The Secrets of Casanova (19 page)

What sort of consolation is that for Dominique?
thought Jacques, who was growing impatient to resolve his brother’s business.

The Vicomte, his eyes reflecting brightly the flames of a dozen candles, invited Dominique to stand, which she did. Pulling on his shillelagh and pushing hard against his chair, he rose and hobbled his way next to her. He bid Jacques join them. When the small circle was complete the old man stared deeply into Jacques’ eyes, then Dominique’s. Without saying a word, he tugged both at the waist and began to warble a melody, then to sing in an unrecognizable language.

The man could not hold a tune, but what bittersweet feelings he brought forth. Jacques saw Dominique’s tearful eyes and feared he might be drawn into the sentiment.

When the Vicomte finished, he asked the woman to sit. Then he beckoned Jacques.

The perplexed adventurer glanced at Dominique’s puzzled face before following the crippled man into an adjoining room with one narrow table set with several lit candles.

As Fragonard turned, the jittering flames illumined half his countenance.

“Jacques Casanova, as I appealed to your heart, I now appeal to your spirit. You once said that you try to obtain the greatest possible knowledge.”

Jacques began to speak, but the Vicomte, standing at the edge of the table, slowly raised his shillelagh. “I belong to a fraternity of men who share that strict goal. I’ll say that, in searching for truth and wisdom, we have been mocked, and what’s more, threatened. With excommunication. At one time there was an interdiction on our lodge meetings. Now Louis Quinze neither helps nor hinders our order. In any event, the band of brothers who have surrounded me for the last forty years has provided a shelter where intellectual unrest, worldly ambitions, and moral confusion could be addressed. And satisfied.” The old man shifted his stance. “I presume you will leave Paris as there is no tangible opportunity for you here now. ‘Many thy boon companions at the feast but few the friends who cleave to thee in trouble’.” The Vicomte put both hands on his shillelagh and leaned toward Jacques. “It is my greatest sorrow that I shall not now have the pleasure of introducing you to, or possibly inducting you into, my community, the underground stream. But knowing the genuine tragedy that has befallen you, who you are and who you might become, I offer you—as I did some time ago—a different turn in your life.”

Putting a hand over his heart, the Vicomte stared into the
candlelight, then looked back to Jacques. “Let me say simply that I’ve decided to
gift you with something.” The Vicomte searched for words.
“Nothing
on this earth can prove of better fortune. A treasure of inestimable value.”

Jacques felt his pulse quicken. “Treasure? Riches?”

The Vicomte offered a stern face. “If that is what you believe you need.” He inhaled deeply, loudly. “You have a path to choose, as I did at your age. That is all I say to you.”

The old man set his shillelagh against the table, dug deeply into his waistcoat, and produced what appeared to be a rolled vellum the length of a man’s hand. The two men exchanged an earnest look.

“Here is a future, my boy. I no longer have the cover for the scroll. But given your ingenuity, this scroll may suffice.” The old man gripped Jacques’ shoulder. “Are you familiar with the Knights Templar, the Knights Templaris?”

“Some, yes. What I’ve heard over the years. I know they were warrior-monks of the Roman Catholic Church. Monsieur de Voltaire spoke of them derisively, I recall.” 
Jacques’ heart pounded furiously. “Weren’t the Templars
persecuted—?”

“Yes, persecuted in the early 1300s by Philippe the Fair. For their heresies, their orgies—King Philippe falsely claimed. The truth is that they were tortured for a long-kept secret they held.”
Fragonard’s hand quivered. “The Templar order dissolved. But
listen to me closely. Rely on their good name. Their
good
name. Remember. I entrust you with a secret of a lifetime. A hundred lifetimes.” Vicomte Honoré de Fragonard held tightly the rolled document before placing it in Jacques’ hands. His eyes welled with tears.

Jacques felt blood rush to the end of his fingertips and toes. He carefully cradled the scroll—which seemed not vellum but a fine linen or parchment—before placing it in his waistcoat pocket. “I’ll remember the Templars’ good name, sir. And I greatly, greatly thank you for your trust, for this opportunity.”

