The Secrets of Casanova (37 page)

“Magni—tude,” replied Petrine in idiotic singsong.

Quentin turned toward the lethargic servant, whose long,
rumpled hair obscured his face. He drew in a breath, shifted his body, and thinned his eyes. “It is held, Petrine,” Quentin said, choosing his
words syllable by syllable, “that the mystery will direct us to
something of enormous value.” He tucked gray hair behind his ear and made with his hand the sign of the cross before circling it around his mouth and whispering loud enough for Jacques to hear. “We seek the Son of God.”

“Yes, the Son of God,” Jacques said, defiance rising in his voice. “He’s someone whose acquaintance I must surely make. It goes without saying. Be that as it may, my future is determined. I shall write a firsthand account of the horrific scenes in Lisbon, return to
Paris, and sell my account to the public. I’ll again be the talk of
Europe. Indeed, the toast of Venice.”

Quentin’s jaw dropped. His voice flared. “Making money on the miseries of others? This is the time for righteous actions—a noble enterprise—that may go a long way toward healing you.”

Ignoring Quentin, Jacques mused further to a vacant Petrine. “I may be nothing now, valet. But I’ll again be respected, recognized, recognizable.” Jacques paused. “Maybe even to myself.”

“UNFORTUNATELY I’M MORE DELICATE
than I appear. I’m not used to riding.” Quentin laughed nervously, his eyes reflecting the scarlet sunset. “One trip up from Lisbon city on this mare, and my skin is raw.” The horse boxed, its flailing head barely missing Petrine, who stood next to Jacques.

Quentin’s face turned ashen. With extreme delicacy, he climbed from the saddle. “I also found—without intending to—the old girl gallops like the wind.” He laughed again and fiddled the horse’s mane. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have rescued her, but she was loose, with no owner or rider anywhere in sight.”

Quentin pushed the reins into Jacques’ hands. While scanning up and down the path adjacent to his dwelling, the Jesuit lowered his breeches and examined his inner thighs.

“The skin has been excoriated from the flesh,” Jacques said,
looking around Quentin’s shoulder. “Well done, well done. Or
should I say rare? Bloody and rare?”

Quentin’s attention was all for his legs. “I’ve some aloe as well as other medicines I shall apply. In the meantime, you’re welcome to the horse.”

Without a second thought, Jacques shook his locks and,
tightening the surcingle, hopped into the saddle and kicked his heels hard into the mare’s belly.

That night, Quentin pulled a blanket around his shoulders, while the mare, tied up inside the palace wall close by, whinnied and continued eating the scrubby grass. Through the smoke of the cook fire, Quentin glanced at Petrine, then up at Jacques, who stood over the limp flames.

“Now that the mare is in our possession,” Jacques said, “I’ll be going down to Lisbon.”

“To minister to the needful people?”

“No, my mind is not changed. In Lisbon, nothing—or no one—will touch me. Nor I them. My plan is to take notes on what I hear, see, and smell, then based on close observations, each night I’ll write my pamphlet within the confines of these walls.”

“My opinion is you will also recommence our scroll search, with me or without me,” Quentin said. “What I know for certain is that I’m a weary man who no longer has the vigor to carry on. By myself. Yet still, still my deep desire, my need, is to find the Christ, to know the truth of this matter. That necessitates utilizing your youth, Jacques Casanova, and your worldly wisdom.” Quentin’s voice grew staunch. “In the search, you’ve been a catalyst for me. My heart, Jacques, knows you’ll continue to seek. And because of who you are, the treasure you may discover is greater—”

“I don’t require you, your speeches, or your nag.”

“Let us be forthright, signor. You may be at times beyond reason. But you’re keen enough to stay near me. For my purse. For my foodstuffs.”

Jacques found he did not have a response. He turned away.
The Jesuit speaks true. I use him. All my life I’ve used people for their purse or
for what I could secure from them. My brother. Cardinal DeBernis.
Dominique.
Perhaps I am a leech. A mere parasite, as Cavaliere Grimani insisted. A
parasite that needs a host on which to feed.

Quentin raised a finger. “Yes, you need my assets. But I require your back and brains. In order to help each another, God has seen to it that our destinies intertwine.”

An ember burst from the fire, offering brief light to the black night.

