The Secrets of Casanova (17 page)

Dominique came into sight, hauling a chair toward Francesco’s limp body.

“Dominique!”

When Jacques reached her, she had stretched tiptoe on the
chair’s edge, struggling to separate Francesco from the rope. Quickly, he pulled her down, then drew his dagger, bounded up, and furiously sawed the cord until Francesco, like a sack of grain, crumpled upon his shoulder, sending his ceramic mask plummeting to the floor,
where it smashed to pieces. Dominique dropped to the floor,
weeping openly, insanely.

“Fight, Brother, fight,” commanded Jacques, as he laid Francesco down. Smoke clogged Jacques’ brain. Flicking his eyes momentarily to the crackling flames one tier below, he crouched over Francesco and wrestled the rough cord from around his neck. The noose had
crushed the throat. He placed his ear to Francesco’s mouth. No
breath. He put his ear to Francesco’s body. No heartbeat. No life.

“Stay, Francesco. Stay with me.” Jacques felt his strength
collapse. “Don’t give up.” He wiped away foam from Francesco’s lips and
stuffed the contorted tongue back into his mouth. He cradled
Francesco’s head. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing to be done.”

Coughing on the harsh smoke, Dominique heaved herself to sitting.

Jacques’ gut jerked fiercely.
She mustn’t see him.
He ripped off his jacket, laying it over Francesco’s face, but the bulging, blood-red eyes
peered eerily through the tatters. When Dominique craned toward
him, Jacques turned away to see three musicians smother the balcony fire.

Dominique grasped the lifeless hand of her husband and folded it to her bosom, wailing piteously. Jacques turned and pressed his fingers to her cheek, watching the warm tears brim her eyes.

He lay down beside Francesco, hoping his brother might again bloom to life. Tenderly, he stroked his hair and cheek, then wrapped
his arm around Francesco’s massive chest, drew him close, and
leaned into his ear. “I’ve never held you in my arms.” He paused to calm his speech. He placed a quiet kiss on Francesco’s lips. “You’re my brother. Until the day I die, you’ll always be my little brother.”

The candles in the chandeliers burned lower, then lower still.

When the storm passed and the dawn of day began to break,
Jacques, Dominique, and Petrine carried Francesco down the
balcony stairs, settling him on the empty ballroom floor, while servants offered what little aid they could to the few injured spectators who yet remained. No one offered assistance to Jacques.

In through the garden door trudged Carlo Brose, staggering past
the wretched and grief stricken. The husky man, mud caking his
costume, champagne bottle swinging from his hand, full mask fixed
to his face, sprawled to the ballroom floor amid the debris. He
throated
a thick drunken laugh. “What a sight. Bread, blood, defecation,
death.” Raising himself to his elbow, he waved a finger about. “But then, hearing those swaddled bluebloods screeching like hares in a trap. And also my Marquise. Probably somewhere face down in the muck, where she …” Brose’s eye found the vanquished Jacques Casanova.
“Herr Adventurer, you must depart this tawdry—you don’t
belong—you, a much-dejected fellow. I could forgive you if you slobbered on great God. But this?” Brose let loose a brazen howl.

From out of nowhere, Brose produced a small book. “Hah! Stole this from your pocket last night!” He thumbed the pages awkwardly and gloated for some time until, lifting his masked head, he stared at Jacques.

“Horace—born before Jesus—
speaks,
Herr Adventurer. Speaks to
us in this very room.” Brose sucked up a breath, held it, then bleated. “‘We are but dust and shadow,’ says the Roman. ‘Dust and
shadow.’”

Brose pulled the book to his bosom, rolled to his back, and
closed his eyes. His mask gave the appearance of an innocent, slumbering child until he spoke again: “You don’t belong, Jacques Casanova.”

FRANCESCO CASANOVA WAS BURIED TWO DAYS LATER
in unconsecrated ground. The interment of suicides in consecrated ground, which included all the cemeteries in France, was forbidden
by the Catholic Church. And it was only by sheer luck that
Francesco’s corpse avoided being drawn naked through the street, pelted with mud and stones, and hanged, as civil law required.