The Vicomte gestured toward the door as he picked up his shillelagh and blew out the candles. Moments later, the two men were in the room where Dominique sat.

The Vicomte addressed them both. “You may have your letters delivered here as you asked, Jacques. My majordomo will save them all. And for you, madame, here is the sum I owed your husband. He was a superlative copyist, as you must know. And a fine artist in his own right.” The Vicomte handed a small bag to Dominique.

As she accepted the money, her lips trembled, but she took the old gentleman’s hand and lightly kissed it. His cheeks puffed out; he was embarrassed.

“Please go now. The coach I’ve provided is ready and waiting for you. If God is willing, we shall see one another again, Jacques Casanova.”

Jacques led Dominique to the door, where Vicomte Honoré de Fragonard executed an elegant and beautiful bow. He then turned away from his guests and shuffled toward the candles, blowing out each in turn. “Let us not stand on ceremony. You may find your own way,” he mumbled as he blew out the last candle, disappearing completely into the darkness. “
Dieu vous garde
. God keep you.”

Jacques took hold of Dominique, and leading her through the house with which he was somewhat familiar, they made their way outside to the waiting team of four.

Jacques helped Dominique into the coach and sat beside her,
wondering at her calmness.

It was not long after their departure, however, that he felt his ears grow hot from the words issuing from her mouth.

“As you are aware, I have of late been in a vaporous condition. With time, Jacques, this will pass. What shall not pass is my general situation. I’ve few means. And I’ve no protector.”

He felt Dominique’s arm and leg growing stiff.

“After prayer and reflection these last few days,” she said, “I’ve decided my domicile shall be a convent.”

Jacques squirmed. He was pleased and displeased.
A convent?
He studied the shadows that played across the coach window, feeling ill at ease.
Circumvent
.

He explained that in his homeland Venice, a woman did not
enter the convent for religious devotion. Many women simply wanted to
gain freedom from the ways of the world. They were able to
entertain visiting friends, their physical needs could be met, and so forth. In brief, the convent might be the answer Dominique sought.

Jacques rubbed his pocket containing the scroll. “But hold off on
your decision, Fragoletta. A bit.” Her darkened shape for a quick moment was outlined brightly in the moonlight. “Is that
reasonable?”

Home by midnight, Jacques hurried to his room, lit a pair of candles, and plopped on the bed. He reached for his snuffbox, took the last of some crab’s-eye, and snuffed it, while from the pocket of his silk jacket he pulled out Fragonard’s scroll. The thing was neither vellum nor parchment but a material with which he was not familiar. Unfurling a small portion of the scroll revealed a strange figure
-^—^-
in its uppermost corner. Drawn on the opposite corner was the number
1300
, and in the middle a series of very small concentric circles. Jacques unrolled the document with great care.
Very fragile
. On the inside were four Latin sentences:

Ab Uno disce omnes
. “From one, learn to know all.”

Next,
Scire omnes, tres tantum requirit.
“To know all, you need but three
.
”

Then
Est modus in rebus
. “There is measure in all things.”

Finally,
Siste viator
. “Stop, traveler.”

In the wide margin to the left were ten letters in a vertical column: “S-O-N-B-O-I-S-I-L-A.” Jacques rubbed his chin. He’d seen “bois” before—“woods” in French, not Latin. But he’d never before heard that word included in the middle of a word, French or otherwise. No other characters or letters were visible. Jacques pawed his scalp.
This—this—is the greatest secret of Fragonard’s life? This unfathomable nonsense? Was it Fragonard who composed this puzzle?

Jacques pressed his fingers against his forehead. The Vicomte was an irascible character, yet he appeared sincere when he spoke of the value of his treasure and of his experiences. But is not sincerity a device of all charlatans? What had the old man to gain, however, by misleading Jacques?
I’ve been deceived before, but … no, I do discount the old man’s scroll. And his promises.

Jacques choked for air. The night was tepid with little breeze
coming through the window. His head pounded. Conjecture
overpowered him at
every turn. He arose, perhaps too quickly, only to become
lightheaded.

