But the mother found opposition where she had not counted upon it—from the young lady herself. Marietta seemed the more averse to the proposition, the more she was reasoned with about it; and her own reasons for her reluctance were, as a petted young girl’s are sometimes apt to be, so frivolous, that they vexed Madame Gioja. Was it obstinacy or coquetry? thought she; but her daughter was ever wont to be complying, and above all artifice. She told Marietta there was no receding from her word pledged for her compliance; and then, though with not a little pouting, the young lady set about learning the part assigned to her.
The preparations of Tamburini for leaving Milan were complete. The amateurs of the city were in despair; but no entreaties could move his determination. Count Albert passed with him the afternoon of the last day, to be crowned, according to the earnest solicitation of numerous friends, by a private concert, in which the already famous singer was to gratify them for the last time. It was to be his adieu to them, to music and the world.
“You will have the goodness also, dear count, to have this package delivered after my departure. It is a selection of the best pieces of opera music in my collection, with the great works of Gluck. Ah! he was once my favorite master.”
“Have you lost your taste for his compositions?”
“No; but I can no longer do them justice. I am an ingrate, for if I ever had aught of energy, fire or force, I owe it to him. What strength, what soul there is in his creations! how they task the noblest faculties! Passion they have, but more than passion; it is the very mind, the genius of tragedy.”
The count read the direction on the package—it was addressed “To Mademoiselle Marietta Gioja.”
“There is another of my lost divinities,” said Antonio, with a melancholy smile. “I might”—and his face flushed deeply as he spoke—“had I risen to the summit I once hoped to attain, to an eminence that would have conferred distinction on those I loved, I might have dared to offer her the homage of my heart. Beautiful as she is, the perfections of her person are surpassed by her mental loveliness, and oh, what angelic goodness! But I must not speak of her; it makes me bitter to think in what a delusion I have indulged.”
“Believe it, believe it yet!” cried Albert, grasping his friend’s hand.
“No; I am now fully awakened. What a mockery to think of one elevated so far above me! Her aristocratic descent, the pride of her mother’s family,—the claims of these might have been satisfied, had I lived to realize my lofty visions! But they are dispelled, and I have resigned this sweetest hope of all; cherishing only the thought that she will not perhaps disdain my last gift; that these noble and glorious works may sometimes recall to her mind the memory of one who, had he proved worthy, would have dared to love her.”