Casanova's Homecoming, Arthur Schnitzler [the false prince TXT] 📗

mood to finish his polemic against the sage of Ferney. To finish it? No, now was the time to begin it. A new one! A different one! One in which the ridiculous old fool should be shown up as he deserved: for his pusillanimity, his half-heartedness, his subservience. He an unbeliever? A man of whom the latest news was that he was on excellent terms with the priests, that he visited church, and on feast days actually went to confession! He a heretic? He was a chatterbox, a boastful coward, nothing more! But the day of reckoning was at hand, and soon there would be nothing left of the great philosopher but a quill-driving buffoon.

What airs he had given himself, this worthy M. Voltaire! "My dear M. Casanova, I am really vexed with you. What concern have I with the works of Merlin? It is your fault that I have wasted four hours over such nonsense."

All a matter of taste, excellent M. Voltaire! People will continue to read Merlin long after La Pucelle has been forgotten. Possibly they will continue to prize my sonnets, the sonnets you returned to me with a shameless smile, and without saying a word about them. But these are trifles. Do not let us spoil a great opportunity because of our sensitiveness as authors. We are concerned with philosophy - with God! We shall cross swords, M. Voltaire, unless you die before I have a chance to deal with you.

He was already in the mind to begin his new polemic, when it occurred to him that the messenger was waiting for an answer. He hastily indited a letter to the old duffer Bragadino, a letter full of hypocritical humility and simulated delight. With joy and gratitude he accepted the pardon of the Council. He would expect the remittance by return of post, so that with all possible speed he might present himself before his patrons, and above all before the honored old family friend, Bragadino.

When he was in the act of sealing the letter, someone knocked gently at the door. At the word, Olivo's eldest daughter, the thirteen-year-old Teresina, entered, to tell him that the whole company was assembled below, and that the Chevalier was impatiently awaited at the card table. Her eyes gleamed strangely; her cheeks were flushed; her thick, black hair lay loose upon her temples; her little mouth was half open.

"Have you been drinking wine, Teresina?" asked Casanova striding towards her.

"Yes. How did you know?" She blushed deeper, and in her embarrassment she moistened her lips with her tongue.

Casanova seized her by the shoulders, and, breathing in her face, drew her to the bed. She looked at him with great helpless eyes in which the light was now extinguished. But when she opened her mouth as if to scream, Casanova's aspect was so menacing that she was almost paralyzed with fear, and let him do whatever he pleased.

He kissed her with a tender fierceness, whispering: "You must not tell the Abbate anything about this, Teresina, not even in confession. Some day, when you have a lover or a husband, there is no reason why he should know anything about it. You should always keep your own counsel. Never tell the truth to your father, your mother, or your sisters, that it may be well with you on earth. Mark my words." As he spoke thus blasphemously, Teresina seemed to regard his utterance as a pious admonition, for she seized his hand and kissed it reverently as if it had been a priest's.

He laughed. "Come," he said, "come, little wife, we will walk arm in arm into the room downstairs!"

She seemed a little coy at first, but smiled with genuine gratification.

It was high time for them to go down, for they met Olivo coming up. He was flushed and wore a frown, so that Casanova promptly inferred that the Marchese or the Abbate had roused his suspicions by some coarse jest concerning Teresina's prolonged absence. His brow cleared when he beheld Casanova on the threshold, standing arm in arm with the girl as if in sport.

"I'm sorry to have kept you all waiting, Olivo," said Casanova. "I had to finish my letter." He held the missive out to Olivo in proof of his words.

"Take it," said Olivo to Teresina, smoothing her rumpled hair. "Hand it to the messenger."

"Here are two gold pieces for the man," added Casanova. "He must bestir himself, so that the letter may leave Mantua for Venice to-day. And ask him to tell my hostess at the inn that I shall return this evening."

"This evening?" exclaimed Olivo. "Impossible!"

"Oh, well, we'll see," observed Casanova affably. "Here, Teresina, take this, a gold piece for yourself." When Olivo demurred, Casanova added: "Put it in your moneybox, Teresina. That letter is worth any amount of gold pieces!"

Teresina tripped away, and Casanova nodded to himself contentedly. In days gone by he had possessed the girl's mother and grandmother also, and he thought it a particularly good joke that he was paying the little wench for her favors under the very eyes of her father.


CHAPTER SEVEN.


When Casanova entered the hall with Olivo, cards had already begun. He acknowledged with serene dignity the effusive greeting of the company, and took his place opposite the Marchese, who was banker. The windows into the garden were open. Casanova heard voices outside; Marcolina and Amalia strolled by, glanced into the room for a moment, and then disappeared.

While the Marchese was dealing, Lorenzi turned to Casanova with ceremonious politeness, saying: "My compliments, Chevalier. You were better informed than I. My regiment is under orders to march tomorrow afternoon."

The Marchese looked surprised. "Why did you not tell us sooner, Lorenzi?"

