It was fortunate that he could fly, since he had no money left with which to pay for a carriage.
He swam away.

But he was no longer enjoying himself.

The water grew colder and colder; he was drifting out into the open sea, far from Murano, far from Venice, and there was no ship within sight; his heavy gold-embroidered garments were dragging him down; he tried to strip them off, but it was impossible, for he was holding his manuscript, the manuscript he had to give to M.Voltaire.The water was pouring into his mouth and nose; deadly fear seized him; he clutched at impalpable things; there was a rattling in his throat; he screamed; and with a great effort he opened his eyes.
Between the curtain and the window-frame the dawn was making its way through in a narrow strip of light.

Marcolina, in her white nightdress and with hands crossed upon her bosom, was standing at the foot of the bed contemplating Casanova with unutterable horror.

Her glance instantly recalled him to his senses.