“If you will come and sing to me—­only to me, of course, for I would not ask you to compromise your debut—­but if you will come and sing to me, we shall be very good friends.  Does it seem to you such a terrible penance to sing to me in my solitude?”

“It is never a penance to sing,” said Nino simply.  A shade of annoyance crossed the baroness’ face.

“Provided,” she said, “it entails nothing.  Well, we will not talk about the terms.”

They say women sometimes fall in love with a voice:  vox et proeterea nihil, as the poet has it.  I do not know whether that is what happened to the baroness at first, but it has always seemed strange to me that she should have given herself so much trouble to secure Nino, unless she had a very strong fancy for him.  I, for my part, think that when a lady of her condition takes such a sudden caprice into her head, she thinks it necessary to maltreat the poor man a little at first, just to satisfy her conscience, and to be able to say later that she did not encourage him.  I have had some experience, as everybody is aware, and so I may speak boldly.  On the other hand, a man like Nino, when he is in love, is absolutely blind to other women.  There is only one idea in his soul that has any life, and everyone outside that idea is only so much landscape; they are no better for him—­the other women—­than a museum of wax dolls.

The baroness, as you have seen, had Nino in her power, and there was nothing for it but submission; he came and went at her bidding, and often she would send for him when he least expected it.  He would do as she commanded, somewhat sullenly and with a bad grace, but obediently, for all that; she had his destiny in her hands, and could in a moment frustrate all his hopes.  But, of course, she knew that if she betrayed him to the count, Nino would be lost to her also, since he came to her only in order to maintain his relations with Hedwig.

Meanwhile the blue-eyed maiden of the North waxed fitful.  Sometimes two or three lessons would pass in severe study.  Nino, who always took care to know the passages they were reading, so that he might look at her instead of at his book, had instituted an arrangement by which they sat opposite each other at a small table.  He would watch her every movement and look, and carry away a series of photographs of her,—­a whole row, like the little books of Roman views they sell in the streets, strung together on a strip of paper,—­and these views of her lasted with him for two whole days, until he saw her again.  But sometimes he would catch a glimpse of her in the interval driving with her father.