At first Clarina laughed--one of those irrepressible fits of laughter which seize a girl when she meets with an adventure comic beyond all conception. But her laughter ceased as she saw the young man, who, as has been said, was remarkably handsome, though but lightly attired; the madness that possessed Emilio seized her, too, and, as she had no one to adore, no sense of reason bridled her sudden fancy--a Sicilian woman in love. “Although this is the palazzo Memmi, I will thank your Highness to quit,” said the Duke, assuming the cold irony of a polished gentleman. “I am at home here.” “Let me tell you, Monsieur le Duc, that you are in my room, not in your own,” said Clarina, rousing herself from her amazement. “If you have any doubts of my virtue, at any rate give me the benefit of my crime--” “Doubts! Say proof positive, my lady!” “I swear to you that I am innocent,” replied Clarina. “What, then, do I see in that bed?” asked the Duke. “Old Ogre!” cried Clarina. “If you believe your eyes rather than my assertion, you have ceased to love me. Go, and do not weary my ears! Do you hear? Go, Monsieur le Duc. This young Prince will repay you the million francs I have cost you, if you insist.” “I will repay nothing,” said Emilio in an undertone. “There is nothing due! A million is cheap for Clara Tinti when a man is so ugly. Now, go,” said she to the Duke. “You dismissed me; now I dismiss you. We are quits.” At a gesture on Cataneo’s part, as he seemed inclined to dispute this order, which was given with an action worthy of Semiramis,--the part in which la Tinti had won her fame,--the prima donna flew at the old ape and put him out of the room. “If you do not leave me in quiet this evening, we never meet again. And my _never_ counts for more than yours,” she added. “Quiet!” retorted the Duke, with a bitter laugh. “Dear idol, it strikes me that I am leaving you _agitata_!” The Duke departed. His mean spirit was no surprise to Emilio. Every man who has accustomed himself to some particular taste, chosen from among the various effects of love, in harmony with his own nature, knows that no consideration can stop a man who has allowed his passions to become a habit. Clarina bounded like a fawn from the door to the bed. “A prince, and poor, young, and handsome!” cried she. “Why, it is a fairy tale!” The Sicilian perched herself on the bed with the artless freedom of an animal, the yearning of a plant for the sun, the airy motion of a branch waltzing to the breeze. As she unbuttoned the wristbands of her sleeves, she began to sing, not in the pitch that won her the applause of an audience at the _Fenice_, but in a warble tender with emotion. Her song was a zephyr carrying the caresses of her love to the heart.