Reinhold himself had become quite different in these years--quite different. The young genius who had once fought so impatiently against the confining limits and prejudices of his surroundings, had raised himself to be a renowned composer, whose name extended beyond the boundaries of Italy and his home, whose works were familiar on the stages of all capitals; to whom fame and honour, money and triumph, flowed in richest abundance. The same mighty change had also been carried out in his exterior, and this alteration was not at all disadvantageous, as instead of the pale, serious youth, there now stood a man in whom it was evident that he was at home with life and the world, and only in the man did the always peculiarly attractive style of his beauty manifest itself entirely. The proud self-consciousness which now rested upon his _spirituel_ brow, and showed itself in all his features and his whole bearing, became them well, but there lay also a heavy shadow on this brow and on those features which happiness had surely never placed there. His mouth curved with harsh mockery, with contemptuous bitterness, and the former spark slumbered no more in the depths of his eyes; now a flame shone there, burning, destroying, flashing almost demonlike at every emotion. Whatever this face might have gained outwardly, _peace_ spoke no more from within. He conducted Signora Biancona on his arm, no longer the youthful _prima donna_ of a second-rate Italian opera company, which gave wandering performances in the north, but a star of European renown, who, after having gathered laurels and triumphs in all important places, now occupied the first position at the theatre of her native town. Marchese Tortoni was right; she was dazzlingly beautiful, this woman; there was the old burning glance, which once understood how to set on fire the honourable patrician blood of the noble Hanseatic town, only now it appeared to have become more glowing, more scorching; there was still the countenance, with its witch-like entrancing magic, the figure with its noble plastic limbs, only everything seemed fuller, more voluptuous. The flower had developed to the ripest, almost over-ripe splendour; she still bloomed, her beauty was still at its zenith, if even one could not but acknowledge that perhaps in the course of the next few years the limits would be already passed beyond which she would be tending irrecoverably to her descent. Both, especially Reinhold, were seized upon the moment they arrived. All crowded around him; all sought his vicinity, his conversation. In a few moments he had become the centre of the assemblage, and some time elapsed before he could withdraw from all the attentions and flatteries in order to look round for his brother, who had stood somewhat aloof. "There you are at last, Hugo," said he, approaching, "I missed you already. You make one seek you?"