“Yes; but we have some days yet before the end of the Carnival; and till then you will be at work every day here?”

“Si, Signora; I hope so.”

“Then I hope we shall have several more opportunities of seeing each other.  And now I must not keep you from your work any longer.  Shall we be friends?”

“Oh, Signorina; it is too good of you to ask me, a poor artist.  And when—­it would be my greatest pride to have such a friend.”

And then the girls kissed and parted:  Violante to kneel for her daily devotions, at the footstool before the altar; and Paolina to continue her copying.  And after that they had frequent meetings in the little chapel, and learned to become fast friends.

The Carnival was now drawing near its end; and the city had been promised that before the time of cakes and ale should be over, and that of sackcloth and ashes should begin, the divine prima donna should appear in one more new part.  And, after much deliberation and debate, it had been decided that this should be Bellini’s masterpiece, La Sonnambula.  She was to sing it on one night only—­ the last Sunday of the Carnival; and the attraction on that night was proportionably great.  The Sonnambula, then in the first blush of its immense popularity, had never yet been heard in Ravenna.  It was one of the favourite parts of the Diva; and all the city was on the tiptoe of expectation.

It was a matter of course that all the “society” would be there.  The entire first row of the boxes,—­the “piano nobile,” as it is called in Italian theatres,—­was the private property of the various noble families of the city, which each had its box, with its coat of arms duly emblazoned on the door thereof, in that tier.  Nobody who did not belong to “the society” of the town could in any way show his intruding face in the “piano nobile.”  But above this sacred hemicycle there was another range of boxes; equally private boxes; as all the boxes of an Italian theatre are;—­and the key of one of these upper “loggie” had been secured by Ludovico, and presented to Signora Orsola and Paolina for the great evening.

Of course he himself would be obliged to be in his proper place in the Castelmare box, which was the stage box on the left hand of the stage.

“Whether I may be able to run up and pay you a little visit in the course of the evening, I don’t know.  You may be very sure I shall if I can; but there will be all the world there, of course, and lo zio in the box—­unless, indeed, he should choose to go behind the scenes.  Talking of that,” he added, as he was on the point of leaving the room, “I don’t know what to make of lo zio of late.”

“Has he said anything?”

“Not a word; but I don’t like the look of him.  He never was more amiable as far as I am concerned; but he is not well; I never saw him as he is now.  He is haggard, feverish, restless; an older man in appearance by a dozen years than he was at the beginning of Carnival.”