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I warn you at the outset not to take him for a vulgar rogue. A rogue he was undoubtedly, but vulgar never. Himself, for all his frankness, he would not admit even so much. He discriminates finely. Indeed, as a splitter of hairs Casanova is unrivalled among all those who have made philosophy. "The honest ruse," he says somewhere in the course of his voluminous memoirs, "may be taken to be the sign of a prudent spirit. It is a virtue, true, which resembles rascality. But he who cannot in case of need exercise it with dignity is a fool."

Lest even after this warning you should be disposed to pass a harsh judgement upon the exploit I am about to relate, let me make clear the desperate position in which he found himself.

He had embarked at Venice for Ancona two days ago with fifty gold sequins in his pocket. And in a cellar at Chiozza—the first port of call—he had been so soundly drubbed at faro that he had lost not only that fifty, but a further thirty sequins yielded by the sale of his trunk of clothes.

Disconsolate, and very hungry—not having tasted food for four-and-twenty hours—he sat now upon a bale of cordage in the vessel's waist, reckoning up his assets.

Besides the semi-clerical but becoming garments in which he stood, he was possessed of a handsome figure, an iron constitution, an effrontery that was proof against all things, a doctor's degree in canon law, some very considerable learning for his eighteen years, a remarkable histrionic talent inherited from his parents, both of whom had achieved some renown upon the stage, and a letter of introduction to the Bishop of Martorano in Calabria, who was to advance him in the ecclesiastical career to which he was destined.

Casanova's tastes, heaven knows, were far from ecclesiastical. He had wished to study medicine, having indeed a certain taste for chemistry, and a perception that of all professions medicine offers the greatest scope to empiricism. But his mother, now a considerable actress in Dresden, and those whom she had made responsible for his education, had insisted that he should study not merely law, but canon law, and that he should take holy orders. He submitted in obedience to the sequere deum of the Stoics, which he had taken for his own motto; and as you behold him now upon the threshold of his career, you shall judge how justified were the instincts that warned him that he was as little likely in the end to become a priest as a physician.

He sat there on his bale of cordage, lugubriously looking out across the sunlit waters to the receding coast of Istria. Despite the genial warmth of the day—for it was August, of 1743—he was shivering with cold from lack of nourishment.

A shuffling step approached him. A voice deep and harsh, yet vaguely solicitous, enquired:

"Are you ill, sir?"

He turned slowly to survey a tall, vigorous young Franciscan with a coarsely pleasant countenance, whose tonsured head was fringed with tufts of coarse red hair. Small, dark, inquisitive eyes met Casanova's bold magnetic glance.

"I am troubled," he answered shortly.

"Troubled?" quoth the friar. "I have medicine here that will dispel trouble—a capon, sausages, a bottle of good wine, and my own company if you'll suffer it." And out of one of the amazing sack-like pockets of his habit he produced the articles he named.

Casanova frowned, considering him. The invitation came so pat upon his urgent need. Had the shaveling been spying upon him? And if so what profit did the fellow look to make? This misanthropical suspicion proceeded from a cynicism newly begotten of his Chiozza adventure. Still his need was urgent.

Rising, he accepted the invitation, but with condescension rather than gratitude. Already at that early age he had some of the lordly airs that were later to distinguish him, a gift of accepting favours with all the appearance of bestowing them.

Together they sat down to dine, and as they ate and drank, Casanova's dignity lessening, he listened more and more affably to the garrulous confidences of the friar. Brother Stefano—as he was called—displayed with ostentation treasures of bread and wine, cheese, sausages and a ham which he had received as alms in Orsara, and with which the unfathomable pockets of his habit were now cumbered.

"Do you receive money as well?" quoth Casanova, genuinely interested.

"God forbid!" cried the friar. "It is against the rules of our glorious order. Besides," he added slyly, "if I asked for money what should I receive? A few coppers, of which you behold here ten times the value. St Francis, believe me, was a shrewd fellow."

To this he added an invitation, which Casanova was but too willing to accept, that for the two days remaining of the journey he should allow himself to be provided for by St Francis.

