Next morning he came coolly into my room while Costa was putting on my dressing-gown, and when we were alone he said,—
“The thing’s done. Instead of the Jew’s running away when he received the first blow he threw himself on to the ground. Then I tanned his skin for him nicely, but on hearing some people coming up I ran off. I don’t know whether I did for him, but I gave him two sturdy blows on the head. I should be sorry if he were killed, as then he could not see about the dance.”
This jest did not arouse my mirth; the matter promised to be too serious.
Therese had asked me to dine with the Abbe Gama and M. Sassi, a worthy man, if one may prostitute the name of man to describe a being whom cruelty has separated from the rest of humanity; he was the first castrato of the opera. Of course the Jew’s mishap was discussed.
“I am sorry for him,” said I, “though he is a rascally fellow.”
“I am not at all sorry for him myself,” said Sassi, “he’s a knave.”
“I daresay that everybody will be putting down his wooden baptism to my account.”
“No,” said the abbe, “people say that M. Casanova did the deed for good reasons of his own.”
“It will be difficult to pitch on the right man,” I answered, “the rascal has pushed so many worthy people to extremities that he must have a great many thrashings owing him.”
The conversation then passed to other topics, and we had a very pleasant dinner.