I traveled to Mayence and thence I sailed to Cologne, where I looked forward to the pleasure of meeting with the burgomaster’s wife who disliked General Kettler, and had treated me so well seven years ago.  But that was not the only reason which impelled me to visit that odious town.  When I was at Dresden I had read in a number of the Cologne Gazette that “Master Casanova has returned to Warsaw only to be sent about his business again.  The king has heard some stories of this famous adventurer, which compel him to forbid him his Court.”

I could not stomach language of this kind, and I resolved to pay Jacquet, the editor, a visit, and now my time had come.

I made a hasty dinner and then called on the burgomaster, whom I found sitting at table with his fair Mimi.  They welcomed me warmly, and for two hours I told them the story of my adventures during the last seven years.  Mimi had to go out, and I was asked to dine with them the next day.

I thought she looked prettier than ever, and my imagination promised me some delicious moments with her.  I spent an anxious and impatient night, and called on my Amphitryon at an early hour to have an opportunity of speaking to his dear companion.  I found her alone, and began with an ardent caress which she gently repelled, but her face froze my passion in its course.

“Time is an excellent doctor,” said she, “and it has cured me of a passion which left behind it the sting of remorse.”

“What!  The confessional . . . .”

“Should only serve as a place wherein to confess our sins of the past, and to implore grace to sin no more.”

“May the Lord save me from repentance, the only source of which is a prejudice!  I shall leave Cologne to-morrow.”

“I do not tell you to go.”

“If there is no hope, it is no place for me.  May I hope?”

“Never.”

She was delightful at table, but I was gloomy and distracted.  At seven o’clock next day I set out, and as soon as I had passed the Aix la Chapelle Gate, I told the postillion to stop and wait for me.  I then walked to Jacquet’s, armed with a pistol and a cane, though I only meant to beat him.

The servant shewed me into the room where he was working by himself.  It was on the ground floor, and the door was open for coolness’ sake.

He heard me coming in and asked what he could do for me.

“You scoundrelly journalist.”  I replied, “I am the adventurer Casanova whom you slandered in your miserable sheet four months ago.”

So saying I directed my pistol at his head, with my left hand, and lifted my cane with my right.  But the wretched scribbler fell on his knees before me with clasped hands and offered to shew me the signed letter he had received from Warsaw, which contained the statements he had inserted in his paper.

“Where is this letter?”

“You shall have it in a moment.”