“The creed is indeed exclusive,” he said, bitterly, “that refuses an actor space for repentance and preparation for death.”
“They are right,” said the Marchese, somewhat abruptly. “What sort of a monk would you make, Antonio mio? Your sorrow is profound, but it must in time abate; your heart will rise from its depression; you will feel once again the impulse of genius and ambition.”
“Never!” interrupted the artist.
“I tell you, you will. I am old in the world, and therefore a true prophet. You will, and the time is not far distant. In the convent, your eyes would be opened, only that you might see the gloom surrounding you; your wings would expand, only that you might feel the weight that chained them to earth—forever! For I know you well enough to know that once fettered by the vows, you would die ere fling them off! They are right; they foresee the result. Be warned in time!”
“My resolution is unalterable,” said Antonio. “Milan is not the world. In four days I shall leave it, and seek elsewhere the asylum I cannot obtain here. I am heart-broken and wretched; I cannot live among the scenes and associations of my past life. Better for me the grave of the suicide!”
“This must be remedied, and speedily,” said Count Albert to his companion, after they had quitted their friend, whose sufferings seemed in no degree alleviated by their sympathy, “or nature will give way. That wild look of anguish; that fevered flush; the hurried and abrupt movement; the visible emaciation of his whole frame; all these make me shudder. An organization so susceptible, so delicate, cannot withstand so mighty a shock. Suffer this grief to prey upon him, and in three months he will fall its victim.”
“You are right,” replied di Ronza. “There is danger, and it must be averted. The world has no overplus of genius and worth, that we can afford to lose a Tamburini.”
“But the means——.”
“I have thought, and still think of them. Join me at my lodgings at ten. For the present I have an engagement. A rivederci.”
And the friends separated.