Casanova and Olivo regained the highroad. In a cloud of dust, a carriage
drove up, and as they drew near the occupants shouted greetings. The
newcomers were an elderly gentleman in elegant attire and a lady who was
somewhat younger, of generous proportions, and conspicuously rouged.
“The Marchese,” whispered Olivo to his companion.
The carriage halted.
“Good evening, my dear Olivo,” said the Marchese. “Will you be so good
as to introduce me to the Chevalier de Seingalt? I have no doubt that it
is the Chevalier whom I have the pleasure of seeing.”
Casanova bowed, saying: “Yes, I am he.”
“I am the Marchese Celsi. Let me present the Marchesa, my spouse.” The
lady offered her finger tips. Casanova touched them with his lips.
The Marchese was two or three inches taller than Casanova, and
unnaturally lean. He had a narrow face, of a yellow, waxy tint; his
greenish eyes were piercing; his thick eyebrows were of reddish color,
and met across the root of the nose. These characteristics gave him a
somewhat formidable aspect. “My good Olivo,” he said, “we are all going
to the same destination. Since it is little more than half a mile to
your house, I shall get out and walk with you. You won’t mind driving
the rest of the way alone,” he added, turning to the Marchesa, who had
meanwhile been gazing at Casanova with searching, passionate eyes.
Without awaiting his wife’s answer, the Marchese nodded to the coachman,
who promptly lashed the horses furiously, as if he had some reason for
driving his mistress away at top speed. In an instant the carriage
vanished in a whirl of dust.
“The whole neighborhood,” said the Marchese, “is already aware that
the Chevalier de Seingalt has come to spend a few days with his friend
Olivo. It must be glorious to bear so renowned a name.”
“You flatter me, Signor Marchese,” replied Casanova. “I have not yet
abandoned the hope of winning such a name, but I am still far from
having done so. It may be that a work on which I am now engaged will
bring me nearer to the goal.”
“We can take a short cut here,” said Olivo, turning into a path which
led straight to the wall of his garden.
“Work?” echoed the Marchese with a doubtful air. “May I enquire to what
work you refer, Chevalier?”
“If you ask me that question, Signor Marchese, I shall in my turn feel
impelled to enquire what you meant just now when you referred to my
renown.”
Arrogantly he faced the Marchese’s piercing eyes. He knew perfectly well
that neither his romance _Icosameron_ nor yet his _Confutazione della
storia del governo veneto d’Amelot de la Houssaie_ had brought him any
notable reputation as an author. Nevertheless it was his pose to imply
that for him no other sort of reputation was desirable. He therefore
deliberately misunderstood the Marchese’s tentative observations and
cautious allusions, which implied that Casanova was a celebrated
seducer, gamester, man of affairs, political emissary, or what not.
Celsi made no reference to authorship, for he had never heard of
either the _Refutation of Amelot_ or the _Icosameron_. At length,
therefore, in polite embarrassment, he said: “After all, there is
only one Casanova.”
“There, likewise, you are mistaken, Signor Marchese,” said Casanova
coldly. “I have relatives, and a connoisseur like yourself must surely
be acquainted with the name of one of my brothers, Francesco Casanova,
the painter.”
It seemed that the Marchese had no claim to connoisseurship in this
field either, and he turned the conversation to acquaintances living in
Naples, Rome, Milan, or Mantua, persons whom Casanova was not unlikely
to have met. In this connection he also mentioned the name of Baron
Perotti, but somewhat contemptuously.
Casanova was constrained to admit that he often played cards at the
Baron’s house. “For distraction,” he explained; “for half an hour’s
relaxation before bedtime. In general, I have given up this way of
wasting my time.”
“I am sorry,” said the Marchese, “for I must own it has been one of the
dreams of my life to cross swords with you. Not only, indeed, at the
card table; for when I was younger I would gladly have been your rival
in other fields. Would you believe it--I forget how long ago it was--I
once entered Spa on the very day, at the very hour, when you left the
place. Our carriages must have passed one another on the road. In
Ratisbon, too, I had the same piece of ill luck. There I actually
occupied the room of which your tenancy had just expired.”
“It is indeed unfortunate,” said Casanova, flattered in spite of
himself, “that people’s paths so often cross too late in life.”
