“And you have tired yourself out with running about the city in search of one; and now are going to leave us disappointed, in hopes that one will drop from the clouds for you on the way!”
“Ah! there is no hope of that.”
“No—for the heavens do not rain such good things at Salerno. But here—Signore—here is one already fallen for you; and a capital fellow he is.”
“Who!—what do you mean?” exclaimed both manager and landlord in a breath.
“Ah, there is a secret about it that I know, but shall tell no one!” cried the hostess, with looks of triumph. “You must not even know his name. But you shall have your tragedian.”
“My tragedian?”
“Yes. He is a young man of prodigious genius. He came to us last night. Oh, if you had but heard and seen him! All the maids were in tears. If he had only a robe and poignard, he would be absolutely terrific. Then he sang droll songs, and made us laugh till my sides ached. I should have brought him to you before, but you went out so early.”
“Whence did he come?—at what theatres has he appeared?”
“Oh, as to practice, he has had none of it; he has never been on the stage; but he has a genius and passion for it. He has left his home and friends to become an actor.”
“Hem”—mused the Impressario. “Let us see him. Perhaps—”