Someone was knocking at the door. Casanova awoke from a heavy sleep to find Olivo standing before him.
“At your writing so early?”
Casanova promptly collected his wits. “It is my custom,” he said, “to work the first thing in the morning. What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock,” answered Olivo. “Breakfast is ready in the garden. We will start on our drive to the nunnery as early as you please, Chevalier. How the wind has blown your papers about!”
He stooped to pick up the fallen leaves. Casanova did not interfere. He had moved to the window, and was looking down upon the breakfast table which had been set on the greensward in the shade of the house. Amalia, Marcolina, and the three young girls, dressed in white, were at breakfast. They called up a good-morning. He had no eyes for anyone but Marcolina, who smiled at him frankly and in the friendliest fashion. In her lap was a plateful of early-ripe grapes, which she was eating deliberately.
Contempt, anger, and hatred vanished from Casanova’s heart. All he knew was that he loved her. Made drunken by the very sight of her, he turned away from the window to find Olivo on hands and knees still assembling the scattered pages of manuscript from under the table and chest of drawers. “Don’t trouble any further,” he said to his host. “Leave me to myself for a moment while I get ready for the drive.”
“No hurry,” answered Olivo, rising, and brushing the dust from his knees. “We shall easily be home in time for dinner. We want to get back early, anyhow, for the Marchese would like us to begin cards soon after our meal. I suppose he wants to leave before sunset.”
“It doesn’t matter to me what time you begin cards,” said Casanova, as he arranged his manuscript in the portfolio. “Whatever happens, I shall not take a hand in the game.”
“Yes you will,” explained Olivo with a decision foreign to his usual manner. Laying a roll of gold pieces on the table, he continued: “Thus do I pay my debt, Chevalier. A belated settlement, but it comes from a grateful heart.” Casanova made a gesture of refusal.
“I insist,” said Olivo. “If you do not take the money, you will wound us deeply. Besides, last night Amalia had a dream which will certainly induce you—but I will let her tell the story herself.” He turned and left the room precipitately.
Casanova counted the money. Yes, there were one hundred and fifty gold pieces, the very sum that fifteen years earlier he had presented to the bridegroom, the bride, or the bride’s mother—he had forgotten which.
“The best thing I could do,” he mused, “would be to pack up the money, say farewell to Olivo and Amalia, and leave the place at once, if possible without seeing Marcolina again. Yet when was I ever guided by reason?—I wonder if news has reached Mantua from Venice? But my good hostess promised to forward without fail anything that might arrive.”
The maid meanwhile had brought a large earthenware pitcher filled with water freshly drawn from the spring. Casanova sponged himself all over. Greatly refreshed, he dressed in his best suit, the one he had intended to wear the previous evening had there been time to change. Now, however, he was delighted that he would be able to appear before Marcolina better clad than on the previous day, to present himself in a new form as it were.
So he sauntered into the garden wearing a coat of grey satin richly embroidered and trimmed with Spanish lace; a yellow waistcoat; and knee-breeches of cherry-colored silk. His aspect was that of a man who was distinguished without being proud. An amiable smile played about his lips, and his eyes sparkled with the fire of inextinguishable youth. To his disappointment, he found no one but Olivo, who bade him be seated, and invited him to fall to upon the modest fare. Casanova’s breakfast consisted of bread, butter, milk, and eggs, followed by peaches and grapes, which seemed to him the finest he had ever eaten. Now the three girls came running across the lawn. Casanova kissed them in turn, bestowing on the thirteen-year-old Teresina such caresses as the Abbate had been free with on the previous day. Her eyes gleamed in a way with which Casanova was familiar. He was convinced this meant something more to her than childish amusement.
Olivo was delighted to see how well the Chevalier got on with the girls. “Must you really leave us to-morrow morning?” he enquired tentatively. “This very evening,” rejoined Casanova jovially. “You know, my dear Olivo, I must consider the wishes of the Venetian senators....”
“How have they earned the right to any such consideration from you?” broke in Olivo. “Let them wait. Stay here for another two days at least; or, better still, for a week.”
Casanova slowly shook his head. He had seized Teresina’s hands, and held her prisoner between his knees. She drew herself gently away, with a smile no longer that of a child. At this moment Amalia and Marcolina emerged from the house. Olivo besought them to second his invitation. But when neither found a word to say on the matter, Casanova’s voice and expression assumed an unduly severe emphasis as he answered: “Quite out of the question.”
On the way through the chestnut avenue to the road, Marcolina asked Casanova whether he had made satisfactory progress with the polemic. Olivo had told her that his guest had been at the writing-table since early morning.
Casanova was half inclined to make an answer that would have been malicious in its ambiguity, and would have startled his auditor without betraying himself. Reflecting, however, that premature advances could do his cause nothing but harm, he held his wit in leash, and civilly rejoined that he had been content to make a few emendations, the fruit of his conversation with her yesterday.
