Or perhaps he took her as a next-best, when Marcolina, the philosopher,
the woman of learning, proved unattainable!"

Suddenly a thought struck him. "To-morrow I will read her my polemic
against Voltaire. I can think of no one else who would be a competent
critic. I shall convince her. She will admire me. She will say:
'Excellent, Signor Casanova. Your style is that of a most brilliant old
gentleman!' God!..... 'You have positively annihilated Voltaire, you
brilliant senior!'"

He paced the chamber like a beast in a cage, hissing out the words in
his anger. A terrible wrath possessed him, against Marcolina, against
Voltaire, against himself, against the whole world. It was all he could
do to restrain himself from roaring aloud in his rage. At length he
threw himself upon the bed without undressing, and lay with eyes wide
open, looking up at the joists among which spiders' webs were visible,
glistening in the candlelight. Then, as often happened to him after
playing cards late at night, pictures of cards chased one another
swiftly through his brain, until he sank into a dreamless sleep.

His slumber was brief. When he awakened it was to a mysterious silence.
The southern and the eastern windows of the turret chamber were open.
Through them from the garden and the fields entered a complex of sweet
odors. Gradually the silence was broken by the vague noises from near
and from far which usually herald the dawn. Casanova could no longer lie
quiet; a vigorous impulse towards movement gripped him, and lured him
into the open. The song of the birds called to him; the cool breeze of
early morning played upon his brow. Softly he opened the door and moved
cautiously down the stairs. Cunning, from long experience, he was able
to avoid making the old staircase creak. The lower flight, leading to