There was a palpable stillness.
The majordomo bent over and, carefully maneuvering the thick candle in his hand, looked at the old man’s face. He clubbed the bed with his fist. “A bitter curse on the party who caused this.”
At once he stood straight, composing himself. “I must inform the others. Then I must return to prepare my master,” he said in a hollow, icy breath.
Jacques laid his hand on the man’s shoulder until he once again calmed.
The servant carefully picked his way toward the door, but reaching it, he stopped, glaring at a side table next to the couch. From it he lifted two short-stemmed goblets.
“This is the Vicomte’s glassware. His other matching goblets, next to the brandies, are over there,” he pointed to a corner cabinet. “But why two? And snuff also?” He set down the glasses and picked up a small silver snuffbox. “My master, I know, hasn’t taken snuff since he was a young man.” He presented the box to Jacques.
Jacques took a pinch of its contents and held it to his nose. “Fine tobacco. Spaniol, possibly. If a person were here in this room, I believe they made a central error in leaving this snuffbox behind. But the dreadful act of raw murder can defeat even a well-planned scheme.”
“Shall we allow the authorities their say and expertise?”
Jacques paused before offering a reluctant “yes.”
“Then I will send one of my staff for them. They must surely be shown these objects we have here in our hands.” The majordomo looked askance. “It’s plain you’re not in any way connected to this grim deed, but I understand your hesitance, sir. Given your standing with the king—I was told by the Vicomte some time ago—you may not wish to chance the authorities. Should you decide to leave before they arrive, there need be no mention of your presence here.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Jacques said. “In any case, you must perform your duties.”
The majordomo excused himself.
Left alone, Jacques went to the bed and sat next to the body of Vicomte de Fragonard. “Who has stolen your life? Who has reason to perform such a brutality?”
He held the old man’s hand for some time until his anger cooled. “I’ve come back. And now I understand Francesco’s paintings—all to keep the secret alive. You, sir, set me on my journey. A pilgrimage, I recognize, you yourself long ago must have undertaken. One that cannot be described with mere words. Treasure of inestimable value, you said. In my ignorance, I misunderstood.” Jacques placed his hand on the Vicomte’s cheek. “This evening, I honor your wisdom. I forever cherish your trust. In my heart, gentle sir, I now feel your warm presence. You bow splendidly, you stand tall and dignified, you unwrinkle before my very eyes. So profoundly pleasing it is—that you display such vigor upon the return of your prodigal son.”
It was not long before the majordomo returned to place a sheet over the Vicomte. He then handed several letters to Jacques, who, lost in sorrow, offered a nod of his head.
“The post on the very top was delivered only late this afternoon.” The majordomo extended his arm. “I’ve work here. Please allow me to escort you downstairs, sir.”
“Yes.”
Alone in the antechamber moments later, Jacques trembled, his whole being shaken by the sight of the topmost letter, a letter directed to him from their Excellencies the Inquisitori de Stato, fixed with the official lion seal of the Republic of Venice. Having this seal, the letter cannot be counterfeit.
Slowly, he unfastened the seal and read.
We, Inquisitori de Stato, for reasons known to us, grant Giacomo Girolamo Casanova the right and privilege to return, provisionally, to the republic of Venice. He will present himself at the stated address of Signor Zorzi Contarini dal Zaffo at noon on the first day of January M.V., 1756; then as directed, submit the following day to further interview. Until the prescribed time, Giacomo Girolamo Casanova is sanctioned to come and go within the republic, traveling wheresoever he pleases without let or hindrance.
Should he fail to appear for the arranged appointment, his safe-conduct is rescinded, and efforts at repatriation, as stipulated, will be null and void. Such is our will.
Wavering to-and-fro, Jacques kissed again and again the letter he held.
