When the good priest went out I did not feel at all disposed to laugh.  Reason, certainly, bade me despise the warning, but my inherent superstition was too strong for reason.  Besides, I liked the Capuchin.  He looked like a good man, and I felt bound by the promise I had given him.  He had persuaded me, and my reason told me that a man should never go against his persuasion; in fine, I had made up my mind.  I took the piece of paper on which I had written the words I had to use, I put a pair of pistols in my pocket, and I told Clairmont to wait for me in the square.  This latter, I thought, was a precaution that could do no harm.

Everything happened as the good Capuchin had said.  The awful old creature took courage at the sight of the two sequins, and bolted her door.  She began by laughing and saying that she knew I was amorous, and that it was my fault if I were not happy, but that she would do my business for me.  I saw by these words that I had to do with a pretended sorceress.  The famous Mother Bontemps had spoken in the same way to me at Paris.  But when I told her that I was not going to leave the room till I had got the mysterious bottle, and all that depended on it, her face became fearful; she trembled, and would have escaped from the room; but I stood before her with an open knife, and would not suffer her to pass.  But on my telling her that I would give her double the sum she was to be paid for her witchcraft, and that thus she would be the gainer and not a loser in complying with my demands, she became calm once more.

“I shall lose six sequins,” said she, “but you will gladly pay double when I shew you what I have got; I know who you are.”

“Who am I?”

“Giacomo Casanova, the Venetian.”

It was then I drew the ten sequins from my purse.  The old woman was softened at the sight of the money, and said,

“I would not have killed you outright, certainly, but I would have made you amorous and wretched.”

“Explain what you mean.”

“Follow me.”

I went after her into a closet, and was greatly amazed at sing numerous articles about which my common sense could tell me nothing.  There were phials of all shapes and sizes, stones of different colours, metals, minerals, big nails and small nails, pincers, crucibles, misshapen images, and the like.

“Here is the bottle,” said the old woman.

“What does it contain?”

“Your blood and the countess’s, as you will see in this letter.”

I understood everything then, and now I wonder I did not burst out laughing.  But as a matter of fact my hair stood on end, as I reflected on the awful wickedness of which the Spaniard was capable.  A cold sweat burst out all over my body.

“What would you have done with this blood?”

“I should have plastered you with it.”

“What do you mean by ‘plastered’?  I don’t understand you.”