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“Battle scenes are what I paint.”
    “Admittedly,” Jacques went on, “erotic work such as this requires money for models but—”
    “I had expected these to … but they’re no help.” Francesco’s voice had a strange yearning.
    “Oh,” Jacques said, looking up. “You sound as if the miniatures are life and death to you.”
    “They may be.”
    Jacques wanted to ask what Francesco meant. Instead, he shot a quizzical look at his brother, then unveiled a draped easel. “Ah, the creamy-fleshed, rosy-cheeked nymphs Monsieur Boucher paints,” he said. “And all have the unmistakable baby face of Madame Boucher.”
    Francesco gave a halfhearted smile before staring at the table full of erotic work. He selected a miniature and held it in his hand.
    “I know I’m capable of this.” A clap of thunder startled him, and he returned the piece to the table before looking to his brother.
    Jacques smiled, pointing to his swelling crotch. “Psst,” he whispered.
    “Is that humor?” Francesco growled. Instantly, he wheeled about and tramped toward the door.
    ***
    The quietude of the cellar, combined with the surrounding darkness, captivated Jacques. The lanterns created a glittering effect so that the pale russet chambers of the nautilus seemed to expand and contract, shifting into extraordinarily vivid colors. The canvas itself at times seemed to undulate. Francesco’s intense concentration—the fluid motion of his painting arm, the confidence of his brushstrokes—all added to the spell.
    Soon the old Vicomte entered, thwacking the thick support timbers with his shillelagh. He put on a proud air and took a seat in the chair Jacques had vacated. All but swallowed by the cavernous armchair, he said nothing. Occasionally he leaned forward or waved his finger as if it were a baton, tapping it rhythmically on the fauteuil’s arm, while his eyes searched every inch of each canvas as if it held some long-lost secret.
    The two brothers shared a glance before Francesco mumbled something and refocused on his canvas.
    At last the Vicomte spoke. “I sought fame—or infamy, some might say. I wanted my song to be heard, perhaps above others.” His voice held much sadness. He thrust his shillelagh towards Jacques. “I recognize that very characteristic in you, my son. Vanity drives you to indulgence. Your compulsion to have your song heard is your cross, a burden you will not or cannot lay down. I was of that nature. But you shall perhaps discover it’s not a true path.” He leaned back. “For me, in one astonishing experience, only in an instant, I was able to recognize much of my authentic nature, and I was transformed. Profoundly, believe me. And Jesus of … well, I had much to learn.”
    Jacques pulled out his snuffbox, offering its ingredients to his brother and the Vicomte. Both declined.
    “I am decided,” Fragonard said to Jacques. “I am decided.”
    He pointed his shillelagh at Francesco. “Because I am paying wages to this talented artist to paint and not to prod in other business, and as you,” he pointed his stick at Jacques, “are the one whose character I feel free to dissect, you are chosen to accompany me. I invite you alone.”
    Jacques, wondering how soon he would be visiting the erotic miniatures, reminded himself to be surprised when the old owl showed them. He bowed.
    “I gratefully accept, Vicomte de Fragonard, and look forward to your company.”
    Fragonard lifted himself from the chair and retrieved his shillelagh.
    “No doubt that much of what I have said seems to have little importance from your vantage point, Signor Casanova. But grant credit to a man with many years and some wisdom. Truly, I confide I’ve had an experience that most men may only imagine.”
    “My inquisitive nature, sir, near overwhelms me.”
    The Vicomte beckoned the younger man with an outstretched finger.
    ***
    Once into the upper house, the Vicomte and Jacques made their way with only a single candle between