After
all, was not one night just like another? Was not one woman just like
another? Especially when the affair was past and gone? The phrase,
"past and gone," continued to hammer upon his temples, as if destined
henceforth to become the pulse of his forlorn existence.
It seemed to him that something was rattling behind him along the wall.
Or was it only an echo that he heard? Yes, the noise had really come
from the house. Marcolina's window had suddenly been opened, the iron
grating had been pushed back, the curtain drawn. A shadowy form
was visible against the dark interior. Marcolina, clad in a white
nightdress, was standing at the window, as if to breathe the fragrance
of morning. In an instant, Casanova slipped behind the bench. Peeping
over the top of it, through the foliage in the avenue, he watched
Marcolina as if spellbound. She stood unthinking, it seemed, her gaze
vaguely piercing the twilight. Not until several seconds had elapsed did
she appear to collect herself, to grow fully awake and aware, directing
her eyes slowly, now to right and now to left. Then she leaned forward,
as if seeking for something on the gravel, and next she turned her head,
from which her hair was hanging loosely, and looked up towards the
windows in the upper story.
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