“I do not say so. But if, instead of carrying musical principles to an extreme--which takes you too far--you would simply try to arouse our feelings, you would be better understood, unless indeed you have mistaken your vocation. You are a great poet.” “What,” cried Gambara, “are twenty-five years of study in vain? Am I to learn the imperfect language of men when I have the key to the heavenly tongue? Oh, if you are right,--I should die.” “No, no. You are great and strong; you would begin life again, and I would support you. We would show the world the noble and rare alliance of a rich man and an artist in perfect sympathy and understanding.” “Do you mean it?” asked Gambara, struck with amazement. “As I have told you, you are a poet more than a musician.” “A poet, a poet! It is better than nothing. But tell me truly, which do you esteem most highly, Mozart or Homer?” “I admire them equally.” “On your honor?” “On my honor.” “H’m! Once more. What do you think of Meyerbeer and Byron?” “You have measured them by naming them together.” The Count’s carriage was waiting. The composer and his noble physician ran down-stairs, and in a few minutes they were with Marianna. As they went in, Gambara threw himself into his wife’s arms, but she drew back a step and turned away her head; the husband also drew back and beamed on the Count. “Oh, monsieur!” said Gambara in a husky voice, “you might have left me my illusions.” He hung his head, and then fell. “What have you done to him? He is dead drunk!” cried Marianna, looking down at her husband with a mingled expression of pity and disgust. The Count, with the help of his servant, picked up Gambara and laid him on his bed. Then Andrea left, his heart exultant with horrible gladness. The Count let the usual hour for calling slip past next day, for he began to fear lest he had duped himself and had made this humble couple pay too dear for their improved circumstances and added wisdom, since their peace was destroyed for ever. At last Giardini came to him with a note from Marianna. “Come,” she wrote, “the mischief is not so great as you so cruelly meant it to be.” “Excellenza,” said the cook, while Andrea was making ready, “you treated us splendidly last evening. But apart from the wine, which was excellent, your steward did not put anything on the table that was worthy to set before a true epicure. You will not deny, I suppose, that the dish I sent to you on the day when you did me the honor to sit down at my board, contained the quintessence of all those that disgraced your magnificent service of plate? And when I awoke this morning I remembered the promise you once made me of a place as _chef_. Henceforth I consider myself as a member of your household.”