“Is it possible? After all this time I’m permitted to return to La Serenissima? My beloved homeland! But why? Why now?” He wiped his misting eyes and refolded the letter. “What has passed? In what ironic drama do I perform?” he asked himself. “The Vicomte’s riddle, which promoted me to an experience beyond the ken of reason, is solved. But Esther died roughly. As did Quentin. And Vicomte de Fragonard, the man who initiated this progress, is murdered. Petrine now is missing. And hard upon the heels of all of this, I’m empowered to Venice by the Inquisitori. To return provisionally, temporarily. Might Michelle Grimani’s hand be in this? The Church?” Jacques’ neck knotted with anxiety.
That evening he lay awake, feeling the softness of the pillow under his head, pondering the letter. He wanted badly to go home even if there were dangers.
By midnight he was resolved: he would accept this invitation, embrace whatever challenges lay in store. He began to laugh, thinking it was so like the Inquisitori to set up an appointment in a house composed of hideaways—a casino.
Quite soon, he realized that if he was to meet the Inquisitori by the first of the year, there were few days left in which to travel. And to wait any longer for Petrine would mean that he would lose this opportunity. Other feelings, too, did not permit him rest.
What should he do for the Vicomte? The majordomo?
It was with the first light of a sunny dawn that Jacques prepared his leave-taking, after which he informed the majordomo, who immediately expressed his understanding by replenishing Jacques’ purse.
“I sense the pangs of your heart, sir, and I tell you truly, the Vicomte would have it this way.”
“Here, on the off chance,” said Jacques, “please set aside a sum of this money for my Spanish valet. Here, too, are my instructions, when he—Petrine—turns up.” Jacques replaced some coins in the majordomo’s purse.
“He’ll come to this destination?”
“Mouth on bottle, most likely,” Jacques said, wrinkling out a half smile, now feeling that the valet had washed his hands of the master. Or worse.
The majordomo smiled back, dipped his head, and ushered Jacques forward.
“I shall write to you soon, to inquire of the outcome—”
The manservant interrupted. “You may be assured that—as far the Vicomte—I’ll follow through with every means available until there is satisfaction.”
Jacques stopped in the anteroom and faced the majordomo.
“For your concern and confidence,” Jacques said, returning the bow, “I thank you, personally. When I speak of your master henceforth, I’ll affirm he was my compass, my shepherd.”
With fond eyes, Jacques looked around the room, then drew a deep breath. “Now Venice calls. And it’s certain that, like a wise and loving mother, she’ll have answers.” With those words Jacques left the chateau straightaway.
By midday he was in Paris. Because the Inquisitori’s appointment was now his strictest priority, he purchased a new and modest outfit, then booked a diligence which departed promptly at three fifteen.
Jacques stepped aboard. Bound, at last, for home.
- 38 -
JACQUES LOOKED OUT THE WINDOW of the diligence while it slowed. He was to travel from Geneva over Great St. Bernard Pass to Milano, Verona, and Padua. There he would board one of the well-appointed burchiellos that sailed the Brenta Canal. Jacques’ brow knit with impatience. His coach had traveled only as far as Versailles.
It promised to be far too long a journey, but drawing closer to home, Jacques’ heart soared with delight until a thought, exhumed from some girdled vault of his brain, made its way into his head. What drives me home? And why, strangely, am I afraid? Is it a fear that my dream of Venice—of perfection—is unfounded? The thought was over an
d done with in a moment, yet for a time the anxious residue stuck with Jacques like dark pitch to a tree.
After he considered what lay ahead, he also judged what had taken place: “For reasons known to us,” the Inquisitori de Stato had written. In Venice, that always meant practical politics. What would that mean for him? Whatever the case, it seemed his name no longer displeased the Serene Prince.
On the deck of his burchiello in the final hour of his journey, Jacques forced his eyes through the haze of the December dusk.
There it was at last, appearing to float on the lagoon. Venice: a village that had grown rich by monopolizing the gold, silks, and coffee from the East; a city never invaded by foreigners; a republic that had remained intact ten centuries and more; an empire all of Europe admired and respected.
Most importantly, there was Jacques’ home, where all his youth had been spent.
Through the distant forest of ship masts, he feasted on the umbers, ochres, and siennas of stately palaces, of pensioni, of old and crooked houses, and on the immaculate whites of magnificent patrician homes. All blended together to create an exquisite palette—one which, being finely mirrored in the surrounding waters, was doubled in beauty. To Jacques, the balance of the civilized world seemed drab when compared to Venice.
