urage to question
him about the events of the previous night. But on inquiring of the
housekeeper, we gathered that the Councillor had brought home with him
an extraordinarily pretty young lady whom he called Antonia, and she it
was who had sung so beautifully. A young man also had come along with
them; he had treated Antonia very tenderly, and must evidently have
been her betrothed. But he, since the Councillor peremptorily insisted
on it, had had to go away again in a hurry. What the relations between
Antonia and the Councillor are has remained until now a secret, but
this much is certain, that he tyrannises over the poor girl in the most
hateful fashion. He watches her as Doctor Bartholo watches his ward in
the _Barber of Seville_; she hardly dare show herself at the window;
and if, yielding now and again to her earnest entreaties, he takes her
into society, he follows her with Argus' eyes, and will on no account
suffer a musical note to be sounded, far less let Antonia sing--indeed,
she is not permitted to sing in his own house. Antonia's singing on
that memorable night, has, therefore, come to be regarded by the
townspeople in the light of a tradition of some marvellous wonder that
suffices to stir the heart and the fancy; and even those who did not
hear it often exclaim, whenever any other singer attempts to display
her powers in the place, 'What sort of a wretched squeaking do you call
that? Nobody but Antonia knows how to sing.'"

Having a singular weakness for such like fantastic histories, I found
it necessary, as may easily be imagined, to make Antonia's
acquaintance. I had myself often enough heard the popular sayings about
her singing, but had never imagined that that exquisite _artiste_ was
living in the place, held a captive in the bonds of this eccentric
Krespel like the victim of a tyrannous sorcerer. Naturally enough I
heard in my dreams on the following night Antonia's marvellous voice,
and as she besought me in the most touching manner in a glorious
_adagio_ movement (very ridiculously it seemed to me, as if I had
composed it myself) to save her, I soon resolved, like a second
Astolpho,[2] to penetrate into Krespel's house, as if into another
Alcina's magic castle, and deliver the queen of song from her
ignominious fetters.

It all came about in a different way from what I had expected; I had
seen the Councillor scarcely more than two or three times, and eagerly
discussed with him the best method o