Now they all seated themselves in the lumbering carriage. Casanova sat opposite Marcolina, Olivo opposite Amalia. The vehicle was so roomy that, notwithstanding the inevitable joltings, the inmates were not unduly jostled one against the other. Casanova begged Amalia to tell him her dream. She smiled cordially, almost brightly, no longer displaying any trace of mortification or resentment.
“In my dream, Casanova, I saw you driving past a white building in a splendid carriage drawn by six chestnut horses. Or rather, the carriage pulled up in front of this building, and at first I did not know who was seated inside. Then you got out. You were wearing a magnificent white court dress embroidered with gold, so that your appearance was almost more resplendent than it is to-day.” Her tone conveyed a spice of gentle mockery. “You were wearing, I am sure of it, the thin gold chain you are wearing to-day, and yet I had never seen it until this morning!” This chain, with the gold watch and gold snuff-box set with garnets (Casanova was fingering it as she spoke), were the only trinkets of value still left to him. “An old man, looking like a beggar, opened the carriage door. It was Lorenzi. As for you, Casanova, you were young, quite young, younger even than you seemed to me in those days.” She said “in those days” quite unconcernedly, regardless of the fact that in the train of these words all her memories came attendant, winging their way like a flight of birds. “You bowed right and left, although there was not a soul within sight; then you entered the house. The door slammed to behind you. I did not know whether the storm had slammed it, or Lorenzi. So startling was the noise that the horses took fright and galloped away with the carriage. Then came a clamor from neighboring streets, as if people were trying to save themselves from being run over; but soon all was quiet again. Next I saw you at one of the windows. Now I knew it was a gaming-house. Once more you bowed in all directions, though the whole time there was no one to be seen. You looked over your shoulder, as if someone were standing behind you in the room; but I knew that no one was there. Now, of a sudden, I saw you at another window, in a higher story, where the same gestures were repeated. Then higher still, and higher, and yet higher, as if the building were piled story upon story, interminably. From each window in succession, you bowed towards the street, and then turned to speak to persons behind you—who were not really there at all. Lorenzi, meanwhile, kept on running up the stairs, flight after flight, but was never able to overtake you. He wanted you because you had forgotten to give him a gratuity.....”
“What next?” enquired Casanova, when Amalia paused.
“There was a great deal more, but I have forgotten,” said Amalia.
Casanova was disappointed. In such cases, whether he was relating a dream or giving an account of real incidents, it was his way to round off the narrative, attempting to convey a meaning. He remarked discontentedly: “How strangely everything is distorted in dreams. Fancy, that I should be wealthy; and that Lorenzi should be a beggar, and old!”
“As far as Lorenzi is concerned,” interjected Olivo, “there is not much wealth about him. His father is fairly well off, but no one can say that of the son.”
Casanova had no need to ask questions. He was speedily informed that it was through the Marchese that they had made the Lieutenant’s acquaintance. The Marchese had brought Lorenzi to the house only a few weeks before. A man of the Chevalier’s wide experience would hardly need prompting to enlighten him as to the nature of the young officer’s relationship to the Marchesa. After all, if the husband had no objection, the affair was nobody else’s business.
“I think, Olivo,” said Casanova, “that you have allowed yourself to be convinced of the Marchese’s complaisance too easily. Did you not notice his manner towards the young man, the mingling of contempt and ferocity? I should not like to wager that all will end well.”
Marcolina remained impassive. She seemed to pay no attention to this talk about Lorenzi, but sat with unruffled countenance, and to all appearance quietly delighting in the landscape. The road led upwards by a gentle ascent zigzagging through groves of olives and holly trees. Now they reached a place where the horses had to go more slowly, and Casanova alighted to stroll beside the carriage. Marcolina talked of the lovely scenery round Bologna, and of the evening walks she was in the habit of taking with Professor Morgagni’s daughter. She also mentioned that she was planning a journey to France next year, in order to make the personal acquaintance of Saugrenue, the celebrated mathematician at the university of Paris, with whom she had corresponded. “Perhaps,” she said with a smile, “I may look in at Ferney on the way, in order to learn from Voltaire’s own lips how he has been affected by the polemic of the Chevalier de Seingalt, his most formidable adversary.”
Casanova was walking with a hand on the side of the carriage, close to Marcolina’s arm. Her loose sleeve was touching his fingers. He answered quietly: “It matters less what M. Voltaire thinks about the matter than what posterity thinks. A final decision upon the merits of the controversy must be left to the next generation.”
“Do you really think,” said Marcolina earnestly, “that final decisions can be reached in questions of this character?”
“I am surprised that you should ask such a thing, Marcolina. Though your philosophic views, and (if the term be appropriate) your religious views, seem to me by no means irrefutable, at least they must be firmly established in your soul—if you believe that there is a soul.”
