e will repay you the
million francs I have cost you, if you insist."

"I will repay nothing," said Emilio in an undertone.

"There is nothing due! A million is cheap for Clara Tinti when a man
is so ugly. Now, go," said she to the Duke. "You dismissed me; now I
dismiss you. We are quits."

At a gesture on Cataneo's part, as he seemed inclined to dispute this
order, which was given with an action worthy of Semiramis,--the part in
which la Tinti had won her fame,--the prima donna flew at the old ape
and put him out of the room.

"If you do not leave me in quiet this evening, we never meet again. And
my _never_ counts for more than yours," she added.

"Quiet!" retorted the Duke, with a bitter laugh. "Dear idol, it strikes
me that I am leaving you _agitata_!"

The Duke departed.

His mean spirit was no surprise to Emilio.

Every man who has accustomed himself to some particular taste, chosen
from among the various effects of love, in harmony with his own nature,
knows that no consideration can stop a man who has allowed his passions
to become a habit.

Clarina bounded like a fawn from the door to the bed.

"A prince, and poor, young, and handsome!" cried she. "Why, it is a
fairy tale!"

The Sicilian perched herself on the bed with the artless freedom of an
animal, the yearning of a plant for the sun, the airy motion of a branch
waltzing to the breeze. As she unbuttoned the wristbands of her sleeves,
she began to sing, not in the pitch that won her the applause of an
audience at the _Fenice_, but in a warble tender with emotion. Her song
was a zephyr carrying the caresses of her love to the heart.

She stole a glance at Emilio, who was as much embarrassed as she; for
this woman of the stage had lost all the boldness that had sparkled in
her eyes and given decision to her voice and gestures when she dismissed
the Duke. She was as humble as a courtesan who has fallen in love.

To picture la Tinti you must recall one of our best French singers when
she came out in _Il Fazzoletto_, an opera by Garcia that was then being
played by an Italian company at the theatre in the Rue Lauvois. She was
so beautiful that a Naples guardsman, having failed to win a hearing,
killed himself in despair. The prima donna of the _Fenice_ had the same
refinement of features, the same elegant figure, and was equally young;
but she had in addition the warm blood of Sicily that gave a glow to
her loveliness. Her voice was fuller and rich