manuscript. That it should come to this!
Dominique ruffled her hair. “And so within one week, Jacques, my prayers are answered,” she smiled, “and it’s likely the Casanovas’ problems can be resolved if you still agree to donate your manuscript to the cause.”
“But I’ll be paid to do so?” Jacques asked, pursing his lips anxiously.
“Yes, I’ve requested a sum of gold from our patron for your donation to Voltaire. As I said, your valued manuscript is the lure that attracts the famous philosopher—who attracts, in turn, our wealthy patron—who’ll sponsor the ball. At the ball, Francesco can market his paintings, and after your donation of the manuscript, a bag of gold—from the patron—will be your reward.” Dominique threw her hands in the air, laughing. “I’m excited.”
“I’ll admit it would an honor to meet Monsieur de Voltaire face- to-face. To bask in the glow of his genius. But he reads and comprehends the strange tongue of my precious manuscript while I always delayed learning that language. To me, it’s disconcerting to give away something whose value I don’t even know.”
“If you choose to help your brother—and yourself—the only hope we have is your religious manuscript.”
Jacques felt a lump in his gut. Should he bank on this plan of Dominique’s? It had the possibility of fortune. And some distinction. Whereas to consider Vicomte de Fragonard’s proposal … The smart move is to keep all avenues open and pursue the plan that promises quicker benefit. “As I said, I’m willing to give up the manuscript.”
“Please promise you’ll not withdraw your offer, Jacques.”
A moment passed before he answered yes. It behooved him to agree for the time being.
Oh yes,” added Dominique, “our patron, Signor Grimani, is already acquainted with Monsieur de Voltaire. But let Signor Grimani explain. He’s—”
“Grimani, you say? Michele Grimani?” Jacques felt the heat rise in his veins.
The woman nodded.
“Dominique! What have you done?”
Dominique drew a quick breath. “What’s the trouble?”
“Cavaliere Michele Grimani?” he asked, his hand wiping sweat from his chin. “Cavaliere?”
“I think. Perhaps.”
“ Cavaliere della stola d’oro, ” Jacques muttered, trying to restrain his growing alarm. “The title ‘Cavaliere’—plus the ‘golden stole’—is only conferred on Venetian bluebloods who have distinguished themselves in public office. His family’s been listed in Venice’s Libro d’Oro of notables for hundreds of years and—”
Dominique hurriedly interrupted. “Signor was fond of my skills when I danced in the Comedie Italienne in Paris. From time to time, I’ve reacquainted myself with him. I’m only using my connection … you and I will do the hard work and borrow his chateau and ballroom. He’ll receive the credit but he’s—”
“He was one of three members of the Inquisitori de Stato who sentenced me to prison.”
Dominique gasped, her eyes glossed with wetness. She placed her hand on Jacques’ leg. “I’d no idea this journey would—”
“Yes, Grimani.” Jacques glared out the coach window into the distance. “A brilliant politician, an inveterate gambler, a great epicure, and a gentleman highly regarded in the art of fence as well as dance. In short, an aristocrat of vast wealth, immense power, and superb family name.” He turned to Dominique, tugging his wrenched brow. “I was carted away to Piombi prison without ever meeting Grimani face-to-face,” he said grimly. “And now I’m surprised and stunned once again!”
Dominique was speechless, shocked. A bead of sweat dripped down her nose. “All I could think about was him lending us his country home, his French summer home. I’ve known him so long, it never crossed my mind that … I’m embarrassed. Mortified.”
Jacques looked hard into Dominique’s pained eyes. “Let us meet our patron Michele Grimani. Until then, I’ll withhold my
Dominique ruffled her hair. “And so within one week, Jacques, my prayers are answered,” she smiled, “and it’s likely the Casanovas’ problems can be resolved if you still agree to donate your manuscript to the cause.”
“But I’ll be paid to do so?” Jacques asked, pursing his lips anxiously.
“Yes, I’ve requested a sum of gold from our patron for your donation to Voltaire. As I said, your valued manuscript is the lure that attracts the famous philosopher—who attracts, in turn, our wealthy patron—who’ll sponsor the ball. At the ball, Francesco can market his paintings, and after your donation of the manuscript, a bag of gold—from the patron—will be your reward.” Dominique threw her hands in the air, laughing. “I’m excited.”
“I’ll admit it would an honor to meet Monsieur de Voltaire face- to-face. To bask in the glow of his genius. But he reads and comprehends the strange tongue of my precious manuscript while I always delayed learning that language. To me, it’s disconcerting to give away something whose value I don’t even know.”
“If you choose to help your brother—and yourself—the only hope we have is your religious manuscript.”
Jacques felt a lump in his gut. Should he bank on this plan of Dominique’s? It had the possibility of fortune. And some distinction. Whereas to consider Vicomte de Fragonard’s proposal … The smart move is to keep all avenues open and pursue the plan that promises quicker benefit. “As I said, I’m willing to give up the manuscript.”
“Please promise you’ll not withdraw your offer, Jacques.”
A moment passed before he answered yes. It behooved him to agree for the time being.
Oh yes,” added Dominique, “our patron, Signor Grimani, is already acquainted with Monsieur de Voltaire. But let Signor Grimani explain. He’s—”
“Grimani, you say? Michele Grimani?” Jacques felt the heat rise in his veins.
The woman nodded.
“Dominique! What have you done?”
Dominique drew a quick breath. “What’s the trouble?”
“Cavaliere Michele Grimani?” he asked, his hand wiping sweat from his chin. “Cavaliere?”
“I think. Perhaps.”
“ Cavaliere della stola d’oro, ” Jacques muttered, trying to restrain his growing alarm. “The title ‘Cavaliere’—plus the ‘golden stole’—is only conferred on Venetian bluebloods who have distinguished themselves in public office. His family’s been listed in Venice’s Libro d’Oro of notables for hundreds of years and—”
Dominique hurriedly interrupted. “Signor was fond of my skills when I danced in the Comedie Italienne in Paris. From time to time, I’ve reacquainted myself with him. I’m only using my connection … you and I will do the hard work and borrow his chateau and ballroom. He’ll receive the credit but he’s—”
“He was one of three members of the Inquisitori de Stato who sentenced me to prison.”
Dominique gasped, her eyes glossed with wetness. She placed her hand on Jacques’ leg. “I’d no idea this journey would—”
“Yes, Grimani.” Jacques glared out the coach window into the distance. “A brilliant politician, an inveterate gambler, a great epicure, and a gentleman highly regarded in the art of fence as well as dance. In short, an aristocrat of vast wealth, immense power, and superb family name.” He turned to Dominique, tugging his wrenched brow. “I was carted away to Piombi prison without ever meeting Grimani face-to-face,” he said grimly. “And now I’m surprised and stunned once again!”
Dominique was speechless, shocked. A bead of sweat dripped down her nose. “All I could think about was him lending us his country home, his French summer home. I’ve known him so long, it never crossed my mind that … I’m embarrassed. Mortified.”
Jacques looked hard into Dominique’s pained eyes. “Let us meet our patron Michele Grimani. Until then, I’ll withhold my
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