Not until they had landed at Ancona, and found themselves lodged in the lazaret with the prospect of twenty days of quarantine imposed upon all who came just then from Venice, did Casanova discover the motive he had been seeking of the friar's spontaneous generosity. He was requesting for himself a room with a bed, table, and some chairs, agreeing to pay the hire on the expiry of the term, when Stefano sidled up to him.

"Sir," he said, "if of your benevolence you would allow me to share your room, I should require only a truss of straw for my bed."

Casanova agreed, and perceiving now how they might inter-aid each other he took the friar fully into his confidence, telling him that he was going to Rome, where a secretarial position awaited him, but that until he got there he would be in need of everything. He had expected acquiescence, but hardly the eager gladness with which Stefano received the news.

"Count on me," he said. "Provided you will write some letters for me, I will see you safely as far as Rome at the expense of St Francis."

"But why don't you write your own letters?" wondered Casanova.

"Because I can write only my own name. True, I can write it with either hand, but what advantage is that?"

Casanova stared at him as at a portent. "You amaze me," said he. "I thought you were a priest."

"I'm not a priest; I'm a friar. I say Mass. Consequently I can read. St Francis, whose unworthy child I am, could not read, which is why he never said Mass. But since you can write, you shall write to the persons whose names I will give you, and I promise you we shall have enough to feast upon to the end of the quarantine."

Here Casanova perceived the second chief reason why Stefano had befriended him—that he might act as his secretary during those twenty days in which the friar, being unable to leave the lazaret, must have gone hungry without somebody to discharge this office. Forthwith he wrote eight letters—eight because, according to the oral tradition of the order, when a Franciscan shall have knocked at seven doors and been refused he is to knock at the eighth with confidence of response. These letters, dictated by the friar, were interlarded with scraps of Latin, which he ordered Casanova to supply, and packed with foolish and unnecessary falsehoods. Thus, to the Superior of the Jesuits Stefano bade him say that he was not writing to the Capuchins because they were atheists, which was the reason why St Francis could not endure them.

"But that is nonsense," cried Casanova. "For in the time of St Francis there were no Capuchins or friars of any kind."

"How do you know that?" quoth Stefano.

"It's a matter of history."

"History!" snorted the friar. "What has history to do with religion? You're very ignorant for a doctor. Did they teach you no better than that at Padua? Write as I tell you, and don't argue with me."

Casanova shrugged and wrote, persuaded that such letters would be ignored as those of a knave and a madman. But he was mistaken. They were deluged with hams and capons, sausages and eggs, fresh meat and wine, and thus those three weeks in the lazaret of Ancona were a time of plenty.

At the end of the quarantine Casanova repaired to a minorite convent, where the further funds for the journey to Rome were to be supplied to him. He received there, together with the Bishop of Martorano's address, the sum of ten sequins. Out of these he paid for the hire of the room and furniture at the lazaret, bought himself a handsome long coat and a pair of strong shoes, and set out for Rome in Stefano's company.

It was an eight days' journey on foot, but not as the friar understood it. Stefano's notion was to travel three miles a day, at which rate they would have been two months upon the road. Casanova being now sufficiently in funds to defray his travelling expenses, said frankly that this rate of travelling would not suit him, and proposed to leave the friar. But the friar would not be left.

"Carry my cloak," said he, "and I will walk at least twice the distance daily. Thus St Francis shall defray us both."

Our young doctor agreed, taking Stefano's cloak, which was a mule's load, its pockets stuffed as they were with victuals of all descriptions, sufficient for a fortnight.

Sweating and toiling along the dusty road under this burden, Casanova developed a natural curiosity.

"When travelling," he asked, "why don't you seek food and shelter in the convents of your order?"

Stefano looked at him owlishly, and winked.

"Because I am not a fool," said he. "In the first place I shouldn't be received because, being a fugitive, I have no written obedience card, such as they always insist upon seeing. I might even risk being sent to prison, for they are an evil lot of dogs. In the second place, it is never as comfortable in a convent as in the house of a benefactor."

"Why are you a fugitive?" asked Casanova, and knew that the unintelligible, incoherent answer he received about imprisonment and escape was all compounded of falsehood.

