Casanova, however, was not one to be daunted. He smuggled letters to Caterina. He began to attend Mass at the convent several times a week, catching glimpses of her. The nuns began to talk among themselves: who was this handsome young man who appeared so often? One morning, as Casanova, leaving Mass, was about to board a gondola, a servant girl from the convent passed by and dropped a letter at his feet. Thinking it might be from Caterina, he picked it up. It was indeed intended for him, but it was not from Caterina; its author was a nun at the convent, who had noticed him on his many visits and wanted to make his acquaintance. Was he interested? If so, he should come to the convent’s parlor at a particular time, when the nun would be receiving a visitor from the outside world, a friend of hers who was a countess. He could stand at a distance, observe her, and decide whether she was to his liking.

Casanova was most intrigued by the letter: its style was dignified, but there was something naughty about it as well—particularly from a nun. He had to find out more. At the appointed day and time, he stood to the side in the convent parlor and saw an elegantly dressed woman talking with a nun seated behind a grating. He heard the nun’s name mentioned, and was astonished: it was Mathilde M., a well-known Venetian in her early twenties, whose decision to enter a convent had surprised the whole city. But what astonished him most was that beneath her nun’s habit, he could see that she was a beautiful young woman, particularly in her eyes, which were a brilliant blue. Perhaps she needed a favor done, and intended that he would serve as her cat’s-paw

His curiosity got the better of him. A few days later he returned to the convent and asked to see her. As he waited for her, his heart was beating a mile a minute—he did not know what to expect. She finally appeared and sat down behind the grating. They were alone in the room, and she said that she could arrange for them to have supper together at a little villa nearby. Casanova was delighted, but wondered what kind of nun he was dealing with. “And—have you no lover but me?” he asked. “I have a friend, who is also absolutely my master,” she replied. “It is to him I owe my wealth.” She asked if he had a lover. Yes, he replied. She then said, in a mysterious tone, “I warn you that if you once allow me to take her place in your heart, no power on earth can tear me from it.” She then gave him the key to the villa and told him to meet her there in two nights. He kissed her through the grating and left in a daze. “I passed the next two days in a state of feverish impatience,” he wrote, “which prevented me from sleeping or eating. Over and above birth, beauty, and wit, my new conquest possessed an additional charm: she was forbidden fruit. I was about to become a rival of the Church.” He imagined her in her habit, and with her shaven head.

He arrived at the villa at the appointed hour. Mathilde was waiting for him. To his surprise, she wore an elegant dress, and somehow she had avoided having her head shaved, for her hair was in a magnificent chignon. Casanova began to kiss her. She resisted, but only slightly, and then pulled back, saying a meal was ready for them. Over dinner she filled in a few more of the gaps: her money allowed her to bribe certain people, so that she could escape from the convent every so often. She had mentioned Casanova to her friend and master, and he had approved their liaison. He must be old? Casanova asked. No, she replied, a glint in her eye, he is in his forties, and quite handsome. After supper, a bell rang—her signal to hurry back to the convent, or she would be caught. She changed back into her habit and left.

A beautiful vista now seemed to stretch before Casanova, of months spent in the villa with this delightful creature, all of it courtesy of the mysterious master who paid for it all. He soon returned to the convent to arrange the next meeting. They would rendezvous in a square in Venice, then retire to the villa. At the appointed time and place, Casanova saw a man approach him. Fearing it was her mysterious friend, or some other man sent to kill him, he recoiled. The man circled behind him, then came up close: it was Mathilde, wearing a mask and men’s clothes. She laughed at the fright she had given him. What a devilish nun. He had to admit that dressed as a man she excited him even more.

Casanova began to suspect that all was not as it seemed. For one, he found a collection of libertine novels and pamphlets in Mathilde’s house. Then she made blasphemous comments, for example about the joy they would have together during Lent, “mortifying their flesh.” Now she referred to her mysterious friend as her lover. A plan evolved in his mind to take her away from this man and from the convent, eloping with her and possessing her himself.

