appeal, waved him away with her left hand, while with the right she
continued to grasp her raiment convulsively. Casanova sat up, his eyes
riveted upon her. Neither was able to look away from the other. His
expression was one of rage and shame; hers was one of shame and
disgust. Casanova knew how she saw him, for he saw himself figured
in imagination, just as he had seen himself yesterday in the bedroom
mirror. A yellow, evil face, deeply lined, with thin lips and staring
eyes--a face three times worse than that of yesterday, because of
the excesses of the night, the ghastly dream of the morning, and the
terrible awakening. And what he read in Marcolina's countenance was not
what he would a thousand times rather have read there; it was not thief,
libertine, villain. He read only something which crushed him to earth
more ignominiously than could any terms of abuse; he read the word which
to him was the most dreadful of all words, since it passed a final
judgment upon him--old man.

Had it been within his power to annihilate himself by a spell, he would
have done so, that he might be spared from having to creep out of the
bed and display himself to Marcolina in his nakedness, which must appear
to her more loathsome than the sight of some loathsome beast.

But Marcolina, as if gradually collecting herself, and manifestly in
order to give him the opportunity which was indispensable, turned her
face to the wall. He seized the moment to get out of bed, to raise the
cloak from the floor, and to wrap himself in it. He was quick, too, to
make sure of his sword. Now, when he conceived himself to have at least
escaped the worst contumely of all, that of ludicrousness, he began to
wonder whether it would not be possible to throw another light upon this
affair in which he cut so pitiful a figure. He was an adept in the use
of language. Could he not somehow or other, by a few well-chosen words,