“But it is truth. The world is a desert to me; I leave it. The church offers me an asylum. I accept it as a refuge where I can bear with me her memory for whom alone I wished to live!”
“Your friends,” said di Ronza, somewhat haughtily, “may not thank you for your exclusion of them. You have many to whom your success is a part of their daily joy. And yet, gifted with health, beauty, genius, not yet twenty-five, you would hide yourself in the cowl and scapulary from the admiration of men—the love of woman——.”
The mourner gave an involuntary and impatient gesture. The Marchese saw that his brow was crimson, and a new light seemed to break on Ronza’s mind, for a meaning smile played for an instant on his lip. It was gone before either of his companions perceived it.
“Before we part,” asked he, “will you sing us this air from the Cenerentola?” and he took up a leaf of music.
“Nay,” interposed Count Albert, “it is wrong to ask this. How unsuitable this song to the gloom of his feelings!”
“The better, that the power of music may for an instant dispel his melancholy thoughts. Come, Antonio, I will join you.”
Antonio complied, and seated himself at the piano to sing. Ronza accompanied him, watching him closely all the while, and nodded his head with an expression of satisfaction when the air was concluded.
There was a knock at the door; Antonio arose from the instrument. The portiere entered, and handed him a letter. He begged pardon of his friends, and broke the seal; glanced over the contents, and buried his face in his hands.
The friends sat in silent sympathy. At length, in obedience to a sign from the mourner, Count Albert took the letter up and read it. It was an answer from the superiors of the Convent di ——. His application was rejected; their doors were closed against “an actor.”
Courteously as the denial was expressed, it was evident that Antonio felt the implied insult to his profession; and indignation for the moment rose above his grief.