious the man was grief stricken.

  “On my life, sir, it was not I. Nor could it be any others of my small staff. This room has three doors.”

  Jacques’ mystification must have shown on his face.

  “Anyone might have come and gone,” said the majordomo. “The Vicomte on occasion entertains company informally here in his bedroom, as they do in the fashionable Parisian salons. Given my master’s egalitarian nature, associates often feel comfortable to enter this house unannounced. Unnoticed, even, I’ve come to learn. Unnoticed by my staff or by me.”