This suggestion put the house into a good humor again.

Contrary to Italian custom, the ballet was not much attended to.  In every box the only subject of conversation was Genovese’s strange behavior, and the luckless manager’s speech.  Those who were admitted behind the scenes went off at once to inquire into the mystery of this performance, and it was presently rumored that la Tinti had treated her colleague Genovese to a dreadful scene, in which she had accused the tenor of being jealous of her success, of having hindered it by his ridiculous behavior, and even of trying to spoil her performance by acting passionate devotion.  The lady was shedding bitter tears over this catastrophe.  She had been hoping, she said, to charm her lover, who was somewhere in the house, though she had failed to discover him.

Without knowing the peaceful course of daily life in Venice at the present day, so devoid of incident that a slight altercation between two lovers, or the transient huskiness of a singer’s voice becomes a subject of discussion, regarded of as much importance as politics in England, it is impossible to conceive of the excitement in the theatre and at the Cafe Florian.  La Tinti was in love; la Tinti had been hindered in her performance; Genovese was mad or purposely malignant, inspired by the artist’s jealousy so familiar to Italians!  What a mine of matter for eager discussion!

The whole pit was talking as men talk at the Bourse, and the result was such a clamor as could not fail to amaze a Frenchman accustomed to the quiet of the Paris theatres.  The boxes were in a ferment like the stir of swarming bees.

One man alone remained passive in the turmoil.  Emilio Memmi, with his back to the stage and his eyes fixed on Massimilla with a melancholy expression, seemed to live in her gaze; he had not once looked round at the prima donna.

“I need not ask you, caro carino, what was the result of my negotiation,” said Vendramin to Emilio.  “Your pure and pious Massimilla has been supremely kind—­in short, she has been la Tinti?”

The Prince’s reply was a shake of his head, full of the deepest melancholy.

“Your love has not descended from the ethereal spaces where you soar,” said Vendramin, excited by opium.  “It is not yet materialized.  This morning, as every day for six months—­you felt flowers opening their scented cups under the dome of your skull that had expanded to vast proportions.  All your blood moved to your swelling heart that rose to choke your throat.  There, in there,”—­and he laid his hand on Emilio’s breast,—­“you felt rapturous emotions.  Massimilla’s voice fell on your soul in waves of light; her touch released a thousand imprisoned joys which emerged from the convolutions of your brain to gather about you in clouds, to waft your etherealized body through the blue air to a purple glow far above the snowy heights, to where the pure love of angels dwells.  The