“Not yet too late!” exclaimed the Marchese. “There are certain respects
in which I shall not be loath to avow myself vanquished before the
fight begins. But as regards games of chance, my dear Chevalier, we are
perhaps both of us precisely at the age....”
Casanova cut him short. “At the age--very likely. Unfortunately,
however, I can no longer look forward to the pleasure of measuring
myself at the card table with a partner of your rank. The reason is
simple.” He spoke in the tone of a dethroned sovereign. “Despite my
renown, my dear Marchese, I am now practically reduced to the condition
of a beggar.”
The Marchese involuntarily lowered his eyes before Casanova’s haughty
gaze. He shook his head incredulously, as if he had been listening to a
strange jest. Olivo, who had followed the conversation with the keenest
attention, and had accompanied the skilful parries of his marvellous
friend with approving nods, could hardly repress a gesture of alarm.
They had just reached a narrow wooden door in the garden wall. Olivo
produced a key, and turned the creaking lock. Giving the Marchese
precedence into the garden, he arrested Casanova by the arm, whispering:
“You must take back those last words, Chevalier, before you set foot
in my house again. The money I have been owing you these sixteen years
awaits you. I was only afraid to speak of it. Amalia will tell you. It
is counted out and ready. I had proposed to hand it over to you on your
departure....”
Casanova gently interrupted him. “You owe me nothing, Olivo. You know
perfectly well that those paltry gold pieces were a wedding present from
the friend of Amalia’s mother. Please drop the subject. What are a few
ducats to me?” He raised his voice as he spoke, so that the Marchese,
who had paused at a few paces’ distance could hear the concluding words.
“I stand at a turning-point in my fortunes.”
Olivo exchanged glances with Casanova, as if asking permission, and then
explained to the Marchese: “You must know that the Chevalier has been
summoned to Venice, and will set out for home in a few days.”
“I would rather put it,” remarked Casanova as they approached the house,
“that summonses, growing ever more urgent, have been reaching me for
a considerable while. But it seems to me that the senators took long
enough to make up their minds, and may in their turn practise the virtue
of patience.”
“Unquestionably,” said the Marchese, “you are entitled to stand upon
your dignity, Chevalier.”
They emerged from the avenue on to the greensward, across which the
shadow of the house had now lengthened. Close to the dwelling, the rest
of the little company was awaiting them. All rose and came to meet them.
The Abbate led the way, with Marcolina and Amalia on either side. They
were followed by the Marchesa, with whom came a tall, young officer,
clad in a red uniform trimmed with silver lace, and wearing
jack-boots--evidently Lorenzi. As he spoke to the Marchesa, he scanned
her powdered shoulders as if they were well-known samples of other
beauties with which he was equally familiar. The Marchesa smiled
up at him beneath half-closed lids. Even a tyro in such matters could
hardly fail to realize the nature of their relationship, or to perceive
that they were quite unconcerned at its disclosure. They were conversing
in animated fashion, but in low tones; and they ceased talking only when
they caught up with the others.
Olivo introduced Casanova and Lorenzi to one another. They exchanged
glances with a cold aloofness that seemed to offer mutual assurances of
dislike; then, with a forced smile, both bowed stiffly without offering
to shake hands. Lorenzi was handsome, with a narrow visage and features
sharply cut for his age. At the back of his eyes something difficult
to grasp seemed to lurk, something likely to suggest caution to one of
experience. For a moment, Casanova was in doubt as to who it was that
Lorenzi reminded him of. Then he realized that his own image stood
before him, the image of himself as he had been thirty years before.
“Have I been reincarnated in his form?” Casanova asked himself. “But I
must have died before that could happen.” It flashed through his mind:
“Have I not been dead for a long time? What is there left of the
Casanova who was young, handsome, and happy?” Amalia broke in upon his
musings. As if from a distance, though she stood close at hand, she
asked him how he had enjoyed his walk. Raising his voice so that all
could hear, he expressed his admiration for the fertile, well-managed
estate.
Meanwhile upon the greensward the maidservant was laying the table for
supper. The two elder girls were “helping.” With much fuss and giggling,
they brought out of the house the silver, the wine glasses, and other
requisites.
Gradually the dusk fell; a cool breeze stirred through the garden.
