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?”

Irma had not; she admitted it despondently.  “There is such a vile conspiracy against me in Italy—­and Italy is a poor singer’s fame—­that I should be tempted to do anything.  And I detest la Vittoria.  She has such a hold on this Antonio-Pericles, I don’t see how I can hurt her, unless I meet her and fly at her throat.”

“You naturally detest her,” said the countess.  “Repeat Countess Anna’s proposal to you.”

“It was insulting—­she offered me money.”

“That you should persuade me to assist you in preventing la Vittoria’s marriage to Count Ammiani?”

“Dear lady, you know I did not try to persuade you.”

“You knew that you would not succeed, my Irma.  But Count Ammiani will not marry her; so you will have a right to claim some reward.  I do not think that la Vittoria is quite idle.  Look out for yourself, my child.  If you take to plotting, remember it is a game of two.”