Marcolina, ignoring the personal animus in Casanova’s words, sat looking skyward over the tree-crests, and tranquilly rejoined: “Ofttimes, and especially on a day like this”—to Casanova, knowing what he knew, the words conveyed the thrill of reverence in the newly awakened heart of a woman—“I feel as if all that people speak of as philosophy and religion were no more than playing with words. A sport nobler perhaps than others, nevertheless more unmeaning than them all. Infinity and eternity will never be within the grasp of our understanding. Our path leads from birth to death. What else is left for us than to live a life accordant with the law that each of us bears within—or a life of rebellion against that law? For rebellion and submissiveness both issue from God.”
Olivo looked at his niece with timid admiration, then turned to contemplate Casanova with some anxiety. Casanova was in search of a rejoinder which should convince Marcolina that she was in one breath affirming and denying God, or should prove to her that she was proclaiming God and the Devil to be the same. He realized, however, that he had nothing but empty words to set against her feelings, and to-day words did not come to him readily. His expression showed him to be somewhat at a loss, and apparently reminded Amalia of the confused menaces he had uttered on the previous day. So she hastened to remark: “Marcolina is deeply religious all the same, I can assure you, Chevalier.”
Marcolina smiled.
“We are all religious in our several ways,” said Casanova civilly.
Now came a turn in the road, and the nunnery was in sight. The slender tops of cypresses showed above the encircling wall. At the sound of the approaching carriage, the great doors had swung open. The porter, an old man with a flowing white beard, bowed gravely and gave them admittance. Through the cloisters, between the columns of which they caught glimpses of an overgrown garden, they advanced towards the main building, from whose unadorned, grey, and prison-like exterior an unpleasantly cool air was wafted. Olivo pulled the bellrope; the answering sound was high-pitched, and died away in a moment. A veiled nun silently appeared, and ushered the guests into the spacious parlor. It contained merely a few plain wooden chairs, and the back was cut off by a heavy iron grating, beyond which nothing could be seen but a vague darkness.
With bitterness in his heart, Casanova recalled the adventure which still seemed to him the most wonderful of all his experiences. It had begun in just such surroundings as the present. Before his eyes loomed the forms of the two inmates of the Murano convent who had been friends in their love for him. In conjunction they had bestowed upon him hours of incomparable sweetness. When Olivo, in a whisper, began to speak of the strict discipline imposed upon this sisterhood—once they were professed, the nuns must never appear unveiled before a man, and they were vowed to perpetual silence—a smile flitted across Casanova’s face.
The Abbess suddenly emerged from the gloom, and was standing in their midst. In silence she saluted her guests, and with an exaggerated reverence of her veiled head acknowledged Casanova’s expressions of gratitude for the admission of himself, a stranger. But when Marcolina wished to kiss her hand, the Abbess gathered the girl in her arms. Then, with a wave of the hand inviting them to follow, she led the way through a small room into a cloister surrounding a quadrangular flower-garden. In contrast to the outer garden, which had run wild, this inner garden was tended with especial care. The flower-beds, brilliant in the sunshine, showed a wonderful play of variegated colors. The warm odors were almost intoxicating. One, intermingled with the rest, aroused no responsive echo in Casanova’s memory. Puzzled, he was about to say a word on the subject to Marcolina, when he perceived that the enigmatic, stimulating fragrance emanated from herself. She had removed her shawl from her shoulders and was carrying it over her arm. From the opening of her gown came a perfume at once kindred to that of the thousand flowers of the garden, and yet unique.
The Abbess, still without a word, conducted the visitors between the flower-beds upon narrow, winding paths which traversed the garden like a lovely labyrinth. The graceful ease of her gait showed that she was enjoying the chance of showing others the motley splendors of her garden. As if she had determined to make her guests giddy, she moved on faster and ever faster like the leader of a lively folk-dance. Then, quite suddenly, so that Casanova seemed to awaken from a confusing dream, they all found themselves in the parlor once more. On the other side of the grating, dim figures were moving. It was impossible to distinguish whether, behind the thick bars, three or five or twenty veiled women were flitting to and fro like startled ghosts. Indeed, none but Casanova, with eyes preternaturally acute to pierce the darkness, could discern that they were human outlines at all.
The Abbess attended her guests to the door, mutely gave them a sign of farewell, and vanished before they had found time to express their thanks for her courtesy.
Suddenly, just as they were about to leave the parlor, a woman’s voice near the grating breathed the word “Casanova.” Nothing but his name, in a tone that seemed to him quite unfamiliar. From whom came this breach of a sacred vow? Was it a woman he had once loved, or a woman he had never seen before? Did the syllables convey the ecstasy of an unexpected reencounter, or the pain of something irrecoverably lost; or did it convey the lamentation that an ardent wish of earlier days had been so late and so fruitlessly fulfilled? Casanova could not tell. All that he knew was that his name, which had so often voiced the whispers of tender affection, the stammerings of passion, the acclamations of happiness, had to-day for the first time pierced his heart with the full resonance of love. But, for this very reason, to probe the matter curiously would have seemed to him ignoble and foolish. The door closed behind the party, shutting in a secret which he was never to unriddle. Were it not that the expression on each face had shown timidly and fugitively that the call to Casanova had reached the ears of all, each might have fancied himself or herself a prey to illusion. No one uttered a word as they walked through the cloisters to the great doors. Casanova brought up the rear, with bowed head, as if on the occasion of some profoundly affecting farewell.