“Very well, borrow the mare!” Quentin barked. “Join me in my treks into the capital each day. Go your own way while in town. Write your pamphlet each and every night. But know that I, in spite the warnings of the king’s men, intend to minister to those in need as well as continue our scroll search as best I can.” The Jesuit leapt to his feet and marched away.

***

At early morning, walking side by side with Petrine, Quentin
chattered. Jacques, on horseback and lost in his distemper, paid no
attention.

“I’ve noticed the number of refugees has decreased,” Quentin said. “Many of these displaced souls have probably been detained for lack of proper papers; some, sad to say, have succumbed to wild animals or starvation; some turned back because of the weather.” Quentin looked up at Jacques. “This route down into Lisbon has not been hospitable for some.”

“Whoa.” Jacques jerked the reins. The mare halted, frosty air gusting from her nostrils.

Ahead on the precipice, a naked corpse caged in the hoops of a metal gibbet, a man’s body broken on the wheel, and a pack of wretched onlookers blocked the path.

Quentin whispered to Jacques. “A warning that uncivil activity will be punished by the king’s authorities.”

Jacques gave the horse a heel, leading Quentin and Petrine with
a solemn plod until they reached a standstill alongside this omen of
doom.

From within the abject crowd, a child’s voice rang out. “Mother, do you think a man, even if he be sinful, can go to heaven?”

There was not a murmur until a woman sternly answered. “The Church says when Christ returns at the Last Judgment, the chosen ones will ascend to heaven with Him.”

“Yet another belief tells us that Christ does not lead us to
heaven. We may make our own way,” Quentin said, words spilling from his mouth. “Man can learn. Man can change. We make our own way.”

“Without a priest?” piped a voice.

“Without even a Pope,” Quentin said.

“You speak heresy,” rumbled a voice.

“Heresy. Evil,” barked someone else. “That which the heretic Voltaire spouts.”

Before Jacques’ eyes grew round and glassy, he cried out to the
onlookers from atop the mare. “Many, many eons ago I met the
illustrious Voltaire. I can state to you he is long, lean, and without buttocks. He needs flesh. Or he needs heat.”

Several rumblings buzzed through the crowd while Jacques tugged his coat collar about his neck, regally dismounted, and tied
his reins to the gibbet. “
This
poor fellow,” Jacques pointed to the
naked corpse in the gibbet, “needs more than heat. He needs heat and light. Light. Illumination.”

Jacques, spying a young woman at the front of the mob, flapped his hand. “Mademoiselle Stench, do you stare at me? Or at the gibbeted fellow whose head has been shaved and tarred?” he asked,
all the while jiggling the red ribbon on his coat. “Allow me to
introduce myself. Pope Benedict himself presented to me this Order of the Golden Spur.” Several in the crowd strained for a view. “‘Tis my reward. For trying to outwit His Holiness. ‘Tis.”

Jacques left the gibbet, meandered toward the girl, words sliding from the side of his mouth. “The world’s not sane, I know.” He pushed out his chest and plucked at the red ribbon. “Touch, if you like, mademoiselle.” Towering over her, he purred. “Touch me. Any of you. All of you. While I yet exist.”

The woman extended her hand timidly, placing it on Jacques’ medal. Moments passed before Jacques removed her hand, batted his eyes like a budding ingénue, then sauntered seductively toward Quentin Gray. “This man has a map. A map to find the Son of God. He does. And he’s hinted,” Jacques smiled wickedly, “he’s told me if I abide with him, I, too, shall find the Son of God.” Rolling his eyes, Jacques threw his head backward toward the corpses confined in the gibbet and wheel. “I say I’ve as much chance of finding the divine as the pair behind me.”

“Man’s a lunatic,” snarled a woman’s gruff voice.

“Heresiarch,” another cried.

The grumbling grew louder while Jacques casually retrieved the reins of the mare, mounted, and squared himself in the saddle. He scarcely noticed Quentin hustle Petrine around the crowd and down the road.

“Do not ask yourself too many questions,” Jacques cried to the wretches. “You may find answers that make you unhappy.” Jacques’ voice faltered. “Answers that may do you damage. Destroy you.” He dug his heels into the mare’s flanks. “Farewell. Peace be with you. Peace be with me,” he shouted into the frigid air as he galloped onward toward Lisbon.

