“E naturale! e naturale!” returned the Marchese, with a graceful wave of his hand; “naturally they are all anxious to know the result of our impresario’s labours.  And I was not left in ignorance.  My nephew ran in from the Circolo to tell me; he had just heard it from Signor Leandro.  But I thought that I should have a visit from yourself, Signor Ercole, before long.”

“E come, e come, Signor Marchese; could your Excellency imagine that I could so fail in my duty as to have omitted waiting on your lordship!  Had it not been that I was half killed by this awful weather, I should have placed myself at your Excellency’s orders an hour ago.  Oh, Signor Marchese, such a journey from Bologna hither!  I know what is my duty to the city; I know what is expected of me.  But—­Eccellenza, there are benefactors to their country, who have statues raised to them, that have suffered less in the gaining of them, than I have this day.”

“Povero, Signor Ercole!  But who knows?  Perhaps we may see the day when Ravenna will reward your exertions with a monument.  Why not?  It must be a statue, life size, nothing less, with `Ercole Stadione, La Patria riconoscente,’ on the base,” said the Marchese, with an irony, the fine flavour of which did not in the least pierce, as it was not intended to pierce, the plate armour of the little impresario’s vanity.

“Oh, Eccellenza!” said the poor little man, with the most perfect good faith in the propriety, as well as the seriousness, of his patron’s proposition.

“And now, then,” said the Marchese, “let us hear all about it.  She accepts our terms?”

“The scrittura has been signed before a notary, Eccellenza.”

“Bravo! she sings—?”

“The whole repertorio, Signor Marchese!  What is there she could not sing?”

“And three representations a week?”

“Three representations a week.  My instructions were formal on that point, as your Excellency knows.”

“Good! quite right!  And now what is she, this diva?  What is she like?  We know that Signor Ercole Stadione is as good a judge of the merits of the lady as of the singer?” said the Marchese, with a smile.  “I don’t ask you about her singing,” he added.  “We have all heard all that can be said about that.”

“Well, Signor Marchese, if I am to speak my own poor opinion, I take the Signora Lalli to be decidedly the most beautiful woman it was ever my good fortune to see,” said Signor Ercole, with a voice and manner of profound conviction.

“Paris himself, if called on to be umpire once again, could require no more conclusive testimony, my good Signor Ercole.  But that is not exactly what I mean.  Her mere beauty is a matter that does not interest me very keenly.  What I want to know, is what sort of a scenic presence has she?  Can she take the stage?  I do not ask if she is captivating in a drawing-room; but has she the face and figure needed to be effective in the theatre?