The porter was waiting. He received his alms. The visitors stepped into the carriage, and started on the homeward road. Olivo seemed perplexed; Amalia was distrait. Marcolina, however, was quite unmoved. Too pointedly, in Casanova’s estimation, she attempted to engage Amalia in a discussion of household affairs, a topic upon which Olivo was compelled to come to his wife’s assistance. Casanova soon joined in the discussion, which turned upon matters relating to kitchen and cellar. An expert on these topics, he saw no reason why he should hide his light under a bushel, and he seized the opportunity of giving a fresh proof of versatility. Thereupon, Amalia roused herself from her brown study. After their recent experience—at once incredible and haunting—to all, and especially to Casanova, there was a certain comfort derivable from an extremely commonplace atmosphere of mundane life. When the carriage reached home, where an inviting odor of roast meat and cooking vegetables assailed their nostrils, Casanova was in the midst of an appetizing description of a Polish pasty, a description to which even Marcolina attended with a flattering air of domesticity.
In a strangely tranquillized, almost happy mood, which was a surprise to himself, Casanova sat at table with the others, and paid court to Marcolina in the sportive manner which might seem appropriate from a distinguished elderly gentleman towards a well-bred young woman of the burgher class. She accepted his attentions gracefully, in the spirit in which they appeared to be offered. He found it difficult to believe that his demure neighbor was the same Marcolina from whose bedroom window he had seen a young officer emerge, a man who had obviously held her in his arms but a few moments earlier. It was equally difficult for him to realize how this tender girl, who was fond of romping on the grass with other children, could conduct a learned correspondence with Saugrenue, the renowned mathematician of Paris. Yet simultaneously he derided himself for the inertness of his imagination. Had he not learned a thousand times that in the souls of all persons who are truly alive, discrepant elements, nay, apparently hostile elements, may coexist in perfect harmony? He himself, who shortly before had been so profoundly moved, had been desperate, had been ready for evil deeds, was now so gentle, so kindly, in so merry a mood, that Olivo’s little daughters were shaking their sides with laughter. Nevertheless, as was usual with him after strong excitement, his appetite was positively ferocious, and this served to warn him that order was not yet fully restored in his soul.
With the last course, the maid brought in a despatch which had just arrived for the Chevalier by special messenger from Mantua. Olivo noticed that Casanova grew pale. He told the servant to provide the messenger with refreshment, then turned to his guest.
“Pray don’t stand upon ceremony, Chevalier. Read your letter.”
“If you will excuse me,” answered Casanova. He went to the window and opened the missive with simulated indifference. It was from Signor Bragadino, an old friend of the family and a confirmed bachelor, over eighty years of age, and for the last decade a member of the Supreme Council. He had shown more interest than other patrons in pressing Casanova’s suit. The letter was beautifully written, although the characters were a little shaky. It was as follows:
“My dear Casanova:
“I am delighted, at length, to be able to send you news which will, I hope, be substantially accordant with your wishes. The Supreme Council, at its last sitting, which took place yesterday evening, did not merely express its willingness to permit your return to Venice. It went further. The Council desires that your advent should be as speedy as possible, since there is an intention to turn to immediate account the active gratitude which you have foreshadowed in so many of your letters.
“Since Venice has been deprived for so long of the advantage of your presence, you may perhaps be unaware, my dear Casanova, that quite recently the internal affairs of our beloved native city have taken a rather unfavorable trend both politically and morally. Secret societies have come into existence, directed against the constitution of the Venetian state, and even, it would seem, aiming at its forcible overthrow. As might be expected, the members of these societies, persons whom it would not be too harsh to denominate conspirators, are chiefly drawn from certain free-thinking, irreligious, and lawless circles. Not to speak of what goes on in private, we learn that in the public squares and in coffee houses, the most outrageous, the most treasonable conversations, take place. But only in exceptional instances has it been possible to catch the guilty in the act, or to secure definite proof against the offenders. A few admissions have been enforced by the rack, but these confessions have proved so untrustworthy that several members of the Council are of opinion that for the future it would be better to abstain from methods of investigation which are not only cruel but are apt to lead us astray. Of course there is no lack of individuals well-affected towards public order and devoted to the welfare of the state, individuals who would be delighted to place their services at the disposal of the government; but most of them are so well known as stalwart supporters of the existing constitution that when they are present people are chary in their utterances and are most unlikely to give vent to treasonable expressions.
“At yesterday’s sitting, one of the senators, whom I will not name, expressed the opinion that a man who had the reputation of being without moral principle and who was furthermore regarded as a freethinker—in short, Casanova, such a man as yourself—if recalled to Venice would not fail to secure prompt and sympathetic welcome in the very circles which the government regards with such well-grounded suspicion. If he played his cards well, such a man would soon inspire the most absolute confidence.
