To Casanova,
in his dreamy reflections, it seemed as if but yesterday he had
traversed the same route.
He disembarked at the Rialto Bridge, for, before visiting Signor
Bragadino, he wished to make sure of a room in a modest hostelry
nearby--he knew where it was, though he could not recall the name.
The place seemed more decayed, or at least more neglected, than he
remembered it of old. A sulky waiter, badly in need of a shave, showed
him to an uninviting room looking upon the blind wall of a house
opposite. Casanova had no time to lose. Moreover, since he had spent
nearly all his cash on the journey, the cheapness of these quarters was
a great attraction. He decided, therefore, to make his lodging there
for the present. Having removed the stains of travel, he deliberated for
a while whether to put on his finer suit; then decided it was better to
wear the soberer raiment, and walked out of the inn.
It was but a hundred paces, along a narrow alley and across a bridge, to
Bragadino's small but elegant palace. A young servingman with a rather
impudent manner took in Casanova's name in a way which implied that its
celebrity had no meaning for him.
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