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. Returning from his master’s apartments with a more civil demeanor, he bade the guest enter. Bragadino was seated at breakfast beside the open window, and made as if to rise; but Casanova begged him not to disturb himself. “My dear Casanova,” exclaimed Bragadino, “How delighted I am to see you once more! Who would have thought we should ever meet again?” He extended both hands to the newcomer. Casanova seized them as if to kiss them, but did not do so. He answered the cordial greeting with warm words of thanks in the grandiloquent manner usual to him on such occasions. Bragadino begged him to be seated, and asked him whether he had breakfasted. Told that his guest was still fasting, Bragadino rang for his servant and gave the necessary orders. As soon as the man had gone, Bragadino expressed his gratification that Casanova had so unreservedly accepted the Supreme Council’s offer. He would certainly not suffer for having decided to devote himself to the service of his country. Casanova responded by saying that he would deem himself happy if he could but win the Council’s approval. Such were Casanova’s words, while his thoughts ran on. He could no longer detect in himself any feeling of hatred towards Bragadino. Nay, he realized that he was rather sorry for this man advanced in years and grown a trifle foolish, who sat facing him with a sparse white beard and red-rimmed eyes, and whose skinny hand trembled as he held his cup. The last time Casanova had seen him, Bragadino had probably been about as old as Casanova was to-day; but even then, to Casanova, Bragadino had seemed an old man. The servant brought in Casanova’s breakfast. The guest needed little pressing to induce him to make a hearty meal, for on the road he had had no more than a few snacks. “I have journeyed here from Mantua without pausing for a night’s rest, so eager was I to show my readiness to serve the Council and to prove my undying gratitude to my benefactor.”--This was his excuse for the almost unmannerly greed with which he gulped down the steaming chocolate. Through the window, from the Grand Canal and the lesser canals, rose the manifold noises of Venetian life. All other sounds were dominated by the monotonous shouts of the gondoliers. Somewhere close at hand, perhaps in the opposite palace (was it not the Fogazzari palace?), a woman with a fine soprano voice was practising; the singer was young--someone who could not have been born at the time when Casanova escaped from The Leads. He ate rolls and butter, eggs, cold meat, continually excusing himself for his outrageous hunger, while Bragadino looked on well pleased.