rom the enchanted realm
to which he had soared on the many-hued wings of inspiration, intending
to show him the truth by the light he himself would bring down with him.

"Well," said he, pouring him out another bumper of wine and clinking
glasses with him, "this German has, you see, written a sublime opera
without troubling himself with theories, while those musicians who write
grammars of harmony may, like literary critics, be atrocious composers."

"Then you do not like my music?"

"I do not say so. But if, instead of carrying musical principles to an
extreme--which takes you too far--you would simply try to arouse
our feelings, you would be better understood, unless indeed you have
mistaken your vocation. You are a great poet."

"What," cried Gambara, "are twenty-five years of study in vain? Am I to
learn the imperfect language of men when I have the key to the heavenly
tongue? Oh, if you are right,--I should die."

"No, no. You are great and strong; you would begin life again, and I
would support you. We would show the world the noble and rare alliance
of a rich man and an artist in perfect sympathy and understanding."

"Do you mean it?" asked Gambara, struck with amazement.

"As I have told you, you are a poet more than a musician."

"A poet, a poet! It is better than nothing. But tell me truly, which do
you esteem most highly, Mozart or Homer?"

"I admire them equally."

"On your honor?"

"On my honor."

"H'm! Once more. What do you think of Meyerbeer and Byron?"

"You have measured them by naming them together."

The Count's carriage was waiting. The composer and his noble physician
ran down-stairs, and in a few minutes they were with Marianna.

As they went in, Gambara threw himself into his wife's arms, but she
drew back a step and turned away her head; the husband also drew back
and beamed on the Count.

"Oh, monsieur!" said Gambara in a husky voice, "you might have left me
my illusions." He hung his head, and then fell.

"What have you done to him? He is dead drunk!" cried Marianna, looking
down at her husband with a mingled expression of pity and disgust.

The Count, with the help of his servant, picked up Gambara and laid him
on his bed.

Then Andrea left, his heart exultant with horrible gladness.

The Count let the usual hour for calling slip past next day, for he
began to fear lest he had duped himself and had made this humble couple
pay too dear for their improved circumstanc