That was a merry supper, and De Pretis became highly dramatic when we got to the second flask.

CHAPTER VII

On the day following Nino’s debut, Maestro Ercole de Pretis found himself in hot water, and the choristers at St. Peter’s noticed that his skull-cap was awry, and that he sang out of tune; and once he tried to take a pinch of snuff when there was only three bars’ rest in the music, so that instead of singing C sharp he sneezed very loud.  Then all the other singers giggled, and said, “Salute!”—­which we always say to a person who sneezes—­quite audibly.

It was not that Ercole had heard anything from the Graf von Lira as yet; but he expected to hear, and did not relish the prospect.  Indeed, how could the Prussian gentleman fail to resent what the maestro had done in introducing to him a singer disguised as a teacher?  It chanced, also, that the contessina took a singing lesson that very day in the afternoon, and it was clear that the reaping of his evil deeds was not far off.  His conscience did not trouble him at all, it is true, for I have told you that he has liberal ideas about the right of marriage; but his vanity was sorely afflicted at the idea of abandoning such a very noble and creditable pupil as the Contessina di Lira.  He applauded himself for furthering Nino’s wild schemes, and he blamed himself for being so reckless about his own interests.  Every moment he expected a formal notice from the count to discontinue the lessons.  But still it did not come, and at the appointed hour Ercole’s wife helped him to put on his thick winter coat, and wrapped his comforter about his neck, and pulled his big hat over his eyes—­for the weather was threatening, and sent him trudging off to the Palazzo Carmandola.

Though Ercole is stout of heart, and has broad shoulders to bear such burdens as fall to his lot, he lingered long on the way, for his presentiments were gloomy; and at the great door of the Palazzo he even stopped to inquire of the porter whether the contessina had been seen to go out yet, half hoping that she would thus save him the mortification of an interview.  But it turned out otherwise:  the contessina was at home, and De Pretis was expected, as usual, to give the lesson.  Slowly he climbed the great staircase, and was admitted.

“Good-day, Sor Maestro,” said the liveried footman, who knew him well.  “The Signor Conte desires to speak with you to-day before you go to the signorina.”

The maestro’s heart sank, and he gripped hard the roll of music in his hand as he followed the servant to the count’s cabinet.  There was to be a scene of explanation after all.