The Prince, seated next la Tinti, was keenly alive, all through the meal, to what poets in every language call the darts of love.  The transcendental vision of Massimilla was eclipsed, just as the idea of God is sometimes hidden by clouds of doubt in the consciousness of solitary thinkers.  Clarina thought herself the happiest woman in the world as she perceived Emilio was in love with her.  Confident of retaining him, her joy was reflected in her features, her beauty was so dazzling that the men, as they lifted their glasses, could not resist bowing to her with instinctive admiration.

“The Duchess is not to compare with la Tinti,” said the Frenchman, forgetting his theory under the fire of the Sicilian’s eyes.

The tenor ate and drank languidly; he seemed to care only to identify himself with the prima donna’s life, and had lost the hearty sense of enjoyment which is characteristic of Italian men singers.

“Come, signorina,” said the Duke, with an imploring glance at Clarina, “and you, caro prima uomo,” he added to Genovese, “unite your voices in one perfect sound.  Let us have the C of Qual portento, when light appears in the oratorio we have just heard, to convince my old friend Capraja of the superiority of unison to any embellishment.”

“I will carry her off from that Prince she is in love with; for she adores him—­it stares me in the face!” said Genovese to himself.

What was the amazement of the guests who had heard Genovese out of doors, when he began to bray, to coo, mew, squeal, gargle, bellow, thunder, bark, shriek, even produce sounds which could only be described as a hoarse rattle,—­in short, go through an incomprehensible farce, while his face was transfigured with rapturous expression like that of a martyr, as painted by Zurbaran or Murillo, Titian or Raphael.  The general shout of laughter changed to almost tragical gravity when they saw that Genovese was in utter earnest.  La Tinti understood that her companion was in love with her, and had spoken the truth on the stage, the land of falsehood.

“Poverino!” she murmured, stroking the Prince’s hand under the table.

“By all that is holy!” cried Capraja, “will you tell me what score you are reading at this moment—­murdering Rossini?  Pray inform us what you are thinking about, what demon is struggling in your throat.”

“A demon!” cried Genovese, “say rather the god of music.  My eyes, like those of Saint-Cecilia, can see angels, who, pointing with their fingers, guide me along the lines of the score which is written in notes of fire, and I am trying to keep up with them.  PER DIO! do you not understand?  The feeling that inspires me has passed into my being; it fills my heart and my lungs; my soul and throat have but one life.

“Have you never, in a dream, listened to the most glorious strains, the ideas of unknown composers who have made use of pure sound as nature has hidden it in all things,—­sound which we call forth, more or less perfectly, by the instruments we employ to produce masses of various color; but which in those dream-concerts are heard free from the imperfections of the performers who cannot be all feeling, all soul?  And I, I give you that perfection, and you abuse me!