“Signore,—Signore—” remonstrated the Impressario,—“such a genius—he must not be restrained; tragedy is his vocation!”
“His vocation just now is to go back to school,” returned the vice-rector, gruffly.
“But, Signore, you are robbing the public; you are robbing me!”
“Has not the worthless boy been robbing His Majesty, who was graciously pleased to send him to the Conservatorio after his father’s death? How has he repaid His Majesty’s protection?”
“He is engaged in my service. I have advanced him a month’s pay.”
“You should have thought twice before employing a raw youth, whom you knew to have run away from his guardians. Come, boy.”
The sbirri laid hold of Luigi, and somewhat roughly disencumbered him of his imperial robes. The audience without the curtain at the same time manifested unequivocal symptoms of impatience. The manager was in absolute despair.
“Let him only remain, and play in this piece.”
“Not a moment,” said the vice-rector; “we have no time to lose.”
“Dear Master Benevolo,” entreated Luigi, who had dried his tears: “be not troubled about me; I will have my revenge yet. I will be a tragedian in spite of them.”