sing now and awhile to Pericles and his public:  and to ze Londoners, wiz your permission, Count Ammiani, one saison.  I ask no more, and I am satisfied, and I endow your oldest child, signor Conte—­it is said!  For its mama was a good girl, a brave girl; she troubled Pericles, because he is an intellect; but he forgives when he sees sincerity—­rare zing!  Sincerity and genius:  it may be zey are as man and wife in a bosom.  He forgives; it is not onnly voice he craves, but a soul, and Sandra, your countess, she has a soul—­I am not a Turk.  I say, it is a woman in whom a girl I did see a soul!  A woman when she is married, she is part of ze man; but a soul, it is for ever alone, apart, confounded wiz nobody!  For it I followed Sandra, your countess.  It was a sublime devotion of a dog.  Her voice tsrilled, her soul possessed me, Your countess is my Sandra still.  I shall be pleased if child-bearing trouble her not more zan a very little; but, enfin! she is married, and you and I, my friend Wilfrid, we must accept ze decree, and say, no harm to her out of ze way of nature, by Saint Nicolas! or any what saint you choose for your invocation.  Come along.  And speed my letters by one of your militaires at once off.  Are Pericles’ millions gold of bad mint?  If so, he is an incapable.  He presumes it is not so.  Come along; we will drink to her in essence of Tokay.  You shall witness two scenes.  Away!”

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,