“In my opinion, irresistibly, and as if by the force of a law of nature, there would gravitate around your person the very elements which the Supreme Council, in its indefatigable zeal for the state, is most eager to render harmless and to punish in an exemplary manner. For your part, my dear Casanova, you would give us an acceptable proof of your patriotic zeal, and would furnish in addition an infallible sign of your complete conversion from all those tendencies for which, during your imprisonment in The Leads, you had to atone by punishment which, though severe, was not, as you now see for yourself (if we are to believe your epistolary assurances), altogether unmerited. I mean, should you be prepared, immediately on your return home, to act in the way previously suggested, to seek acquaintance with the elements sufficiently specified above, to introduce yourself to them in the friendliest fashion as one who cherishes the same tendencies, and to furnish the Senate with accurate and full reports of everything which might seem to you suspicious or worthy of note.
“For these services the authorities would offer you, to begin with, a salary of two hundred and fifty lire per month, apart from special payments in cases of exceptional importance. I need hardly say that you would receive in addition, without too close a scrutiny of the items, an allowance for such expenses as you might incur in the discharge of your duties (I refer, for instance, to the treating of this individual or of that, little gifts made to women, and so on).
“I do not attempt to conceal from myself that you may have to fight down certain scruples before you will feel inclined to fulfil our wishes. Permit me, however, as your old and sincere friend (who was himself young once), to remind you that it can never be regarded as dishonorable for a man to perform any services that may be essential for the safety of his beloved fatherland—even if, to a shallow-minded and unpatriotic citizen, such services might seem to be of an unworthy character. Let me add, Casanova, that your knowledge of human nature will certainly enable you to draw a distinction between levity and criminality, to differentiate the jester from the heretic. Thus it will be within your power, in appropriate cases, to temper justice with mercy, and to deliver up to punishment those only who, in your honest opinion, may deserve it.
“Above all I would ask you to consider that, should you reject the gracious proposal of the Supreme Council, the fulfilment of your dearest wish—your return to Venice—is likely to be postponed for a long and I fear for an indefinite period; and that I myself, if I may allude to the matter, as an old man of eighty-one, should be compelled in all human probability to renounce the pleasing prospect of ever seeing you again in this life.
“Since, for obvious reasons, your appointment will be of a confidential and not of a public nature, I beg you to address to me personally your reply, for which I make myself responsible, and which I wish to present to the Council at its next sitting a week hence. Act with all convenient speed, for, as I have previously explained, we are daily receiving offers from thoroughly trustworthy persons who, from patriotic motives, voluntarily place themselves at the disposal of the Supreme Council. Nevertheless, there is hardly one among them who can compare with you, my dear Casanova, in respect of experience or intelligence. If, in addition to all the arguments I have adduced, you take my personal feelings into account, I find it difficult to doubt that you will gladly respond to the call which now reaches you from so exalted and so friendly a source.
“Till then, receive the assurances of my undying friendship.
“BRAGADINO.”
“Postscript. Immediately upon receipt of your acceptance, it will be a pleasure to me to send you a remittance of two hundred lire through the banking firm of Valori in Mantua. The sum is to defray the cost of your journey.
“B.”
Long after Casanova had finished reading the letter, he stood holding the paper so as to conceal the deathly pallor of his countenance. From the dining-table came a continuous noise, the rattle of plates and the clinking of glasses; but conversation had entirely ceased. At length Amalia ventured to say: “The food is getting cold, Chevalier; won’t you go on with your meal?”
“You must excuse me,” replied Casanova, letting his face be seen once more, for by now, owing to his extraordinary self-control, he had regained outward composure. “I have just received the best possible news from Venice, and I must reply instantly. With your leave, I will go to my room.”
“Suit yourself, Chevalier,” said Olivo. “But do not forget that our card party begins in an hour.”
In the turret chamber Casanova sank into a chair. A chill sweat broke out over his body; he shivered as if in the cold stage of a fever; he was seized with such nausea that he felt as if he were about to choke. For a time he was unable to think clearly, and he could do no more than devote his energies to the task of self-restraint without quite knowing why he did so. But there was no one in the house upon whom he could vent his fury; and he could not fail to realize the utter absurdity of a half-formed idea that Marcolina must be in some way contributory to the intolerable shame which had been put upon him.
As soon as he was in some degree once more master of himself, his first thought was to take revenge upon the scoundrels who had believed that he could be hired as a police spy. He would return to Venice in disguise, and would exert all his cunning to compass the death of these wretches—or at least of whomever it was that had conceived the despicable design.
Was Bragadino the prime culprit? Why not? An old man so lost to all sense of shame that he had dared to write such a letter to Casanova; a dotard who could actually believe that Casanova, whom he had personally known, would set his hand to this ignominious task. He no longer knew Casanova! Nor did anyone know him, in Venice or elsewhere. But people should learn to know him once more.
