Casanova now found himself with his companion in a garret-loft some thirty paces long by twenty broad. After a hurried inspection of the premises and running up against a couple of closed doors, further descent seemed hopeless, and now a sense of overpowering fatigue took possession of Casanova. He could not move hand or foot, but threw himself down on the floor with one of his bundles under his head and succumbed to sleep. The surrender was perfectly irresistible; had death been the penalty of giving way, he could not have kept awake, and the feeling of going off was delicious. He slept for three hours and a half, at the end of which Balbi indignantly shook him again into life to find his brain perfectly clear and his vigour completely restored. It was now about five o’clock in the morning. A glance around showed that this loft formed no part of the prison. There must be some way out. By forcing the lock of the door, they found their way into another chamber and passed through a gallery, that of the archives, down a little stone staircase, and entered a great hall which Casanova recognised as that of the grandducal chancery. It was not easy to get out of this chancery; the locks would not yield, so an attack had to be made on one of the panels of the door. This occupied half an hour, and Casanova, after pushing his friend to the far side, forced his own way through, despite the jagged edges of the broken wooden panel, which punished him cruelly. With clothes torn to rags and blood streaming from numerous wounds on his hips and sides, he hurried on to find a fresh obstacle in a massive door which nothing less than artillery could beat down. Casanova was in despair and ready to throw up the sponge. “I’ve done my share. I leave the rest to Providence,” he said resignedly. “We must wait till help comes.” Meanwhile he bound up his wounds, staunched the blood and changed his clothes. He put on the famous taffety coat with silver lace, adjusted his hose over his bandaged legs, put on three shirts, all gorgeously trimmed with point lace, and then laughed heartily at the figure he cut in a summer ball dress on the morning of the 1st of November. The grand silk mantle he threw over Balbi’s shoulders, telling him that he looked as if he had stolen it. Last of all, with his gold-laced hat on his head, he looked out of the window, an imprudence which might have spoiled all, but really helped them to get out. One or two early idlers observed the apparition and fetched the porter, under the impression that somebody had been locked into the ducal palace by mistake over night.
Casanova heard the rattle of keys and looking through a crack in the door saw a man alone, the porter, mounting the steps of the famous “Staircase of the Giants,” so-called from the two splendid statues at the top. He heard, too, a key inserted in the lock, and stood with ready weapon, the crowbar, awaiting his deliverer. But there was no occasion for violence. The door opened widely; the sleepy fellow also opened his eyes and mouth in utter surprise, little guessing that he had narrowly escaped with his life, and the fugitives rushed past him, not appearing in too great a hurry, but moving quickly down the staircase. They passed out of the grand entrance of the palace, crossed the little square and stepped into a gondola. “I want to go to Fucino, call another oar,” cried Casanova; and away they started. The custom house was soon left behind and the gondoliers with vigorous strokes neared the canal of the Giudecca. Half way along this canal, Casanova casually enquired:—
“Shall we be soon at Mestri?”
“But, signor, you told me to go to Fucino.”
“You are mad. I told you Mestri.”
The second rower also insisted upon Fucino, and, to the rage of Casanova, Balbi sided with the men. Casanova, feeling as if he would like to massacre his companion, burst into a fit of laughter, admitted that perhaps he did say Fucino, but he meant Mestri all the same. The gondoliers, nothing loath, agreed, and offered to take them to England if they wished. Enjoying the morning air with a zest he had never hitherto experienced, Casanova soon reached Mestri, landed and was faced with a new trouble. Balbi wandered off on his own devices and much time was wasted in hunting him up; then Casanova met a native of Mestri, one Tomasi, and was immediately recognised. “What, you here— Have you escaped? How did you manage it?” asked Tomasi. “No, I have just been released,” replied Casanova with a sinking heart. “That is quite impossible,” Tomasi said. “Last night I was at your friend Grimani’s house. I should certainly have heard of it.”
Casanova shuddered. This Tomasi would certainly give the alarm, the place was full of sbirri, and arrest was imminent. Only determined measures would serve. “Come with me,” he said, seizing him by the collar and truculently exposing the crowbar. Tomasi, affrighted, shook himself free, took a flying leap across a ditch and ran for his life. But when at a safe distance, he turned and kissed his hand as though he wished Casanova well.
It was of vital importance to get forward. A post chaise took the fugitives as far as Treviso, but was then dismissed as it was too expensive a way of travelling, and they went on afoot. After four hours’ walking Casanova was in a deplorable condition; his boots torn to bits, his ankles swollen; and he lay down, utterly exhausted, to hold discourse with his companion.
“We must separate here,” he said to the monk. “Our point is Valstagna beyond the frontier, but we must reach it by different ways. You shall go by the easiest; take all the cash and go by the woods, and I will take the mountain road. You will reach there to-morrow evening; I shall be twenty-four hours later. Wait for me in the first tavern on the left hand side of the road. Go. To-night I mean to have a good night’s rest in a bed, and I could not sleep soundly if you were anywhere within reach.”
Balbi’s reply was a flat refusal. He reminded his companion that he had promised never to separate from him. Whereupon Casanova with his crowbar proceeded to dig a hole by the roadside.