Count Albert di Gaëta and the Marchese di Ronza exchanged looks of dismay.
“So sudden a project——.”
“It is not sudden. My resolution has been formed since the day of my mother’s death, and my application was forwarded immediately. I expect a reply to it every hour.”
“You have been imprudent, my friend,” said the Marchese. “You will regret the precipitation of this step.”
“And what have I now to live for?” asked the mourner, bitterly.
“For fame,” replied di Ronza.
“For art,” said Count Albert.
The bereaved artist shook his head.
“When, at eighteen years of age,” he said, “I met with my first triumph at Bologna; when the public far and near were pleased to applaud me, what, think you, was my joy in the enthusiasm I awakened? That she rejoiced in my success; that she encouraged me to persevering effort; that I was earning honor and competence for her enjoyment in old age. Now I have lost my only stimulus to exertion; I have lost my love of art; my faculties are paralyzed.”
“This is not natural,” observed the Marchese, gravely.