He was growing a little weary of this harlequin of a Franciscan, and it is small wonder that in the end they quarrelled. The thing began on the following morning. Stefano led the way to a handsome house standing back from the high-road near Macerata. There was a small chapel attached to it, arguing piety on the part of the inhabitants, and acting as a beacon to the friar.

He strode boldly in, pronouncing a sonorous benediction, which brought the family clustering about him to kiss his unwashed hand. Then the mistress of the house invited him to say Mass, and hearing him consent, Casanova clutched his arm in horror.

"Have you forgotten that we have breakfasted?" he whispered.

"That's none of your business," growled the friar. "Be quiet."

The Mass was said, and Casanova's amazement and disgust were increased to perceive that Stefano was very indifferently acquainted with the ritual. But there was worse to follow. The friar went to the confessional, and summoned the family to confession. And there the evil fellow took it into his head to refuse absolution to the youngest daughter, a lovely child of thirteen, whose budding beauty was moving Casanova to tenderness.

From his earliest years he had been inordinately susceptible to the charms of the other sex, and that susceptibility, no doubt, was one of the chief factors in his eventual decision to abandon the ecclesiastical career.

Stefano scolded the child publicly, threatening her with hell-torment, until bewildered and agonized by shame she ran to shut herself up in her room.

The event threw a gloom over the repast that followed, spread expressly to regale this holy man, and it profoundly angered Casanova, the more because the victim of that loutish caprice was so sweet and lovely.

"You infamous, ignorant impostor!" he denounced the friar, to the horror and amazement of all present, his dark eyes blazing, the veins of his temples swollen. "You impudent lout! How dared you so treat that child?"

Stefano looked at him, his little eyes very evil. But he exercised sufficient self-control to render his voice meek and gentle.

"I forgive your heat, my son. I understand your feelings. They are a snare set for you by the devil. Beware of them."

"Beware of me, rather," roared Casanova, "for I propose to thrash you into a state of decency. On what grounds did you refuse that child absolution?"

Stefano cast his eyes to heaven in afflicted protest.

"Ignorant and heedless youth," he answered sadly, "what are you saying? Are you bidding me betray the secret of the confessional? Are you?" His voice swelled up on a note of sudden wrath.

Casanova looked round, and everywhere met eyes that disapproved of a provocation so strange and so distressing. It was enough. He got up, and went out without another word.

A couple of hours later, as Stefano was slowly trudging along the road, Casanova surged suddenly out of a hedge before him.

"Ha! Ha!" laughed Stefano, full of the mirth that excess of wine engenders. "We meet again, as I expected."

"We meet to part," said Casanova, who had been nursing his anger.

"Why to part?" bubbled the friar.

"Because I'll not travel further with a rogue, lest I be condemned with him to the galleys."

Stefano's round genial face grew sinister. He gripped his staff more firmly. "You say that to me?" he growled.

"I do. You are an unwashed scoundrel, ripe for gaol."

"And what are you, my pretty gentleman? A needy beggar, who have been living upon me for a month."

For answer Casanova soundly boxed the friar's ears. The friar swung his heavy staff, and caught the young doctor a blow across the head that sent him reeling into the ditch.

When Casanova recovered consciousness it was approaching noon. He rose from the depths of the dry ditch into which he had rolled, the grasses of which had concealed him from the eyes of wayfarers, and collected his wits. His head was aching villainously, and under the lustrous chestnut hair which he wore clubbed, and in which he took great pride, he discovered a lump as large as a pigeon's egg—the Franciscan's parting gift.

He felt that he had not come as well out of the encounter as he intended. But he took comfort in the thought that he was well rid of an evil travelling companion, who had served his turn. After all, he had seven gold sequins in his pocket, enough to carry him with ease and dignity to his patron, the Bishop, who would place him beyond the reach of all anxiety.

The distance to Macerata was not far—a mile or so—and there he would dine well, and sleep between clean sheets, setting out refreshed upon the morrow. He picked up his hat, and stepped out whistling. Suddenly he checked in his stride. His whistling stopped. His hands were racing and fumbling through the pockets of his handsome coat. Conviction followed swiftly upon apprehension. His purse containing the seven sequins was gone.

