“Serveti!—­ah, beautiful, lost Serveti, with its castle and good vine-lands!”

“You shall have it again before long, my father,” he said.  He had never called me father before, the dear boy!  I suppose it was because he was going away.  But Serveti again?  The thing was impossible, and I said so.

“It is not impossible,” he answered, placidly.  “Successful singers make enough money in a year to buy Serveti.  A year is soon passed.  But now let us go to the station, or I shall not be in time for the train.”

“God bless you, Nino mio,” I said, as I saw him off.  It seemed to me that I saw two or three Ninos.  But the train rolled away and took them all from me,—­the ragged little child who first came to me, the strong-limbed, dark-eyed boy with his scales and trills and enthusiasm, and the full-grown man with the face like the great emperor, mightily triumphing in his art and daring in his love.  They were all gone in a moment, and I was left alone on the platform of the station, a very sorrowful and weak old man.  Well, I will not think about that day.

The first I heard of Nino was by a letter he wrote me from Paris, a fortnight after he had left me.  It was characteristic of him, being full of eager questions about home and De Pretis and Mariuccia and Rome.  Two things struck me in his writing.  In the first place, he made no mention of the count or Hedwig, which led me to suppose that he was recovering from his passion, as boys do when they travel.  And secondly, he had so much to say about me that he forgot all about his engagement, and never even mentioned the theatre.  On looking carefully through the letter again I found he had written across the top the words, “Rehearsals satisfactory.”  That was all.

It was not long after the letter came, however, that I was very much frightened by receiving a telegram, which must have cost several francs to send all that distance.  By this he told me that he had no clue to the whereabouts of the Liras, and he implored me to make inquiries and discover where they had gone.  He added that he had appeared in Faust successfully.  Of course he would succeed.  If a singer can please the Romans, he can please anybody.  But it seemed to me that if he had received a very especially flattering reception he would have said so.  I went to see De Pretis, whom I found at home over his dinner.  We put our heads together and debated how we might discover the Paris address of the Graf von Lira.  In a great city like that it was no wonder Nino could not find them; but De Pretis hoped that some of his pupils might be in correspondence with the contessina, and would be willing to give the requisite directions for reaching her.  But days passed, and a letter came from Nino written immediately after sending the telegram, and still we had accomplished nothing.  The letter merely amplified the telegraphic message.

“It is no use,” I said to De Pretis.  “And besides, it is much better that he should forget all about it.”