“Wonderful! stupendo! tragico!” he exclaimed, wiping his eyes, when the curtain had fallen, and he rose to offer his arm to his fair companion.
“But you must see him,” persisted she, and led the ex-impressario behind the scenes.
The wonder of the Parisian connoisseurs advanced to meet them. Benevolo gazed in awe on the person whose performance had moved him so deeply, and thought he saw the impress of majesty in his features. Clasping his hands, he saluted him as the king of tragedy!
“Ah, my good Master Benevolo! I am rejoiced to see you at last! It has been my evil fortune that we have not met before! Now, tell me if you have been pleased. Think you I will ever make a tragic actor?”
“You are the first in the world!” cried the Italian. “I am proud of my countryman.”
“Ah, mio fratello! but you had once not so good an opinion of me. Ha! you do not recognize your old acquaintance—the runaway Luigi!”
The ex-impressario stared, in silent astonishment.
“I have grown somewhat larger since the affair at Salerno;” said the artist, laughing and clapping his sides. “But I forgot; I was under a cloud when we parted. Ah! I see you have a heavy recollection of that trunk of mine, and the fifteen ducats. I always meant to ransom that unlucky trunk; but only, you understand, with my pay as a tragedian, to make you unsay your prediction. Here is an order for twelve hundred francs.”
The ex-manager drew back. “I cannot receive so much,” he said.
“Nonsense, friend; you are too scrupulous. Bethink you; my fortune has grown apace with my embonpoint.”