“Chevalier Casanova? Welcome.”
Jacques frowned at the title before stepping through the darkened doorway. A hand relieved him of the lantern.
Jacques immediately took in the large room. There was one exit only—an impressively carved door at the far end. Ornate sconces illuminated the bright orange walls; on each wall hung a massive vase brimming with flowers. The high ceiling was festooned with gaily-colored silks, each billowing freely above the marbled floor. He noted a low table at one side of the room, while at the opposite side, draped across an ottoman, were crimson velvet robes with furbelows and a hat sparkling with a rosette of diamonds. Overstuffed pillows strewn around the room completed the impression of a sultan’s seraglio. Jacques perceived ostentation and wondered whom this patrician endeavored to impress.
“I shall also take your cloak, Chevalier,” said the leathery-looking manservant. “And sword.”
“I prefer to wear my cloak, and I will retain—” Jacques reached behind his back for his dagger. It’s not on its hanger! I forgot it at Tomaso’s.
“I shall keep my sword,” Jacques said anxiously.
“A sensible man must,” answered a smooth voice.
For a moment, Jacques thought he recognized the masculine voice.
He directed his interest to the speaker, who entered from the far door. The black silk hood and mantle of Carnivale covered the man’s head and shoulders, while his face was hidden under a mustachioed mask. A long tabarro in scarlet—a color denoting nobility—stretched to the floor and was half thrown open, revealing a well-turned calf, then velvet breeches, doublet, and ruff. Jacques knew and recognized the comic character of Capitano, insolent braggart and vainglorious bully who, when acting upon the stage, is rattled by the mere rustle of leaves or cowers when a fellow character simply strikes a menacing pose.
Jacques’ insides churned. What passes?
“Again, welcome, Chevalier,” Capitano said. With two clicks of his fingers, he caught his servant’s attention. “Your services will not be required this afternoon, Dandolo.”
“Illustrissimo, si. Yes, illustrious one,” the servant replied. He bowed and left.
Suddenly, every pore in Jacques’ skin burned hot. Red hot. “Illustrissimo, si!” Are these Esther’s murderers?!
“I welcome you on behalf of the Most Serene Republic,” Capitano said.
Jacques slowly slid his hand to the hilt of his smallsword before executing his most stylish bow.
“Captain, with humbleness I ask—do I present myself to Zorzi Contarini dal Zaffo?”
“Your letter specified your attendance. It did not, however, say dal Zaffo would attend you.”
Jacques’ mind raced to figure the game.
“I’ve taken great pains to have a delectable feast prepared,” said the captain. “I do hope you’ve not eaten your main meal.”
“No.”
“Do you like this room?” roared the host as he took on the personality of Capitano, showing off his fit and trim physique and twirling the mustache on his mask. Not waiting for Jacques’ answer, he paraded to a sidewall and pulled on a short cord. A turntable rotated out of the wall, full with a dozen dishes. “This convenience,” he pointed to the device, “means we may dispense with servants so that we may discuss the business at hand.” He stepped toward Jacques. “Please take this covered tureen and put it at my place setting on the table. I shall bring us a casserole.” He gestured for Jacques to sit on a pillow at the low table.
Jacques glanced at the front and rear doorways, then with one eye on his host, he sat.
The captain removed a bottle of wine from the turntable and walked to the table. “It was my prestige and influence that resulted in your summons today, Jacques Casanova. If you thrive at this preliminary interview, the Inquisitori de Stato is amenable to my recommendation.”
I now know the man behind the mask. Jacques placed a hand on the table and abruptly changed the direction of the conversation. “I remind you that I’m a true Venetian who never forgets or forgives a slight.”
He succeeded in remaining stoic while the captain removed his tricorne, twisted his Capitano mask to the back of his head, removed his bautta and tabarro. “May I pour you a glass of wine?” asked the moon-faced man with the aquiline nose. “It is, I assure you, an excellent Scopolo.” A sparkle flooded his piercing blue eyes as he leaned toward Jacques. “I regret I have no Spaniol to offer today as I did in our first meeting.”
