“I shall do so. As their uncle, I’ve had many opportunities to witness their follies.” The gentleman glanced at the bravo whose eye socket was now black with charred flesh—and thumbed his chin.
“These two have caused my complete loss of appetite,” Jacques grumbled.
“I understand, certainly. By the bye, I overheard, of course, your intense devotion to Venice. May I ask why you don’t live there?”
Before Jacques could muster a reply, the gentleman’s eyes grew
wide. “No need to look, but over your shoulder I see a goodly number of
men gathering with the owner. It would appear you are to be
expelled.
Or worse. May I suggest a departure by the back door?” He pointed
discreetly, then plopped a coin on Jacques’ table. “I’m good for your
wine.”
“Should I be grateful?” Jacques frowned. He squeezed his
dagger, then glanced back over his shoulder toward the mob of patrons and the light-eyed grisette
.
Another time
.
The bravo on the floor, lying on his back in a puddle of blood,
cursed, “Blackguard!
Jean-foutre!
”
Jacques straddled the man. “I enlighten you, fellow, one last
time. Venice is an empire, a republic. Its people are daring, joyful,
and above all, free.”
These soothing words encouraged Jacques to quickly address the old gentleman. “On my life, it’s my most ardent wish to breathe that city’s sweet air, where I first smiled at the splendor of the dazzling stars, where my mother cradled me in her young arms. Someday soon I’ll return to where I belong.”
Jacques hurried from the café.
On the long trudge to his lodgings he regained his appetite. In exchange for reciting a cheerless, extemporaneous verse to a street vendor, he was offered a shank of mutton. “Whether vice or virtue leads me onward, I do not know,” Jacques improvised, “yet onward, forward I go.” Jacques bolted down the mutton.
His stomach was full. But with little money—and worse credit—he would be thrown in the street tomorrow. And tonight, unhappily,
he would spend all alone. But for as long as Jacques cared to
remember, he had lived by his wits. Something in that thought buoyed his step.
THE SILK BEDSPREAD FELT COOL
and comforting to Jacques’
face. Uncurling his body, he reluctantly rose from the bed, coughing an
exhale. From the sun filtering into the room, he guessed it was far
past
noon. He eyed his exquisitely appointed quarters and knew he
would be forced to leave.
Over his waistcoat, he strapped on the poniard he always wore; the dagger afforded stealth and quickness.
He picked a simple cravat and took his time selecting a coat from his trunk. The spangles in the embroidery, he knew, would ensure a brilliance of effect during the remaining daylight and a delicate richness by the night’s candlelight. Slipping on the jacket, he checked its pocket for his book of quotations by Horace, a poet with whom he often found agreement. The book was there. A good omen. By nightfall, Jacques hoped to have a woman on his arm.
After brushing his hair and setting his wig, several dull thuds in the hallway compelled him to open the door of his room—and to watch his manservant, Petrine, shuffle directly into the wall.
Jacques sighed. “Your condition, Spaniard, is appalling.”
“Master, master,” slurred Petrine, falling to one knee. “Last night I met—“
“Before I go out, I have a chore to give you.”
“Yes, mast—” The manservant dropped his empty wine bottle, pressing the floor with his knuckles to steady himself. His swarthy
face brightened considerably as he spoke. “But last night I met a
queen. A goddess.”
“You confuse me. Is she a queen? Or is she a goddess?”
Petrine heeled over, sobbing. “No one wants me. A lowly mule carries fewer burdens. My life! My life began at the bitter end.”
“So you’ve told me several times.” Jacques patted Petrine’s shoulder, then stepped around his valet into the hall. “Let me once more remind you that you embarked on the high road two long years ago—the instant you took employment with me. Now, rouse your wits and listen well.”
Petrine lifted up his face. Tears channeled his cheeks. He wiped them away.
Jacques made known his desire: to move to a less conspicuous lodging. His only stipulation was that the room have a bed.
Drunk as he was, Petrine knew what changing residences meant: his master’s purse had shrunk. Or was empty. He wasn’t pleased; he’d felt enough hardship in his life. But for now, he told himself, he was still in work.
