Synopsis:
Paris of 1755 is bloated with opportunity. That’s the way Jacques Casanova, an unredeemed adventurer with an ever-surging appetite for pleasure, needs it. But times, men, and gods are changing—and Jacques’ luck is fading. When he is thrust to the center of a profound mystery, he doesn’t care if vice or virtue leads him onward. “After all,” he declares, “a man who asks himself too many questions is an unhappy man.” But as Jacques’ challenges mount, what questions will he ask? What price must he pay to uncover a treasure of inestimable value? Loosely based on Casanova’s life of intrigue, peril, and passion, Michaels’ The Secrets of Casanova will keep you burning the midnight oil.
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Excerpt:
Spring – 1755
– 1 –
“I’VE ALWAYS KNOWN THAT VIRTUE’S NOT THE AIM in Paris,” Jacques cheered himself. “‘Give me too much’ is the motto here. And when people live with that philosophy, there’s ample opportunity for one such as I am.”
Outside the Hôtel du Saint Esprit, Jacques Casanova decided to chance the Rue de la Grenouille. Once before he’d hopped from cobblestone to cobblestone to avoid the mud and the rushing carriages, and although the foul wastewater streams assaulted his nose again tonight, he knew he must brave the streets—for what he utterly craved was food in his belly and a woman in his bed. He tugged at his wig and set off.
Reaching a crowded thoroughfare, Jacques ordered a sedan chair and directed the footmen to a caffè della Nobiltà, a “coffeehouse for nobles,” where he hoped to sup. He’d had high times here before, but who knew what had changed in five years?
A short while later, he tipped the footmen from the trifling pocket money he still possessed. The café, redolent of garlic, beckoned. The tangy aroma made Jacques think of home; he smiled at the thought while he strode imperiously toward the coffeehouse, where he was met by the chuffy proprietor and a young serving girl, both of whom had black hair in coiled ringlets.
The grisette stepped forward. Jacques assessed her. Light eyes, rawboned features, including a nose quite sizeable for her face. But her cheeks dimpled when she smiled. And she did smile—at him, bidding him to follow.
Passing waves of tables, he was pleased by the social prospects. A blonde aristocrat leered at him, but he found her too abundantly larded. Or perhaps—not.
At his table, the attractive grisette finally faced him.
“How do you do, sir?”
“Surpassingly well,” Jacques lied. “I see you serve more than coffee.”
The girl leaned forward to light the table’s candle, dipping her chin seductively.
“May I have a carafe of the house wine?”
“Will that be one glass or two, monsieur?”
“Let me begin with one glass.” Jacques held the girl’s gaze until he noticed that the proprietor at the entrance did not appear pleased. “Are you, by chance, married to the gallant near the front door, mademoiselle?”
“When it is convenient, monsieur,” she said. “One glass, for now.”
Jacques felt a crackle of pleasure in his veins while he again surveyed the crowd. Silk and finery at every turn. Conversations in a half-dozen languages. People drinking and eating with might and main.
As nearby customers puffed on their pipes, clumps of sultry smoke seemed to gobble up the remaining air—just as it had two nights ago at the faro tables of the Palais-Royal. An evening’s entertainment for Jacques, a turn of cards, his magnificent wager—sept et la va—seven times his original bet. Then, full defeat. Throbbing financial loss. Ruination. And as further insult, his dalliance with the disgusting and toothless Marquise D’Ampie. Do I sleep these days with anything that snores?
A carafe clinked on the table. Next, a single glass. Jacques followed the grisette’s rough hand to her face.
She smiled. “You know, you’re not the prettiest man I’ve ever seen, but you caught my eye—and held it.” She finished pouring the wine, then asked with a grin, “Will that be all?”
Jacques smiled back. He enjoyed the hunt almost as much as the sweet rustle of underclothes. A fleeting memory entertained him when he remembered the singular sweetness of—what were their names? It was so long ago that those two sisters, although pretending to sleep, had allowed his advances. Was a boy’s loss of innocence ever so agreeable? Jacques’ smile grew wider.