"The matter did not seem of such supreme importance."

"It is of no great importance to me," said the Marchese. "But don't you think it is of considerable importance to my wife?" He laughed raucously. "As a matter of fact, I have some interest in the matter myself. You won four hundred ducats from me yesterday, and there is not much time left in which to win them back."

"The Lieutenant won money from us too," said the younger Ricardi. The elder, silent as usual, looked over his shoulder at his brother, who stood behind the elder's chair as on the previous day.

"Luck and women....." began the Abbate.

The Marchese finished the sentence for him: ".....cannot be constrained."

Lorenzi carelessly scattered his gold on the table. "There you are. I will stake it all upon a single card, if you like, Marchese, so that you need not wait for your money."

Casanova suddenly became aware of a feeling of compassion for Lorenzi, a feeling he was puzzled to account for. But he believed himself to be endowed with second-sight, and he had a premonition that the Lieutenant would fall in his first encounter.

The Marchese did not accept the suggestion of high stakes, nor did Lorenzi insist. They resumed the game, therefore, much as on the previous night, everyone taking a hand at first, and only moderate sums being ventured. A quarter of an hour later, however, the stakes began to rise, and ere long Lorenzi had lost his four hundred ducats to the Marchese.

Casanova had no constancy either in luck or ill-luck. He won, lost, and won again, in an almost ludicrously regular alternation.

Lorenzi drew a breath of relief when his last gold piece had gone the way of the others. Rising from the table, he said: "I thank you, gentlemen. This," he hesitated for a moment, "this will prove to have been my last game for a long time in your hospitable house. If you will allow me, Signor Olivo, I will take leave of the ladies before riding into town. I must reach Mantua ere nightfall in order to make preparations for to-morrow."

"Shameless liar," thought Casanova. "You will return here to-night, to Marcolina's arms!" Rage flamed up in him anew.

"What!" exclaimed the Marchese maliciously. "The evening will not come for hours. Is the game to stop so early? If you like, Lorenzi, my coachman shall drive home with a message to the Marchesa to let her know that you will be late."

"I am going to ride to Mantua," rejoined Lorenzi impatiently. The Marchese, ignoring this statement, went on: "There is still plenty of time. Put up some of your own money, if it be but a single gold piece." He dealt Lorenzi a card.

"I have not a single gold piece left," said Lorenzi wearily.

"Really?"

"Not one," asserted Lorenzi, as if tired of the whole matter.

"Never mind," said the Marchese, with a sudden assumption of amiability which was far from congenial. "I will trust you as far as ten ducats goes, or even for a larger sum if needs must."

"All right, a ducat, then," said Lorenzi, taking up the card dealt to him.

The Marchese won. Lorenzi went on with the game, as if this were now a matter of course, and was soon in the Marchese's debt to the amount of one hundred ducats.

At this stage Casanova became banker, and had even better luck than the Marchese. There remained only three players. To-day the brothers Ricardi stood aside without complaint. Olivo and the Abbate were merely interested onlookers.

No one uttered a syllable. Only the cards spoke, and they spoke in unmistakable terms. By the hazard of fortune all the cash found its way to Casanova. In an hour he had won two thousand ducats; he had won them from Lorenzi, though they came out of the pockets of the Marchese, who at length sat there without a soldo.

Casanova offered him whatever gold pieces he might need. The Marchese shook his head. "Thanks," he said, "I have had enough. The game is over as far as I am concerned."

From the garden came the laughing voices of the girls. Casanova heard Teresina's voice in particular, but he was sitting with his back to the window and did not turn round. He tried once more to persuade the Marchese to resume the game - for the sake of Lorenzi, though he hardly knew what moved him. The Marchese refused with a yet more decisive headshake.

Lorenzi rose, saying: "I shall have the honor, Signor Marchese, of handing the amount I owe you to you personally, before noon to-morrow."

The Marchese laughed drily. "I am curious to know how you will manage that, Lieutenant Lorenzi. There is not a soul, in Mantua or elsewhere, who would lend you as much as ten ducats, not to speak of two thousand, especially to-day. For to-morrow you will be on the march, and who can tell whether you will ever return?"

"I give you my word of honor, Signor Marchese, that you shall have the money at eight o'clock to-morrow morning."

"Your word of honor," said the Marchese, "is not worth a single ducat to me, let alone two thousand."

The others held their breath. Lorenzi, apparently unmoved, merely answered: "You will give me satisfaction, Signor Marchese."

"With pleasure, Signor Lieutenant," rejoined the Marchese, "as soon as you have paid your debt."

Olivo, who was profoundly distressed, here intervened, stammering slightly: "I stand surety for the amount, Signor Marchese. Unfortunately I have not sufficient ready money on the spot; but there is the house, the estate....." He closed the sentence with an awkward wave of the hand.

"I refuse to accept your surety, for your own sake," said the Marchese. "You would lose your money."