Solemnly, terribly, and most uncanonically did the pale lips of our young doctor of canon law anathematize the scoundrelly Franciscan who had picked his pocket. Then he sat down on a mound of stones by the roadside to contemplate his case. It was desperate indeed. Save for a few pieces of silver and some copper paoli in his breeches pocket, which the friar had missed, he was utterly destitute. Regretfully he thought of the good dinner and the good bed he had promised himself. And then in rebellion against fate he decided that, come what might, dinner and bed should not be forgone. To pay for them he would, if necessary, pawn his handsome coat. An hour later he was striding across the threshold of Macerata's best inn, mustering those almost unsuspected histrionic gifts of his to explain away his lack of luggage.

"I am the Bishop of Martorano's secretary," he announced, "travelling to Rome. Has my servant arrived?"

"Your servant, excellency?" quoth the landlord eagerly, impressed by the tall figure and boldly handsome face, the luxuriant well-coiffed hair, and the handsome coat—a compromise between clericalism and modishness.

"I sent him ahead of me in the chaise. I needed exercise, and preferred to walk the last two miles."

The landlord understood. The gentleman's dusty legs and shoes were at once explained. He shook his head.

"Not here," he was beginning. Then he checked. "Would it be a yellow chaise?" he asked.

Guessing the drift of the question, Casanova decided that the chaise must have been a yellow one. It was a common enough colour after all.

"A yellow chaise drove through the town at a great rate a half-hour ago. The postilion, excellency, was in green."

"In green—that's it. And he drove on, do you say? He drove on?"

The landlord admitted it, and grew terrified before Casanova's tempestuous anger. Roundly he cursed all valets, and all postilions. Had he not told them plainly enough that this was the inn he would honour with his patronage? He could forgive the valet for misunderstanding him, the valet being not merely a Frenchman, but an idiot as well. But the postilion was an Italian, of Ancona—that is, if the inhabitants of Ancona were Italian, a fact which he began seriously to doubt. Himself he was a Venetian, he announced in passing, secretary, he repeated, to the Bishop of Martorano. Explosively, he desired the host to tell him what he was to do.

"Your excellency will pardon the suggestion that you might have fared worse. This is a comfortable house, and my beds..."

"I know, I know," Casanova broke in impatiently. "Give me a room, and if those sons of dogs come back with the chaise whilst my anger endures, I'll crack their empty skulls one against the other."

It was a piece of acting that earned him more than he had reckoned. His loud, angry voice had drawn people from the common room, and indeed from every part of the inn. Now among the guests there was a Greek trader, distinguished by his Oriental gabardine, who had pricked up his ears when our gentleman announced himself a Venetian. The citizens of the Republic were notoriously wealthy and lavish—which was precisely why Casanova had mentioned his origin—and the Greek made wealthy, lavish gentlemen his prey.

It would be an hour or so later, when Casanova, washed and brushed, showed himself once more below, that our Greek approached him.

"I think, sir," he ventured, "that I heard you say you are a Venetian."

Casanova flashed him a sidelong glance, and wondered.

"I certainly said so. What you may have heard is your own affair," he answered dryly.

But a trader with business to do is not easily disconcerted.

"I am myself a subject of the Republic," the Greek announced, "and so in some sort your excellency's compatriot. I am from Zante. My name is Panagiottis, and if I can serve you in the inconvenience caused you by..."

Under Casanova's cold stare the trader spread his hands, and left the offer there. But, persistent of purpose, he remained and chattered amiably awhile, Casanova compelling him at first to pursue a monologue. Little by little, however, the young doctor's manner became less frosty. Panagiottis began by dilating upon the glories of Venice, passed on to deplore at length the inconvenience of travel, and then by way of manners and customs adroitly reached his objective, the comparative merits of Italian and foreign wines. Finding his listener interested, he touched at last the very bull's eye of the matter.

"After all," he said, "and with all due praise to Tuscan vintages, there are wines of the Levant that stand almost unrivalled. Now I have with me some Muscadine—some of which, by the way, I could sell you cheaply—which is of rare excellence."

