“That is why he pays Genovese such a price.  Genovese is the only tenor whose voice occasionally sounds in unison with mine.  Either we really do sing exactly together once or twice in an evening, or the Duke imagines that we do; and for that imaginary pleasure he has bought Genovese.  Genovese belongs to him.  No theatrical manager can engage that tenor without me, nor have me to sing without him.  The Duke brought me up on purpose to gratify that whim; to him I owe my talent, my beauty,—­my fortune, no doubt.  He will die of an attack of perfect unison.  The sense of hearing alone has survived the wreck of his faculties; that is the only thread by which he holds on to life.  A vigorous shoot springs from that rotten stump.  There are, I am told, many men in the same predicament.  May Madonna preserve them!

“You have not come to that!  You can do all you want—­all I want of you, I know.”

Towards morning the Prince stole away and found Carmagnola lying asleep across the door.

“Altezza,” said the gondolier, “the Duchess ordered me to give you this note.”

He held out a dainty sheet of paper folded into a triangle.  The Prince felt dizzy; he went back into the room and dropped into a chair, for his sight was dim, and his hands shook as he read:—­

“DEAR EMILIO:—­Your gondola stopped at your palazzo.  Did you not know that Cataneo has taken it for la Tinti?  If you love me, go to-night to Vendramin, who tells me he has a room ready for you in his house.  What shall I do?  Can I remain in Venice to see my husband and his opera singer?  Shall we go back together to Friuli?  Write me one word, if only to tell me what the letter was you tossed into the lagoon.

“MASSIMILLA DONI.”

The writing and the scent of the paper brought a thousand memories back to the young Venetian’s mind.  The sun of a single-minded passion threw its radiance on the blue depths come from so far, collected in a bottomless pool, and shining like a star.  The noble youth could not restrain the tears that flowed freely from his eyes, for in the languid state produced by satiated senses he was disarmed by the thought of that purer divinity.

Even in her sleep Clarina heard his weeping; she sat up in bed, saw her Prince in a dejected attitude, and threw herself at his knees.

“They are still waiting for the answer,” said Carmagnola, putting the curtain aside.

“Wretch, you have undone me!” cried Emilio, starting up and spurning Clarina with his foot.

She clutched it so lovingly, her look imploring some explanation,—­the look of a tear-stained Samaritan,—­that Emilio, enraged to find himself still in the toils of the passion that had wrought his fall, pushed away the singer with an unmanly kick.

“You told me to kill you,—­then die, venomous reptile!” he exclaimed.

He left the palace, and sprang into his gondola.

“Pull,” said he to Carmagnola.