An eloquent “Oh!” escaped from Adela’s bosom.  She had certainly not expected to win her way with this estimable Italian titled lady thus rapidly.  Violetta had managed her so well that she was no longer sure whether she did know the exact nature of her mission, the words of which she had faithfully transmitted as having been alone confided to her.  It was with chagrin that she saw Pericles put his fore-finger on a salient dimple of the countess’s cheek when he welcomed them.  He puffed and blew like one working simultaneously at bugle and big drum on hearing an allusion to Victoria.  The mention of the name of that abominable traitress was interdicted at Villa Ricciardi, he said; she had dragged him at two armies’ tails to find his right senses at last:  Pericles was cured of his passion for her at last.  He had been mad, but he was cured —­and so forth, in the old strain.  His preparations for a private operatic performance diverted him from these fierce incriminations, and he tripped busily from spot to spot, conducting the ladies over the tumbled lower floors of the spacious villa, and calling their admiration on the desolation of the scene.  Then they went up to the maestro’s room.  Pericles became deeply considerate for the master’s privacy.  “He is my slave; the man has ruined himself for la Vittoria; but I respect the impersonation of art,” he said under his breath to the ladies as they stood at the door; “hark!  “The piano was touched, and the voice of Irma di Karski broke out in a shrill crescendo.  Rocco Ricci within gave tongue to the vehement damnatory dance of Pericles outside.  Rocco struck his piano again encouragingly for a second attempt, but Irma was sobbing.  She was heard to say:  “This is the fifteenth time you have pulled me down in one morning.  You hate me; you do; you hate me.”  Rocco ran his fingers across the keys, and again struck the octave for Irma.  Pericles wiped his forehead, when, impenitent and unteachable, she took the notes in the manner of a cock.  He thumped at the door violently and entered.

“Excellent! horrid! brava! abominable! beautiful!  My Irma, you have reached the skies.  You ascend like a firework, and crown yourself at the top.  No more to-day; but descend at your leisure, my dear, and we will try to mount again by-and-by, and not so fast, if you please.  Ha! your voice is a racehorse.  You will learn to ride him with temper and judgement, and you will go.  Not so, my Rocco?  Irma, you want repose, my dear.  One thing I guarantee to you—­you will please the public.  It is a minor thing that you should please me.”

Countess d’Isorella led Irma away, and had to bear with many fits of weeping, and to assent to the force of all the charges of vindictive conspiracy and inveterate malice with which the jealous creature assailed Vittoria’s name.  The countess then claimed her ear for half-a-minute.

“Have you had any news of Countess Anna lately?”