“Would it not be wiser,” interposed Amalia, “to wait until it is cooler? I am sure the Chevalier would prefer to rest for a while, or to stroll in the shade.” Her eyes sought Casanova’s with shy entreaty, as if she thought her fate would be decided once again during such a walk in the garden.
No one had anything to say against Amalia’s suggestion, and they all went out of doors. Marcolina, who led the way, ran across the sunlit greensward to join the children in their game of battledore and shuttlecock. She was hardly taller than the eldest of the three girls; and when her hair came loose in the exercise and floated over her shoulders she too looked like a child. Olivo and the Abbate seated themselves on a stone bench beneath the trees, not far from the house. Amalia sauntered on with Casanova. As soon as the two were out of hearing, she began to converse with Casanova in a tone which seemed to ignore the lapse of years.
“So we meet again, Casanova! How I have longed for this day. I never doubted its coming.”
“A mere chance has brought me,” said Casanova coldly.
Amalia smiled. “Have it your own way,” she said. “Anyhow, you are here! All these sixteen years I have done nothing but dream of this day!”
“I can’t help thinking,” countered Casanova, “that throughout the long interval you must have dreamed of many other things—and must have done more than dream.”
Amalia shook her head. “You know better, Casanova. Nor had you forgotten me, for were it otherwise, in your eagerness to get to Venice, you would never have accepted Olivo’s invitation.”
“What do you mean, Amalia? Can you imagine I have come here to betray your husband?”
“How can you use such a phrase, Casanova? Were I to be yours once again, there would be neither betrayal nor sin.”
Casanova laughed. “No sin? Wherefore not? Because I’m an old man?”