Nino had judged more rightly than I when he supposed that his beard and moustaches would disguise him from Hedwig during the first two acts.  She recognised the wondrous voice, and she saw the strong resemblance he had spoken of.  Once or twice as he looked toward her, it seemed indeed that the eyes must be his, with their deep circles and serious gaze.  But it was absurd to suppose it anything more than a resemblance.  As the opera advanced, it became evident that Nino was making a success.  Then in the second act it was clear that the success was growing to be an ovation, and the ovation a furore, in which the house became entirely demoralised, and vouchsafed to listen only so long as Nino was singing—­screaming with delight before he had finished what he had to sing in each scene.  People sent their servants away in hot haste to buy flowers wherever they could, and he came back to his dressing-room, from the second act, carrying bouquets by the dozen, small bunches and big, such as people had been able to get or had brought with them.  His eyes shone like the coals in Mariuccia’s scaldino, as he entered, and he was pale through his paint.  He could hardly speak for joy; but, as old habits return unconsciously at great moments in a man’s life, he took the cat on his knee and pulled its tail.

“Sing thou also, little beast,” he said, gravely; and he pulled the tail till the cat squeaked a little, and he was satisfied.

“Bene!” he cried; “and now for the tonsure and the frock.”  So Mariuccia was turned out into the passage while he changed his dress.  De Pretis came back a moment later and tried to help him, but he was so much overcome that he could only shed tears and give a last word of advice for the next act.

“You must not sing it too loud, Nino mio,” he said.

“Diavolo!” said Nino.  “I should think not!”

“But you must not squeak it out in a little wee false voice, as small as this”; the maestro held up his thumb and finger, with a pinch of snuff between them.

“Bah?  Sor Ercole, do you take me for a soprano?” cried the boy, laughing, as he washed off the paint and the gum where the beard had stuck.  Presently he got into his frock, which, as I told you, was a real one, provided by Ercole’s brother, the Franciscan—­quite quietly, of course, for it would seem a dreadful thing to use a real monk’s frock in an opera.  Then we fastened the rope round his waist, and smoothed his curly hair a little to give him a more pious aspect.  He looked as white as a pillow when the paint was gone.

“Tell me a little, my father,” said old Mariuccia, mocking him, “do you fast on Sundays, that you look so pale?” Whereat Nino struck an attitude, and began singing a love song to the ancient woman.  Indeed, she was joking about the fast, for she had expended my substance of late in fattening Nino, as she called it, for his appearance, and there was to be broiled chickens for supper that very night.  He was only pale because he was in love.  As for me, I made up my mind to stand in the slides, so that I could see the contessina; for Nino had whispered to me that she had not yet recognised him, though she stared hard across the footlights.  Therefore I took up a good position on the left of the stage, facing the Lira box, which was on the right.