Wilfrid was barely to be roused from his fit of brooding into which Pericles had thrown him.  He sent the letters, and begged to be left to sleep.  The image of Vittoria seen through this man’s mind was new, and brought a new round of torments.  “The devil take you,” he cried when Pericles plucked at his arm, “I’ve sent the letters; isn’t that enough?” He was bitterly jealous of the Greek’s philosophic review of the conditions of Vittoria’s marriage; for when he had come away from the concert, not a thought of her being a wife had clouded his resignation to the fact.  He went with Pericles, nevertheless, and was compelled to acknowledge the kindling powers of the essence of Tokay.  “Where do you get this stuff?” he asked several times.  Pericles chattered of England, and Hagar’s ‘Addio,’ and ‘Camilla.’  What cabinet operas would he not give!  What entertainments!  Could an emperor offer such festivities to his subjects?  Was a Field Review equal to Vittoria’s voice?  He stung Wilfrid’s ears by insisting on the mellowed depth, the soft human warmth, which marriage had lent to the voice.  At a late hour his valet announced Countess d’Isorella.  “Did I not say so?” cried Pericles, and corrected himself:  “No, I did not say so; it was a surprise to you, my friend.  You shall see; you shall hear.  Now you shall see what a friend Pericles can be when a person satisfy him.”  He pushed Wilfrid into his dressing-room, and immediately received the countess with an outburst of brutal invectives—­pulling her up and down the ranked regiment of her misdeeds, as it were.  She tried dignity, tried anger, she affected amazement, she petitioned for the heads of his accusations, and, as nothing stopped him, she turned to go.  Pericles laughed when she had left the room.  Irma di Karski was announced the next minute, and Countess d’Isorella re-appeared beside her.  Irma had a similar greeting.  “I am lost,” she exclaimed.  “Yes, you are lost,” said Pericles; “a word from me, and the back of the public is humped at you—­ha! contessa, you touched Mdlle.  Irma’s hand?  She is to be on her guard, and never to think she is lost till down she goes?  You are a more experienced woman!  I tell you I will have no nonsense.  I am Countess Alessandra Ammiani’s friend.  You two, you women, are her enemies.  I will ruin you both.  You would prevent her singing in public places—­you, Countess d’Isorella, because you do not forgive her marriage to Count Ammiani; you, Irma, to spite her for her voice.  You would hiss her out of hearing, you two miserable creatures.  Not another soldo for you!  Not one! and to-morrow, countess, I will see my lawyer.  Irma, begone, and shriek to your wardrobe!”

“Countess d’Isorella, I have the extreme honour.”