"Carricchio," said the Prince impetuously, "you must stop this nonsense of the Banti's leaving Vienna. If the Maestro chooses to stay, well and good. If he chooses to go, also good. He will be a stupid old fool! But it is his own business. I have nothing to do with it; but Tina shall not go. She belongs to me. I will not have it. You have influence with her, and must stop it." "Highness," said Carricchio, "she will not go for long. The Maestro is old and broken; he will be helpless among strangers, hostile or indifferent. She will be friendless; she will be glad to come back;" and there passed over Carricchio's face an unconscious habitual grimace. "I tell you," said the Prince, "she shall not go at all. She belongs to me: voice and body and soul, she belongs to me." He was flushed with excitement. In spite of the habitual dignity of manner and of gesture which he could not wholly lose, his appearance, as he stood in the centre of the room before Carricchio, was so strange, so different from its usual lofty quiet, that the latter looked at him with surprise, and even apprehension. "_Mon Prince_," he said at last, "beware! Take the warning of an old man. Let her alone. God warns every man once--sometimes twice--seldom a third time. My Prince, let her alone!" "What, Carricchio!" said the Prince lightly. "Are you also one of us? Are we all in love with a little singing-girl?" "My Prince," said Carricchio, "it matters little what an old fool like me loves or does not love. I am a broken old Arlecchino, you a Prince. She will have none of us. She alone of all of us--Prince and Princess and clown alike--has solved the riddle which that boy, whom we killed, was sent to teach us. She alone has made her life an art, for she alone has found that art is capable of sacrifice. She alone of all of us has based her art upon nature and upon love. She is passionately devoted to her master--her father in art and life, for he rescued her from poverty and shame. She will follow him through the world. _Mon Prince_, let her alone." "To let her go," said the Prince, "would be to spoil everything. Shall I give up a deliberate plan of life, finely conceived and carefully carried out, to gratify the whims of a foolish girl? Why is religion to interfere always with art? Why is sacrifice always to be preached to us? Life is not sacrifice: it is a morbid, monkish idea. Life is success, fruition, enjoyment. Life is an art--religion also should be an art."