It was true that he was no longer young enough or handsome enough to seduce an honest girl. Nor did he now possess the skill and the agility requisite for an escape from prison, or for gymnastic feats upon the roof-tops. But in spite of his age, he was cleverer than anyone else! Once back in Venice, he could do anything he pleased. The first step, the essential step, was to get back. Perhaps it would not be necessary to kill anyone. There were other kinds of revenge, grimmer, more devilish, than a commonplace murder. If he were to feign acceptance of the Council’s proposal, it would be the easiest thing in the world to compass the destruction of those whom he wished to destroy, instead of bringing about the ruin of those whom the authorities had in mind, and who were doubtless the finest fellows among all the inhabitants of Venice! Monstrous! Because they were the enemies of this infamous government, because they were reputed heretics, were they to languish in The Leads where he had languished twenty-five years ago, or were they to perish under the executioner’s axe? He detested the government a hundred times more than they did, and with better reason. He had been a lifelong heretic; was a heretic to-day, upon sincerer conviction than them all. What a queer comedy he had been playing of late years—simply from tedium and disgust. He to believe in God? What sort of a God was it who was gracious only to the young, and left the old in the lurch? A God who, when the fancy took him, became a devil; who transformed wealth into poverty, fortune into misfortune, happiness into despair. “You play with us—and we are to worship you? To doubt your existence is the only resource left open to us if we are not to blaspheme you! You do not exist; for if you did exist, I should curse you!”
Shaking his clenched fists heavenward, he rose to his feet. Involuntarily, a detested name rose to his lips. Voltaire! Yes, now he was in the right mood to finish his polemic against the sage of Ferney. To finish it? No, now was the time to begin it. A new one! A different one! One in which the ridiculous old fool should be shown up as he deserved: for his pusillanimity, his half-heartedness, his subservience. He an unbeliever? A man of whom the latest news was that he was on excellent terms with the priests, that he visited church, and on feast days actually went to confession! He a heretic? He was a chatterbox, a boastful coward, nothing more! But the day of reckoning was at hand, and soon there would be nothing left of the great philosopher but a quill-driving buffoon.
What airs he had given himself, this worthy M. Voltaire! “My dear M. Casanova, I am really vexed with you. What concern have I with the works of Merlin? It is your fault that I have wasted four hours over such nonsense.”
All a matter of taste, excellent M. Voltaire! People will continue to read Merlin long afterLa Pucellehas been forgotten. Possibly they will continue to prize my sonnets, the sonnets you returned to me with a shameless smile, and without saying a word about them. But these are trifles. Do not let us spoil a great opportunity because of our sensitiveness as authors. We are concerned with philosophy—with God! We shall cross swords, M. Voltaire, unless you die before I have a chance to deal with you.
He was already in the mind to begin his new polemic, when it occurred to him that the messenger was waiting for an answer. He hastily indited a letter to the old duffer Bragadino, a letter full of hypocritical humility and simulated delight. With joy and gratitude he accepted the pardon of the Council. He would expect the remittance by return of post, so that with all possible speed he might present himself before his patrons, and above all before the honored old family friend, Bragadino.
When he was in the act of sealing the letter, someone knocked gently at the door. At the word, Olivo’s eldest daughter, the thirteen-year-old Teresina, entered, to tell him that the whole company was assembled below, and that the Chevalier was impatiently awaited at the card table. Her eyes gleamed strangely; her cheeks were flushed; her thick, black hair lay loose upon her temples; her little mouth was half open.
“Have you been drinking wine, Teresina?” asked Casanova striding towards her.
“Yes. How did you know?” She blushed deeper, and in her embarrassment she moistened her lips with her tongue.
Casanova seized her by the shoulders, and, breathing in her face, drew her to the bed. She looked at him with great helpless eyes in which the light was now extinguished. But when she opened her mouth as if to scream, Casanova’s aspect was so menacing that she was almost paralyzed with fear, and let him do whatever he pleased.
He kissed her with a tender fierceness, whispering: “You must not tell the Abbate anything about this, Teresina, not even in confession. Some day, when you have a lover or a husband, there is no reason why he should know anything about it. You should always keep your own counsel. Never tell the truth to your father, your mother, or your sisters, that it may be well with you on earth. Mark my words.” As he spoke thus blasphemously, Teresina seemed to regard his utterance as a pious admonition, for she seized his hand and kissed it reverently as if it had been a priest’s.
He laughed. “Come,” he said, “come, little wife, we will walk arm in arm into the room downstairs!”
She seemed a little coy at first, but smiled with genuine gratification.
It was high time for them to go down, for they met Olivo coming up. He was flushed and wore a frown, so that Casanova promptly inferred that the Marchese or the Abbate had roused his suspicions by some coarse jest concerning Teresina’s prolonged absence. His brow cleared when he beheld Casanova on the threshold, standing arm in arm with the girl as if in sport.
“I’m sorry to have kept you all waiting, Olivo,” said Casanova. “I had to finish my letter.” He held the missive out to Olivo in proof of his words.
