“If I ever saw a man who was so limed that he couldn’t help himself, it’s that poor creature of a Marchese!  He’s caught safe enough, you may take my word for that, Signor Quinto.  He’s caught, and can’t budge, I tell you—­hand nor foot, body nor soul!  Lord bless you, I know ’em.  Why, do you think he’d ever have come near my mistress a second time if he could have helped himself?  He’s not like your young ’uns, who come to amuse themselves.  Likely enough, he’d give half of all he’s worth this day never to have set eyes on her; but, as for giving her up, he could as soon give himself up!”

“Humph!” grunted the old singer, with a shrug, and a sound that was half a sneer and half a chuckle.  “I suppose he don’t above half like the price he has to pay for his plaything!  But that don’t make it wise in Bianca to drive him to the wall more than need be.  Limed and caught as he is, he’s one that may give her some trouble yet.  For my part, I wish she had not gone on this fool’s errand this morning.  Now, I will go and get my breakfast.  I shall be back in half-an-hour.  I expect Signor Ercole Stadione here this morning.”

Signor Ercole Stadione was the impresario of the Ravenna theatre.

“And if he comes before you are back, Signor Quinto?” asked Gigia.

“If he should come before I am back, let the boy call me from the cafe.  And, Gigia, whenever he comes, you can let him understand, you know, that your mistress is in her own room,—­resting after the ball, you know.  He’s hand and glove with the Marchese.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Signor Quinto, though you seem to think so,” returned Gigia, as the old man began to descend the stairs.

Signor Quinto went to the cafe, and consumed his little cup of black coffee, with its abominable potion of so-called “rhum” in it, and the morsel of dry bread, which constituted his accustomed breakfast; and then, as he was returning to his lodging, encountered the “impresario” in the street.

“Well met, Signor Lalli!” cried little Signor Ercole, cheerily.  “I was on my way to your house to settle our little matters.  I have not seen you, I think, since Sunday night.  The bustle of these last days of the Carnival!  How divinely she sang that night!  If Bellini could have heard her, it would have been the happiest day of his life.”

“I am glad that you were contented, Signor Ercole.”

“Contented!  The whole city was enraptured.  There never was such a success.  You have got that little memorandum of articles—?”

“No.  I’ve got the paper signed at Milan; but not—­”

“Stay, let me see.  True, true.  I remember now.  It remained with the Marchese.  We shall want it, you know, just to put all in order.  We can call at the Palazzo Castelmare on our way, and ask the Marchese for it?”

“Will he be up at this hour, after last night’s ball?” asked Quinto.

“He?  The Marchese?  One sees you are a stranger in Ravenna, my dear sir.  I don’t suppose the Marchese has ever been in bed after eight o’clock the last quarter of a century.  He is an early man, the Marchese,—­an example to us all in that, as in all else.”