Madame Gioja hesitated.
“I have cultivated my daughter’s talent for music to the utmost,” said she, “and yet I tremble to decide on her choice of the art as a profession. She is so young, so sensitive, so ill able to sustain herself against the many trials of an artiste——”
“And is it you who talk thus?” asked the Marchese, surprised. “You, who sacrificed opulence, rank, friends, for the love of art—to share the fortunes of a votary of music!”
“I am the better able,” said the lady, smiling, “to judge of its consolations. Of its triumphs I say nothing; for I would not have Marietta influenced by the least whisper of vanity in her choice for life!”
“You are then undetermined as to your daughter’s embracing the profession of music?” cried Ronza, astonished. “You have perhaps, other views—other designs for her?”
“Signore?” said the mother, evidently not understanding the drift of the question.
“Nay,” said the Marchese, recovering himself, “it is not right to ask such questions, at least, without confiding our whole project to you, madam. And first, have no fears as to granting my request. It is only before a select audience that I wish your daughter to sing.”
“Then my permission is freely granted,” replied the lady.
“A word more. You are aware, madam, of the recent misfortune of our friend Tamburini?”
“The death of his mother? Ah! it was a terrible blow. I am told he bears it not with resignation.”