The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. Like a hound with a nose for the scent, Petrine found a decrepit inn located in a questionable part of the city and, after transferring Jacques’ effects, met up with his master and led him to a new lodging.
Shielding his eyes from the setting sun, Jacques instructed his
manservant to visit the Saint Esprit once more to retrieve
handkerchiefs that were missing; Jacques then vanished up the narrow Parisian street with “I’ll be back.”
For the time being, Petrine felt free to follow his fancy, which included ministering to his throbbing headache.
That night, the door of Jacques’ room eased open. Petrine leaned into the darkness. A soft whimper marked time with the rhythmic squeak of the bed.
“Sir, it’s me,” the valet whispered. “A short while ago I ran your errand to the Hôtel du Saint Esprit. I’ve frightful news.”
The squeaking stopped. “If you can see the nightstand, find the candle.”
Petrine picked his way across the floor and lit a match, flushing light into the small room.
Jacques shifted upright, huddling under the thin blanket, his long hair hanging loose. Next to him, a curly mound of brown hair mushroomed just above the coverlet.
Petrine stared at his master. “May I speak freely, sir?”
“Of course you may. This is the girl I will most certainly marry.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“What news?” Jacques barked.
“As it happened, the proprietor of the Saint Esprit didn’t see me
as I walked in, but it was plain, sir, three men were there to arrest
you.”
Jacques nodded.
“Your financial obligations, bills of exchange, they said. From
your night of gambling at the Palais-Royal? The three men mentioned For-L’Éveque several times.”
“For-L’Éveque. What’s that?”
“The prison for debtors, sir. On Tuesday, Desgaliers died there.”
“Desgaliers? Dead? In prison?” Jacques’ voice grew shrill and fretful. “I’ll die before I go to prison once more. I’ll never again lose my freedom.” His face grew stony. “Did the owner inform these men where we now stay?”
“He doesn’t know, master—nor, I’m certain, will these men find out.”
“Nothing is certain.”
While the slight figure under the bedcovers drew her legs into a
ball, Petrine searched his master’s widening eyes. “Sir, is there good
reason for these men to be hunting you? Are your debts so huge this
time?”
Jacques’ expression told the valet everything he needed to know.
“Shall I pack immediately?” he asked.
“Yes, be prepared to move my belongings at a moment’s notice.”
“We may be obliged to leave behind your personal pleasures,” the valet said gently.
“Such as?”
Petrine gestured to the orange pomatum, lavender water,
essence of bergamot, the oil of jasmine, and eau de cologne on the nearest of
the three trunks. “We might need to part with your less necessary goods.”
“No, none.”
“Perhaps that heavy old manuscript?”
“That sacred old manuscript may be the most valuable thing I
own. I managed to lug the precious thing all the way from
Constantinople—we’ll take it wherever we go.”
Petrine wrinkled his lips, sighing. “I shall be prepared to move everything, then, including everything old and sacred.” He reached for the candle. “It does concern me, sir, that these men knew we’d stayed at the Saint Esprit.”
Jacques faltered, confusion wringing his face. “It wouldn’t be wise to stay here,” he said. “But should we return to my brother’s? No, I’ll not—I suppose so. Yes. Francesco’s. Gather everything and meet me there
.
I’ll see Louisa home.”
“Yes, sir.” Petrine nudged a short step closer. “Master, I’ve had little to eat or drink. Might I have a bit of my wage?”
Jacques’ shoulders tensed. Petrine retreated. “My stomach can wait, sir. I’ll proceed posthaste.”
Petrine picked up the candle, then stepped back. The willowy naked girl slithered from the bed and, too quickly, covered herself. Petrine scratched his brow. She might have given him the pleasure of watching her dress.
“One final detail, valet,” said Jacques. “After you’ve taken my belongings to Francesco’s, revisit the Saint Esprit. While you’re there, summon your acting gifts and make a show of the fact that you and I depart at noon, bound for Pas-de-Calais—no, Venetzia. Venetzia. You understand?”
“Venice, yes sir. A show.”
“A show. For an audience smaller than you’re accustomed to, but a show nevertheless.” Jacques stood. “No gown for me, I’ll dress myself.”
