Read Online The Secrets of Casanova by Greg Michaels - Free Book Online

huge blister, and a month’s work—that’s what the pointed spike cost. Convincing myself that my jail cell was above the chamber where the Inquistori held court—and my best bet for escape—I began to bore through the cell floor.
    “Ever so slowly and painfully, I worked through the wood, the marble terrazzo—using vinegar from my salads to soften the terrazzo—then more wood.”
    “They didn’t discover the hole you were making?” asked Dominique.
    Jacques offered a sly smile. “My cell was not entered once, not cleaned a single time—for as you know, the dust would most certainly harm their prisoner.”
    Dominique glanced away, rolling her eyes.
    “It was the height of summer, blazing hot. A sweatbox. I worked naked, sweat pouring from me. One night, the bolt on the outer door squeaked. I hurled my spike in the hole, brushed the wood splinters in, all before pulling my bed over the hole and covering myself.
    “A man entered. A new cellmate.”
    Dominique gasped.
    “Luckily, he stayed for only a week. After he was gone, I continued my work. At last I punched through the floor. But …,” Jacques’ tone lowered. “But my secret breach was too close to a stout ceiling beam. The hole could not be enlarged any further for my body to slip through.
    “Miserable, I nevertheless resigned myself to drill again, farther over, making sure that none of my scraps would fall into the Inquisitori’s chamber below and that my lantern’s light would not be seen at night by a watchman. I planned to break out during a Venetian festival in August, when no one would occupy the room below.
    “By the twenty-fifth, my new escape hole was almost finished. It was then, three days before my planned exodus, that Senator Bragadin thought to make my incarceration easier; with his influence, I was to be moved. To a better cell. One with two windows, more light, a view.
    “Nearly fainting, I told Lorenzo, the jailer, that I couldn’t budge, that fresh air was bad for a man with bronchia, that the feral rats had become my friends. I pleaded to stay in my cell. Lorenzo thought me mad.”
    “What happened?” asked Dominique, touching his hand. She was enthralled with his story, sympathizing with him for the trials he’d undergone and perhaps exulting in his tiny victories.
    Jacques continued. “Into the new cell, the armchair was moved—iron spike well hidden in it. In the chair I sat, a wretched lump, until, as I feared, a raging Lorenzo arrived—he’d discovered my escape hole—and now threatened torture and death if I wouldn’t divulge the whereabouts of my tools.
    “I’ll never quite understand how in my bewilderment I was able to respond, but because I knew jailers were easily corrupted, I simply replied, ‘You, Lorenzo, provided the tools the moment I offered a bribe, and when I’m forced to confess this, the Secretary of the Three will not be pleased.’
    “Lorenzo shut his mouth. Because no one else knew of my attempt, well, he must’ve figured he yet had the upper hand—he still held me prisoner in his jail.”
    The sun seemed poised on Jacques’ shoulder and appeared magically to remain there.
    With bitterness ringing in his voice, he explained to Dominique that he was soon given another cellmate, certainly a spy sent by the Three, who by this time must have been alerted to his escape attempt. “Although I still had possession of the spike, I was now under constant watch. I felt defeated.
    “Nevertheless, I decided to risk another escape, figuring to employ Father Balbi, a renegade priest in the adjacent cell, as my accomplice. To advance this fresh plan, the jailer was ultimately persuaded to exchange reading books between Father Balbi and me; the jailer was hoodwinked when he unknowingly transferred my spike to the priest by way of a heaping plate of pasta he balanced precariously on a large folio Bible.
    “As for the spy in my cell, I played on the man’s superstitions and terrorized him into silence