“That’s enough,” said he; “don’t trouble yourself any more about it.”

Same days after Mr. Bosanquet came to tell me that Constantini had left the prison and England as well, according to what the barrister who had charge of the case told him.

“Impossible!”

“Not at all.  The lover of his wife, foreseeing the storm that was about to burst over their heads, got round the fellow, and made him leave the country by means of a sum more or less large.”

The affair was over, but it was soon in all the newspapers, garnished with all the wit imaginable, and Giardini was warmly praised for the action he had taken.

As for me I was glad enough to have the matter over, but I felt vexed with Constantini for having fled without giving the lovers a lesson.  I wrote an account of the circumstances to Baletti, and I heard from Madame Binetti that the Calori had given her husband a hundred guineas to leave the country.  Some years later I saw the Calori at Prague.

A Flemish officer, the man whom I had helped at Aix-la-Chapelle, had called on me several times, and had even dined three or four times with me.  I reproached myself for not having been polite enough to return his call, and when we met in the street, and he reproached me for not having been to see him, I was obliged to blush.  He had his wife and daughter with him, and some feeling of shame and a good deal of curiosity made me call on him.

When he saw me he threw his arms about my neck, calling me his preserver.  I was obliged to receive all the compliments which knaves make to honest men when they hope to take them in.  A few moments after, an old woman and a girl came in, and I was introduced as the Chevalier de Seingalt, of whom he had spoken so often.  The girl, affecting surprise, said she had known a M. Casanova, who was very like me.  I answered that Casanova was my name as well as Seingalt, but that I had not the happiness of recollecting her.

“My name was Anspergher when I saw you,” she replied, “but now it is Charpillon; and considering that we only met once, and that I was only thirteen at the time, I do not wonder at your not recollecting me.  I have been in London with my mother and aunts for the last four years.”

“But where had I the pleasure of speaking to you?”

“At Paris.”

“In what part of Paris?”

“In the Bazaar.  You were with a charming lady, and you gave me these buckles” (she shewed me them on her shoes), “and you also did me the honour to kiss me.”

I recollected the circumstance, and the reader will remember that I was with Madame Baret, the fair stocking-seller.

“Now I remember you,” said I; “but I do not recognize your aunt.”

“This is the sister of the one you saw, but if you will take tea with us you will see her.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Denmark Street, Soho.”

CHAPTER XI