Bah! he is a patriot—­not a man!  He cannot make you wince and pine, and be cold and be hot, and—­Bah!  I give a chance to some one else who is not a patriot.  He has done mischief with the inflammable little Anna von Lenkenstein—­I know it.  Your proper lovers, you women, are the broad, the business lovers, and Weisspriess is your man.’

Antonio-Pericles glanced up at the maestro’s windows.  ’Hark! it is her voice,’ he said, and drew up his clenched fists with rage, as if pumping.  ’Cold as ice!  Not a flaw.  She is a lantern with no light in it—­ crystal, if you like.  Hark now at Irma, the stork-neck.  Aie! what a long way it is from your throat to your head, Mademoiselle Irma!  You were reared upon lemons.  The split hair of your mural crown is not thinner than that voice of yours.  It is a mockery to hear you; but you are good enough for the people, my dear, and you do work, running up and down that ladder of wires between your throat and your head;—­you work, it is true, you puss! sleek as a puss, bony as a puss, musical as a puss.  But you are good enough for the people.  Hola!’

This exclamation was addressed to a cavalier who was dismounting from his horse about fifty yards down the street, and who, giving the reins to a mounted servant, advanced to meet the Signor Antonio.

‘It is you, Herr Captain von Weisspriess!’

‘When he makes an appointment you see him, as a rule, my dear Pericles,’ returned the captain.

’You are out of uniform—­good.  We will go up.  Remember, you are a connoisseur, from Bonn—­from Berlin—­from Leipsic:  not of the K.K. army!  Abjure it, or you make no way with this mad thing.  You shall see her and hear her, and judge if she is worth your visit to Schloss Sonnenberg and a short siege.  Good:  we go aloft.  You bow to the maestro respectfully twice, as in duty; then a third time, as from a whisper of your soul.  Vanitas, vanitatis!  You speak of the ‘UT de poitrine.’  You remark:  “Albrechtsberger has said—–­,” and you slap your head and stop.  They think, “He is polite, and will not quote a German authority to us”:  and they think, “He will not continue his quotation; in truth, he scornfully considers it superfluous to talk of counterpoint to us poor Italians.”  Your Christian name is Johann?—­you are Herr Johannes.  Look at her well.  I shall not expose you longer than ten minutes to their observation.  Frown meditative; the elbow propped and two fingers in the left cheek; and walk into the room with a stoop:  touch a note of the piano, leaning your ear to it as in detection of five-fifteenths of a shade of discord.  Frown in trouble as of a tooth.  So, when you smile, it is immense praise to them, and easy for you.’

The names of the Signor Antonio-Pericles and Herr Johannes were taken up to the maestro.