“Alas! madam, the blow may cost him his life. Driven by grief to despair, he has already applied for admission into the Convent ——.”
“This is dreadful!” exclaimed the lady; and Ronza saw that her cheek grew pale.
“His application,” he continued, “has been refused, as it ought to be, and he is now resolved on quitting Milan. You know Antonio; you know him to be one of those fiery spirits, impatient of suffering, ready to plunge into imprudence, and obstinate against opposition. The only hope of saving him is to re-awaken his ambition—his impulse for art.”
“And how can that be done?”
“By a master stroke, if at all; and in this I crave your aid. Your daughter—I have seen it—has much influence over our spoiled artist. I have seen his emotion when she sang, at your private concerts.”
“You overrate her powers,” said the mother, reservedly. “But her aid and mine shall be cheerfully given to any enterprise that promises to divert the grief of our valued friend. Your wish is——”
“Simply, that she will take a part in the Posto Abbandonato, in an act of which he will appear. A few select friends are to be the audience. I will have the piece sent to her immediately.”
“I promise for her.”
“I thank you, madam, and the world will thank you,” cried the Marchese, as he paid his parting salutations and hastened to his rendezvous with the count.