The Secrets of Casanova (45 page)

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.

For several seconds while he wound down the staircase, he
heard nothing until, from above, his host screeched like a madman.

“Coward!”

Jacques, hustling down the dark flights of steps and into the street, glanced up to see a lantern flying at him. He dodged, but it slammed his shoulder, then hand—and burst into pieces beside him. His fingers seemed useless.

“Scum!” Grimani shouted from the balcony, his ire
unquenchable. “Common scum!”

Sharp pain stung Jacques’ shoulder. Then, on his back, he felt
heat. His wrap was on fire! He tried to unclasp the burning cloak, but his right hand still had no feeling.

Instantly, Grimani was upon him, brandishing his sword.

A vicious thrust forced Jacques backward into a wall. Feeling the scorching flame, he grappled frantically with his cloak, yet his eyes could not afford to leave Grimani.

With his left hand, Jacques squeezed his sword from its sheath—
barely—then managed an unwieldy cut, sending his foe spinning
away.

Using the blade’s razor edge, Jacques sawed the drawstring of his cloak until it fell, a burning heap, to the ground.

Grimani’s sword arced above Jacques’ face. Deflected by an overhanging sign, it struck just wide of its mark.

Jacques darted to the next street, taking a small group of
Carnivale
revelers by surprise. Sidestepping them, he glanced back, then
stopped.

Grimiani appeared without the revelers noticing; he came to a halt and twisted his Capitano mask over his face. Then sliding ahead of the boisterous crowd, he spun back, capturing their attention by calling out in a high comic voice and frantically shaking his knees.
“That dullard, that buffoon, that parasite will not duel,” cried
Grimani as Capitano. With his smallsword, he pointed down the street toward Jacques. The revelers jeered.

Jacques retreated while Grimani continued his bombast. “Why, I shall slice him, I shall slash him, I shall slay the slabbering slave—the slinking slothful slut.”

The crowd roared.

Jacques fled around the next corner.

“Nowhere to go,” Grimani shouted. “Our grand finale will be in a box alley.”

Jacques saw his mistake. Trapped! Hot sweat bubbled his
forehead while he faced his approaching adversary. Jacques beat the fingers of his right hand against his thigh, and although he sensed feeling
returning, there was not enough sensation or strength to direct his
sword. He began a run toward Grimani, swinging his weapon with his left hand in a wide swath.

Grimani easily ducked the assault.

As Jacques rushed past, he felt the stab in his side.

Cupping his wound, he lurched toward a small open piazza. He reeled about and watched a determined Grimani move his way.

Blood wet Jacques’ shirt. Stinging pain marked his face, but feeling was coming again to the fingers of his right hand. He shifted
his weapon to it, all the while gauging his fast-approaching
opponent.
I’ve little choice
, he thought. Weak as he felt, Jacques stepped forward, forcing the tip of Grimani’s sword to slide along his, producing a sharp, pinching noise.

The two men, circling the piazza, vied for advantage, their steel blades pressing, tapping against each other in preparation for attack.

A sudden beat of Jacques’ smallsword sent Grimani’s askew. Jacques thrust hard. Grimani evaded and backed away.

“I’m told I move exceptionally well. Do you agree?” Grimani
said through his Capitano mask.

The response from Jacques was another thrust.

Grimani defended the attack, then riposted.

Jacques parried, allowed his blade to press Grimani’s, and in a quick envelopment, ripped the sword away from the man.

Jacques raised his steely point to the center of his enemy’s mask.

“You’re disarmed. And at my mercy.”

“Trim Capitano’s mustache,” someone shouted.

“Give the braggart a shave,” another voice yelled. A volley of
laughter followed, and Jacques knew a pack of carnivalers ganged behind him. He pressed his ribs. Warm blood oozed through his fingers. He lowered his sharp point and, without hesitation, stepped away from his adversary.

“Look to the bright sky, Capitano,” shouted one of the
onlookers.

Sensing a shadow, Jacques turned and glimpsed an object flying
toward Grimani, who reached out—and caught—a sheathed smallsword.

