"The best thing I can do under the circumstances. I have applied for, and obtained, leave of absence, so I will give this infernal tenor the antidote to-day, and start for Rome by the night train." "But when you arrive at Rome?" "I will see Madame Morone, and tell her that I removed the body of Pallanza from the pillar." "The body, Beltrami! You forget Pallanza is alive!" "Of course he is, but I'm not going to tell her that. Cospetto! if she discovered that this devil of a tenor was still in existence my power over her would be gone, and she would not marry me. Ecco!" "But as Pallanza will sing again, she is bound to find it out sooner or later." "Eh! no doubt, Signor Hugo; but by the time she finds out I hope to be married. In that case it does not matter. Besides, I am going to make Pallanza promise not to sing anywhere for a month." "Suppose he refuses?" "He won't refuse. Dame! he owes me something for bringing him into existence again." "And what about the doctor?" "He will soon be here," said Beltrami, glancing at his watch; "I expect him every minute." "Will he keep this affair quiet?" "Per Bacco! I should think so, mon ami. I ascertained that before I told him anything. Not that I told him much, ma foi, no! I invented a delightful story about Pallanza, which he swallowed as easily as I do this wine." "And the story?" "I have not the time to tell it to you, but it is a beautiful story, worthy of Boccaccio. Oh, he will keep his mouth shut, I promise you, Hugo. He is a great friend of mine, and I never associate with those who talk of other people's business." "Have you the antidote, Marchese?" "Here it is," said Beltrami, rising and taking the small bottle from his desk near the window; "and, ma foi! here is the doctor coming up the street." "How fond you are of French," I remarked, laughingly. "Parisian ejaculations are never out of your mouth." "One must ejaculate in some language, Hugo, and I've been so often in Paris that I've got into the trick in some way." "What about London?" "Your city of fogs! Eh! You know I cannot master your tongue, Signor Hugo. 'You are a beautiful mees; I loove you'--Dio! what a difficulty I had in learning those two sentences." "Which are perfectly useless." "I have not found them so. But here is Signor Avenza, the doctor I spoke of. Good-day, for the second time, my friend. Permit me to introduce Signor Hugo Cranston, an Englishman." The doctor, a fat little man with a round smiling face and two twinkling black eyes, executed an elaborate bow, for which purpose he brought his feet smartly together in military fashion, and, having thus saluted me, rashly entered into a contest with the English language, which vanquished him at once. "I spik Inglis," he said, mincingly. Then, with a gigantic effort, "Gif me your tongue! Ah! he is bad. Dis writing is your cure. Goot-day! I vil taake a leetle valk wis you agin."