“You do not know that boy,” said the maestro, taking snuff.  And he was quite right, as it turned out.

Suddenly Nino wrote from London.  He had made an arrangement, he said, by which he was allowed to sing there for three nights only.  The two managers had settled it between them, being friends.  He wrote very despondently, saying that although he had been far more fortunate in his appearances than he had expected, he was in despair at not having found the contessina, and had accepted the arrangement which took him to London because he had hopes of finding her there.  On the day which brought me this letter I had a visitor.  Nino had been gone nearly a month.  It was in the afternoon, towards sunset, and I was sitting in the old green arm-chair watching the goldfinch in his cage, and thinking sadly of the poor dear baroness, and of my boy, and of many things.  The bell rang and Mariuccia brought me a card in her thick fingers which were black from peeling potatoes, so that the mark of her thumb came off on the white pasteboard.  The name on the card was “Baron Ahasuerus Benoni,” and there was no address.  I told her to show the signore into the sitting-room, and he was not long in coming.  I immediately recognised the man Nino had described, with his unearthly freshness of complexion, his eagle nose, and his snow-white hair.  I rose to greet him.

“Signor Grandi,” he said, “I trust you will pardon my intrusion.  I am much interested in your boy, the great tenor.”

“Sir,” I replied, “the visit of a gentleman is never an intrusion.  Permit me to offer you a chair.”  He sat down, and crossed one thin leg over the other.  He was dressed in the height of the fashion; he wore patent-leather shoes, and carried a light ebony cane with a silver head.  His hat was perfectly new, and so smoothly brushed that it reflected a circular image of the objects in the room.  But he had a certain dignity that saved his foppery from seeming ridiculous.

“You are very kind,” he answered.  “Perhaps you would like to hear some news of Signor Cardegna,—­your boy, for he is nothing else.”

“Indeed” I said, “I should be very glad.  Has he written to you, baron?”

“Oh, no!  We are not intimate enough for that.  But I ran on to Paris the other day, and heard him three or four times, and had him to supper at Bignon’s.  He is a great genius, your boy, and has won all hearts.”

“That is a compliment of weight from so distinguished a musician as yourself,” I answered; for, as you know, Nino had told me all about his playing.  Indeed, the description was his, which is the reason why it is so enthusiastic.

“Yes,” said Benoni, “I am a great traveller, and often go to Paris for a day or two.  I know everyone there.  Cardegna had a perfect ovation.  All the women sent him flowers, and all the men asked him to dinner.”

“Pardon my curiosity,” I interrupted, “but as you know everyone in Paris, could you inform me whether Count von Lira and his daughter are there at present?  He is a retired Prussian officer.”  Benoni stretched out one of his long arms and ran his fingers along the keys of the piano without striking them.  He could just reach so far from where he sat.  He gave no sign of intelligence, and I felt sure that Nino had not questioned him.