After sitting a few minutes listening to the eager war of words between the physician and the Duchess, who showed much ingenious eloquence, the Italians, one by one, took leave, and went off to tell the news in every box, that la Cataneo, who was regarded as a woman of great wit and spirit, had, on the question of Italy, defeated a famous French doctor. This was the talk of the evening. As soon as the Frenchman found himself alone with the Duchess and the Prince, he understood that they were to be left together, and took leave. Massimilla bowed with a bend of the neck that placed him at such a distance that this salute might have secured her the man’s hatred, if he could have ignored the charm of her eloquence and beauty. Thus at the end of the opera, Emilio and Massimilla were alone, and holding hands they listened together to the duet that finishes _Il Barbiere_. “There is nothing but music to express love,” said the Duchess, moved by that song as of two rapturous nightingales. A tear twinkled in Emilio’s eye; Massimilla, sublime in such beauty as beams in Raphael’s Saint-Cecilia, pressed his hand, their knees touched, there was, as it seemed, the blossom of a kiss on her lips. The Prince saw on her blushing face a glow of joy like that which on a summer’s day shines down on the golden harvest; his heart seemed bursting with the tide of blood that rushed to it. He fancied that he could hear an angelic chorus of voices, and he would have given his life to feel the fire of passion which at this hour last night had filled him for the odious Clarina; but he was at the moment hardly conscious of having a body. Massimilla, much distressed, ascribed this tear, in her guilelessness, to the remark she had made as to Genovese’s cavatina. “But, _carino_,” said she in Emilio’s ear, “are not you as far better than every expression of love, as cause is superior to effect?” After handing the Duchess to her gondola, Emilio waited for Vendramin to go to Florian’s. The Cafe Florian at Venice is a quite undefinable institution. Merchants transact their business there, and lawyers meet to talk over their most difficult cases. Florian’s is at once an Exchange, a green-room, a newspaper office, a club, a confessional,--and it is so well adapted to the needs of the place that some Venetian women never know what their husband’s business may be, for, if they have a letter to write, they go to write it there. Spies, of course, abound at Florian’s; but their presence only sharpens Venetian wits, which may here exercise the discretion once so famous. A great many persons spend the whole day at Florian’s; in fact, to some men Florian’s is so much a matter of necessity, that between the acts of an opera they leave the ladies in their boxes and take a turn to hear what is going on there.