What now of Dominique? Eviscerating grief raised a stone wall
around her; this she told Jacques, and for the time-being, he
understood.

Despite the great sadness in her heart, there was still an urging, a deep desire to live. But there was aimlessness, too. Clarity was gone. Pressing and immediate obligations and duties seemed trite.

Even so, her common sense, albeit considerably shaken,
whispered it was, in fact, her duty that would see her through all this—her
common sense would be the means by which she might wrest her
soul
from the ether of uncertainty, of anguish, of confusion, guilt, and
grief.

Walking the streets of Paris at daylight, she found herself
repeating words that must have originated in a hymn or a sermon or maybe from her father’s mouth. Perhaps they were the priest’s words when her father was laid into the ground. “Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower. He fleeth as if he were a shadow
.
” Great sorrows washed through her.

Dominique prayed, but more, she wanted to stand on a
mountaintop
and scream to humanity that all is false, sham; then, in a calmer
voice, she might speak with grace.
Take notice
, she wanted to say.
Our lives
are ending. Grasp close those whom you love. Clothe their souls with
significance. Tell them true stories. Give them stories with meaning and matter.

Roaming Paris, Dominique heard nothing of substance communicated, only the trivial, inane chatter that people blathered day in, day out. It was as if all mankind were unaware their lives were finite, for if they possessed that knowledge, how could they possibly wallow in the fatuous, in the mindless, in the emptiness?

Less than a week after Francesco’s death, Dominique entered her
room, kneeled at her chair and, saying a “Hail Mary,” closed her
eyes until the last vestiges of the day’s sun played through the window. “Good Lord and Savior,” she prayed, “I come in humility, to ask again for Your forgiveness. Let me be grateful for Francesco. Bless him, I pray. He was gentle. Kind. Untarnished by the world. He was
my friend. You allowed us a time together. I pray, let all this not be
… I ask that you forgive Francesco.”

Dominique’s head fell forward. She wept rueful tears.

***

Amid the morass of bewildering events and feelings, certain
commonplace actions were still required, one of which was
unusually difficult for Jacques. He informed Petrine that, funds being what they were, there would be no more wages or even room or board.

He doesn’t know about the gold Grimani paid me at L’affaire de
Voltaire. And he could not possibly know I lost it, probably while swaying in the arms of D’Ampie.
“I can assuredly be a future reference for you,” Jacques tried to cheer the valet. “And when I have your back pay, be sure that you’ll receive it.”

Petrine, a proud Spaniard, seemed puzzled, but offered his trust
in his master’s good intentions, then thanked him for being
forthright. “Have you a notion for the future, sir?”

Jacques began nodding, then looked Petrine in the eye and
shook his head no.

Without a further word, the valet pulled together his few effects,
tramped down the stairs, and melted into the teeming crowd,
knowing he would never collect wages from his master.

Late that night, Jacques gathered together his brother’s
possessions, now his inheritance. With grim and ghastly effort, he sat on his bed and examined each item. There were less than a dozen articles of clothing, including Francesco’s flannel stockings, a sleeping gown, a pair of shoes, gloves, and trousers. “I once purchased seventy-five
shirts of the finest linen, Francesco. And as many Masulipatam
handkerchiefs. And you have but two of each.”

Francesco’s other assets were a pair of sunshades, his
smallsword
and oilcloth sheath, tools and paints, canvases, and numerous
paintings and sketches. Jacques would pack everything.

“Brother,” he suddenly cried, “you’ve hurt me to the quick! I
must not think of you again.”

Night passed into day. That morning, Dominique found
succulent
vegetables at the market and accepted a loaf of bread from a
neighbor
while Jacques worked in the kitchen baking sole. Together they
silently prepared for the day’s main meal, knowing it was one of the last at the residence.

Jacques took it upon himself to see the tablecloth was clean and well-appointed with Dominique’s prettiest utensils and hollowware. Between the two settings—his and Dominique’s—Jacques laid a small flower. He knew then, more than ever before, this tenderness toward this woman to be a singular, exceptional privilege.