A few days later he received a letter from her, in which she made a confession: during one of their more passionate trysts at the villa, her lover had hidden in a closet, watching the whole thing. The lover, she told him, was the French ambassador to Venice, and Casanova had impressed him. Casanova was not one to be fooled with like this, yet the next day he was back at the convent, submissively arranging for another tryst. This time she showed up at the hour they had named, and he embraced her—only to find that he was embracing Caterina, dressed up in Mathilde’s clothes. Mathilde had befriended Caterina and learned her story. Apparently taking pity on her, she had arranged it so that Caterina could leave the convent for the evening, and meet up with Casanova. Only a few months before Casanova had been in love with this girl, but he had forgotten about her. Compared to the ingenious Mathilde, Caterina was a simpering bore. He could not conceal his disappointment. He burned to see Mathilde.

Casanova was angry at the trick Mathilde had played. But a few days later, when he saw her again, all was forgiven. As she had predicted during their first interview, her power over him was complete. He had become her slave, addicted to her whims, and to the dangerous pleasures she offered. Who knows what rash act he might have committed on her behalf had their affair not been cut short by circumstance.

What made Casanova Mathilde’s slave was the same tactic he had used on countless girls: the irresistible lure of being led by another person, the thrill of being surprised, the power of mystery. Each time he left Mathilde his head was spinning with questions. Her ability to go on surprising him kept her always in his mind, deepening her spell and blotting Caterina out. Each surprise was carefully calculated for the effect it would produce. The first unexpected letter piqued his curiosity, as did that first sight of her in the waiting room; suddenly seeing her dressed as an elegant woman stirred intense desire; then seeing her dressed as a man intensified the excitingly transgressive nature of their liaison. The surprises put him off balance, yet left him quivering with anticipation of the next one. Even an unpleasant surprise, such as the encounter with Caterina that Mathilde had set up, kept him emotional and weak. Meeting the somewhat bland Caterina at that moment only made him long that much more for Mathilde.

In seduction, you need to create constant tension and suspense, a feeling that with you nothing is predictable. Do not think of this as a painful challenge. You are creating drama in real life, so pour your creative energies into it, have some fun. There are all kinds of calculated surprises you can spring on your victims—sending a letter from out of the blue, showing up unexpectedly, taking them to a place they have never been. But best of all are surprises that reveal something new about your character. This needs to be set up. In those first few weeks, your targets will tend to make certain snap judgments about you, based on appearances. Perhaps they see you as a bit shy, practical, puritanical. You know that this is not the real you, but it is how you act in social situations. Let them, however, have these impressions, and in fact accentuate them a little, without overacting: for instance, seem a little more reserved than usual. Now you have room to suddenly surprise them with some bold or poetic or naughty action. Once they have changed their minds about you, surprise them again, as Mathilde did with Casanova—first a nun who wants an affair, then a libertine, then a seductress with a sadistic streak. As they strain to figure you out, they will be thinking about you all of the time, and will want to know more about you. Their curiosity will lead them further into your web, until it is too late for them to turn back.

We get a similar thrill when we watch a movie or read a thriller: we are in the hands of a director or author who is leading us along, taking us through twists and turns. We stay in our seats, we turn the pages, happily enslaved by the suspense. It is the pleasure a woman has in being led by a confident dancer, letting go of any defensiveness she may feel and letting another person do the work. Falling in love involves anticipation; we are about to head off in a new direction, enter a new life, where everything will be strange. The seduced wants to be led, to be carried along like a child. If you are predictable, the charm wears off; everyday life is predictable. In the Arabian Tales from the Thousand and One Nights, each night King Shahriyar takes a virgin as his wife, then kills her the following morning. One such virgin, Shahrazad, manages to escape this fate by telling the king a story that can only be completed the following day. She does this night after night, keeping the king in constant suspense. When one story finishes, she quickly starts up another. She does this for nearly three years, until the king finally decides to spare her life. You are like Shahrazad: without new stories, without a feeling of anticipation, your seduction will die. Keep stoking the fires night after night. Your targets must never know what’s coming next—what surprises you have in store for them. As with King Shahriyar, they will be under your control for as long as you can keep them guessing.

