Casanova reflected: "It is likely enough that Lorenzi's body has not
been found yet." He hardly troubled to think that he himself had killed
Lorenzi. All he knew was that he was glad to be leaving Mantua farther
and farther behind, and glad to have rest at last.

He fell into a deep sleep, the deepest he had ever known. It lasted
practically two days and two nights. The brief interruptions to his
slumbers necessitated by the change of horses from time to time, and the
interruptions that occurred when he was sitting in inns, or walking up
and down in front of posting stations, or exchanging a few casual words
with postmasters, innkeepers, customhouse officers, and travellers, did
not linger in his memory as individual details. Thus it came to pass
that the remembrance of these two days and nights merged as it were into
the dream he had dreamed in Marcolina's bed. Even the duel between the
two naked men upon the green turf in the early sunshine seemed somehow
to belong to this dream, wherein often enough, in enigmatic fashion, he
was not Casanova but Lorenzi; not the victor but the vanquished; not the
fugitive, but the slain round whose pale young body the lonely wind of
morning played. Neither he nor Lorenzi was any more real than were the
senators in the purple robes who had knelt before him like beggars; nor
any less real than such as that old fellow leaning against the parapet
of a bridge, to whom at nightfall he had thrown alms from the carriage.
Had not Casanova bent his powers of reason to the task of distinguishing
between real experiences and dream experiences, he might well have
imagined that in Marcolina's arms he had fallen into a mad dream from
which he did not awaken until he caught sight of the Campanile of
Venice.