money to him? The water was now warm, now cold; it dripped from his
clothing as he climbed over the wall.

"Where is Marcolina?" he enquired in the parlor, in loud, challenging
tones such as only a prince would dare to use.

"I will summon her," said the Lady Abbess, and sank into the ground.

Casanova wandered about; he had wings; he fluttered to and fro along the
gratings, fluttered like a bat. "If I had only known sooner that I can
fly," he thought. "I will teach Marcolina."

Behind the gratings, the figures of women were moving hither and
thither. They were nuns--and yet they were all wearing secular dress.
He knew it, though he could not really see them. He knew who they were.
Henriette the Unknown; Corticelli and Cristina, the dancers; the bride;
Dubois the Beautiful; the accurst vixen of Soleure; Manon Balletti; a
hundred others--but never Marcolina!

"You have betrayed me," he cried to the gondolier, who was waiting for
him beneath. Never had he hated anyone as he hated this gondolier, and
he swore to take an exquisite revenge.

But how foolish he had been to seek Marcolina in the Murano nunnery when
she had gone to visit Voltaire. It was fortunate that he could fly,
since he had no money left with which to pay for a carriage.

He swam away. But he was no longer enjoying himself. The water grew
colder and colder; he was drifting out into the open sea, far from
Murano, far from Venice, and there was no ship within sight; his heavy
gold-embroidered garments were dragging him down; he tried to strip
them off, but it was impossible, for he was holding his manuscript, the
manuscript he had to give to M. Voltaire. The water was pouring into
his mouth and nose; deadly fear seized him; he clutched at impalpable
things; there was a rattling in his throat; he screamed; and with a
great effort he opened his eyes.

Between the curtain and the window-frame the dawn was making its way
through in a narrow strip of light. Marcolina, in her white nightdress
and with hands crossed upon her bosom, was standing at the foot of the
bed contemplating Casanova with unutterable horror. Her glance instantly
recalled him to his senses. Involuntarily he stretched out his arms
towards her with a gesture of appeal. Marcolina, as if rejecting this
appeal, waved him away with her left hand, while with the right she
continued to grasp her raiment convulsively. Casanova sat up, his eyes
riveted upon her. Neither was able to look away fr