t been withered by the hand of Time. It was
a birth-mark which was really very much like a strawberry. "It is that
mark," said the old woman, simpering, "which gave me the name of 'La
Fragoletta.'"

Those words made me shudder.

I had before my eyes the fatal phantom which was the cause of my
existence. I saw the woman who had thirty years before, seduced my
father: if it had not been for her, he would never have thought of
leaving his father's house, and would never have engendered me in the
womb of a Venetian woman. I have never been of the opinion of the old
author who says, 'Nemo vitam vellet si daretur scientibus'.

Seeing how thoughtful I was, she politely enquired my name from Baletti,
for he had presented me only as a friend, and without having given her
notice of my visit. When he told her that my name was Casanova, she was
extremely surprised.

"Yes, madam," I said, "I am the son of Gaetan Casanova, of Parma."

"Heavens and earth! what is this? Ah! my friend, I adored your father! He
was jealous without cause, and abandoned me. Had he not done so, you
would have been my son! Allow me to embrace you with the feelings of a
loving mother."

I expected as much, and, for fear she should fall, I went to her,
received her kiss, and abandoned myself to her tender recollections.
Still an actress, she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, pretending to
weep, and assuring me that I was not to doubt the truth of what she said.

"Although," she added, "I do not look an old woman yet."

"The only fault of your dear father," she continued, "was a want of
gratitude."

I have no doubt that she passed the same sentence upon the son, for, in
spite of her kind invitation, I never paid her another visit.

My purse was well filled, and as I did not care for Mantua, I resolved on
going to Naples, to see again my dear Therese, Donna Lucrezia, Palo
father and son, Don Antonio Casanova, and all my former acquaintances.
However, my good genius did not approve of that decision, for I was not
allowed to carry it into execution. I should have left Mantua three days
later, had I not gone to the opera that night.

I lived like an anchorite during my two months' stay in Mantua, owing to
the folly. I committed on the night of my arrival. I played only that
time, and then I had been lucky. My slight erotic inconvenience, by
compelling me to follow the diet necessary to my cure, most likely saved
me from greater misfortunes which, p