Marcolina went to the table, to put the finishing touches to the work of
the maidservant and the girls. The others wandered about the greensward
and along the alleys. The Marchesa was extremely polite to Casanova. She
said that the story of his remarkable escape from The Leads in Venice
was not unknown to her, but it would be a pleasure to hear it from his
own lips. With a meaning smile she added that she understood him to
have had far more dangerous adventures, which he might perhaps be less
inclined to recount. Casanova rejoined that he had indeed had a number
of lively experiences, but had never made serious acquaintance with that
mode of existence whose meaning and very essence were danger. Although,
many years before, during troublous times, he had for a few months been
a soldier upon the island of Corfu (was there any profession on earth
into which the current of fate had not drifted him?), he had never had
the good fortune to go through a real campaign, such as that which, he
understood, Lieutenant Lorenzi was about to experience--a piece of luck
for which he was inclined to envy the Lieutenant.
“Then you know more than I do, Signor Casanova,” said Lorenzi in a
challenging tone. “Indeed, you are better informed than the Colonel
himself, for he has just given me an indefinite extension of leave.”
“Is that so?” exclaimed the Marchese, unable to master his rage. He
added spitefully: “Do you know, Lorenzi, we, or rather my wife, had
counted so definitely on your leaving, that we had invited one of our
friends, Baldi the singer, to stay with us next week.”
“No matter,” rejoined Lorenzi, unperturbed. “Baldi and I are the best of
friends. We shall get on famously together. You think so, don’t you?”
he said, turning to the Marchesa with a smile. “You’d better!” said the
Marchesa, laughing gaily.
As she spoke she seated herself at the table, beside Olivo, with Lorenzi
on the other hand. Opposite sat Amalia, between the Marchese and
Casanova. Next to Casanova, at one end of the long, narrow table, was
Marcolina; next to Olivo, at the other end, sat the Abbate. Supper, like
dinner, was a simple but tasteful meal. The two elder girls, Teresina
and Nanetta, waited on the guests, and served the excellent wine grown
on Olivo’s hillsides. Both the Marchese and the Abbate paid their thanks
to the young waitresses with playful and somewhat equivocal caresses
which a stricter parent than Olivo would probably have discountenanced.
Amalia seemed to be unaware of all this. She was pale, dejected, and
looked like a woman determined to be old, since her own youth had ceased
to interest her.
“Is this all that remains of my empire?” thought Casanova bitterly,
contemplating her in profile. Yet perhaps it was the illumination which
gave so gloomy a cast to Amalia’s features. From the interior of the
house a broad beam of light fell upon the guests. Otherwise the glimmer
in the sky sufficed them. The dark crests of the trees limited the
outlook; Casanova was reminded of the eerie garden in which, late one
evening many years before, he had awaited the coming of his mistress.
“Murano!” he whispered to himself, and trembled. Then he spoke aloud:
“On an island near Venice there is a convent garden where I last set
foot several decades ago. At night, there, the scent is just like this.”
“Were you ever a monk?” asked the Marchesa, sportively.
“All but,” replied Casanova with a smile, explaining, truthfully enough,
that when he was a lad of fifteen he had been given minor orders by the
archbishop of Venice, but that before attaining full manhood he had
decided to lay aside the cassock.
The Abbate mentioned that there was a nunnery close at hand, and
strongly recommended Casanova to visit the place if he had never seen
it. Olivo heartily endorsed the recommendation, singing the praises
of the picturesque old building, the situation, and the diversified
beauties of the approach.
“The Lady Abbess, Sister Serafina,” continued the Abbate, “is an
extremely learned woman, a duchess by birth. She has told me--by letter,
of course, for the inmates are under a vow of perpetual silence--that
she has heard of Marcolina’s erudition, and would like to meet her face
to face.”
“I hope, Marcolina,” said Lorenzi, speaking to her for the first time,
“that you will not attempt to imitate the noble abbess in other respects
as well as learning.”
“Why should I?” rejoined Marcolina serenely. “We can maintain our
freedom without vows. Better without than with, for a vow is a form of
coercion.”
Casanova was sitting next to her. He did not dare to let his foot touch
hers lightly, or to press his knee against hers. He was certain that
should she for the third time look at him with that expression of horror
and loathing, he would be driven to some act of folly. As the meal
progressed, as the number of emptied glasses grew and the conversation
waxed livelier and more general, Casanova heard, once more as from afar,
Amalia’s voice.
