"Guiseppe!"
She saw him standing with outstretched arms on the threshold of the room, and with a cry of joy flew towards him like a bird to its nest, and flung herself on his breast.
As for me, I went out of the room and left them together.
[CHAPTER XVI.]
AN INTERRUPTED HONEYMOON
Well, at last I was back in Milan, much to my satisfaction, as after the strange adventures I had met with in Verona that city became positively hateful to me. Two months had elapsed since the affair of the Palazzo Morone had come to an end, and during that time two marriages in connection therewith had been celebrated--that of Beltrami with the Contessa Morone, at Rome; and that of Guiseppe Pallanza with Signorina Bianca, at Milan. True to his promise, Guiseppe had forfeited his engagement at the Ezzelino, much to the wrath of the impresario, and had rested quietly since at Milan, passing most of his time with Bianca, who was now in a state of high glee preparing for her marriage.
It took place at the church of St. Stefano, in Milan, and out of consideration for the great age of the Maestro it was a very quiet affair, I being the only one present beyond the Angello household, but that was at the urgent request of both Bianca and her husband, who never forgot the services I had rendered them at Verona.
Thanks to my dexterity, Bianca never discovered the truth, and fully believed that Guiseppe had been kept a prisoner at the Palazzo Morone by some enemy who had lured him thither, by means of the letter purporting to come from a dying friend. At first, considering the weak way in which Guiseppe had acted, I did not consider that he deserved his good fortune in marrying such a charming girl as the Signorina, but during the time that preceded the marriage he was so devoted to her in every way, and apparently so remorseful for his amorous folly, that I quite forgave him his momentary infidelity. It was a very pretty wedding, the bride and bridegroom making a handsome couple, and when the ceremony was ended Signor and Signora Pallanza went to spend the honeymoon of a few days at Monza, and I was left alone in Milan.
Guiseppe had obtained an engagement at the Madrid Opera House, and on their return from Monza the young couple were to start almost immediately for Spain, leaving the Maestro under the tender care of Petronella. The old man's health had been failing sadly of late, and I doubted very much whether Bianca would find him alive on her return to Italy, seeing how frail he was in every respect.
Now that he was deprived of his right hand by the marriage of his granddaughter, the Maestro decided to give up teaching, at which decision I was profoundly sorry, as only having been with him a year I had still many things to learn in the art of vocalisation. There was, unfortunately, no one else with whom I could study the same system, for Paolo Angello taught the old, pure Italian method, of which he was the last exponent; and I infinitely preferred the round sonorous notes which his training produced to the shouting, colourless style of present-day singing, which curses the voice with a perpetual tremolo. The elaborate fioriture school of Pasta, Grisi, Ronconi, and Malibran has almost entirely passed away, and in its place what have we in Italy?--nothing but the present abominable fortissimo singing, without grace, sweetness, steadiness, or colour. The old Italian operas were composed not so much as stage performances as to show off the beauty, execution and brilliancy of the voice, while this new school of music-drama; designed principally for dramatic effect, is interpreted by singers who rely but little on the perfection of the vocal organ, and pride themselves not so much on the individual colouring of a single number as on the general broad effect of the whole. Fortunately, however, by incessant work during my one year under Angello, I had acquired a pretty good idea of his system of vocalisation, and hoped, by cautious industry in following out his hard and fast rules, to perfect my singing in accordance with his severely pure method.