“And such a company!” echoed Boniface.
“Such a one, indeed! though I say it, it is the pride of Italy! a magnificent princess! Did not the Duke of Anhalt—swear she was as ravishing in beauty as exquisite in performance—with eyes like diamonds, and a figure superb as that of Juno herself!”
“Enough to make the fortune of a whole troop!” cried the landlord.
“Well—and then such an admirable comic actor; with a figure that is all one laugh, and a wit like Sancho Panza’s! A genius, too, for the pathetic; he will make you sigh an instant after a convulsion of mirth; and he weeps to enchantment. He is Heraclitus and Democritus in one.”
“He is an angel!” cried the landlord with enthusiasm.
“An unrivalled troop—a perfect coronet of gems—with but one wanting:—the tragic. Ah, me! what shall I do without a Geronimo, or a Falerio?” and the Impressario wrung his hands.
“Do not despair, maestro,” said the good-natured host; “you may find one yet to your mind.”
“And whence is he to come? from the clouds! He must fall directly; for in two hours I must be on my way to Salerno. Some of my friends are there already; and the performance has been twice postponed, waiting for me. I might have made such sums of money! Saint Antonio! how provoking to think of it!”
“You are disturbed, Signor Impressario,” said the fat hostess, who had stood in the door during the preceding conversation, and now waddled forward, her hands placed on her hips, with an air of importance,—“because you have not been able to find a tragedian for your excellent company?”
“Assuredly, buona mia donna.”