“I have spoken to Marcolina.”
“You have spoken to her?” A mad hope flamed up in him. “Calm yourself,
Casanova. We did not speak of you, but only of her and her plans for the
future. I say to you again, she will never give herself to any man.”
Olivo, who had been drinking freely, suddenly rose, glass in hand, and
delivered himself of a few stumbling phrases concerning the great honor
conferred upon his humble home by the visit of his dear friend, the
Chevalier de Seingalt.
“But where, my dear Olivo, is the Chevalier de Seingalt of whom you
speak?” enquired Lorenzi in his clear, insolent voice.
Casanova’s first impulse was to throw the contents of his glass in
Lorenzi’s face.
Amalia touched his arm lightly, to restrain him, and said: “Many people
to-day, Chevalier, still know you best by the old and more widely
renowned name of Casanova.”
“I was not aware,” said Lorenzi, with offensive gravity, “that the King
of France had ennobled Signor Casanova.”
“I was able to save the King that trouble,” answered Casanova quietly.
“I trust, Lieutenant Lorenzi, that you will be satisfied with an
explanation to which the Burgomaster of Nuremberg offered no objection
when I gave it to him in circumstances with which I need not weary the
company.” There was a moment of silent expectation. Casanova continued:
“The alphabet is our common heritage. I chose a collocation of letters
which pleased my taste, and ennobled myself without being indebted to
any prince, who might perhaps have been disinclined to allow my claim.
I style myself Casanova, Chevalier de Seingalt. I am indeed sorry,
Lieutenant Lorenzi, if this name fails to meet with your approval.”
“Seingalt! It is a splendid name,” said the Abbate, repeating it several
times, as if he were tasting it.
“There is not a man in the world,” exclaimed Olivo, “who has a better
right to name himself Chevalier than my distinguished friend Casanova!”
“As for you, Lorenzi,” added the Marchese, “when your reputation has
reached as far as that of Signor Casanova, Chevalier de Seingalt, we
shall be willing enough, should you so desire, to give you also the
title of Chevalier.”
Casanova, somewhat nettled at not being allowed to fight his own battle,
was about to resume the defence in person, when out of the dusk of the
garden two elderly gentlemen, soberly habited, put in an appearance
beside the table. Olivo greeted them with effusive cordiality, being
delighted to turn the conversation and to put an end to a dispute that
threatened to destroy the harmony of the evening. The newcomers were
the brothers Ricardi. As Casanova had learned from Olivo, they were
old bachelors. At one time members of the great world, they had been
unfortunate in various undertakings. At length they had returned to
their birthplace, the neighboring village, to lead a retired life in
a tiny house they had rented. They were eccentric fellows, but quite
harmless.
The Ricardis expressed their delight at renewing their acquaintance with
the Chevalier, whom, they said, they had met in Paris a good many years
ago.
Casanova could not recall the meeting.
“Perhaps it was in Madrid?” said the Ricardis.
“Maybe,” replied Casanova, though he was absolutely certain that he had
never seen either of them before.
The younger of the two was spokesman. The elder, who looked as if he
might be ninety at least, accompanied his brother’s words with incessant
nods and grimaces. By now every one had left the table, and before this
the children had disappeared. Lorenzi and the Marchesa were strolling in
the dusk across the greensward. Marcolina and Amalia were in the hall,
setting out the table for cards.
“What is the aim of all this?” said Casanova to himself, as he stood
alone in the garden. “Do they imagine me to be rich? Are they on the
lookout for plunder?”
These preparations, the ingratiating manners of the Marchese, the
sedulous attentions of the Abbate, the appearance of the brothers
Ricardi on the scene, were arousing his suspicions. Was it not possible
that Lorenzi might be a party to the intrigue? Or Marcolina? Or even
Amalia? For a moment it flashed through his mind that his enemies might
be at work upon some scheme of the eleventh hour to make his return to
Venice difficult or impossible. But a moment’s reflection convinced
him the notion was absurd--were it only because he no longer had any
enemies. He was merely an old fellow in reduced circumstances. Who was
likely to take any trouble to hinder his return to Venice? Glancing
through the open window, he saw the company assembling round the table,
where the cards lay ready, and the filled wine-glasses were standing.
