fever has passed.  Have you heard of this Signor Antonio?  He could buy up the kingdom of Greece, all Tyrol, half Lombardy.  The man has a passion for your Vittoria; for her voice solely, I believe.  He is considered, no doubt truly, a great connoisseur.  He could have a passion for nothing else, or alas!’ (the duchess shook her head with doleful drollery) ’would he insist on written securities and mortgages of my private property when he lends me money?  How different the world is from the romances, my Laura!  But for De Pyrmont, I might fancy my smile was really incapable of ransoming an empire; I mean an emperor.  Speak; the man is waiting to come; shall I summon him?’

Laura gave an acquiescent nod.

By this time Beppo had taken root to the floor.  ’I am in the best place after all,’ he said, thinking of the duties of his service.  He was perfectly well acquainted with the features of the Signor Antonio.  He knew that Luigi was the Signor Antonio’s spy upon Vittoria, and that no personal harm was intended toward his mistress; but Beppo’s heart was in the revolt of which Vittoria was to give the signal; so, without a touch of animosity, determined to thwart him, Beppo waited to hear the Signor Antonio’s scheme.

The Greek was introduced by Aennchen.  She glanced at the signora’s lap, and seeing her still without her fan, her eye shot slyly up with her shining temple, inspecting the narrow opening in the curtain furtively.  A short hush of preluding ceremonies passed.

Presently Beppo heard them speaking; he was aghast to find that he had no comprehension of what they were uttering.  ‘Oh, accursed French dialect!’ he groaned; discovering the talk to be in that tongue.  The Signor Antonio warmed rapidly from the frigid politeness of his introductory manner.  A consummate acquaintance with French was required to understand him.  He held out the fingers of one hand in regimental order, and with the others, which alternately screwed his moustache from its constitutional droop over the corners of his mouth, he touched the uplifted digits one by one, buzzing over them:  flashing his white eyes, and shrugging in a way sufficient to madden a surreptitious listener who was aware that a wealth of meaning escaped him and mocked at him.  At times the Signor Antonio pitched a note compounded half of cursing, half of crying, it seemed:  both pathetic and objurgative, as if he whimpered anathemas and had inexpressible bitter things in his mind.  But there was a remedy!  He displayed the specific on a third finger.  It was there.  This being done (number three on the fingers), matters might still be well.  So much his electric French and gesticulations plainly asserted.  Beppo strained all his attention for names, in despair at the riddle of the signs.  Names were pillars of light in the dark unintelligible waste.  The signora put a question.  It was replied to with the name of the Maestro Rocco Ricci.  Following that, the