“Give us more of your boasting, Capitano,” a reveler cried. “And more fight!” The crowd applauded.

Jacques felt new fear until a voice rang out.

“Casanova. Giacomo Casanova,” Tomaso shouted.

Swiftly, like a flame fanned by wind, the name Casanova raced through the crowd.

Jacques squinted at the carnivalers, astonished by their eager identification.

“We’re here, just arrived,” Tomaso said. “Watching this gay amusement you present for Carnivale and your friends. And, too, for these important Venetians, men of name and rank.” Tomaso raised his arms to the group of onlookers beside him. “Entertain us, Signor Casanova!”

Jacques was too weak to reply.

But Michele Grimani fairly shivered in rage. He tore the
Capitano mask from his face and hurled it to the ground.

“Cavaliere della stola d’oro,” shouted a reveler, recognizing Grimani.

“Inquisitori de Stato!” someone else said. “The Cavaliere Grimani.”

But from the rest of the crowd, there was only silence, no acknowledgement for the patrician.

Jacques watched beads of sweat curl down his foe’s cheeks, the jaw clenched in rage.

Instantly, Grimani ripped his newfound sword from its sheath and thrust hard.

Jacques pitched back to stave off the attack.

The crowd cheered its approval.

Grimani edged closer to Jacques, his deadly steel cocked in preparation. “I marvel. You’ve not asked about your little dancer, Dominique.”

“Moments ago, I spared your life,” Jacques growled. “But if you spur me, I must kill you.”

Grimani advanced rapidly while executing a series of doublés. Giving ground, Jacques attempted to match the weapon’s deceptions until, at the ebb of his strength, he let fly a flurry of thrusts—to fearful exclamations from the onlookers.

The attack failed. Jacques withdrew, cupping his side. He
wondered if he could go on.

Where were we?” Grimani snorted. His moonish face strained. “Oh, yes, Dominique? I realized early she would be of little direct aid to me. She could not, after all, even
write
to keep me informed, as
did Petrine. But I decided it wasn’t necessary that I have her
cooperation at all.” Grimani hardly noticed the surrounding crowd while he continued his harangue. “To maintain the woman as my puppet, I simply impressed her with heroic stories about you. Completely contrived, of course. But because of my delicious stories, I knew she would follow you, would also focus you—keep you on task in the attempt to unravel the secret.” He sighed theatrically. “To my chagrin, the woman had somewhat a mind of her own. Eventually she, poor thing, went to her death. With you the cause.”

There was uproar from the crowd when Jacques threw himself into a reckless barrage of attacks. The clash of steel echoed across the piazza as Grimani parried several thrusts and escaped the rest.

“My reputation with a sword is well deserved,” he shouted.

“Look,” a reveler suddenly shouted. “Casanova—he bleeds. This is no sham combat, no entertainment.”

“Jacques, wounded!” Tomaso shouted. “You must stop this duel before it ends your life.”

The swordsmen continued their fierce fight. When the two
veered toward the front of a store, the attending shopkeeper fled.

Grimani sneered. “I know your history, Casanova. To me, you’re nothing. Nothing. No aristocratic blood. Your mother, an actress. Your father? Who
is
he? Hah! One does not have to be overly clever to grasp your unending desire for high opinion from society.”

Jacques’ heart exploded through his ribs.

“My family?” Grimani crowed. “Five hundred years in the
Golden Book. It’s my breed that has preserved precious Venice—”

“Not the Venice I love. Not by sacrificing people like Esther,
Petrine, the Vicomte—”

“What of it? They died for Venice!”

“When has the republic asked you to butcher an old woman or a
fragile old man? When has Venice asked you to murder? To lie,
cheat, manipulate, and destroy? You bestow upon yourself the mantle of importance in order to gain your own selfish ends.” Jacques parried a lethal thrust from his opponent, then spewed more venom. “I know others of your family. They’re not corrupt. But you? I shake in fear for the future of the republic. In the control of tainted hands such as yours.”