"I might buy some, if it is as good as you say," said Casanova grandly. "I know something of wine."

The Greek rubbed his hands. "So much the better. I have some excellent Cerigo, some wine of Samos, and some Cephalonian. If you will do me the honour to dine with me you shall have an opportunity of tasting them."

"Fata viam inveniunt," said Casanova to himself. Here had fate provided him with a dinner. But it was only when the Greek had used polite insistence that Casanova yielded, gracefully condescending.

It is inconceivable that he could have had any intention of exploiting the Greek beyond this matter of dinner. What followed was entirely unpremeditated. The repast served in the Greek's private room proved excellent, and the Cerigo was quite the best that Casanova had ever tasted.

The Greek's conversation was naturally of his trade. He mentioned that he had acquired a considerable quantity of minerals: vitriol, cinnabar, antimony, and a hundred quintals of mercury. At the mention of mercury Casanova bethought him of an amalgam of bismuth and lead, by which that mineral can be augmented by one quarter. I have said that he was interested in chemistry. It occurred to him that if the Greek were not acquainted with this mystery here was a chance of profit.

"These minerals are for sale?" he enquired.

"Of course; but they would hardly interest you."

"On the contrary, I might buy some mercury." He smiled darkly. "I do a curious trade in mercury myself," he added.

Panagiottis became inquisitive, but Casanova was not disposed to gratify him. Address was necessary. The mere offer to sell the secret would lead to nothing. He must astonish Panagiottis by effecting the augmentation, laugh at the Greek's amazement when manifested, and so lure him on to desire the secret for himself.

At the end of dinner Panagiottis invited him to inspect the wares displayed in an adjoining room. They made up a heterogeneous collection: flasks of Levantine wines, assorted Eastern fabrics and metal ware, minerals and dried fruits, and four large flagons containing each 10lb of mercury. Casanova purchased one of these flagons—on credit, of course, since he was without the means to pay for it—and took it to his room.

He went out to find the only druggist in Macerata, and laid out most of his slender stock of silver and copper on the purchase of two and a half pounds each of bismuth and lead. Returning to the inn, he procured himself two empty bottles, proceeded to make his amalgam, and decanted it into these.

That evening he invited Panagiottis to sup with him in his own room. Before sitting down he placed on the table the Greek's mercury, divided into two bottles, and from these he now re-filled the original flagon, observing with secret delight the merchant's mystification at sight of 5lb of fine mercury remaining over.

Answering Panagiottis' insistent questions with a laugh, Casanova called the inn boy, and handing him the quarter flagon of mercury bade him go and sell it to the druggist. The boy returned with fifteen carlini, which Casanova pocketed. In itself that sum would more than suffice to pay Casanova's score at the inn. But he aimed much further.

The Greek begged for the return of his flagon, which was worth sixty carlini, and Casanova at once restored it to him, with laughingly-expressed thanks for having allowed him so easily to earn fifteen carlini.

Then he called for supper, sat down, and talked of other things. But Panagiottis was visibly preoccupied, and he betrayed alarm when his host announced that he would be leaving early on the morrow, travelling post if necessary until he overtook his chaise and servant.

"Why don't you stay tomorrow, and earn a further forty carlini on the other three flagons?" he asked unsteadily.

Casanova shrugged. "I am in no need of money. I augmented one flagon merely to amuse and surprise you."

Panagiottis' glance was laden with envy and wonder.

"You must be very wealthy," he said.

"I should be were it not that I am working at the augmentation of gold, which is a very costly operation."

"But where is the need? The augmentation of mercury should suffice any man. Tell me, what does the augmentation cost?"

"One and a half per cent."

"And would that which you have increased be susceptible of further increase?"

"Oh, no. If that were so, it would be an inexhaustible source of wealth."

And thereupon, to play out his part, Casanova rose, called the landlord, paid for the supper, and ordered a carriage and a pair of horses for eight o'clock the next morning. Bidding good-night to the chagrined and reluctant Panagiottis, and promising to send him an order for a barrel of Muscadine later, Casanova went to bed, convinced that the Greek would not close his eyes all night.