Petrine grew restless while the lovers stole a last affection.
“Follow me, Louisa, if you please,” Jacques said. He opened the door and led her down the hallway.
Petrine quickly decided that congratulations were in order: the girl his master would most certainly marry—looked all of thirteen.
***
Petrine stood outside Francesco Casanova’s apartment,
squinting at the first light of dawn. Before he could knock, the door opened.
“I’m sorry, Petrine, I didn’t mean to startle you so,” Dominique
said. “But I saw you walk into the courtyard from my upstairs
window. Did you come to stay with us again?”
“Being frightened out of my wits is a grand way to start the
morning,” Petrine quipped. “Fear is my friend.”
Dominique offered a slight smile. “What brings you back to us, and so early? Where’s Monsieur Casanova?”
Dominique’s eyes lit upon the trunk he had in tow. She
continued, “After you and your master left, I felt I wouldn’t see him again.”
“As it happens, madame—”
“I changed my dithering mind,” came a distinct voice from the courtyard. Jacques emerged from a pack of water carriers ambling
down the street. “I concluded I
must
go with Francesco to the
Vicomte’s this very morning. But first, good day, Dominique,” Jacques said, taking off his tricorne and bowing. He stepped in front of Petrine, took Dominique’s hand, and kissed it lightly. “My brother has made a fine choice of a wife, don’t you agree, Petrine?”
“I do agree, sir. And I’m far more difficult to please than you.”
“Not to be the messenger of disappointing news,” Dominique said, “but I’m the only one here at the moment. Francesco—”
“Francesco has already left? I’d hoped—on this beautiful spring day—to finally accompany him,” Jacques said a bit too earnestly.
“Perhaps tomorrow morning you can join him, master?”
“We’ll see, valet. Tomorrow or the next day. Assuredly,” Jacques muttered, massaging his chin and gazing at his sister-in-law.
Petrine had seen his master captivate women many times but never had he seen him quite so attentive to one.
“Are you staying with us again?” Dominique asked, indicating the trunk.
“Well,” Jacques said, “I felt as if Francesco and I hadn’t the opportunity to truly—”
“Just for the night, you told me, sir,” Petrine interjected. “Didn’t you, sir?”
“For tonight,” Dominique said, “or for as long as you’d like,
you’re welcome. We haven’t acquired any children or pets since you left us two weeks ago,” she laughed giddily, “so we still have room. I’m sure Francesco will be pleased.”
“Good, then,” Jacques said. He turned to his valet. “I remind
you, Petrine, of your promise to return to the Saint Esprit on the errand we agreed upon,” he said. “With Madame’s permission, you may take my trunk inside. Then go.”
“Yes, sir.” Petrine grasped the leather strap of the large trunk.
Jacques took Dominique’s arm and guided her inside.
“Might I spend this bright day in your company?” he said. “I have nothing but time.”
Jacques spoke the grim truth.
“CLIMB IN, GENTLEMEN,”
said the coachman.
The brothers took their seats in the fiacre before hearing the
crack of the whip and the familiar command to the horses to “walk on.”
Just past sunup, the sweet call of meadow thrushes summoned
the coach and team of four as it rumbled over ancient ruts.
Francesco’s apartment was six leagues from the Vicomte de Fragonard’s home
near the confluence of the Seine and the Marne, through the
Vincennes woods. A swift fiacre might leave the apartment in the Carré de la
Porte Saint-Denis and arrive at the Vicomte’s in little more than an
hour.
“I wager there have been no decent roads in this region since the Romans.” Jacques folded his roquelaure and laid it on the seat next
to him. “No doubt it’s good King Louis’ pleasure whether or not a
road is maintained, but judging from this one, Louis has not taken to heart
the superlative secret of Paris: Let nothing be done without
elegance.”
Francesco, sitting opposite Jacques, offered no response.
Jacques marveled that Francesco still held a grudge—years later—for the boyhood pranks Jacques had played on him.
He baits me with his insolence.
But today is the day I’ll make peace with Francesco
.
Once and for all.
“Why should the Vicomte de Fragonard have an interest in you?” Francesco suddenly blurted.