“There, likewise, you are mistaken, Signor Marchese,” said Casanova coldly. “I have relatives, and a connoisseur like yourself must surely be acquainted with the name of one of my brothers, Francesco Casanova, the painter.” It seemed that the Marchese had no claim to connoisseurship in this field either, and he turned the conversation to acquaintances living in Naples, Rome, Milan, or Mantua, persons whom Casanova was not unlikely to have met. In this connection he also mentioned the name of Baron Perotti, but somewhat contemptuously. Casanova was constrained to admit that he often played cards at the Baron’s house. “For distraction,” he explained; “for half an hour’s relaxation before bedtime. In general, I have given up this way of wasting my time.” “I am sorry,” said the Marchese, “for I must own it has been one of the dreams of my life to cross swords with you. Not only, indeed, at the card table; for when I was younger I would gladly have been your rival in other fields. Would you believe it--I forget how long ago it was--I once entered Spa on the very day, at the very hour, when you left the place. Our carriages must have passed one another on the road. In Ratisbon, too, I had the same piece of ill luck. There I actually occupied the room of which your tenancy had just expired.” “It is indeed unfortunate,” said Casanova, flattered in spite of himself, “that people’s paths so often cross too late in life.” “Not yet too late!” exclaimed the Marchese. “There are certain respects in which I shall not be loath to avow myself vanquished before the fight begins. But as regards games of chance, my dear Chevalier, we are perhaps both of us precisely at the age....” Casanova cut him short. “At the age--very likely. Unfortunately, however, I can no longer look forward to the pleasure of measuring myself at the card table with a partner of your rank. The reason is simple.” He spoke in the tone of a dethroned sovereign. “Despite my renown, my dear Marchese, I am now practically reduced to the condition of a beggar.” The Marchese involuntarily lowered his eyes before Casanova’s haughty gaze. He shook his head incredulously, as if he had been listening to a strange jest. Olivo, who had followed the conversation with the keenest attention, and had accompanied the skilful parries of his marvellous friend with approving nods, could hardly repress a gesture of alarm. They had just reached a narrow wooden door in the garden wall. Olivo produced a key, and turned the creaking lock. Giving the Marchese precedence into the garden, he arrested Casanova by the arm, whispering: “You must take back those last words, Chevalier, before you set foot in my house again. The money I have been owing you these sixteen years awaits you. I was only afraid to speak of it. Amalia will tell you. It is counted out and ready. I had proposed to hand it over to you on your departure....”