He was in the act of dressing next morning when Panagiottis invaded his chamber, after due apology. Casanova received him cordially, and invited him to share his morning coffee, which stood steaming on the table.

Panagiottis came straight to business. "I have come to ask you if you could be induced to sell me your secret," he announced.

"Why not?" was the genial answer. "When next we meet..."

"When next we meet?" cried the Greek in panic. "But when will that be?"

"Why, when you will. Should you come to Rome..."

Again Panagiottis interrupted. He was trembling with excitement.

"But why not now? Why not now?"

"Now?" Casanova stared. "My horses are harnessed. I am expected in Rome, and already I have delayed upon the journey."

"But surely no great delay can be entailed in what I ask."

He was in dread lest fortune should elude him after being brought within his reach.

Casanova became grave.

"That depends," said he. "My secret is expensive and, after all, I do not really know you."

Standing, he sipped his coffee calmly.

The Greek sat down. The truth is that his legs were yielding under him. Beads of perspiration gleamed on the arch of his heavy, pendulous nose—the brand of the acquisitive. He drew his gabardine about his slender shanks, and stroked his thinning black hair with an unsteady hand.

"But these are not reasons for delay," he protested in distress. "I am sufficiently well-known here, and my credit is good. Do you need an earnest of it?"

A gesture of lofty deprecation was Casanova's only answer.

"How much would you want for your secret?" Panagiottis asked point-blank.

Casanova's answer was as prompt as it was calm.

"Two thousand gold ounces."

At the mention of so vast a sum the Greek gasped like a fish. Casanova smiled and reached for his hat.

"You see," he said. "Besides, it is striking eight, and my horses are waiting."

Panagiottis swallowed audibly. "I will p-pay it," he stammered, "provided that I, myself, augment the 30lb I have here with the ingredients you shall name, which I myself shall purchase."

"The condition is natural," Casanova agreed. "But a contract would be necessary."

"You shall have it, sir. It is what I should myself desire."

"But it will need time, and my horses—"

"Put off the journey for an hour or two," the Greek besought him.

Casanova took a turn as if considering.

"Sir, sir, your hesitation wounds me!" burst from his agonized companion. "Look!" He snatched up a pen and wrote swiftly. "Take this. The banker de Laura lives a hundred yards from here. Present it and ask him for information of my credit."

Casanova took the note. It was draft running as follows:

Pay the bearer at sight fifty gold ounces for account of Panagiottis.

He smiled almost wistfully. "Really," he was beginning, "so much is not necessary to—"

"Take it, please—please. I insist."

"Very well."

Casanova went, came back, and placed the fifty ounces on the table.

"Your banker's account of you is quite satisfactory," said he. "To oblige you—since you are so set on it—I have bidden the landlord put back the horses until noon, so that we may conclude the transaction." And drawing up a chair, he sat down facing the Greek.

Panagiottis expressed his relief by a sigh, and insisted that as a preliminary Casanova should pocket the fifty ounces. Casanova did so, under protest, and they proceeded to draw up the contract. It ran as follows:

I agree to pay Messer Giacomo di Casanova the sum of two thousand gold ounces when he shall have taught me how and by what ingredients I may augment mercury by one quarter, without deterioration of its quality, equal to that which he sold at Macerata in my presence on the 25th of August, 1743.

Having signed it, Panagiottis delivered it to Casanova, together with a bill of exchange for two thousand ounces on a Roman banker, which, if necessary, he said, de Laura would discount at once upon a word from himself. So much being concluded, Casanova proceeded to impart the secret, naming the ingredients—lead and bismuth, the first which by its nature amalgamates with mercury, the second which restores its fluidity, impaired by the amalgamation.

The Greek went off to perform the operation, on the understanding that they should dine together, when he would report upon the results. He returned at noon, a pensive, saddened man, which was quite as Casanova had expected. Nevertheless he hailed his pupil heartily.

"Well?" he cried.

Panagiottis shook his head. "It is not well at all," he said gloomily. "The augmentation is made, but the mercury is not perfect."