Jacques remained calm when he recalled the humiliating slap he had months ago received. He stared at the man who had given him that slap and made certain that Cavaliere Michele Grimani took the first sip of wine.
- 39 -
BIDING HIS TIME, JACQUES obliged his host by recounting inconsequential anecdotes, a favor that was shortly returned.
Two glasses of wine and several dishes later, Cavaliere Grimani, eyes gleaming in the candlelight, came to his point. “I’m prepared to tender a position, a worthy position, to you. It comes with generous remuneration. And a significant title: chevalier. I tried that appellation on you minutes ago. How do you find its fit?”
“Until one knows the true size of the position, its fit is both too small—and too large.”
“Let me remove all suspense. My proposition is one of agent. For Venice.”
“Agent? You mean spy.” Jacques coddled his glass.
“Did I say ‘spy’? That is your unsophisticated description. Allow me to elucidate,” Michele Grimani said, pouring Jacques another glass. “My memory even now recollects the phrases of Jacques Casanova’s prison escape letter. ‘I beg the Inquisitori de Stato to return my good name and my honor. For Venice is my heart and my home.’”
Grimani sniffed his glass. “Moving words,” he said. “The position I offer should suit to perfection a man with those sentiments.”
“What are the terms of the position?”
“One limitation only. But of little concern to a man of your bent. You are allowed to travel anywhere in our Serene Republic but not outside its borders.”
“My spying would be done only within Venice?”
Grimani nodded and took a drink.
Jacques impulsively blew a breath toward the ceiling and watched the swags of silk flutter. “And I would report to the Council of Ten?”
“Not precisely.”
“To you, then?”
“To me alone.”
Jacques pushed his wine glass to the side. Things are amiss, but I’m sorely put to unravel the whole of it. In the meantime, I must try to keep him off balance.
Michele Grimani’s fingers drummed the lid of the tureen. “Venice is on an uncertain course. She teeters on the precipice—”
“As must your prized family.”
Grimani reddened. “As I was saying, one nation or another might topple Venice. You’ve already accomplished an invaluable service for the republic by …”
Jacques leaned across the table toward his host, whose eyes now were blank. “To what invaluable service do you refer, Cavaliere Grimani?”
Grimani drew a breath to speak. His lips parted. Not a syllable sounded.
“Michele Grimani, it’s true I love Venice exceedingly. But it is truer still that I shall never be bound to one man’s will. I will never answer solely to you for the fate of the republic.”
Grimani’s lips stretched thin and stiff, distending his moonish face. Without a blink, he slowly edged the tureen toward Jacques.
The high, lean sound of the scraping dish grated Jacques’ ears. He arched away from the table as the tureen reached its position in front of him.
The Cavaliere’s blue eyes turned spiteful. “Many of us labor for the republic. I have toiled an entire lifetime for Venice. Even your Spanish valet has performed a service for Venice. Petrine was loyal to Jacques Casanova when Casanova could pay him. When Casanova could not pay him, Petrine became loyal to my wage.” Grimani extended a finger, pointing to the tureen. “Lift the lid.”
Jacqu
es cautiously removed the tureen lid. A gleam of gold struck his eyes.
He lapsed back into his chair, ears ringing.
“My snuffbox.”
“Petrine, you see, was in my employ early. On my orders, he removed the box from your possession at your brother’s in Paris.”
Jacques’ brain reeled. Deceived by Petrine. It’s true!
“You are to be lauded. You’ve been summoned to Venice because you—and your lackey—have been for me a tool, have provided an invaluable service, one that will insure the survival of the Republic of Venice.”
“I ask anew,” Jacques stammered. “What service to the republic?”
“This I foresaw,” Grimani crowed. “I told myself neither you nor any of my other pawns would recognize the richest potential.” He let out a rude laugh. “Oh, I may as well explain. Your treasure, scapegrace! Your treasure! As I suspected long ago, and as you have now proven, the man—the god we call Jesus—did not rise from the dead as the Church of Rome insists. No! When He died—as all men do—his corpse was preserved and hidden. Who can guess for what purpose? Well, it’s enough for me to declare that, in and of itself, the corpse of Jesus the Nazarene exists. Exists. Earthbound! Hah.”
