teem, I cherish, your frankness . . . . I
understand you perfectly and I love to distraction the lively and
energetic manner with which you express yourself."

On the 30th September, she wrote: "You will read to-day, if you please, a
weary letter; for your silence, Monsieur, has given me humors. A promise
is a debt, and in your last letter you promised to write me at least a
dozen pages. I have every right to call you a bad debtor; I could summon
you before a court of justice; but all these acts of vengeance would not
repair the loss which I have endured through my hope and my fruitless
waiting . . . . It is your punishment to read this trivial page; but
although my head is empty, my heart is not so, and it holds for you a
very living friendship."

In March 1797, this Henriette went to Lausanne and in May from there to
her father's home at Mecklenburg.

IV -- CORRESPONDENCE WITH JEAN-FERDINAND OPIZ

On the 27th July 1792, Casanova wrote M. Opiz that he had finished the
twelfth volume of his Memoirs, with his age at forty-seven years 1772.
"Our late friend, the worthy Count Max Josef Lamberg," he added, "could
not bear the idea of my burning my Memoirs, and expecting to survive me,
had persuaded me to send him the first four volumes. But now there is no
longer any questions that his good soul has left his organs. Three weeks
ago I wept for his death, all the more so as he would still be living if
he had listened to me. I am, perhaps, the only one who knows the truth.
He who slew him was the surgeon Feuchter at Cremsir, who applied
thirty-six mercurial plasters on a gland in his left groin which was
swollen but not by the pox, as I am sure by the description he gave me of
the cause of the swelling. The mercury mounted to his esophagus and,
being able to swallow neither solids nor fluids, he died the 23rd June of
positive famine . . . . The interest of the bungling surgeon is to say
that he died of the pox. This is not true, I beg, you to give the lie to
anyone you hear saying it. I have before my eyes four hundred and sixty
of his letters over which I weep and which I will burn. I have asked
Count Leopold to burn mine, which he had saved, and I hope that he will
please me by doing it. I have survived all my true friends. 'Tempus abire
mihi est' Horace says to me.

"Returning to my Memoirs . . . I am a detestable man; but I do not care
about having it known, and I do not aspire to the honor of the
detestation of