“Take it,” said Olivo to Teresina, smoothing her rumpled hair. “Hand it to the messenger.”
“Here are two gold pieces for the man,” added Casanova. “He must bestir himself, so that the letter may leave Mantua for Venice to-day. And ask him to tell my hostess at the inn that I shall return this evening.”
“This evening?” exclaimed Olivo. “Impossible!”
“Oh, well, we’ll see,” observed Casanova affably. “Here, Teresina, take this, a gold piece for yourself.” When Olivo demurred, Casanova added: “Put it in your moneybox, Teresina. That letter is worth any amount of gold pieces!”
Teresina tripped away, and Casanova nodded to himself contentedly. In days gone by he had possessed the girl’s mother and grandmother also, and he thought it a particularly good joke that he was paying the little wench for her favors under the very eyes of her father.
When Casanova entered the hall with Olivo, cards had already begun. He acknowledged with serene dignity the effusive greeting of the company, and took his place opposite the Marchese, who was banker. The windows into the garden were open. Casanova heard voices outside; Marcolina and Amalia strolled by, glanced into the room for a moment, and then disappeared.
While the Marchese was dealing, Lorenzi turned to Casanova with ceremonious politeness, saying: “My compliments, Chevalier. You were better informed than I. My regiment is under orders to march tomorrow afternoon.”
The Marchese looked surprised. “Why did you not tell us sooner, Lorenzi?”
“The matter did not seem of such supreme importance.”
“It is of no great importance to me,” said the Marchese. “But don’t you think it is of considerable importance to my wife?” He laughed raucously. “As a matter of fact, I have some interest in the matter myself. You won four hundred ducats from me yesterday, and there is not much time left in which to win them back.”
“The Lieutenant won money from us too,” said the younger Ricardi. The elder, silent as usual, looked over his shoulder at his brother, who stood behind the elder’s chair as on the previous day.
“Luck and women.....” began the Abbate.
The Marchese finished the sentence for him: “.....cannot be constrained.”
Lorenzi carelessly scattered his gold on the table. “There you are. I will stake it all upon a single card, if you like, Marchese, so that you need not wait for your money.”
Casanova suddenly became aware of a feeling of compassion for Lorenzi, a feeling he was puzzled to account for. But he believed himself to be endowed with second-sight, and he had a premonition that the Lieutenant would fall in his first encounter.
The Marchese did not accept the suggestion of high stakes, nor did Lorenzi insist. They resumed the game, therefore, much as on the previous night, everyone taking a hand at first, and only moderate sums being ventured. A quarter of an hour later, however, the stakes began to rise, and ere long Lorenzi had lost his four hundred ducats to the Marchese.
Casanova had no constancy either in luck or ill-luck. He won, lost, and won again, in an almost ludicrously regular alternation.
Lorenzi drew a breath of relief when his last gold piece had gone the way of the others. Rising from the table, he said: “I thank you, gentlemen. This,” he hesitated for a moment, “this will prove to have been my last game for a long time in your hospitable house. If you will allow me, Signor Olivo, I will take leave of the ladies before riding into town. I must reach Mantua ere nightfall in order to make preparations for to-morrow.”
“Shameless liar,” thought Casanova. “You will return here to-night, to Marcolina’s arms!” Rage flamed up in him anew.
“What!” exclaimed the Marchese maliciously. “The evening will not come for hours. Is the game to stop so early? If you like, Lorenzi, my coachman shall drive home with a message to the Marchesa to let her know that you will be late.”
“I am going to ride to Mantua,” rejoined Lorenzi impatiently. The Marchese, ignoring this statement, went on: “There is still plenty of time. Put up some of your own money, if it be but a single gold piece.” He dealt Lorenzi a card.
“I have not a single gold piece left,” said Lorenzi wearily.
“Really?”
“Not one,” asserted Lorenzi, as if tired of the whole matter.
“Never mind,” said the Marchese, with a sudden assumption of amiability which was far from congenial. “I will trust you as far as ten ducats goes, or even for a larger sum if needs must.”
“All right, a ducat, then,” said Lorenzi, taking up the card dealt to him.
The Marchese won. Lorenzi went on with the game, as if this were now a matter of course, and was soon in the Marchese’s debt to the amount of one hundred ducats.
At this stage Casanova became banker, and had even better luck than the Marchese. There remained only three players. To-day the brothers Ricardi stood aside without complaint. Olivo and the Abbate were merely interested onlookers.
No one uttered a syllable. Only the cards spoke, and they spoke in unmistakable terms. By the hazard of fortune all the cash found its way to Casanova. In an hour he had won two thousand ducats; he had won them from Lorenzi, though they came out of the pockets of the Marchese, who at length sat there without a soldo.
Casanova offered him whatever gold pieces he might need. The Marchese shook his head. “Thanks,” he said, “I have had enough. The game is over as far as I am concerned.”
