“Pumpkin-head!  I will have nothing to do with you,” said De Pretis.

“Ah, I will be as quiet as you please.  I will be like a lamb, and wait until this evening.”

“If you will really be quiet, I will do what you wish.  Come to me this evening about the Ave Maria—­or a little earlier.  Yes, come at twenty-three hours.  In October that is about five o’clock, by French time.

“And I may take the guitar?” said Nino, as he rose to go.

“With all my heart.  But do not spoil everything by singing to her, and betraying yourself.”

So Nino thanked the maestro enthusiastically and went away, humming a tune, as he now and again struck the strings of the guitar that he carried under his arm, to be sure it was there.

Do not think that because De Pretis suddenly changed his mind, and even proposed to Nino a plan for making the acquaintance of the young countess, he is a man to veer about like a weather-cock, nor yet a bad man, willing to help a boy to do mischief.  That is not at all like Ercole de Pretis.  He has since told me he was much astonished at the way Nino sang the love song at his lesson; and he was instantly convinced that in order to be a great artist Nino must be in love always.  Besides, the maestro is as liberal in his views of life as he is conservative in his ideas about government.  Nino is everything the most straight-laced father could wish him to be, and as he was then within a few months of making his first appearance on the stage, De Pretis, who understands those things, could very well foresee the success he has had.  Now De Pretis is essentially a man of the people, and I am not; therefore he saw no objection in the way of a match between a great singer and a noble damigelia.  But had I known what was going on, I would have stopped the whole affair at that point, for I am not so weak as Mariuccia seems to think.  I do not mean now that everything is settled I would wish it undone.  Heaven forbid!  But I would have stopped it then, for it is a most incongruous thing, a peasant boy making love to a countess.

Nino, however, has one great fault, and that is his reticence.  It is true, he never does anything he would not like me, or all the world, to know.  But I would like to know, all the same.  It is a habit I have fallen into, from having to watch that old woman, for fear she should be too extravagant.  All that time he never said anything, and I supposed he had forgotten all about the contessina, for I did not chance to see De Pretis; and when I did he talked of nothing but Nino’s debut and the arrangements that were to be made.  So that I knew nothing about it, though I was pleased to see him reading so much.  He took a sudden fancy for literature, and read when he was not singing, and even made me borrow Ambrosoli, in several volumes, from a friend.  He read every word of it, and talked very intelligently about it too.  I never thought there was any reason.