It seemed to him clear beyond all possibility of doubt that there was
nothing afoot except an ordinary, innocent game of cards, in which the
coming of a new player is always an agreeable change.
Marcolina passed him, and wished him good luck.
“Aren’t you going to take a hand?” he said. “At least you will look on?”
“I have something else to do. Good night, Chevalier.”
From the interior, voices called out into the night:
“Lorenzi.”--“Chevalier.”--“We are waiting for you.”
Casanova, standing in the darkness, could see that the Marchesa was
leading Lorenzi away from the open greensward into the greater darkness
under the trees. There she would fain have drawn him into her arms, but
Lorenzi roughly tore himself away and strode towards the house. Meeting
Casanova in the entry, he gave him precedence with mock politeness.
Casanova accepted the precedence without a word of thanks.
The Marchese was the first banker. Olivo, the brothers Ricardi, and the
Abbate staked such trifling amounts that to Casanova--even to-day when
his whole worldly wealth consisted of no more than a few ducats--the
game seemed ludicrous. All the more was this the case since the Marchese
raked in his winnings and paid out his losses with a ceremonious air, as
if he were handling enormous sums. Suddenly Lorenzi, who had hitherto
taken no part in the game, staked a ducat, won, let the doubled stake
stand; won again and again, and continued to have the same luck with but
occasional interruptions. The other men, however, went on staking petty
coins, and the two Ricardis in particular seemed quite annoyed if the
Marchese failed to give them as much attention as he gave to Lieutenant
Lorenzi. The two brothers played together upon the same hazard. Beads of
perspiration formed upon the brow of the elder, who handled the cards.
The younger, standing behind his brother, talked unceasingly, with the
air of giving infallible counsel. When the silent brother won, the
loquacious brother’s eyes gleamed; but at a loss, he raised despairing
eyes heavenward. The Abbate, impassive for the most part, occasionally
enunciated some scrap of proverbial wisdom. For instance: “Luck and
women cannot be constrained.” Or, “The earth is round, and heaven is far
away.” At times he looked at Casanova with an air of sly encouragement,
his eyes moving on from Casanova to rest upon Amalia where she sat
beside her husband. It seemed as if his chief concern must be to bring
the erstwhile lovers together once again.
As for Casanova, all he could think of was that Marcolina was in her
room, undressing in leisurely fashion, and that if the window were open
her white skin must be gleaming into the night. Seized with desire so
intense as almost to put him beside himself, he moved to rise from his
place by the Marchese and to leave the room. The Marchese, however,
interpreting this movement as a resolve to take a hand in the game,
said:
“At last! We were sure you would not be content to play the part of
spectator, Chevalier.”
The Marchese dealt him a card. Casanova staked all he had on his person,
about ten ducats, which was nearly the whole of his entire wealth.
Without counting the amount, he emptied his purse on the table, hoping
to lose it at a single cast. That would be a sign of luck. He had not
troubled to think precisely what sort of luck it would signify, whether
his speedy return to Venice, or the desired sight of Marcolina’s nudity.
Ere he had made up his mind upon this point, the Marchese had lost the
venture. Like Lorenzi, Casanova let the double stake lie; and just as in
Lorenzi’s case, fortune stood by him. The Marchese no longer troubled
himself to deal to the others. The silent Ricardi rose somewhat
mortified; the other Ricardi wrung his hands. Then the two withdrew,
dumbfounded, to a corner of the room. The Abbate and Olivo took matters
more phlegmatically. The former ate sweets and repeated his proverbial
tags. The latter watched the turn of the cards with eager attention.
At length the Marchese had lost five hundred ducats to Casanova and
Lorenzi. The Marchesa moved to depart, and looked significantly at the
Lieutenant on her way out of the room. Amalia accompanied her guest. The
Marchesa waddled in a manner that was extremely distasteful to Casanova.
Amalia walked along beside her humbly and deprecatingly.
Now that the Marchese had lost all his ready cash, Casanova became
banker, and, considerably to the Marchese’s annoyance, he insisted that
the others should return to the game. The brothers Ricardi eagerly
accepted the invitation. The Abbate shook his head, saying he had had
enough. Olivo played merely because he did not wish to be discourteous
to his distinguished guest.