From the garden came the laughing voices of the girls. Casanova heard Teresina’s voice in particular, but he was sitting with his back to the window and did not turn round. He tried once more to persuade the Marchese to resume the game—for the sake of Lorenzi, though he hardly knew what moved him. The Marchese refused with a yet more decisive headshake.
Lorenzi rose, saying: “I shall have the honor, Signor Marchese, of handing the amount I owe you to you personally, before noon to-morrow.”
The Marchese laughed drily. “I am curious to know how you will manage that, Lieutenant Lorenzi. There is not a soul, in Mantua or elsewhere, who would lend you as much as ten ducats, not to speak of two thousand, especially to-day. For to-morrow you will be on the march, and who can tell whether you will ever return?”
“I give you my word of honor, Signor Marchese, that you shall have the money at eight o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“Your word of honor,” said the Marchese, “is not worth a single ducat to me, let alone two thousand.”
The others held their breath. Lorenzi, apparently unmoved, merely answered: “You will give me satisfaction, Signor Marchese.”
“With pleasure, Signor Lieutenant,” rejoined the Marchese, “as soon as you have paid your debt.”
Olivo, who was profoundly distressed, here intervened, stammering slightly: “I stand surety for the amount, Signor Marchese. Unfortunately I have not sufficient ready money on the spot; but there is the house, the estate.....” He closed the sentence with an awkward wave of the hand.
“I refuse to accept your surety, for your own sake,” said the Marchese. “You would lose your money.”
Casanova saw that all eyes were turned towards the gold that lay on the table before him. “What if I were to stand surety for Lorenzi,” he thought. “What if I were to pay the debt for him? The Marchese could not refuse my offer. I almost think I ought to do it. It was the Marchese’s money.”
But he said not a word. He felt that a plan was taking shape hi his mind, and that above all he needed time in which he might become clear as to its details.
“You shall have the money this evening, before nightfall,” said Lorenzi. “I shall be in Mantua in an hour.”
“Your horse may break its neck,” replied the Marchese. “You too; intentionally, perhaps.”
“Anyhow,” said the Abbate indignantly, “the Lieutenant cannot get the money here by magic.”
The two Ricardis laughed; but instantly restrained their mirth.
Olivo once more addressed the Marchese. “It is plain that you must grant Lieutenant Lorenzi leave to depart.”
“Yes, if he gives me a pledge,” exclaimed the Marchese with flashing eyes, as if this idea gave him peculiar delight.
“That seems rather a good plan,” said Casanova, a little absent-mindedly, for his scheme was ripening.
Lorenzi drew a ring from his finger and flicked it across the table.
The Marchese took it up, saying: “That is good for a thousand.”
“What about this one?” Lorenzi threw down another ring in front of the Marchese.
The latter nodded, saying: “That is good for the same amount.”
“Are you satisfied now, Signor Marchese?” enquired Lorenzi, moving as if to go.
“I am satisfied,” answered the Marchese, with an evil chuckle; “all the more, seeing that the rings are stolen.”
Lorenzi turned sharply, clenching his fist as if about to strike the Marchese. Olivo and the Abbate seized Lorenzi’s arm.
“I know both the stones, though they have been reset,” said the Marchese without moving from his place. “Look, gentlemen, the emerald is slightly flawed, or it would be worth ten times the amount. The ruby is flawless, but it is not a large one. Both the stones come from a set of jewels which I once gave my wife. And, since it is quite impossible for me to suppose that the Marchesa had them reset in rings for Lieutenant Lorenzi, it is obvious that they have been stolen—that the whole set has been stolen. Well, well, the pledge suffices, Signor Lieutenant, for the nonce.”
“Lorenzi!” cried Olivo, “we all give you our word that no one shall ever hear a syllable from us about what has just happened.”
“And whatever Signor Lorenzi may have done,” said Casanova, “you, Signor Marchese, are the greater rascal of the two.”
“I hope so,” replied the Marchese. “When anyone is as old as we are, Chevalier de Seingalt, assuredly he should not need lessons in rascality. Good-evening, gentlemen.”
He rose to his feet. No one responded to his farewell, and he went out.
For a space the silence was so intense, that once again the girls’ laughter was heard from the garden, now seeming unduly loud.
Who would have ventured to utter the word that was searing Lorenzi’s soul, as he stood at the table with his arm still raised? Casanova, the only one of the company who had remained seated, derived an involuntary artistic pleasure from the contemplation of this fine, threatening gesture, meaningless now, but seemingly petrified, as if the young man had been transformed into a statue.
At length Olivo turned to him with a soothing air; the Ricardis, too, drew near; and the Abbate appeared to be working himself up for a speech. But a sort of shiver passed over Lorenzi’s frame. Automatically but insistently he silently indicated his rejection of any offers at intervention. Then, with a polite inclination of the head, he quietly left the room.
Casanova, who had meanwhile wrapped up the money in a silken kerchief, instantly followed. Without looking at the others’ faces, he could feel that they were convinced it was his instant intention to do what they had all the while been expecting, namely, to place his winnings at Lorenzi’s disposal.