“Clarina, I will not ring!” cried the Duke, in a shrill voice of fury.  “I will not play the violin this evening, nor tomorrow, nor ever again—­”

“Ta, ta, ta, ta!” sang Clarina, on the four octaves of the same note, leaping from one to the next with the ease of a nightingale.

“In spite of that voice, which would make your patron saint Clara envious, you are really too impudent, you rascally hussy!”

“You have not brought me up to listen to such abuse,” said she, with some pride.

“Have I brought you up to hide a man in your bed?  You are unworthy alike of my generosity and of my hatred—­”

“A man in my bed!” exclaimed Clarina, hastily looking round.

“And after daring to eat our supper, as if he were at home,” added the Duke.

“But am I not at home?” cried Emilio.  “I am the Prince of Varese; this palace is mine.”

As he spoke, Emilio sat up in bed, his handsome and noble Venetian head framed in the flowing hangings.

At first Clarina laughed—­one of those irrepressible fits of laughter which seize a girl when she meets with an adventure comic beyond all conception.  But her laughter ceased as she saw the young man, who, as has been said, was remarkably handsome, though but lightly attired; the madness that possessed Emilio seized her, too, and, as she had no one to adore, no sense of reason bridled her sudden fancy—­a Sicilian woman in love.

“Although this is the palazzo Memmi, I will thank your Highness to quit,” said the Duke, assuming the cold irony of a polished gentleman.  “I am at home here.”

“Let me tell you, Monsieur le Duc, that you are in my room, not in your own,” said Clarina, rousing herself from her amazement.  “If you have any doubts of my virtue, at any rate give me the benefit of my crime—­”

“Doubts!  Say proof positive, my lady!”

“I swear to you that I am innocent,” replied Clarina.

“What, then, do I see in that bed?” asked the Duke.

“Old Ogre!” cried Clarina.  “If you believe your eyes rather than my assertion, you have ceased to love me.  Go, and do not weary my ears!  Do you hear?  Go, Monsieur le Duc.  This young Prince will repay you the million francs I have cost you, if you insist.”

“I will repay nothing,” said Emilio in an undertone.

“There is nothing due!  A million is cheap for Clara Tinti when a man is so ugly.  Now, go,” said she to the Duke.  “You dismissed me; now I dismiss you.  We are quits.”

At a gesture on Cataneo’s part, as he seemed inclined to dispute this order, which was given with an action worthy of Semiramis,—­the part in which la Tinti had won her fame,—­the prima donna flew at the old ape and put him out of the room.

“If you do not leave me in quiet this evening, we never meet again.  And my never counts for more than yours,” she added.

“Quiet!” retorted the Duke, with a bitter laugh.  “Dear idol, it strikes me that I am leaving you agitata!”