as she was pleased to term Antonio-Pericles.  She was full of chatter of that most worthy man’s deplorable experiences of Vittoria’s behaviour to him during the war, and of many things besides.  According to her account, Vittoria had enticed him from place to place with promises that the next day, and the next day, and the day after, she would be ready to keep her engagement to go to London, and at last she had given him the slip and left him to be plucked like a pullet by a horde of volunteer banditti, out of whose hands Antonio-Pericles-"one of our richest millionaires in Europe, certainly our richest amateur,” said Irma—­escaped in fit outward condition for the garden of Eden.

Count Karl was lying on the sofa, and went into endless invalid’s laughter at the picture presented by Irma of the ‘wild man’ wanderings of poor infatuated Pericles, which was exaggerated, though not intentionally, for Irma repeated the words and gestures of Pericles in the recital of his tribulations.  Being of a somewhat similar physical organization, she did it very laughably.  Irma declared that Pericles was cured of his infatuation.  He had got to Turin, intending to quit Italy for ever, when—­“he met me,” said Irma modestly.

“And heard that the war was at an end,” Count Karl added.

“And he has taken the superb Villa Ricciardi, on Lago Maggiore, where he will have a troupe of singers, and perform operas, in which I believe I may possibly act as prima donna.  The truth is, I would do anything to prevent him from leaving the country.”

But Irma had more to say; with “I bear no malice,” she commenced it.  The story she had heard was that Count Ammiani, after plighting himself to a certain signorina, known as Vittoria Campa, had received tidings that she was one of those persons who bring discredit on Irma’s profession.  “Gifted by nature, I can acknowledge,” said Irma; “but devoured by vanity—­a perfect slave to the appetite for praise; ready to forfeit anything for flattery!  Poor signor Antonio-Pericles!—­he knows her.”  And now Count Ammiani, persuaded to reason by his mother, had given her up.  There was nothing more positive, for Irma had seen him in the society of Countess Violetta d’Isorella.

Anna and Lena glanced at their brother Karl.

“I should not allude to what is not notorious,” Irma pursued.  “They are always together.  My dear Antonio-Pericles is most amusing in his expressions of delight at it.  For my part, though she served me an evil turn once,—­you will hardly believe, ladies, that in her jealousy of me she was guilty of the most shameful machinations to get me out of the way on the night of the first performance of Camilla,—­but, for my part, I bear no malice.  The creature is an inveterate rebel, and I dislike her for that, I do confess.”

“The signorina Vittoria Campa is my particular and very dear friend,” said the duchess.

“She is not the less an inveterate rebel,” said Anna.