iage
drove up, and as they drew near the occupants shouted greetings. The
newcomers were an elderly gentleman in elegant attire and a lady who was
somewhat younger, of generous proportions, and conspicuously rouged.

"The Marchese," whispered Olivo to his companion.

The carriage halted.

"Good evening, my dear Olivo," said the Marchese. "Will you be so good
as to introduce me to the Chevalier de Seingalt? I have no doubt that it
is the Chevalier whom I have the pleasure of seeing."

Casanova bowed, saying: "Yes, I am he."

"I am the Marchese Celsi. Let me present the Marchesa, my spouse." The
lady offered her finger tips. Casanova touched them with his lips.

The Marchese was two or three inches taller than Casanova, and
unnaturally lean. He had a narrow face, of a yellow, waxy tint; his
greenish eyes were piercing; his thick eyebrows were of reddish color,
and met across the root of the nose. These characteristics gave him a
somewhat formidable aspect. "My good Olivo," he said, "we are all going
to the same destination. Since it is little more than half a mile to
your house, I shall get out and walk with you. You won't mind driving
the rest of the way alone," he added, turning to the Marchesa, who had
meanwhile been gazing at Casanova with searching, passionate eyes.
Without awaiting his wife's answer, the Marchese nodded to the coachman,
who promptly lashed the horses furiously, as if he had some reason for
driving his mistress away at top speed. In an instant the carriage
vanished in a whirl of dust.

"The whole neighborhood," said the Marchese, "is already aware that
the Chevalier de Seingalt has come to spend a few days with his friend
Olivo. It must be glorious to bear so renowned a name."

"You flatter me, Signor Marchese," replied Casanova. "I have not yet
abandoned the hope of winning such a name, but I am still far from
having done so. It may be that a work on which I am now engaged will
bring me nearer to the goal."

"We can take a short cut here," said Olivo, turning into a path which
led straight to the wall of his garden.

"Work?" echoed the Marchese with a doubtful air. "May I enquire to what
work you refer, Chevalier?"

"If you ask me that question, Signor Marchese, I shall in my turn feel
impelled to enquire what you meant just now when you referred to my
renown."

Arrogantly he faced the Marchese's piercing eyes. He knew perfectly well
that neither his romance _Icosameron_ nor yet his _