“launched” his daughter finally.  Leonora began to sing in the small theatres of the Milan district—­two or three night engagements at country fairs.  Such companies were formed at random in the Gallery, on the very day of the performance sometimes,—­troupes like the strolling players of old, leaving at a venture in a third-class compartment on the train with the prospect of returning on foot if the impresario made off with the money.

Leonora began to know what applause was, what it meant to give encore after encore before crowds of rustic landowners, dressed in their Sunday clothes, and ladies with false rings and plated chains; and she had her first thrills of feminine vanity on receiving bouquets and sonnets from subalterns and cadets in small garrison towns.  Boldini followed her everywhere, neglecting his lessons, in pursuit of this, his last depraved infatuation.  “All for art, art for all!” He must enjoy the fruits of his creation, be present at the triumphs of his star pupil!  So he said to Doctor Moreno; and that unsuspecting gentleman, thankful for this added courtesy of the master, would leave her more and more to the old satyr’s care.

The escape from that life came when she secured a contract for a whole winter in Padua.  There she met the tenor Salvatti, a high and mighty divo, who looked down upon all his associates, though tolerated himself, by the public, only out of consideration for his past.

For years now he had been holding his own on the opera stage, less for his voice than for his dashing appearance, slightly repaired with pencil and rouge, and the legend of romantic love affairs that floated like a rainbow around his name—­noble dames fighting a clandestine warfare for him; queens scandalizing their subjects by blind passions he inspired; eminent divas selling their diamonds for the money to hold him faithful by lavish gifts.  The jealousy of Salvatti’s comrades tended to perpetuate and exaggerate this legend; and the tenor, worn out, poor, and a wreck virtually for all of his pose of grandeur, was able to make a living still from provincial publics, who charitably applauded him with the self-conceit of climbers pampering a dethroned prince.

Leonora, playing opposite that famous man, “starring,” singing duets with him, clasping hands that had been kissed by the queens of art, was deeply stirred.  This, at last, was the world she had dreamed of in her dingy garret in Milan.  Salvatti’s presence gave her just the illusion of aristocratic grandeur she had longed for.  Nor was he slow in perceiving the impression he had made upon that promising young woman.  With a cold calculating selfishness, he determined to profit by her naive admiration.  Was it love that thrust her toward him?  As, so long afterwards, she analyzed her passion to Rafael, she was vehemently certain it had not been love:  Salvatti could never have inspired a genuine feeling in anyone.  His egotism, his moral corruptness,