My patron’s family left Rome; and I had to throw myself into the study for the examination that was to bring me the title of an abbe.  With the advent of the carnival I had assumed the black dress and the short silk coat of an abbate, and had become a new and happier person.  For the first time I took part in the jollities of the carnival, and at the end of the first day again came across Bernardo, who insisted upon taking me to the opera to hear a new prima donna who had turned everybody’s heart at Naples.  Rumour had not belied her.  Her appearance was greeted with rapturous applause.  Bernardo seized my arm; he had recognised in her his Jewish maiden, just as I was about to exclaim, “It is she!”—­the lovely child who had preached that Christmas at Ara Coeli.  There were endless calls for “Annunciata” when the curtain fell; flowers and garlands were thrown at her feet, and among them a little poem which I had written under the inspiration of her exquisite voice.  With a crowd of enthusiasts, we hurried to the stage-door, took the horses from her carriage, and conducted her in triumph to her apartments.

Bernardo, who, bolder than I, had called on Annunciata, brought me to her the next day.  She was friendly, brilliant in her conversation, and appeared deeply impressed with my improvisation on “Immortality”—­the immortality first of eternal Rome, and then of the fair singer’s art—­to which I was pressed when Bernardo let out the secret of my gift.

“You have given me the sincerest pleasure,” she said, and looked confidingly into my eyes.  I ventured to kiss her hand.  After that I saw her every day during the gay carnival, and was more and more captivated by her charm.

Annunciata left Rome on Ash Wednesday, and with her the brightness seemed to have gone completely out of my life, my only pleasure being the recollection of those happy days of the carnival.

III.—­Love and Adventure in Rome

I saw Annunciata again when Rome had begun to fill with Easter visitors, and had the happiness of dining with her the same day.  She told me that, although born in Spain, she had been, as a child, in Rome; that it was she who preached that day at Ara Coeli, “an orphan, who would have perished of hunger had not a despised Jew given it shelter and food until it could flutter forth over the wild, restless sea.”  Next day I showed her over the Borghese gallery; and on the day before Easter we drove out to see the procession which initiated the Easter festival, and in the evening to Monte Mario to see the illuminations of St. Peter’s—­ an unforgettable sight!

As I went into the little inn to fetch some refreshment I found myself in the narrow passage face to face with Bernardo, pale, and with glowing eyes.  He wildly seized my hand, and said:  “I am not an assassin, Antonio; but fight with me you shall, or I shall become your murderer!”