“And she is a happy woman!” added the Duchess, looking at Emilio.

“He escapes and flies to command the Dalmatians, to conquer the Illyrian coast for his beloved Venice.  His glory wins him forgiveness, and he enjoys a life of domestic happiness,—­a home, a winter evening, a young wife and charming children, who pray to San Marco under the care of an old nurse.  Yes, for three francs’ worth of opium he furnishes our empty arsenal, he watches convoys of merchandise coming in, going to the four quarters of the world.  The forces of modern industry no longer reign in London, but in his own Venice, where the hanging gardens of Semiramis, the Temple of Jerusalem, the marvels of Rome, live once more.  He adds to the glories of the middle ages by the labors of steam, by new masterpieces of art under the protection of Venice, who protected it of old.  Monuments and nations crowd into his little brain; there is room for them all.  Empires and cities and revolutions come and vanish in the course of a few hours, while Venice alone expands and lives; for the Venice of his dreams is the empress of the seas.  She has two millions of inhabitants, the sceptre of Italy, the mastery of the Mediterranean and the Indies!”

“What an opera is the brain of man!  What an unfathomed abyss!—­even to those who, like Gall, have mapped it out,” cried the physician.

“Dear Duchess,” said Vendramin, “do not omit the last service that my elixir will do me.  After hearing ravishing voices and imbibing music through every pore, after experiencing the keenest pleasures and the fiercest delights of Mahomet’s paradise, I see none but the most terrible images.  I have visions of my beloved Venice full of children’s faces, distorted, like those of the dying; of women covered with dreadful wounds, torn and wailing; of men mangled and crushed by the copper sides of crashing vessels.  I begin to see Venice as she is, shrouded in crape, stripped, robbed, destitute.  Pale phantoms wander through her streets!

“Already the Austrian soldiers are grinning over me, already my visionary life is drifting into real life; whereas six months ago real life was the bad dream, and the life of opium held love and bliss, important affairs and political interests.  Alas!  To my grief, I see the dawn over my tomb, where truth and falsehood mingle in a dubious light, which is neither day nor darkness, but partakes of both.”

“So you see that in this head there is too much patriotism,” said the Prince, laying his hand on the thick black curls that fell on Vendramin’s brow.

“Oh, if he loves us he will give up his dreadful opium!” said Massimilla.

“I will cure your friend,” said the Frenchman.

“Achieve that, and we shall love you,” said the Duchess.  “But if on your return to France you do not calumniate us, we shall love you even better.  The hapless Italians are too much crushed by foreign dominion to be fairly judged—­for we have known yours,” she added, with a smile.