“That is not a very intelligent question for a philosopher like you to ask,” he answered.  “Of course I am glad of my liberty; any man would be.  But I feel that I am as much the cause of that poor lady’s death as though I had killed her with my own hands.  I shall never forgive myself.”

“Diana!” I cried, “it is a horrible tragedy; but it seems to me that you could not help it if she chose to love you.”

“Hush!” said he, so sternly that he frightened me.  “She is dead.  God give her soul rest.  Let us not talk of what she did.”

“But,” I objected, “if you feel so strongly about it, how can you sing at the opera to-night?”

“There are plenty of reasons why I should sing.  In the first place, I owe it to my engagement with Jacovacci.  He has taken endless trouble to have me cleared at once, and I will not disappoint him.  Besides, I have not lost my voice, and might be half ruined by breaking contract so early.  Then, the afternoon papers are full of the whole affair, some right and some wrong, and I am bound to show the Contessina di Lira that this unfortunate accident does not touch my heart, however sorry I may be.  If I did not appear all Rome would say it was because I was heart-broken.  If she does not go to the theatre, she will at least hear of it.  Therefore I will sing.”  It was very reasonable of him to think so.

“Have any of the papers got hold of the story of your giving lessons?”

“No, I think not; and there is no mention of the Lira family.”

“So much the better.”

Hedwig did not go to the opera.  Of course she was quite right.  However she might feel about the baroness, it would have been in the worst possible taste to go to the opera the very day after her death.  That is the way society puts it.  It is bad taste; they never say it is heartless, or unkind, or brutal.  It is simply bad taste.  Nino sang, on the whole, better than if she had been there, for he put his whole soul in his art and won fresh laurels.  When it was over he was besieged by the agent of the London manager to come to some agreement.

“I cannot tell yet,” he said.  “I will tell you soon.”  He was not willing to leave Rome—­that was the truth of the matter.  He thought of nothing, day or night, but of how he might see Hedwig, and his heart writhed in his breast when it seemed more and more impossible.  He dared not risk compromising her by another serenade, as he felt sure that it had been some servant of the count who had betrayed him to the baroness.  At last he hit upon a plan.  The funeral of the baroness was to take place on the afternoon of the next day.  He felt sure that the Graf von Lira would go to it, and he was equally certain that Hedwig would not.  It chanced to be the hour at which De Pretis went to the Palazzo to give her the singing lesson.

“I suppose it is a barbarous thing for me to do,” he said to himself, “but I cannot help it.  Love first, and tragedy afterwards.”