“But my losses?”
“I will make them up—I pledge you my word.”
“My fifteen ducats paid in advance?”
“You shall have them again.”
“If not in this world”—added the vice-rector, with a sullen laugh—“you may keep your account open for another.”
“Stay, Luigi;” cried little Rosina, as the men led him off, “here is your handkerchief,” and she put hers into his hands. The lad understood her, and pressed the keepsake to his lips.
“At least,” said the manager, recovering a little from his disappointment, “I have not lost everything. The vagabond has left his trunk behind,” and he went to make his peace with his impatient audience.
Next morning he ordered the trunk brought to him. It was very large, and so heavy that the servants who carried it imagined it to be filled with gold. The Impressario, having called together some of his friends to make an inventory of its contents, caused the lock to be broken. It was found filled with—sand. The young debutant, anxious to make a favorable impression, and not being in possession of a wardrobe, had had recourse to this piece of deception in order to command respect and attention at the inns where they stopped on the way from Naples.
Words cannot describe the rage of the manager. He vented it in execrations against Luigi, whom he denounced as a cheat, an impostor, and a thief. And his fifteen ducats—they had been thrown away! The only retaliation in his power was to write a letter full of violent abuse to the shameless offender, ending his invectives with the assurance that so base a fellow need never aspire to the honors of tragedy. Luigi said not a word when he read this missive. From that time he applied himself with so much diligence to his studies, that his masters had no reason to complain of him. He bade fair, they all said, to rival Bohrer on the violoncello, and Tulon on the flute. And for his encouragement and that of his comrades, a hall of representation was constructed in the interior of the Conservatorio, where those who desired might gratify a passion for the stage.