them.  She diffused a perfume of amber at a distance of twenty yards, and her affected, mincing manner amused and sickened me at the same time.  Her dress might possibly have been the fashion twenty years before.  I was looking with dread at the fearful havoc of old age upon a face which, before merciless time had blighted it, had evidently been handsome, but what amazed me was the childish effrontery with which this time-withered specimen of womankind was still waging war with the help of her blasted charms.

Baletti, who feared lest my too visible astonishment should vex her, told her that I was amazed at the fact that the beautiful strawberry which bloomed upon her chest had not 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, perhaps, I should not have been able to avoid.