The first impresario with whom I had to deal was a dingy individual, who, according to his own account, had brought out all the greatest singers of Europe for the last twenty years, and, having made him "a present" of two hundred francs--he was a modest man and asked no more--it was arranged that I should make my débût at Como but on arriving there for rehearsals I found that both the present and the impresario had vanished, like Macbeth's witches, into thin air. Considerably disheartened by this sample of Italian honesty, I yet had sufficient faith to trust another gentleman in the same fashion, but he must have been a brother of the first impresario, for he too vanished. I now began to perceive that there were still brigands in Italy, but that having become civilised, they were either hotel-keepers or impresarios, and as my two unfortunate attempts to get a scrittura had ended in disaster, I was not very anxious to make any one a third "present." However, it was no use turning back when within the sight of the goal, so I consulted Maestro Biagio, who kindly interested himself on my behalf, and introduced me to an honest impresario, who required the necessary present, but nevertheless fulfilled his promise of introducing me to the Italian public. I made my débût at Brescia with great success, and at the conclusion of the season, for which, of course, I did not receive a penny, I had plenty of offers from all parts of the Continent. To make a long story short, I sang everywhere I possibly could, and, having secured an excellent reputation, by an unexpected stroke of good fortune I was engaged to sing at the Paris Opera House two years after my débût. I think Dame Fortune was anxious to make reparation to Hugo Urbino for the misfortunes of Hugh Cranston, for, to my great delight, I was favourably received by the critical Parisians, and before the season ended was overwhelmed with offers of lucrative engagements. What with my good fortune and the constant excitement of the life of an artiste, I had almost forgotten the episode of Verona when I was reminded of it by the unexpected appearance of Luigi Beltrami, who came to my dressing-room one night at the conclusion of "Il Barbiere," in which I had been singing the part of Figaro. He was changed, this cynical Marchese, since I had last seen him, and changed for the better, as he had lost his former sinister air and looked much happier and brighter than formerly. Since our parting in Milan he had written me frequently, but of late his letters ceased, so I was somewhat puzzled how to account for this new air of cheerfulness. However, we shook hands heartily, being glad to see one another, and Beltrami, lighting one of his eternal cigarettes, sat down to wait until I was ready to leave the theatre. "Eh! Hugo," he said, gaily blowing a cloud of smoke, "so things have gone well with you, mon ami?" "Exceedingly well, Beltrami, or you would not see me in this room." "Bene! I congratulate you."