‘The opera you will hear zis night,’ he said, ’will be hissed.  You will hear a chorus of screech-owls to each song of that poor Irma, whom the Italian people call “crabapple.”  Well; she pleases German ears, and if they can support her, it is well.  But la Vittoria—­your Belloni—­you will not hear; and why?  She has been false to her Art, false!  She has become a little devil in politics.  It is a Guy Fawkes femelle!  She has been guilty of the immense crime of ingratitude.  She is dismissed to study, to penitence, and to the society of her old friends, if they will visit her.’

‘Of course we will,’ said the English lady; ’either before or after our visit to Venice—­delicious Venice!’

‘Which you have not seen—­hein?’ Mr. Pericles snarled; ’and have not smelt.  There is no music in Venice!  But you have nothing but street tinkle-tinkle!  A place to live in! mon Dieu!’

The lady smiled.  ’My husband insists upon trying the baths of Bormio, and then we are to go over a pass for him to try the grape-cure at Meran.  If I can get him to promise me one whole year in Italy, our visit to Venice may be deferred.  Our doctor, monsieur, indicates our route.  If my brother can get leave of absence, we shall go to Bormio and to Meran with him.  He is naturally astonished that Emilia refused to see him; and she refused to see us too!  She wrote a letter, dated from the Conservatorio to him, he had it in his saddlebag, and was robbed of it and other precious documents, when the wretched, odious people set upon him in Verona-poor boy!  She said in the letter that she would see him in a few days after the fifteenth, which is to-day!

‘Ah! a few days after the fifteenth, which is to-day,’ Mr. Pericles repeated.  ’I saw you but the day before yesterday, madame, or I could have brought you together.

She is now away-off—­out of sight—­the perfule!  Ah false that she is; speak not of her.  You remember her in England.  There it was trouble, trouble; but here, we are a pot on a fire with her; speak not of her.  She has used me ill, madame.  I am sick.’

His violent gesticulation drooped.  In a temporary abandonment to chagrin, he wiped the moisture from his forehead, unwilling or heedless of the mild ironical mouthing of the ladies, and looked about; for Carlo had made a movement to retire,—­he had heard enough for discomfort.

’Ah! my dear Ammiani, the youngest editor in Europe! how goes it with you?’ the Greek called out with revived affability.

Captain Gambier perceived that it was time to present his Italian acquaintance to the ladies by name, as a friend of Mademoiselle Belloni.

‘My most dear Ammiani,’ Antonio-Pericles resumed; he barely attempted to conceal his acrid delight in casting a mysterious shadow of coming vexation over the youth; ’I am afraid you will not like the opera Camilla, or perhaps it is the Camilla you will not like.  But, shoulder arms, march!’ (a foot regiment in motion suggested the form of the recommendation) ’what is not for to-day may be for to-morrow.  Let us wait.  I think, my Ammiani, you are to have a lemon and not an orange.  Never mind.  Let us wait.’