Curling up the scroll, he placed it in his jacket pocket. He blew out the candles, undressed quickly, and slid under the coverlet.
Time is short. Other decisions must be made
.

A KNOCK ON THE DOOR
startled Jacques.

“The sun is up. Are you awake?” asked Dominique.

“Barely, but come in, Fragoletta.” The door swung wide, bringing with it welcome fresh air and a pair of familiar faces.

“Petrine,” exclaimed Jacques.

“At your service, sir.”

“But you aren’t—”

“Petrine returns to the fold,” Dominique said. “He’ll explain while I cross the street and speak with the landlord.” She smiled and left the room.

Jacques rubbed his sleep-filled eyes, climbed out from under his covers, and sat upright on the bed opposite Petrine. For a time, both talked of small matters until the valet interrupted.

“Sir, Madame is correct. I’ve returned—for board only—if you’ll have me back. I’ve decided to cast my lot with a man of your stature, there being few about who are as bold and brilliant as yourself. But, sir—you know me—I’ll not be importunate in my request.”

Jacques’ brow briefly furrowed, dubious of his valet’s return. “I
thought a wage was your paramount interest. I reiterate: a
manservant remains a luxury I cannot afford. For now.”

Petrine laughed. “Understood.” Then the valet pressed his finger across his lips, shut the door, and crossed back to Jacques. “Sir, it’s
miraculous. Have you
not
been visited by the debtor’s prison
authorities, sir?”

“No, Petrine, it’s probable that I’ve been shielded by Cavaliere Grimani’s great name. At least until the night of the ball. But I thank you for your concern. As you know, fear does not motivate my actions but—”

“Even prison, sir?”

Jacques squirmed uncomfortably.

Neither man said anything until Petrine spoke. “Sir, I hear
footsteps in the hallway.”

Dominique’s voice sounded. “Jacques, Petrine—are you plotting something? Why is the door closed this hot summer morning?”

Petrine leapt to the door and swung it wide.

“Oh!” Dominique started. To Jacques she marched. “The landlady has softened a bit. We have until noon tomorrow to be gone from here.”

“Yes, time is crucial,” Jacques muttered. He looked at Petrine. “Did you know Dominique intends to join a convent? ‘Forbear, lady, forbear,’ I bade her.”

Petrine turned slowly toward Dominique, rolling his brown eyes in their sockets.

She frowned.

“I smell a skirmish,” Petrine said, wagging his finger. “But I
don’t take sides. Believe me, I know how to hold my tongue.”

“Hmm,” replied Jacques, arching an eyebrow. He did not look at Dominique but stammered in her general direction. “I’ve asked this lady to delay her decision. For … just … until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow?” asked Dominique.

***

By twilight, Petrine had finished his assigned chores. He
requested
the evening off so that he might see one or two Parisian
acquaintances, possibly for the last time. Dominique and Jacques took a coach to the
Tuileries, then strolled the promenade until Jacques found a
secluded
café, where the two shared wine and melancholy conversation
before returning to the apartment. Their lovemaking lasted late into the night, when gentle sleep overcame them.

At dawn, Jacques reentered his own room. Everything—upside down!
Robbed!

He snatched the jacket he’d thrown on the bed the night before and frantically searched its pockets. Fragonard’s scroll was safe. He quickly draped the coat over his shoulders.

Dominique appeared at the door, plucking at her sack dress. “Heavens, what’s happened?”

Jacques confirmed the break-in, when Petrine suddenly
appeared, ogling the disaster. The three stood quiet until the valet broke the stillness, asking if he should put the mess back in order. “To this
wary Spaniard, sir, this is a clear sign,” he said. “We should rid
ourselves of this town.”

Dominique grimaced.

Visibly shaken, Jacques stayed Petrine’s actions and began to sift through the shambles himself. He immediately discovered that his keepsake, his gold snuffbox, was gone. Yet his pistols and case of smallswords were still in the room, as were the paste jewels. He scoured the floor under the bed.

“
My purse! French louis from Michele Grimani! Missing!”

“
What
purse?” Petrine cried. “What—?” He looked queerly at
Jacques, then closed tight his eyes for several seconds. “Are you
sure?”