In 1765, Casanova met a young Italian countess named Clementina who lived with her two sisters in a château. Clementina loved to read, and had little interest in the men who swarmed around her. Casanova added himself to their number, buying her books, engaging her in literary discussions, but she was no less indifferent to him than she had been to them. Then one day he invited the entire family on a little trip. He would not tell them where they were going. They piled into the carriage, all the way trying to guess their destination. A few hours later they entered Milan—what joy, the sisters had never been there. Casanova led them to his apartment, where three dresses had been laid out—the most magnificent dresses the girls had ever seen. There was one for each of the sisters, he told them, and the green one was for Clementina. Stunned, she put it on, and her face lit up. The surprises did not stop—there was a delicious meal, champagne, games. By the time they returned to the château, late in the evening, Clementina had fallen hopelessly in love with Casanova.

The reason was simple: surprise creates a moment when people’s defenses come down and new emotions can rush in. If the surprise is pleasurable, the seductive poison enters their veins without their realizing it. Any sudden event has a similar effect, striking directly at our emotions before we get defensive. Rakes know this power well.

A young married woman in the court of Louis XV, in eighteenth-century France, noticed a handsome young courtier watching her, first at the opera, then in church. Making inquiries, she found it was the Duc de Richelieu, the most notorious rake in France. No woman was safe from this man, she was warned; he was impossible to resist, and she should avoid him at all costs. Nonsense, she replied, she was happily married. He could not possibly seduce her. Seeing him again, she laughed at his persistence. He would disguise himself as a beggar and approach her in the park, or his coach would suddenly come alongside hers. He was never aggressive, and seemed harmless enough. She let him talk to her at court; he was charming and witty, and even asked to meet her husband.

The weeks passed, and the woman realized she had made a mistake: she looked forward to seeing the marquis. She had let down her guard. This had to stop. Now she started avoiding him, and he seemed to respect her feelings: he stopped bothering her. Then one day, weeks later, she was at the country manor of a friend when the marquis suddenly appeared. She blushed, trembled, walked away, but his unexpected appearance had caught her unawares—it had pushed her over the edge. A few days later she became another of Richelieu’s victims. Of course he had set the whole thing up, including the supposed surprise encounter.

Not only does suddenness create a seductive jolt, it conceals manipulations. Appear somewhere unexpectedly, say or do something sudden, and people will not have time to figure out that your move was calculated. Take them to some new place as if it only just occurred to you, suddenly reveal some secret. Made emotionally vulnerable, they will be too bewildered to see through you. Anything that happens suddenly seems natural, and anything that seems natural has a seductive charm.

Only months after arriving in Paris in 1926, Josephine Baker had completely charmed and seduced the French public with her wild dancing. But less than a year later she could feel their interest wane. Since childhood she had hated feeling out of control of her life. Why be at the mercy of the fickle public? She left Paris and returned a year later, her manner completely altered—now she played the part of an elegant Frenchwoman, who happened to be an ingenious dancer and performer. The French fell in love again; the power was back on her side. If you are in the public eye, you must learn from this trick of surprise. People are bored, not only with their own lives but with people who are meant to keep them from being bored. The minute they feel they can predict your next step, they will eat you alive. The artist Andy Warhol kept moving from incarnation to incarnation, and no one could predict the next one—artist, filmmaker, society man. Always keep a surprise up your sleeve. To keep the public’s attention, keep them guessing. Let the moralists accuse you of insincerity, of having no core or center. They are actually jealous of the freedom and playfulness you reveal in your public persona.

Finally, you might think it wiser to present yourself as someone reliable, not given to caprice. If so, you are in fact merely timid. It takes courage and effort to mount a seduction. Reliability is fine for drawing people in, but stay reliable and you stay a bore. Dogs are reliable, a seducer is not. If, on the other hand, you prefer to improvise, imagining that any kind of planning or calculation is antithetical to the spirit of surprise, you are making a grave mistake. Constant improvisation simply means you are lazy, and thinking only about yourself. What often seduces a person is the feeling that you have expended effort on their behalf. You do not need to trumpet this too loudly, but make it clear in the gifts you make, the little journeys you plan, the little teases you lure people with. Little efforts like these will be more than amply rewarded by the conquest of the heart and willpower of the seduced.