Across a horizon softened by twilight, Jacques searched for the symbol of Venice: the waterside entry to Piazza San Marco. Into view at last came the dignified column throned by a lion, its claws holding an open book with the inscription “Peace be unto thee, my Evangelist Mark.”
There was an unmistakable ache in Jacques’ breast, but the sights tempered his concerns. He greatly wished that Dominique—even Petrine the Spaniard—could share his homecoming.
Sitting back in his burchiello seat, he could not begin to articulate what home truly meant, but at this moment its sights and sounds whirled everywhere onshore.
His heart now practically jumped from his chest.
Carnivale, the longest lasting and grandest of Venice’s celebrations, was under way and would continue until Shrove Tuesday!
How long have I been absent from home to forget that this is Carnivale! Jacques laughed. Carnivale—farewell to the flesh.
Drawing closer to shore, he could make out the chirp of mounte-banks mixing with the sweet, sonorous songs of the gondoliers; the improviasatori strumming their guitars and mandolins; the calle comedians entertaining the revelers; the storytellers weaving their spells.
He beamed while a flood of pigeons circled the piazza and poured down in a silvery stream to the rooftops. He laughed, “Can the high-flying pigeons make out the prostitutes from the priests, beggars from patricians—clapping, cheering, carousing—all decked in their pearly masks and black dominos? Ah, to be a bird and take it all in at once.”
Soon he was engulfed in the aromas: orange peel, pumpkin seeds, perfumes, pomades, as well as the tempting smells of fried oysters, dried cod, and calamari. If La Serenissima’s best days were behind her, as Cardinal de Bernis and others claim, she would not still dazzle like this!
Then came a new scent, the mustiness of decay. Jacques tweaked his nose. Perhaps it will take a little patience to cope with this aspect of old Venice’s charm!
The burchiello swept ashore, but when Jacques tried to step to dry land, he was nearly shunted back aboard by the jostle of partiers. He slapped his hands together in exhilaration, suddenly intent on a raspberry fruit ice, an incessant craving since he’d left his mother’s breast. And it will drip down my chin, just like it always did.
He leapt like a fawn from the boat.
No sooner had he made his purchase and taken a lick than a strong slap on the shoulder jolted him. Jacques spun about and stared up and into a bautta—a black mask—through which gleamed two brown eyes. The bautta completely enshrouded the reveler’s head, face, and shoulders with a hood, short cape, and tricorne hat. Covering the reveler’s body was a long domino-style cloak.
“My friend,” shouted the shrill voice above the din, “if you are who I think you are, shouldn’t you borrow my mask and tabarro and stroll this town incognito?”
Jacques stared incredulously. Does this carnivaler truly know my past? What’s this person’s intent? I must buy some time.
“Who calls me friend?” Jacques said loudly.
“The three of us,” said the reveler, who gestured to the two disguised accomplices at his side.
Something splattered against Jacques’ shoulder. He shrunk back.
Squealing laughter erupted from the accomplices, whose arms intertwined those of their tall companion. One of the pair reached up and picked white specks from Jacques’ jacket.
“Scented water in eggshells,” laughed the decidedly female voice. She pointed at a man in the crowd. “The half-cracked one over there—the one dressed as a rooster—flings these.” The costumed female in front of Jacques began to strut like a cock, to the amusement of those around her.
“Sir, I again inquire,” said the tall figure, “tonight would you like to borrow my bautta? You may remember Carnivale costumes are worn to eradicate all social distinctions, all identification—”
“So in secret anyone may satisfy their most frivolous or their deepest desire,” giggled the female, strutting past.
The tall reveler leaned toward Jacques’ ear. “Are you not afraid the Inquisitori will clap its most infamous escapee in irons, hmmm, Signor Giacomo Casanova?”
I must keep my wits, although the standing hair on my neck tells me it avails me nothing. Jacques took a long, slow lick of his raspberry ice.
