“It may come to nothing,” he said lightly. “But the Spaniards seem rather bellicose, and it is necessary to be on the alert.”
Olivo looked important and wrinkled his brow. “Does anyone know,” he asked, “whether we shall side with Spain or with France?”
“I don’t think Lieutenant Lorenzi will care a straw about that,” suggested the Abbate. “All he wants is a chance to prove his military prowess.”
“He has done so already,” said Amalia. “He was in the battle at Pavia three years ago.”
Marcolina said not a word.
Casanova knew enough. He went to the window beside Marcolina and looked out into the garden. He saw nothing but the wide greensward where the children were playing. It was surrounded by a close-set row of stately trees within the encompassing wall.
“What lovely grounds,” he said, turning to Olivo. “I should so like to have a look at them.”
“Nothing would please me better, Chevalier,” answered Olivo, “than to show you my vineyards and the rest of my estate. You need only ask Amalia, and she will tell you that during the years since I bought this little place I have had no keener desire than to welcome you as guest upon my own land and under my own roof. Ten times at least I was on the point of writing you an invitation, but was always withheld by the doubt whether my letter would reach you. If I did happen to hear from some one that he had recently seen you in Lisbon, I could be quite sure that in the interval you would have left for Warsaw or Vienna. Now, when as if by miracle I have caught you on the point of quitting Mantua, and when—I can assure you, Amalia, it was no easy matter—I have succeeded in enticing you here, you are so niggard with your time that—would you believe it, Signor Abbate, he refuses to spare us more than a couple of days!”
“Perhaps the Chevalier will allow himself to be persuaded to prolong his visit,” said the Abbate, who was contentedly munching a huge mouthful of peach. As he spoke, he glanced at Amalia in a way that led Casanova to infer that his hostess had told the Abbate more than she had told her husband.
“I fear that will be quite impossible,” said Casanova with decision. “I need not conceal from friends who are so keenly interested in my fortunes, that my Venetian fellow-citizens are on the point of atoning for the injustice of earlier years. The atonement comes rather late, but is all the more honorable. I should seem ungrateful, or even rancorous, were I to resist their importunities any longer.” With a wave of his hand he warded off an eager but respectful enquiry which he saw taking shape upon his host’s lips, and hastened to remark: “Well, Olivo, I am ready. Show me your little kingdom.”