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She looked younger than my age of twenty-five, and her clothing was in the formal style of the old French court.
    “Is she French?”
    “She was born in the West Indies. And now she rules all of Turkey. Her husband, the Sultan, recently departed from this world.”
    “She lives in a harem?”
    The shock in my voice amused him. For the first time, he laughed and his broad, sunburnt face relaxed.
    “Yes, she was a favoured wife. But she loves me still. My greatest wish is to see her once more before I die.”
    “Oh,” I said, thinking,
You are far too old for her, although perhaps she has also aged, like you.
He must have divined something of this in my face because he groaned wearily.
    “Again, you do not believe me?”
    “I would like to believe you.” I hesitated. “Is your friend unhappy in the land of the Turks?”
    “One day, I will tell you our story, if you would permit me the honour. In the meantime, let me entrust you with my journal. If I have not been apprehended, I will reclaim it from you tomorrow morning at the Florian.”
    “And I will keep your dog for you,” I said, surprising myself. “We stay in Venice two months more.”
    “I am in your debt then. You saw how Count Waldstein taunts Finette. She was once a circus dog and savagely beaten by her owner.” When he saw my scandalized face, he nodded. “Count Waldstein has his faults. As do most benefactors. He likes to amuse himself with cruel jokes. The day we left Dux, his valet placed my clothes in a nest of flying ants. Even now I am not sure I am rid of the pests.”
    “You must tell him to improve his manners.”
    “Ah, Miss Adams, how you please me!” He threw back his head and laughed loudly. “There is no hope for Count Waldstein, while you are kind and pleasing to look upon.” He beckoned me close. “Can I trust you? I see that I can,” he said, as I took a nervous step forward. “Count Waldstein brought me to Venice for the purpose of a money-making venture. Out of gratitude, I have been obliged to help him. But the Pozzo drawings are fakes—worthless copies done by a talentless fraud. No great Roman or Venetian artist made those sketches. You must warn your father.”
    “I will. Thank you,” I said softly.
    “Without proof, your father may not believe you. But at least you will have done your republican duty.”
    “I must go now,” I said. “Father will be looking for me.”
    Carrying Finette in my arms, I made to leave the platform, but he continued to sit on the bench and I understood he was exhausted.
    “Are you all right, monsieur? Can I have someone in the square fetch you water?”
    “I am grateful to you. But the climb was hard on bones no longer young. Forgive me for not getting to my feet.”
    “I wish you a pleasant evening, monsieur.” He must have noticed my hesitation over using his name because he called after me as I began my descent:
    “My inscription is still in the prison at the Ducal Palace. No one but myself knows where it is. The seventh cell, under the third plank to the left of the door. A tiny inscription. ‘I love. Jacob Casanova, 1756.’ If I were only a few years younger, I would prove it to you surely.”
    This last comment made my heart flutter. What a foolish, frivolous expression—a fluttering heart, as if the organ were not the sturdy blood pumper that fuels us all. Yet that is how I felt in the presence of the courtly Venetian gentleman. As I left, I saw him pull out the miniature portrait and his lips moved as if he was murmuring an endearment to the woman under the little glass casing. I suddenly felt very sorry for him.
    I quickened my step, going round and down as fast as I could into the darkness, the noise and the lights of the Good Friday evening in Venice.
    A shadow fell across the page.
    Luce noticed the pair of brogues squarely placed by her chair. She had a weakness for men’s shoes, especially brogues, the only shoes she could remember her father wearing. These were