Lorenzi’s luck held. When he had won four hundred ducats in all, he rose
from the table, saying: “To-morrow I shall be happy to give you your
revenge. But now, by your leave, I shall ride home.”
“Home!” cried the Marchese with a scornful laugh--he had won back a few
ducats by this time. “That is a strange way to phrase it!” He turned
to the others: “The Lieutenant is staying with me. My wife has already
driven home. I hope you’ll have a pleasant time, Lorenzi!”
“You know perfectly well,” rejoined Lorenzi imperturbably, “that I shall
ride straight to Mantua, and not to your place, to which you were so
good as to invite me yesterday.”
“You can ride to bell for all I care!” said the other.
Lorenzi politely took his leave of the rest of the company, and, to
Casanova’s astonishment, departed without making any suitable retort to
the Marchese.
Casanova went on with the game, still winning, so that the Marchese ere
long was several hundred ducats in his debt. “What’s the use of it all?”
thought Casanova at first. But by degrees he was once more ensnared by
the lure of the gaming table. “After all,” he mused, “this is a lucky
turn of fortune. I shall soon be a thousand to the good, perhaps even
two thousand. The Marchese will not fail to pay his debt. It would be
pleasant to take a modest competence with me to Venice. But why Venice?
Who regains wealth, regains youth. Wealth is everything. At any rate,
I shall now be able to buy her. Whom? The only woman I want.... She
is standing naked at the window.... I am sure she is waiting there,
expecting me to come.... She is standing at the window to drive me mad!”
All the same, with unruffled brow he continued dealing the cards, not
only to the Marchese, but also to Olivo and to the brothers Ricardi. To
the latter from time to time he pushed over a gold piece to which they
had no claim, but which they accepted without comment. The noise of a
trotting horse came from the road. “Lorenzi,” thought Casanova. The
hoofbeats echoed for a time from the garden wall, until sound and echo
gradually died away.
At length Casanova’s luck turned. The Marchese staked more and more
boldly. By midnight Casanova was as poor as at the beginning; nay,
poorer, for he had lost the few ducats with which he had made his first
venture. Pushing the cards away, he stood up with a smile, saying:
“Thank you, gentlemen, for a pleasant game.”
Olivo stretched out both hands towards Casanova. “Dear friend, let us
go on with the game..... You have a hundred and fifty ducats. Have you
forgotten them? Not only a hundred and fifty ducats, but all that I
have, everything, everything.” His speech was thick, for he had been
drinking throughout the evening.
Casanova signified his refusal with an exaggerated but courtly gesture.
“Luck and women cannot be constrained,” he said, bowing towards the
Abbate, who nodded contentedly and clapped his hands.
“Till to-morrow, then, my dear Chevalier,” said the Marchese. “We will
join forces to win the money back from Lieutenant Lorenzi.”
The brothers Ricardi insistently demanded that the game should continue.
The Marchese, who was in a jovial mood, opened a bank for them. They
staked the gold pieces which Casanova had allowed them to win. In a
couple of minutes they had lost them all to the Marchese, who declined
to go on playing unless they could produce cash. They wrung their hands.
The elder began to cry like a child. The younger, to comfort his
brother, kissed him on both cheeks. The Marchese enquired whether the
carriage had returned, and the Abbate said he had heard it drive up half
an hour earlier. Thereupon the Marchese offered the Abbate and the two
Ricardis a lift, promising to set them down at their doors. All four
left the house together.
When they had gone, Olivo took Casanova by the arm, and assured his
guest repeatedly, with tears in his voice, that everything in the house
was at Casanova’s absolute disposal. They walked past Marcolina’s
window. Not merely was the window closed, but the iron grating had
been fastened; within, the window was curtained. There had been times,
thought Casanova, when all these precautions had been unavailing, or had
been without significance. They reëntered the house. Olivo would not be
dissuaded from accompanying the guest up the creaking staircase into the
turret chamber. He embraced Casanova as he bade him good-night.
“To-morrow,” he said, “you shall see the nunnery. But sleep as late as
you please. We are not early risers here; anyhow we shall adapt the
hours to your convenience. Good-night!” He closed the door quietly, but
his heavy tread resounded through the house.