The grisette peeked slyly over her shoulder and whirled away—waving her derrière fearlessly, but Jacques’ enchantment was cut short by a croaking male voice.
“And so I tell you—dancers, actresses? Sluts. One and the same.”
Jacques had heard that kind of talk many times—his mother was an actress—so it shouldn’t have pained him. He turned to see two drunken men at the next table. Neither, it seemed, knew how to stop a belch, but their noble status was confirmed by the jewel-encrusted pommels of their swords and their red-heeled shoes.
One of the garrulous bravos, whose face was severely spoiled from a bout with the pox, felt Jacques’ glance. “You, fellow, what say you about dancers and actresses?”
“The company of women is to be enjoyed,” Jacques said curtly.
“Flat on their back,” the noble laughed.
“Yes, I prize them in bed. But some men prefer to triumph rather than to enjoy.”
The pair squirmed in confusion, apparently unable to decide if Jacques had slighted their honor.
The scarred bravo grunted. “Was that an accent I heard?”
His friend, who had bulging eyes, pounded the table with his fist. “You’re so stupid,” he said. “This man has a Venetian accent.”
“You’re Italian?” the scarred man asked.
“Not Italian,” Jacques insisted. “Venice is quite separate—and superior—to those Italian territorial disasters, I assure you.”
“Venetian, eh?” Bulging Eyes said. “Venice is clearly under our good King Louis’ protection.”
“Venice is not—nor ever has been—under France’s protection,” countered Jacques. “Venice has been a republic for nearly eleven centuries. Eleven. Centuries. A republic.”
“Oh, toad,” the scarred bravo intoned, “I know something of the world. Your Venice is controlled by a handful of grasping aristocrats who—”
“Every major European state except Venice is a monarchy.” Jacques’ voice began to quiver. “What this means to most human beings who live in these nations is that they’re treated like herds of swine by a hereditary king.”
“Do I seem a penned pig?” cried the bravo.
Other patrons, sensing the argument, craned their necks.
Jacques felt his gorge rise. “Venice, in contrast, is a republic, and consequently, its people are—”
“—full of pus,” slurred Bulging Eyes. His friend howled and slapped the table again and again. The surrounding patrons convulsed in laughter. Raucous, demeaning laughter.
Hot anger seared Jacques’ belly. Reaching past the carafe, he grabbed the candleholder and, in one swift move, forced the flame into the eye of the jeering man.
“Morbleu!” yelled the scarred bravo.
Jacques flipped the candleholder in his hand and lurched toward the other—who fumbled to unsheathe his sword—striking him with the butt end directly across the temple. Bulging Eyes sank to the floorboards while customers emptied the near vicinity, screaming. The odor of burned flesh filled the café.
Jacques’ hand shook violently as it reached his dagger.
At the same time, a well-dressed older gentleman stepped across the incapacitated man on the floor and forced a handkerchief into the hand of the cursing bravo collapsed in his chair. The gentleman cautiously handed Jacques his calling card.
“These two may demand satisfaction from you—although from where I sat and from what I heard, you are to be commended. They should’ve shown respect for you. And for Venice.
“Undoubtedly.”
“Men of their stamp, well, it’s perfectly simple. They want for nothing. They believe in nothing. Nevertheless, sieur, you are fortunate you did not kill them.”
“They are fortunate I did not kill them, sieur.” Jacques slammed his poniard back into its sheath. “I have no need to further defend the honor of Venice, but if these two so desire, they may find me at the Saint Esprit. Tell them I have a dangerous sword, so perhaps instead of choosing to die, they will view this tête-à-tête as a classroom for learning.”
“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.
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About the Author:
After Michaels received his BA in anthropology from the University of Texas at Austin, a chance experience thrust him into a career as a professional actor and fight director. To date he’s acted in fifty theater productions, more than forty television shows, and choreographed dozens of fights for stage and screen. In The Secrets of Casanova, Greg again proves his skill at telling a theatrical story. He lives with his wife, two sons, and Andy the hamster.
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