What airs he had given himself, this worthy M. Voltaire! “My dear M. Casanova, I am really vexed with you. What concern have I with the works of Merlin? It is your fault that I have wasted four hours over such nonsense.” All a matter of taste, excellent M. Voltaire! People will continue to read Merlin long after _La Pucelle_ has been forgotten. Possibly they will continue to prize my sonnets, the sonnets you returned to me with a shameless smile, and without saying a word about them. But these are trifles. Do not let us spoil a great opportunity because of our sensitiveness as authors. We are concerned with philosophy--with God! We shall cross swords, M. Voltaire, unless you die before I have a chance to deal with you. He was already in the mind to begin his new polemic, when it occurred to him that the messenger was waiting for an answer. He hastily indited a letter to the old duffer Bragadino, a letter full of hypocritical humility and simulated delight. With joy and gratitude he accepted the pardon of the Council. He would expect the remittance by return of post, so that with all possible speed he might present himself before his patrons, and above all before the honored old family friend, Bragadino. When he was in the act of sealing the letter, someone knocked gently at the door. At the word, Olivo’s eldest daughter, the thirteen-year-old Teresina, entered, to tell him that the whole company was assembled below, and that the Chevalier was impatiently awaited at the card table. Her eyes gleamed strangely; her cheeks were flushed; her thick, black hair lay loose upon her temples; her little mouth was half open. “Have you been drinking wine, Teresina?” asked Casanova striding towards her. “Yes. How did you know?” She blushed deeper, and in her embarrassment she moistened her lips with her tongue. Casanova seized her by the shoulders, and, breathing in her face, drew her to the bed. She looked at him with great helpless eyes in which the light was now extinguished. But when she opened her mouth as if to scream, Casanova’s aspect was so menacing that she was almost paralyzed with fear, and let him do whatever he pleased. He kissed her with a tender fierceness, whispering: “You must not tell the Abbate anything about this, Teresina, not even in confession. Some day, when you have a lover or a husband, there is no reason why he should know anything about it. You should always keep your own counsel. Never tell the truth to your father, your mother, or your sisters, that it may be well with you on earth. Mark my words.” As he spoke thus blasphemously, Teresina seemed to regard his utterance as a pious admonition, for she seized his hand and kissed it reverently as if it had been a priest’s. He laughed. “Come,” he said, “come, little wife, we will walk arm in arm into the room downstairs!” She seemed a little coy at first, but smiled with genuine gratification.