“It was quite different when I used to sing before,” said the boy.

“Per Bacco, I should think so,” said the maestro.  “Your voice has changed.  Sing something, can’t you?”

Nino sang a church air he had caught somewhere.  I never heard such a voice, but it gave me a queer sensation that I liked—­it was so true, and young, and clear.  De Pretis sat open-mouthed with astonishment and admiration.  When the boy had finished, he stood looking at the maestro, blushing very scarlet, and altogether ashamed of himself.  The other did not speak.

“Excuse me,” said Nino, “I cannot sing.  I have not sung for a long time.  I know it is not worth anything.”  De Pretis recovered himself.

“You do not sing,” said he, “because you have not learned.  But you can.  If you will let me teach you, I will do it for nothing.”

“Me!” screamed Nino, “you teach me!  Ah, if it were any use—­if you only would!”

“Any use?” repeated De Pretis half aloud, as he bit his long black cigar half through in his excitement.  “Any use?  My dear boy, do you know that you have a very good voice?  A remarkable voice,” he continued, carried away by his admiration, “such a voice as I have never heard.  You can be the first tenor of your age, if you please—­in three years you will sing anything you like, and go to London and Paris, and be a great man.  Leave it to me.”

I protested that it was all nonsense, that Nino was meant for a scholar and not for the stage, and I was quite angry with De Pretis for putting such ideas into the boy’s head.  But it was of no use.  You cannot argue with women and singers, and they always get their own way in the end.  And whether I liked it or not, Nino began to go to Sor Ercole’s house once or twice a week, and sang scales and exercises very patiently, and copied music in the evening, because he said he would not be dependent on me, since he could not follow my wishes in choosing a profession.  De Pretis did not praise him much to his face after they had begun to study, but he felt sure he would succeed.

“Caro Conte,”—­he often calls me Count, though I am only plain Professore, now—­“he has a voice like a trumpet and the patience of all the angels.  He will be a great singer.”

“Well, it is not my fault,” I used to answer; for what could I do?

When you see Nino now, you cannot imagine that he was ever a dirty little boy from the mountains, with one shoe, and that infamous little hat.  I think he is ugly still, though you do not think so when he is singing, and he has good strong limbs and broad shoulders, and carries himself like a soldier.  Besides, he is always very well dressed, though he has no affectations.  He does not wear his hair plastered into a love-lock on his forehead, like some of our dandies, nor is he eternally pulling a pair of monstrous white cuffs over his hands.  Everything is very neat about him and very quiet, so that you