The Duke departed.

His mean spirit was no surprise to Emilio.

Every man who has accustomed himself to some particular taste, chosen from among the various effects of love, in harmony with his own nature, knows that no consideration can stop a man who has allowed his passions to become a habit.

Clarina bounded like a fawn from the door to the bed.

“A prince, and poor, young, and handsome!” cried she.  “Why, it is a fairy tale!”

The Sicilian perched herself on the bed with the artless freedom of an animal, the yearning of a plant for the sun, the airy motion of a branch waltzing to the breeze.  As she unbuttoned the wristbands of her sleeves, she began to sing, not in the pitch that won her the applause of an audience at the Fenice, but in a warble tender with emotion.  Her song was a zephyr carrying the caresses of her love to the heart.

She stole a glance at Emilio, who was as much embarrassed as she; for this woman of the stage had lost all the boldness that had sparkled in her eyes and given decision to her voice and gestures when she dismissed the Duke.  She was as humble as a courtesan who has fallen in love.

To picture la Tinti you must recall one of our best French singers when she came out in Il Fazzoletto, an opera by Garcia that was then being played by an Italian company at the theatre in the Rue Lauvois.  She was so beautiful that a Naples guardsman, having failed to win a hearing, killed himself in despair.  The prima donna of the Fenice had the same refinement of features, the same elegant figure, and was equally young; but she had in addition the warm blood of Sicily that gave a glow to her loveliness.  Her voice was fuller and richer, and she had that air of native majesty that is characteristic of Italian women.

La Tinti—­whose name also resembled that which the French singer assumed—­was now seventeen, and the poor Prince three-and-twenty.  What mocking hand had thought it sport to bring the match so near the powder?  A fragrant room hung with rose-colored silk and brilliant with wax lights, a bed dressed in lace, a silent palace, and Venice!  Two young and beautiful creatures! every ravishment at once.

Emilio snatched up his trousers, jumped out of bed, escaped into the dressing-room, put on his clothes, came back and hurried to the door.

These were his thoughts while dressing:—­

“Massimilla, beloved daughter of the Doni, in whom Italian beauty is an hereditary prerogative, you who are worthy of the portrait of Margherita, one of the few canvases painted entirely by Raphael to his glory!  My beautiful and saintly mistress, shall I not have deserved you if I fly from this abyss of flowers?  Should I be worthy of you if I profaned a heart that is wholly yours?  No; I will not fall into the vulgar snare laid for me by my rebellious senses!  This girl has her Duke, mine be my Duchess!”