Soon midday sunbeams streamed through the small window of the room and goldened the bloom.

“I’ve a white wine that compliments the fish,” Jacques said to Dominique while she readied herself for the meal. “And for dessert, I have a sack full of nonpareils.”

“Shall we sit?” At table, Dominique blessed the food.

“Your presentation is excellent,” Jacques said, indicating the colorful food set before him. “Excellent.”

“Thank you. I’ve done my best.” Dominique unwrinkled her lips
into a slight smile. “I must say, everything smells wonderful,
Jacques. And even though Francesco convinced me that you’re not much of a cook, yet he’d surely welcome this.”

“He would.” Jacques raised his wine glass to Dominique.

By her third bite, Dominique was sobbing.

She’ll seek my eyes if she wants sympathies. I must remind myself that this daily outpouring may continue—

 “These”—she held up her fork, knife, and spoon—“were a
present from Francesco in our first year. I’d forgotten until now.”

“I understand.”

“He’s gone. He’ll never sit at the table again.”

“He’s gone, Dominique. We must accept it.”

“Why?”

“Why accept it? Or why is he gone?”

Dominique snorted.

Jacques felt the hot blaze of his cheeks.

“Why?” she said. “Why?” She began a hoarse laugh, which
ticked into a sharp upsurge. “Francesco was miserable. His dreams were
crushed. Did you know that on the night of L’affaire de Voltaire—
potentially his greatest success—Francesco slashed his battle
painting? And held a dagger to his throat?”

“I’d no inkling.”

Dominique continued, tears rushing down her face. “Francesco
lied to you. Small lies. Big lies.” She bent forward over her plate. “I
lied, too. I once told you your brother had firsthand knowledge of his
models, his pretty models. None of it was true. Francesco never had
any of the girls. Nor me. Francesco and I never consummated our
marriage. We never once made love in seven years. He tried. But—
never.”

Jacques’ hand slid from his chin to the table. In that instant he realized why his brother had so keenly sought the erotic miniatures.

Dominique’s tears streamed faster. “For a long while, I believed
he found me repellent, that I was the cause of his failure. Until one
odd afternoon, he revealed he’d made several attempts with a favorite
model. To no avail, he said. He couldn’t make love to anyone—as
vigorous as he might appear. It humiliated him. Made him bitter and
unkind. Slowly changed the quality of his paintings. Why did
Francesco kill himself? In the misery of his impotence and in the desecration of his artistic dreams, he felt powerless. And if he knew about you and me, well, he turned that displeasure inward, and the black, helpless hole captured him. He was not the same man I married. I knew, I sensed it, but I did not foresee his death.”

“Dominique—”

“Francesco understood, yes,
knew
I wanted children. And I
deluded myself that when his paintings sold at the fête, he’d have money, standing, and maybe greater confidence. Maybe then be
able
to have children.” The woman cupped her forehead with both hands and let loose a shrill lament. “I’ve hurt him so terribly, planning the fête. I drove him to … I killed him.” Hard pain suffused her face.

Jacques—his whole frame trembling—rose, crossed to the
grieving
woman, and kneeled beside her. He waited some time before
speaking.
“This is, no doubt, the time to be frank,” he said. “Even in our
boyhood,
Francesco never … partook of the girls. One night in particular,
several of us gave over to sharing a willing young lady’s favors. Francesco begged off, claiming he was ill. During those times, I might have
suspected he wasn’t able to perform, but I never, ever considered
that his unnatural state would last. Into marriage.” He placed his hand upon Dominique’s. “I assume he didn’t tell you about his condition before you married?”

Dominique nodded.

“He should be faulted for this. And moreover, you must not
now feel responsible for his end.”

A long, long silence passed.

Giving her the flower on the table, Jacques led Dominique to the bed in the adjoining room where, saying nothing, he sat beside her and kissed her cheeks, then her mouth. He desired her. He said this. But she replied that, for her part, this was not the time.