Several days passed after the debut without giving Nino an opportunity of speaking to Hedwig.  He probably saw her, for he mingled in the crowd of dandies in the Piazza Colonna of an afternoon, hoping she would pass in her carriage and give him a look.  Perhaps she did; he said nothing about it, but looked calm when he was silent and savage when he spoke, after the manner of passionate people.  His face aged and grew stern in those few days, so that he seemed to change on a sudden from boy to man.  But he went about his business, and sang at the theatre when he was obliged to; gathering courage to do his best and to display his powers from the constant success he had.  The papers were full of his praises, saying that he was absolutely without rival from the very first night he sang, matchless and supreme from the moment he first opened his mouth, and all that kind of nonsense.  I dare say he is now, but he could not have been really the greatest singer living, so soon.  However, he used to bring me the newspapers that had notices of him, though he never appeared to care much for them, nor did he ever keep them himself.  He said he hankered for an ideal which he would never attain, and I told him that if he was never to attain it he had better abandon the pursuit of it at once.  But he represented to me that the ideal was confined to his imagination, whereas the reality had a great financial importance, since he daily received offers from foreign managers to sing for them, at large advantage to himself, and was hesitating only in order to choose the most convenient.  This seemed sensible, and I was silent.  Soon afterwards he presented me with a box of cigars and a very pretty amber mouthpiece.  The cigars were real Havanas, such as I had not smoked for years, and must have cost a great deal.

“You may not be aware, Sor Cornelio,” he said one evening, as he mixed the oil and vinegar with the salad, at supper, “that I am now a rich man, or soon shall be.  An agent from the London opera has offered me twenty thousand francs for the season in London this spring.”

“Twenty thousand francs!” I cried, in amazement.  “You must be dreaming, Nino.  That is just about seven times what I earn in a year with my professorship and my writing.”

“No dreams, caro mio.  I have the offer in my pocket.”  He apparently cared no more about it than if he had twenty thousand roasted chestnuts in his pocket.

“When do you leave us?” I asked, when I was somewhat recovered.

“I am not sure that I will go,” he answered, sprinkling some pepper on the lettuce.

“Not sure!  Body of Diana, what a fool you are!”

“Perhaps,” said he, and he passed me the dish.  Just then Mariuccia came in with a bottle of wine, and we said no more about it, for Mariuccia is indiscreet.