“Very well; then we can call for the paper on our way to my lodging; it is not much out of the way.”

So they walked together to the Palazzo Castelmare, talking of the brilliant success of the past theatrical season, and of the eminent qualities and virtues of the Marchese Lamberto; and when they reached the door the impresario desired the servant who answered the bell to tell the Marchese that he, Signor Ercole, wished to speak with him, but would not detain him a moment.

The Marchese, the man said, was not up yet.  He, the servant, had been to his door at the usual hour, but had received no answer to his knock; so that it was evident that his master was still sleeping.  He had been very late the night before,—­far later than was usual with him,—­and no doubt he would ring his bell as soon as he waked.

“The fact is,” said Signor Ercole, as he and Quinto Lalli turned away from the door, “that the Marchese has not been well of late.  He very often does me the honour of conversing with me,—­I may say indeed of consulting me on subjects of art;—­and I grieve to say that I have of late observed a change in him.  He is not like the same man.”

“Getting old, I suppose, like the rest of us,” said Quinto.

“Like some of us,” corrected Signor Ercole; “but, Lord bless you! the Marchese is a young man—­a young man, so to speak,—­he’s not above fifty, and a very young man of his years; at least he was so a month or two ago.  But changed he is.  Everybody has seen it.  Let us hope that it is merely some temporary indisposition.  Ravenna can’t afford to lose the Marchese.”

“I suppose we had better put off settling our little bit of business till another time?” said Quinto.  “Shall we say to-morrow, at the same hour?  And I will get that paper from the Marchese in the meantime,” returned Signor Ercole.

“That will suit me perfectly well; to-morrow, then, at my lodgings at ten, shall we say?”

“At ten; I will not fail to wait upon you, Signor Lalli, at that hour.  In the meantime I beg you to present my most distinguished homage to the divina Cantatrice,” said the little impresario, taking off his hat and holding it at arm’s length above his head, as he made a very magnificent bow.

“Servitore suo, stimatissimo Signor Ercole!  A dimane!” replied old Quinto, as he returned the impresario’s salutation, with a slighter and less provincial bow.

“A dimane alle dieci!” rejoined the impresario; and so the two men parted.

“Not a bad bit of luck,” thought the old singing master to himself, as he sauntered towards his lodging, “that the Marchese should be in bed this morning.  It gives a chance that he may never hear of this mad scappata with the Signor Ludovico.  Lose the Marchese Lamberto!  No, per Bacco! there are other people, beside the good folks of the city of Ravenna, who can’t afford to lose the Marchese Lamberto just yet!”

CHAPTER VII