Casanova's tone and manner betrayed impatience. "It is equal to that which I sold yesterday at Macerata, as the contract stipulates."

"Ah, but the contract also says that there must be no deterioration of quality. And you must confess that the quality has deteriorated. So true is this that no further augmentation is possible."

"Did I not tell you so at the beginning?" Casanova reminded him. "I stand by the condition of equality to that which I sold yesterday. You will force me to go to law with you, and the case will go against you." He displayed a nice blend of regret and indignation. "Should you happen to win, you may congratulate yourself upon having obtained my secret for nothing—though it will be worthless then to both of us, since it will be a secret no longer. I did not dream you capable of resorting to such trickery."

Panagiottis rose, indignant. "Sir, I am incapable of trickery, or of taking an unfair advantage of any man."

"Have you learnt my secret or have you not?" demanded Casanova. "And should I have imparted it to you without the contract? Sir, the world will laugh, and lawyers will make money out of us. I am distressed to think that I should so easily have been deluded. Meanwhile, here are your fifty ounces."

And he smacked the money on the table bravely, though inwardly fainting from terror lest Panagiottis should take it.

But Panagiottis, shamed by the reproachful gesture, indignantly refused the money, and rose to leave the room. This was a declaration of war. But Casanova smiled, confident that peace would be easily concluded.

You are not to suppose that he ever dreamed of obtaining the two thousand ounces. He had foreseen precisely such a situation as had since arisen, and he was fully prepared to moderate his pretensions very considerably. He detained Panagiottis.

"It is necessary, sir, that you should take this money," he insisted. "It belongs to you."

Between misery and indignation Panagiottis again refused.

"You have placed me in an impossible situation," he protested.

"Did I invite you to buy my secret? Or did you pester me into selling what you now refuse to pay for?"

"But you must confess that it is not worth two thousand ounces."

"Yet that is the amount in the contract you have signed."

They sat down to argue, the Greek as before insisting upon the condition that the mercury should present no deterioration of quality, Casanova urging the condition that it should be equal to the 15lb he had sold yesterday. Thus was half an hour consumed.

"We appear," said Casanova at length, "to have reached a deadlock which only the lawyers can resolve, and you should be as reluctant as I am to appeal to them. I will make sacrifices rather than take that course. Have you any adjustment to propose?"

Panagiottis considered. "You shall retain the fifty ounces. I will pay you an additional fifty, and you shall surrender to me the contract and the bill of exchange."

Casanova was more than satisfied, but his face remained grave, even sorrowful. Appearances demanded that he should yield reluctantly, and he did so only at the end of arguments which endured for another hour and a half. But when he did yield it was gracefully and graciously. Having pocketed the hundred ounces, he invited Panagiottis to dine with him, and they sat down together like the best of friends, despite the Greek's uneasy feeling that he had taken a certain unfair advantage of a too confiding young cleric. To make amends he presented Casanova at parting with a case of beautiful razors and an order on his Naples warehouse for a barrel of the Muscadine the Venetian had praised. Thereupon they embraced and parted, thoroughly pleased each with the other.

Two days later, as Casanova, travelling now in state, was approaching Cesena, his carriage overtook a group that attracted his attention. Four papal guards were conducting a big, red-haired man in the habit of a brother of St Francis. The prisoner walked dejectedly, his head sunk upon his breast, his wrists pinioned behind him.

Looking more closely at that familiar figure, Casanova recognized his sometime travelling companion, Brother Stefano. He bade the postilions slacken to a walk.

"What's this?" he asked the leader of the guards.

"A rascally bandit who goes about disguised as a monk to rob honest folk. We heard of him at Ancona, where he had a companion who has given us the slip. But we've got this one at least, and he'll go to the hulks where he belongs."

Casanova's eyes met Stefano's, and he saw recognition and amazement dawning in them. In the circumstances Casanova thought it best not to mention his seven sequins.

As he was whirled away in a cloud of dust, he reflected that dishonest practices must sooner or later bring a man to the galleys, congratulated himself upon the incident which had separated him from Stefano, and reclining luxuriously in his chaise considered how—as in his own case—rectitude of behaviour is properly rewarded sooner or later.