recent happenings, although in reality they had occurred years or
decades before. Romancing freely, he was hardly conscious when he was
lying either on a small scale or on a large, being equally delighted
with his own conceits and with the pleasure he was giving to his
auditors. While thus recounting real and imaginary incidents, he could
almost delude himself into the belief that he was still the bold,
radiant Casanova, the favorite of fortune and of beautiful women, the
honored guest of secular and spiritual princes, the man whose spendings
and gamblings and gifts must be reckoned in thousands. It was possible
for him to forget that he was a decayed starveling, supported by pitiful
remittances from former friends in England and Spain---doles which often
failed to arrive, so that he was reduced to the few and paltry gold
pieces which he could win from Baron Perotti or from the Baron's guests.
He could even forget that his highest aim now was to return to his
natal city where he had been cast into prison and from which, since
his escape, he had been banned; to return as one of the meanest of its
citizens, as writer, as beggar, as nonentity; to accept so inglorious a
close to a once brilliant career.

Marcolina listened attentively like the others, but with the same
expression as if she had been listening to someone reading aloud from an
amusing narrative. Her face did not betray the remotest realization of
the fact that the speaker was Casanova; that she was listening to the
man who had had all these experiences and many more; that she was
sitting beside the lover of a thousand women. Very different was the
fire in Amalia's eyes. To her, Casanova was the same as ever. To her,
his voice was no less seductive than it had been sixteen years earlier.
He could not but be aware that at a word or a sign, and as soon as he
pleased, he could revive this old adventure. But what to him was Amalia
at this hour, when he longed for Marcolina as he had never longed for