“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.”