“But you did not know where?”
Grimani nodded. “For years my family had possessed bits of information about the secret: I surmised there might be a vast amount of money as well as the actual corpse. But like others before me—yes, scores of others over the centuries—I could not piece together the clues. I knew, for example, that Nicolas Fouquet, Louis XIV’s finance minister a hundred years ago, was bound in an iron mask for withholding an immense secret from the king. But what knowledge, what exact clues Fouquet possessed, eluded me as it had eluded the king himself.” Grimani took a breath. “I knew, too, that the Church had for centuries suspected the existence of Christ’s dead body—here on earth. And the Church was willing to commit heinous crimes to obtain that boring corpse and dispose of it.”
Jacques showed confusion.
“You don’t understand?” Grimani cackled, his face growing purple with annoyance. “The corpse that I’ll now possess—“
“You’ll possess—?”
“Why, I need only threaten the Pope—threaten—to expose the fact that the divine Christ did not ascend to heaven as the Church maintains. What choice will the Pope of the Roman Catholic Church have but to bend to my every wish? Hah, what choice?” howled Grimani with a pernicious fury. “I see you wonder at my intent? Well … because the Pope has influence with every Catholic monarch in Europe, each royal throne will subtly bow to my will—and help sustain a triumphant Venice for another thousand years.” A grotesque expression hung on the man’s face. “You must admire my plan. You, too, yearn for Venice to thrive.”
“Not by these means.”
“By any and all means. Especially by employing the discovery of a lifetime. Of a dozen lifetimes. Hah. The Grimani family has sought to unravel this riddle, this secret, for three hundred years or more. And I alone am the one to succeed.”
“You have not yet succeeded.”
“I will direct Venice on her path to glory, the Grimani family name will reside in the Golden Book for another five centuries. Soon it shall be whispered that I am the power broker of Europe, and Cavaliere Michele Grimani—my name—will be eternally acclaimed for restoring Venice.” Grimani smiled with cloying sincerity. “I’m so proud I must twirl the mustache of my Capitano mask.”
“The Church will not sit idly by.”
“The Church of Rome has a formidable, ferocious arm. Yes, they will try to kill me. But I’m well-prepared to deal with its might.”
“I digest your game. I’ve unknowingly served you. Now to buy my silence about the discovery, you arrange a position for me so that I may protect you, to keep you alive, to support your despicable activities.” Jacques glanced at the snuffbox on the table before him, then eyed Grimani. “But why spare me? I’ve solved the riddle and discovered its treasure. You now might easily rid yourself of me.”
“My sentiments precisely.” Michele Grimani slapped the table. His smile dissipated. “But, I thought: parasites may be useful in particular situations. As bodyguards or as spies, for instance.”
“And you ordered Petrine—”
“He removes the treasure and corpse from where you discovered it even as we speak. He will hide it where I command.”
Blistering indignation coursed Jacques’ veins.
Grimani leaned back in his chair, smiled scornfully, and raised his glass in a toast. “Petrine is to be applauded. A former actor, applauded. How apropos.” He sipped his wine in satisfaction. “For relatively straightforward tasks, I relied on him. But as you must certainly recognize, Petrine is not to be trusted unconditionally. He was to silence Esther for me, but when at the crucial moment he lost his head, my personal valet was forced to initiate the—admittedly—unpleasant chore of eliminating her. Which, to my displeasure, I witnessed.” Grimani sighed. “After Petrine completes his work for me, he must be forfeited. Truly, I don’t trust a man motivated solely by the clink of coins, especially a man of his sort, of his station.
Jacques’ blood scalded his temples.
Quick as a snake, Grimani thrust his hand across the table, seizing the gold snuffbox.
Jacques reached for Grimani’s hand but was too late. The Cavaliere quickly tipped the gold object into his coat pocket.
“Give it here.”
“I think not.”
Choking the hilt of his smallsword, Jacques growled his formal challenge. “Are you disposed to take a walk?”
