All the honors and all the joys in the world had ever
seemed cheap to him in comparison with a successful night upon a new
love quest.
Did he regret what he had lost through his perpetual seeking and
never or ever finding, through this earthly and superearthly flitting
from craving to pleasure and from pleasure back to craving once more?
No, he had no regrets. He had lived such a life as none other before
him; and could he not still live it after his own fashion? Everywhere
there remained women upon his path, even though they might no longer be
quite so crazy about him as of old.
Amalia? He could have her for the asking, at this very hour, in her
drunken husband's bed. The hostess in Mantua; was she not in love with
him, fired with affection and jealousy as if he were a handsome lad?
Perotti's mistress, pockmarked, but a woman with a fine figure? The
very name of Casanova had intoxicated her with its aroma of a thousand
conquests. Had she not implored him to grant her but a single night of
love; and had he not spurned her as one who could still choose where he
pleased?
But Marcolina--such as Marcolina were no longer at his disposal.
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