The senators had to
give him notes of hand. They lost their possessions, their palaces,
their purple robes; they were beggars; they crawled round him clad in
rags, kissing his hands.
Nearby, in a hall with crimson hangings, there was music and dancing.
Casanova wished to dance with Marcolina, but she had vanished. Once
again the senators in their purple robes were seated at the table; but
now Casanova knew that the hazards at stake were not those of a game of
cards; he knew that the destinies of accused persons, some criminal and
some innocent, hung in the balance.
What had become of Marcolina? Had he not been holding her by the hand
all the time? He rushed down the staircase. The gondola was waiting.
On, on, through the maze of canals. Of course the gondolier knew where
Marcolina was; but why was he, too, masked? That had not been the custom
of old in Venice. Casanova wished to question him, but was afraid. Does
a man become so cowardly when he grows old?
Onward, ever onward. How huge Venice had grown during these
five-and-twenty years! At length the houses came to an end; the canal
opened out; they were passing between islands; there stood the walls of
the Murano nunnery, to which Marcolina had fled.
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