On my arrival in Bologna, I had taken a room at a small inn, wishing to pass unnoticed. As soon as I had sent my letters to Therese and to the French officer, I began to consider my wardrobe.
My trunk was still in Pesaro, and it was doubtful whether I should ever see it again. I needed linen. I needed clothes.
I was thus ruminating, when it suddenly struck me that I was not likely now to succeed in the Church, but feeling great uncertainty as to the profession I ought to adopt, I took a fancy to transform myself into an officer, as it was evident that I had not to account to anyone for my actions.
It was a very natural fancy at my age, for I had just passed through two armies in which I had seen no respect paid to any garb but to the military uniform, and I did not see why I should not cause myself to be respected likewise.
Besides, I was thinking of returning to Venice, and felt great delight at the idea of showing myself there in the garb of honour, for I had been rather ill-treated in that of religion.
I enquired for a good tailor: death was brought to me, for the tailor sent to me was named Morte.
I explained to him how I wanted my uniform made, I chose the cloth, he took my measure, and the next day I was transformed into a follower of Mars.
I procured a long sword, and with my fine cane in hand, with a well-brushed hat ornamented with a black cockade, and wearing a long false pigtail, I sallied forth and walked all over the city.
I soon perceived that my new calling required a better lodging so I moved to the best inn in the town.
There I found a large mirror, and I confess that I stood before it with great satisfaction.
I was highly pleased with my own person!
I thought myself made by nature to wear and to honour the military costume, which I had adopted through the most fortunate impulse.
Certain that no one in Bologna knew me, I took pleasure in imagining the conjectures my appearance would provoke in other people.
My uniform was white, the vest blue, a gold and silver shoulder-knot, and a sword-knot of the same material.
Very well pleased with my grand appearance, I went to the most fashionable coffee-room in the city.
I sat down, ordered chocolate, took up the newspapers, and began to read leisurely. It was delightful.
Eyes came to me from every corner. Some rested on my uniform, some on my sword, some on my face, and all returned puzzled.
A bold individual, in the hope of getting me into conversation, came to me and addressed me; I answered him with a monosyllable, and I observed that everyone was at a loss what to make of me.
When I had sufficiently enjoyed public admiration in the coffee-room, I promenaded in the busiest thoroughfares of the city, and returned to the inn, where I had dinner by myself.
I had just finished when the landlord entered with the travellers' book in his hand.
"Your name, sir?"
"Casanova."
He wrote it down.
"Your profession, if you please, sir?"
"Officer."
"In which service?"
"None."
He raised his eyes for a moment.
"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 my host had visited me at the instance of some curious person eager to know who I was.
The next day I called on Orsi, the banker, and cashed my bill of exchange. I took another for six hundred sequins on Venice, and one hundred sequins in gold. With my purse strengthened and my uniform still fresh, I returned to the public places and continued to let Bologna wonder about me.
Two days later, as I was taking coffee after dinner, the landlord announced M. Orsi.
"Show him in," I said.
The banker entered, and with him came Monsignor Cornaro.
I knew the prelate very well, but in my present character it suited me not to know him.
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."
I let surprise appear slowly on my face.
"In Venice and Rome? I fear, monsignor, that you mistake me for another."
He studied me a moment longer. Then his expression changed. He thought, no doubt, that he had discovered the reason for my reserve.
"You must forgive me," he said. "The resemblance deceived me."
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. We had scarcely begun our chocolate when he looked at me with a smile.
"You have, no doubt, excellent reasons for your reserve," he said. "But you are wrong not to trust me. The more so that the affair in question does you great honour."
"I do not know," said I, "what affair you are alluding to."
He took up a newspaper, folded it, and pointed to a paragraph.
"Read."
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.
I laid down the paper.
"The Casanova mentioned there," I said, "must be another man."
"That may be, but you are certainly the Casanova I knew a month ago at Cardinal Acquaviva's, and two years ago at the house of my sister, Madame Lovedan, in Venice. Besides the Ancona banker speaks of you as an ecclesiastic in his letter of advice to M. Orsi."
"Very well, monsignor; your excellency compels me to agree to my being the same Casanova, but I entreat you not to ask me any more questions as I am bound in honour to observe the strictest reserve."
He inclined his head.
"That is enough for me, and I am satisfied. Let us talk of something else."
I was amused at the false reports which were being circulated about me, and, I became from that moment a thorough sceptic on the subject of historical truth.
I enjoyed, however, very great pleasure in thinking that my reserve had fed the belief of my being the Casanova mentioned in the newspaper.
I felt certain that the prelate would write the whole affair to Venice, where it would do me great honour, at least until the truth should be known, and in that case my reserve would be justified, besides, I should then most likely be far away.
I resolved to go to Venice as soon as I heard from Therese. I could wait for her there more pleasantly than in Bologna, and in my native city nothing would prevent me from marrying her openly.
Meanwhile, the fable from Pesaro entertained me as I expected every day to see it contradicted in some newspaper.
The real officer Casanova must have laughed at the accusation brought against him of having run away with the horse, as much as I laughed at the caprice which had metamorphosed me into an officer in Bologna, just as if I had done it for the very purpose of giving to the affair every appearance of truth.
On the fourth day of my stay in Bologna, an express brought me a long letter from Therese.
She told me that, the day after my escape from Rimini, Baron Vais had presented to her the Duke de Castropignano. The duke had heard her sing and had immediately offered her a thousand ounces a year, with all travelling expenses paid, if she would accept an engagement as prima donna at the San Carlo Theatre in Naples. She was to go there as soon as her engagement at Rimini ended.
She had asked for a week to decide, and had obtained it.
Two documents were enclosed.
The first was a written memorandum of the duke's proposals, sent to me so that I might examine it. She would not sign, she wrote, without my consent.
The second was of another kind.
It was a formal engagement, written in her own hand, by which she bound herself to remain all her life devoted to me and at my service.
She added that, if I wished to accompany her to Naples, she would meet me wherever I appointed. But if I had any objection to returning to that city, she would refuse the brilliant offer at once. Her only happiness, she said, was to please me in everything.
For the first time in my life, I found myself unable to decide quickly.
Therese's letter overturned all my plans.
I read the letter once.
Then again.
The messenger waited.
I folded the papers, unfolded them, and saw that my usual confidence had deserted me. Feeling that I could not answer immediately, I told the messenger to return the next day.
Two motives of equal weight held the balance.
One was my love for Therese.
The other was self-love.
I felt that I had no right to ask Therese to renounce such brilliant prospects. Fortune had opened a door before her, and love, if it were generous, ought not to close it.
Yet I could neither consent to let her go to Naples without me, nor resolve to accompany her there.
On one side, I shuddered at the thought that my affection might ruin her future.
On the other, the mere idea of returning to Naples in her train made my pride recoil.
How could I reappear in that city as a cowardly fellow living at the expense of his mistress, or perhaps his wife? What would my cousin Antonio say? What would Don Polo, his dear son, Don Lelio Caraffa, and all those patricians who had known me, think when they saw me following a singer like a dependent ornament?
Then came the thought of Lucrezia and her husband.
A cold shiver passed through me.
I saw, in a single instant, the smiles, the whispers, the polite bows more cruel than insults. I saw myself measured, pitied, diminished. In spite of my love for Therese, I knew I should be miserable if contempt surrounded me.
Bound to her destiny, whether as lover or husband, I should become, in the eyes of Naples, a humbled creature, a tolerated man, a sycophant gilded by a woman's success.
Was this to be the end of all my hopes?
The die was cast.
My head had conquered my heart.
I fancied that I had hit upon an excellent expedient, which at all events made me gain time, and I resolved to act upon it.