Chapter 47
CHAPTER 47
D uchcov, Czechia - 1798
An old man lay ailing in a bed in a darkened study in Duchcov. He had been ill for some time, making the journey to his book room impossible, and so his bed had been moved there for his comfort some months ago.
Giacomo Casanova contemplated his life and experiences as he laid back on his pillows. He had finished writing “The Story of My Life,” some years before, and had bequeathed it in his will to his nephew. He had nothing to look forward to now, but the spectre of death when it came for him.
But there! Was that not the spectre of death? Casanova gasped as a shadowed figure in the darkened doorway entered the room. He relaxed as he recognized his visitor. Not death. Just an old friend, another celebrated and learned impostor, like himself. Though he must admit, it had been many years since he had seen this man, and his lack of age since their last meeting made him wonder if the man was as much an impostor as he and Voltaire had always claimed.
“ I can see you perfected the stone, ” rasped Casanova in Italian as his old acquaintance entered the room. The man had not aged a day since they had first met eight and twenty years ago.
“ I can see you have not, ” returned the Count of St Germain in the same language.
“ I was never a proper alchemist, you know that, ” said Casanova, his head falling back to the pillows.
“ That did not prevent you from accepting thousands from Madame Pompadour, in payment for your services, ” quipped the comte , taking a seat next to the bed.
“ Can you blame me? ” Casanova barked out in laughter. “ The woman wasted so much money, someone had to collect it. ”
The two men sat late into the night, discussing the future of the continent, celestial alignments, and the properties of the philosopher’s stone.
“ You are always at ease. The rest of us, scurrying about, we have so much to do before our time ends. You never seem concerned about the future, or what it holds for you, ” said Casanova.
“ Time has little meaning to those of us who understand it, ” the comte said, smiling sadly at the dying man.
“ Do you believe there is anything after this? ” Casanova asked. “ If anyone might know, I feel it would be you. ”
“ There is, at least for some people, ” answered St Germain as he gazed at the man laying back on the pillows.
“ Well, that is something, ” sighed Casanova, “ I have lived as a philosopher, and die as a Christian. ”
St Germain said nothing more, only sat next to the other man through the night, slipping from the room and leaving as the light of dawn crept in. When the maid entered an hour later, her master had passed on to meet his maker.