I had just concluded my repast when my landlord presented himself with the travellers’ book, in which he wanted to register my name.

“Casanova.”

“Your profession, if you please, sir?”

“Officer.”

“In which service?”

“None.”

“Your native place?”

“Venice.”

“Where do you come from?”

“That is no business of yours.”

This answer, which I thought was in keeping with my external appearance, had the desired effect:  the landlord bowed himself out, and I felt highly pleased with myself, for I knew that I should enjoy perfect freedom in Bologna, and I was certain that mine host had visited me at the instance of some curious person eager to know who I was.

The next day I called on M. Orsi, the banker, to cash my bill of exchange, and took another for six hundred sequins on Venice, and one hundred sequins in gold after which I again exhibited myself in the public places.  Two days afterwards, whilst I was taking my coffee after dinner, the banker Orsi was announced.  I desired him to be shewn in, and he made his appearance accompanied my Monsignor Cornaro, whom I feigned not to know.  M. Orsi remarked that he had called to offer me his services for my letters of exchange, and introduced the prelate.  I rose and expressed my gratification at making his acquaintance.  “But we have met before,” he replied, “at Venice and Rome.”  Assuming an air of blank surprise, I told him he must certainly be mistaken.  The prelate, thinking he could guess the reason of my reserve, did not insist, and apologized.  I offered him a cup of coffee, which he accepted, and, on leaving me, he begged the honour of my company to breakfast the next day.

I made up my mind to persist in my denials, and called upon the prelate, who gave me a polite welcome.  He was then apostolic prothonotary in Bologna.  Breakfast was served, and as we were sipping our chocolate, he told me that I had most likely some good reasons to warrant my reserve, but that I was wrong not to trust him, the more so that the affair in question did me great honour.  “I do not know,” said I, “what affair you are alluding to.”  He then handed me a newspaper, telling me to read a paragraph which he pointed out.  My astonishment may be imagined when I read the following correspondence from Pesaro:  “M. de Casanova, an officer in the service of the queen, has deserted after having killed his captain in a duel; the circumstances of the duel are not known; all that has been ascertained is that M. de Casanova has taken the road to Rimini, riding the horse belonging to the captain, who was killed on the spot.”

In spite of my surprise, and of the difficulty I had in keeping my gravity at the reading of the paragraph, in which so much untruth was blended with so little that was real, I managed to keep a serious countenance, and I told the prelate that the Casanova spoken of in the newspaper must be another man.