The Secrets of Casanova Read Online Free PDF Page B

would be led in midlife to embalming? And to serve mankind?”
    Jacques and Francesco glanced at each other, surprise on their faces.
    “But long ago, after my wife died and after a certain extraordinary and crucial experience, I decided to remain in this place, this distant place. As I participated less and less in the world, I became, finally, a philosopher—a pursuit that aids the spirit and men’s hearts.” The Vicomte cleared his throat. “So this day you have heard a large piece of my story.”
    “Intriguing, sir.”
    “Significant is a better word.”
    Jacques blinked at the peculiar statement. Leading an embalmer’s life, what could be significant? The old gentleman made everything sound substantial, when all Jacques wanted to know was his secret and what opportunity might be in store.
    He peeked at his brother, then drew a breath to speak, but the Vicomte spoke first.
    “I am to understand that you are a man of mathematics, Jacques Casanova. And every man who has an exacting mind must bow to the idea of ‘first cause’—God.”
    “I don’t agree,” Jacques said loudly. “Even if a mind could admit to the notion—the concept of deity—the reality does not necessarily exist.”
    “I honor your sincerity. However, I prefer not to debate. We risk becoming entrenched in our positions without opening the question for authentic exchange.” Then in a whisper: “But mark my words, sir. I have met God. Here, on earth. And one day perhaps you, too, shall meet Him.”
    The thin peal of a bell sounded from the darkness. A moment later, the majordomo appeared bearing the instrument and rang it softly again before helping the Vicomte to his feet.
    Leaning on his manservant, the old man limped away.
     

- 6 -
    THE BROTHERS WERE FORTUNATE while they explored. A summer rainstorm muffled the telltale creaks of the house, white flashes of lightning firing wild shadows across the windows. The search drew the brothers farther into the home until, on the third floor, they were near losing hope.
    “Over there,” whispered Francesco, indicating a polished door in the far corner of the long hallway.
    “Ah,” said Jacques. His heart raced with exhilaration.
    They scurried to the door. Placing their ears to the cool wood, they heard nothing. They tried the knob. When it turned, they took two candles from their pockets, lit them, and entered. A garret-sized room met their eyes, its space brimming with erotic paintings, salacious statuary, and art pieces, all neatly displayed on two huge tables.
    In moments, the brothers were pawing the private collection of miniatures belonging to the Vicomte Honoré de Fragonard.
    Though in the last hundred years or so art had become accessible to the masses, the vast majority of good art was still housed in private collections. There was no collection, however, that Jacques had viewed—and there had been several—as extensive as this.
    “Fragonard says this room holds artifacts from his former life,” Francesco said flatly.
    “Oh, my delicious gods,” squealed Jacques, peeping over his brother’s shoulder at the dusty ivory tablet he held. The pale oval, no larger than a man’s palm, displayed a nude woman on her back, being ravished by a satyr. About to crown the lovemakers with an olive wreath was another naked girl, her voluptuous breasts peeking through her long hair. The satyr squeezed the budding nipples of the supine woman while sharing a tongue kiss.
    “Stimulating,” Jacques bubbled.
    “I hope so.”
    The brothers were immovable for some time until Jacques gorged on a different miniature, a vibrant statue of a woman astride her partner, both lost in the uttermost moment. The artist had done his job skillfully, and although the swirling bed stuffs well hid some of the couple’s anatomical delights, there was no disguising their rapturous glory.
    “Have you created pieces such as these?” Jacques whispered.
    His brother shook his head, apparently despondent.