“You brave me? Over a snuffbox? How quaint. We need not go anywhere to fight. The privacy of this casino will do.” Grimani slowly and casually rose from the table. “I told Petrine,” he said, making a flippant gesture with his hand, “I told him you would not accept my career proposition.”
When Grimani turned and brazenly offered his back, the Capitano mask on the rear of his head came into view, startling Jacques. “My sweet sword is behind that divan,” Grimani said as he pranced to the far end of the room and retrieved the weapon. He promptly unsheathed, kicked away several pillows, and cleared a small path across the marble floor. “Your valet attempted to persuade me that you would bow to my control—if only you could return to your homeland. I countered that your brittle arrogance would not permit you to accept my generous offer.”
With his sword, Grimani made an elaborate salute. “I hoped—frankly, I knew—we’d come to this. You may recall that I’m a fencer of no small repute. Why, did you know that just one month ago, I fought and killed the renowned Signor DeLongo with this, my ancestral sword?” Grimani caressed the blade. “As for you, when I stick this sharp through your purblind heart, you will be gotten rid of. Venice will be rid of you. Your body will be taken to sea, shredded, and dumped. You and everything about you will be forgotten in short order. It will be as if you had never lived.”
Jacques’ cheeks fired red, his heart rippling with anger. He leapt from his seat, unsheathing his own steel. He did not salute but went en garde, the tip of his keen sword eye level at Grimani, who, across the room, posed nonchalantly.
From one side of the casino to the other, Michele Grimani paraded, leisurely booting pillows in his way, smelling flowers in each and every wall vase, chattering incessantly. He plucked a bloom from a wall vase, threw it toward a ceiling silk, and with a crisp thrust of his smallsword, impaled the thick stem of the flower. He slapped the bloom to the floor. “Years ago it occurred to me that twenty heads are better than one. I decided to maneuver others to accomplish my goal. Yes, I’m the master puppeteer of some of those men who had clues as well as some who were fed information I already had.”
“Was Vicomte Honoré de Fragonard one of these others?”
“And why should I tell you?” rebuked Grimani. “Oh, well, perhaps for the sake of what we shared.”
Jacques’ head twitched in confusion.
“A certain
blonde woman.”
A gust of rage shook Jacques. Squeezing his sword hilt, he advanced toward Grimani, who retreated, smiling wickedly.
“Long ago I figured Vicomte de Fragonard to be vital to my mission, but the turgid fellow wouldn’t cooperate. You see, I’d discovered that years before he’d been taken by his Freemason brothers, blindfolded, to a secret cavern to help preserve the corpse. He is, after all, one of the expert embalmers of his time, one of dozens, no doubt, who safeguarded the corpse over the centuries. But without the Vicomte’s help … well, his recalcitrance was maddening.” Grimani waved his blade tauntingly, then slashed the air with a breathtaking hiss. “I must confess, it gave me great satisfaction to personally eliminate him. You see, I don’t choose minions to carry out all my purges,” he sighed. “Imagine: many of my personal pawns are still traipsing the planet, trying to unravel the mystery. Hah. And you? You were the fortunate one able to solve the nearly impossible riddle,” he cried taking a step closer. “I say again, before you die, you are to be lauded for your service to my republic.”
“It is not service to your republic. The republic you desire is one of cold self-interest, of secret police, of false imprisonment, of tyranny, of all that free men detest. You may be willing to bring dishonor and ruin to Venice. I’m not.”
Grimani drew doublés in the air with the point of his sword. “Shall I remind you it was I who imprisoned you in I Piombi? It was by my order. You would have remained years. Until you’d rotted.”
Jacques thought of his flesh putrefying.
Then instantaneously, he recalled the flesh of another, the flesh of a bearded man he had seen with his own eyes and experienced with his heart. A man who, though deceased, bestowed a glimpse of compassion and peace.
Jacques’ rage immediately cooled. Calmness overtook him. When his grip on the smallsword loosened, he looked hard at Grimani. “I choose not to steal life from you. I’ll not fight.”
Jacques sheathed his sword, turned on his heel, and hastened out the front door.
Secrets of Casanova Page 33