The figure spoke. “I will save you embarrassment, sir. I remove my mask, you see.”
“Tomaso,” Jacques exclaimed. “Tomaso! I should have recognized those brown eyes. Wonderful to see you!”
“Great to see you, old friend,” said the handsome man, who immediately wrapped his arms about Jacques, then kissed his cheek. “I knew this fellow in my youth, knew him as the Prince of Macaroni,” he bellowed to the two masked creatures who leaned against him. “Together he and I laughed and laughed and laughed. How long, old friend, is it that you’ve been gone?”
“Long enough,” Jacques winced, “to learn to cry.”
Tomaso’s mouth drooped.
“On the other hand, it appears I may be pardoned by the Inquisitori. That’s the better news.”
Tomaso slapped Jacques’ shoulders and placed him at arm’s length. “Excellent, excellent. And how’s Francesco? Your family?”
“It’s been too long since I’ve spoken of them, Tomaso. But you shall hear.”
“As shall these two,” Tomaso said, taking each of his accomplices under an arm while quickly exposing a female face beneath each mask. “We are prepared for great wonders tonight, and you, my newly arrived friend, are the very beginning of a miraculous evening.”
The girls tittered.
“And now,” Tomaso said, “take my mask and mantle. Wear it. For we shall light up this old town.”
Jacques feared his face would crack from the broad smile that governed it. He took a last lick of his raspberry ice. This, and all that surrounds it, tastes exactly as I wanted it to.
At Tomaso’s bidding, Jacques picked up the single bag that contained his possessions, shoved his smallsword out of harm’s way, and with friend and acquaintances, stumped madly onward into the crush of Carnivale.
Soon Jacques discovered, to his amazement, that his heart and mind lived in a different place altogether. Not that he wasn’t tempted by what Tomaso and his companions offered, but he’d lost his need for carousing.
Too quickly, he also found that his trip from Paris had produced a fatigue he could not overcome, and because Carnivale would continue for weeks, he asked his old friend for a respite from the night’s activities. At Tomaso’s residence, Jacques slept long and well.
Thirty-six hours later, the first of January, he removed the intricately folded packet from his pocket and reexamined it, confirming one more time that the Inquisitori lett
er had requested his presence.
Making his way to the interview address, he was again drawn to the Piazza San Marco, drawn to the white-and-rose-colored marble and the lace-like finishing of the Doge’s palace—under whose lead roof sat the prison he knew so well. I Piombi.
Jacques’ entire body grew stiff. My captivity provided an opportunity to ask questions of myself. I shunned every one. Forcing himself to a short bench, he slumped upon it, studying his quivering hands. All those years ago, I joked at friends’ predictions that my behavior would send me to prison. I wasn’t innocent, as I’ve claimed. My public controversies, the seductions, and blasphemous behavior. The rape accusation. My prank that paralyzed that man—forever. Shall I finally admit that I deserved imprisonment by the Inquisitori?
Jacques looked back at the Doge’s lead roof and watched the dissolving clouds beyond it. I might have saved myself some measure of—had I then possessed a courageous heart. But that time … is over.
Air rushed back into his chest. He stood up, briefly looked in all directions, then continued his trek.
There were few people on the narrow calli he walked, but all the rubbish and refuse confirmed many Carnivalers had passed through. The canals, too, were littered with feathers and confetti, shreds of bauttas, masks, and costumes. Jacques managed a tight smile.
Finally, he arrived before an old structure that matched the address on his appointment letter. The plainness of the exterior, he knew, disguised a refined interior. The peculiar way in which the houses were constructed also meant that the stairs blocked light from the sky, even now at midday. It was therefore customary to provide a lighted lantern, which Jacques now spied at the bottom of the steps.
After climbing a number of staircases, he knew the only door would be at the top. His breathing grew heavier with each turn. Was it the exertions or the chilly air, Jacques wondered? To speak the truth, he was uneasy.
Making his way up the final staircase, he took in several heavy breaths and, steadying himself, knocked. The door creaked open.
Secrets of Casanova Page 32