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“But,” said Madame de Rochefide, interrupting me, “I see nothing of Marianina or her little old man in all this.”

“You see nothing but him!” I cried, as vexed as an author for whom some one has spoiled the effect of a coup de theatre.

“For some days,” I resumed after a pause, “Sarrasine had been so faithful in attendance in his box, and his glances expressed such passionate love, that his passion for La Zambinella’s voice would have been the town-talk of Paris, if the episode had happened here; but in Italy, madame, every one goes to the theatre for his own enjoyment, with all his own passions, with a heartfelt interest which precludes all thought of espionage with opera-glasses. However, the sculptor’s frantic admiration could not long escape the notice of the performers, male and female. One evening the Frenchman noticed that they were laughing at him in the wings. It is hard to say what violent measures he might have resorted to, had not La Zambinella come on the stage. She cast at Sarrasine one of those eloquent glances which often say more than women intend. That glance was a complete revelation in itself. Sarrasine was beloved!

“‘If it is a mere caprice,’ he thought, already accusing his mistress of too great ardor, ‘she does not know the sort of domination to which she is about to become subject. Her caprice will last, I trust, as long as my life.’

“At that moment, three light taps on the door of his box attracted the artist’s attention. He opened the door. An old woman entered with an air of mystery.

“‘Young man,’ she said, ‘if you wish to be happy, be prudent. Wrap yourself in a cloak, pull a broad-brimmed hat over your eyes, and be on the Rue du Corso, in front of the Hotel d’Espagne, about ten o’clock to-night.’

“‘I will be there,’ he replied, putting two louis in the duenna’s wrinkled hand.

“He rushed from his box, after a sign of intelligence to La Zambinella, who lowered her voluptuous eyelids modestly, like a woman overjoyed to be understood at last. Then he hurried home, in order to borrow from his wardrobe all the charms it could loan him. As he left the theatre, a stranger grasped his arm.

“‘Beware, Signor Frenchman,’ he said in his ear. ‘This is a matter of life and death. Cardinal Cicognara is her protector, and he is no trifler.’

“If a demon had placed the deep pit of hell between Sarrasine and La Zambinella, he would have crossed it with one stride at that moment. Like the horses of the immortal gods described by Homer, the sculptor’s love had traversed vast spaces in a twinkling.

“‘If death awaited me on leaving the house, I would go the more quickly,’ he replied.

“‘Poverino!‘ cried the stranger, as he disappeared.

“To talk of danger to a man in love is to sell him pleasure. Sarrasine’s valet had never seen his master so painstaking in the matter of dress. His finest sword, a gift from Bouchardon, the bow-knot Clotilde gave him, his coat with gold braid, his waistcoat of cloth of silver, his gold snuff-box, his valuable watch, everything was taken from its place, and he arrayed himself like a maiden about to appear before her first lover. At the appointed hour, drunk with love and boiling over with hope, Sarrasine, his nose buried in his cloak, hurried to the rendezvous appointed by the old woman. She was waiting.

“‘You are very late,’ she said. ‘Come.’

“She led the Frenchman through several narrow streets and stopped in front of a palace of attractive appearance. She knocked; the door opened. She led Sarrasine through a labyrinth of stairways, galleries, and apartments which were lighted only by uncertain gleams of moonlight, and soon reached a door through the cracks of which stole a bright light, and from which came the joyous sound of several voices. Sarrasine was suddenly blinded when, at a word from the old woman, he was admitted to that mysterious apartment and found himself in a salon as brilliantly lighted as it was sumptuously furnished; in the centre stood a bountifully supplied table, laden with inviolable bottles, with laughing decanters whose red facets sparkled merrily. He recognized the singers from the theatre, male and female, mingled with charming women, all ready to begin an artists’ spree and waiting only for him. Sarrasine restrained a feeling of displeasure and put a good face on the matter. He had hoped for a dimly lighted chamber, his mistress leaning over a brazier, a jealous rival within two steps, death and love, confidences exchanged in low tones, heart to heart, hazardous kisses, and faces so near together that La Zambinella’s hair would have touched caressingly his desire-laden brow, burning with happiness.