Riding into the capital later, Jacques found desolation. Buildings,
churches, shops, homes—crushed and burnt civilization, mangled ruin.

From beneath an enormous, jagged stone a half-dozen human
arms could be seen, resembling, for all the world, an ungainly
gargantuan
spider. Further along, a friendless colt, stained fetlock deep in
burgundy-black blood, neighed. Scene after curious scene presented itself until Jacques, sick at heart, galloped away from Lisbon—the stench of ubiquitous death in his nostrils.

***

The wind wheezed through the uneven stones of Conde de Tarouca’s palace wall, producing an odd, aggravating clamor while Jacques, at the far corner of the dwelling, took a seat astride one of
his traveling trunks—for the present, his table. Off to his side,
Petrine sat, still and quiet.

In the nearing darkness, Jacques couldn’t see what he furiously scribbled on the paper, but he loudly voiced the words he wrote. “Half-expecting the Scylla to ensnare me while I tailed through the catastrophic mess past the library of Lisbon—incredibly, still intact,
and able, without apology, to accommodate Human Truth—a
dreadful odor assailed me, giving notice that pathetics must lie close at—”

A crunch of boots on rocky soil announced Quentin’s approach. Jacques glanced at him, then bent further over his work.

“A good evening to you both,” Quentin said, squatting across from Petrine to hand him his cup.

Petrine drank greedily, soon emptying the vessel. Retrieving the cup, Quentin sat on the ground while Jacques, giving no salutation, grunted threateningly.

After a while, Quentin began lightly mouthing words. Soon he could be heard just above the bursts of racing wind. “
Ab uno disce omnes
. From one, learn to know all.”

Jacques rolled up his sheaf of papers and gripped them as if choking the life from an enemy. Out of spite, he cited the third verse. “
Est modus in rebus
. There is a proper measure in things.”

“That’s your translation of the Latin? Is that how you interpret it?” Quentin asked, setting his cup aside. “No.
Est modus in rebus
, I say, is ‘The golden mean should always be observed.’”

Jacques shot a fierce look.

Quentin pressed his palms together. “Could it be that in some manner both translations are valid? Equally valid?”

Jacques turned his backside to Quentin and Petrine.

Brief flashes of lightning silvered the sky. The mare, tethered not far away, pawed the ground.

Petrine snorted. “One of these days soon,” he crowed, “I shall be a titan and travel in a well-appointed coach and six. With robust
horses, a coachman, two footmen in liveries, a postilion, a jolly
gentleman on horseback, and a young page with a feather in his cap.”

“Well, there’s a lofty ambition if ever I heard one,” said Quentin. Astonishment slowly claimed his face. He turned toward the valet. “A full thought, Petrine! The first and complete thought you’ve uttered since … and what a protracted thought it is, man! Well, I’m glad your firmer nature has—is—returned. Well, well, well.”

“Tomorrow, Petrine, you’ll forage for us,” Jacques snarled
without pause. “Understand me?”

Petrine nodded his head. “Yes. Yes, sir. And when we find the
treasure trove, then the coach and six?” he asked.

Quentin laughed. “Once you have your coach, be so kind as to
ride me down into Lisbon each day. That would be the lap of
luxury.” His eyes toughened when he turned to Jacques. “
Est modus in rebus
. The golden mean should always be observed. Think on it. Please.”

***

Jacques awoke fitfully the next morning—a cruel, hard wind
etching all that remained of the palace walls. At a distance he saw Quentin holding the reins of the mare.

“Shall we make our start down to Lisbon?” asked Quentin.

Petrine, demeanor grave, stood nearer, unbundled to the cold,
enveloped in a bank of fog, switching at his leg with a slender twig. He appeared more apparition than man.

“Ronyon, bring me my snuff,” Jacques yelled. “And my gold snuffbox.”

Petrine stiffened. “Master, I have no snuff. And certainly not
your snuffbox.”

“Certainly not,” Jacques cried back, a tinge of skepticism in his voice. He flicked his hand in an imperial wave as if to say
never mind
and pulled his blanket tighter to his shoulders.

Quentin joined Petrine, handed him the reins, then approached Jacques, telling him that the valet would use the horse to forage, and
that he himself would walk today—to keep from reaggravating his
thighs.