The Marchese involuntarily lowered his eyes before Casanova's haughty
gaze. He shook his head incredulously, as if he had been listening to a
strange jest. Olivo, who had followed the conversation with the keenest
attention, and had accompanied the skilful parries of his marvellous
friend with approving nods, could hardly repress a gesture of alarm.
They had just reached a narrow wooden door in the garden wall. Olivo
produced a key, and turned the creaking lock. Giving the Marchese
precedence into the garden, he arrested Casanova by the arm, whispering:

"You must take back those last words, Chevalier, before you set foot
in my house again. The money I have been owing you these sixteen years
awaits you. I was only afraid to speak of it. Amalia will tell you. It
is counted out and ready. I had proposed to hand it over to you on your
departure...."

Casanova gently interrupted him. "You owe me nothing, Olivo. You know
perfectly well that those paltry gold pieces were a wedding present from
the friend of Amalia's mother. Please drop the subject. What are a few
ducats to me?" He raised his voice as he spoke, so that the Marchese,
who had paused at a few paces' distance could hear the concluding words.
"I stand at a turning-point in my fortunes."

Olivo exchanged glances with Casanova, as if asking permission, and then
explained to the Marchese: "You must know that the Chevalier has been
summoned to Venice, and will set out for home in a few days."

"I would rather put it," remarked Casanova as they approached the house,
"that summonses, growing ever more urgent, have been reaching me for
a considerable while. But it seems to me that the senators took long