“He’s a regular black sheep,” said the count, “and his wife’s no better than he.”

It seemed that they had already won a reputation in the town.

After the play I went back to the hotel by myself, and the head-waiter told me that Piccolomini had set out hot-foot with his servant, his only luggage being a light portmanteau.  He did not know the reason of this sudden departure, but a minute afterwards the countess came in, and her maid having whispered something to her she told me that the count had gone away because he had fought a duel but that often happened.  She asked me to sup with her and Walpole, and her appetite did not seem to suffer from the absence of her spouse.

Just as we were finishing supper, an Englishman, who had been of the whist party, came up and told Walpole that the Italian had been caught cheating and had given the lie to their fellow Englishman, who had detected him, and that they had gone out together.  An hour afterwards the Englishman returned with two wounds, one on the fore-arm and one on the shoulder.  It was a trifling affair altogether.

Next day, after I had had dinner with the Comte d’Afri, I found a letter from Piccolomini, with an enclosure addressed to the countess, waiting for me at the inn.  He begged me to give his wife the letter, which would inform her of his plans, and then to bring her to the Ville de Lyon at Amsterdam, where he was staying.  He wanted to know how the Englishman whom he had wounded was getting on.

The duty struck me as an amusing one, and I should have laughed with all my heart if I had felt the least desire to profit by the confidence he was pleased to place in me.  Nevertheless I went up to the countess, whom I found sitting up in bed playing with Walpole.  She read the letter, told me that she could not start till the day following, and informed me what time she would go, as if it had been all settled; but I smiled sardonically, and told her that my business kept me at the Hague, and that I could not possibly escort her.  When Walpole heard me say this he offered to be my substitute, to which she agreed.  They set out the day following, intending to lie at Leyden.

Two days after their departure, I was sitting down to dinner with the usual company, increased by two Frenchmen who had just come.  After the soup one of them said, coolly,

“The famous Casanova is now in Holland.”

“Is he?” said the other, “I shall be glad to see him, and ask for an explanation which he will not like.”

I looked at the man, and feeling certain that I had never seen him before I began to get enraged; but I merely asked the fellow if he knew Casanova.

“I’ll ought to know him,” said he, in that self-satisfied tone which is always so unpleasant.

“Nay, sir, you are mistaken; I am Casanova.”

Without losing his self-possession, he replied, insolently,

“You are really very much mistaken if you think you are the only Casanova in the world.”