The old man then said:  “I am afraid, my dear Corte, you must accept the fellowship of a girl as well as of a boy upon this occasion.  See! our Carlo!  You recognize that dancing speck below there?—­he has joined himself—­the poor lad wishes he could, I dare swear!—­to another bigger speck, which is verily a lady:  who has joined herself to a donkey—­a common habit of the sex, I am told; but I know them not.  That lady, signor Ugo, is the signorina Vittoria.  You stare?  But, I tell you, the game cannot go on without her; and that is why I have permitted you to knock the ball about at your own pleasure for these forty minutes.”

Corte drew his under-lip on his reddish stubble moustache.  “Are we to have women in a conference?” he asked from eye to eye.

“Keep to the number, Ugo; and moreover, she is not a woman, but a noble virgin.  I discern a distinction, though you may not.  The Vestal’s fire burns straight.”

“Who is she?”

“It rejoices me that she should be so little known.  All the greater the illumination when her light shines out!  The signorina Vittoria is a cantatrice who is about to appear upon the boards.”

“Ah! that completes it.”  Corte rose to his feet with an air of desperation.  “We require to be refreshed with quavers and crescendos and trillets!  Who ever knew a singer that cared an inch of flesh for her country?  Money, flowers, flattery, vivas! but, money! money! and Austrian as good as Italian.  I’ve seen the accursed wenches bow gratefully for Austrian bouquets:—­bow? ay, and more; and when the Austrian came to them red with our blood.  I spit upon their polluted cheeks!  They get us an ill name wherever they go.  These singers have no country.  One—­I knew her—­betrayed Filippo Mastalone, and sang the night of the day he was shot.  I heard the white demon myself.  I could have taken her long neck till she twisted like a serpent and hissed.  May heaven forgive me for not levelling a pistol at her head!  If God, my friends, had put the thought into my brain that night!”

A flush had deadened Corte’s face to the hue of nightshade.

“You thunder in a clear atmosphere, my Ugo,” returned the old man, as he fell back calmly at full length.

“And who is this signorina Vittoria?” cried Corte.

“A cantatrice who is about to appear upon the boards, as I have already remarked:  of La Scala, let me add, if you hold it necessary.”

“And what does she do here?”

“Her object in coming, my friend?  Her object in coming is, first, to make her reverence to one who happens to be among us this day; and secondly, but principally, to submit a proposition to him and to us.”

“What’s her age?” Corte sneered.

“According to what calendar would you have it reckoned?  Wisdom would say sixty:  Father Chronos might divide that by three, and would get scarce a month in addition, hungry as he is for her, and all of us!  But Minerva’s handmaiden has no age.  And now, dear Ugo, you have your opportunity to denounce her as a convicted screecher by night.  Do so.”