“Indeed, Uncle,” answered Marcolina, “there was not one of them who would have ventured to challenge Voltaire to a duel!”
“What, Voltaire? The Chevalier has called him out?” cried Olivo, misunderstanding the jest.
“Your witty niece, Olivo, refers to the polemic on which I have been at work for the last few days, the pastime of leisure hours. I used to have weightier occupations.”
Marcolina, ignoring this remark, said: “You will find it pleasantly cool now for your walk. Goodbye for the present.” She nodded a farewell, and moved briskly across the greensward to the house.
Casanova, repressing an impulse to follow her with his eyes, enquired: “Is Signora Amalia coming with us?”
“No, Chevalier,” answered Olivo. “She has a number of things to attend to in the house; and besides, this is the girls’ lesson time.”
“What an excellent housewife and mother! You’re a lucky fellow, Olivo!”
“I tell myself the same thing every day,” responded Olivo, with tears in his eyes.
They passed by the gable end of the house. Marcolina’s window was still open; the pale, diaphanous gown showed up against the dark background of the room. Along the wide chestnut avenue they made their way on to the road, now completely in the shade. Leisurely, they walked up the slope skirting the garden wall. Where it ended, the vineyard began. Between tall poles, from which purple clusters hung, Olivo led his guest to the summit. With a complacent air of ownership, he waved towards the house, lying at the foot of the hill. Casanova fancied he could detect a female figure flitting to and fro in the turret chamber.
The sun was near to setting, but the heat was still considerable. Beads of perspiration coursed down Olivo’s cheeks, but Casanova’s brow showed no trace of moisture. Strolling down the farther slope, they reached an olive grove. From tree to tree vines were trained trellis-wise, while between the rows of olive trees golden ears of corn swayed in the breeze.