He heard a cart roll by on the other side of the wall, and then everything was quiet again.

A fine grey haze was floating over the greensward, giving it the aspect of a pond with fugitive outlines.

Once again Casanova thought of that night long ago in the convent garden at Murano; he thought of another garden on another night; he hardly knew what memories he was recalling; perchance it was a composite reminiscence of a hundred nights, just as at times a hundred women whom he had loved would fuse in memory into one figure that loomed enigmatically before his questioning senses.

After all, was not one night just like another?
Was not one woman just like another?
Especially when the affair was past and gone?
The phrase, "past and gone," continued to hammer upon his temples, as if destined henceforth to become the pulse of his forlorn existence.
It seemed to him that something was rattling behind him along the wall.
Or was it only an echo that he heard?
Yes, the noise had really come from the house.

Marcolina's window had suddenly been opened, the iron grating had been pushed back, the curtain drawn.