From that day the lessons which the signora unconsciously gave me, by practising in my presence, became more and more profitable to me. Every evening, as soon as my duties were at an end, I went to the Field of Mars to practise, and I knew that I was making progress. Soon the signora's lessons were no longer sufficient for me. She sang for her own pleasure, displaying a superb indifference for study, and making no effort to perfect herself. I had a most immoderate longing to go to the theatre; but, during the whole time of the performance, it was my lot to watch the gondola, as Mandola enjoyed the privilege of taking a seat in the pit or listening in the corridors. At last, however, I induced him to let me take his place during a single act of the opera at La Fenice. The opera was the _Secret Marriage_. I will not attempt to describe my feelings: I nearly went mad, and, breaking the promise I had made my companion, I allowed him to cool his heels in the gondola, and never thought of going out until I found that the hall was empty and in darkness. After that I felt an irresistible, imperious craving to go to the theatre every night. I dared not ask Signora Aldini's permission; I was afraid that she would again make fun of my unfortunate passion--as she called it--for music. However, I must go to La Fenice or die. I had the reprehensible thought of leaving the signora's service and earning my living as a _facchino_ during the day, so that I might have both time and means to go to the theatre. I calculated that with the small sum I had saved at the Aldini Palace, and by reducing my expenditure for food and clothing to what was absolutely necessary, I might be able to gratify my passion. I also thought of entering the employ of the theatre as a scene-shifter, supernumerary, or lamp-lighter; the most humble post would have seemed delightful to me, provided that I could listen to music every day. At last I determined to open my heart to the good-humored Montalegri. He had heard of my musical misadventure. He began by laughing; then, as I boldly persisted, he demanded, as a condition of his assistance, that I should let him hear my voice. I hesitated a long while; I was afraid that he would discourage me by his jests, and although I had no definite plans for the future, I felt that to deprive me of the hope of being able to sing some day would be like tearing out my life. However, I submitted to the inevitable: I sang in a trembling voice a fragment of one of the airs which I had heard a single time at the theatre. My emotion won the prince's heart; I saw in his eyes that he took pleasure in listening to me; I took courage and sang better and better. He raised his hands two or three times to applaud, but checked himself for fear of interrupting me; then I sang really well, and when I had finished, the prince, who was a genuine dilettante, almost kissed me, and praised me in the warmest terms. He took me to the