“I admire them equally.”
“On your honor?”
“On my honor.”
“H’m! Once more. What do you think of Meyerbeer and Byron?”
“You have measured them by naming them together.”
The Count’s carriage was waiting. The composer and his noble physician ran down-stairs, and in a few minutes they were with Marianna.
As they went in, Gambara threw himself into his wife’s arms, but she drew back a step and turned away her head; the husband also drew back and beamed on the Count.
“Oh, monsieur!” said Gambara in a husky voice, “you might have left me my illusions.” He hung his head, and then fell.
“What have you done to him? He is dead drunk!” cried Marianna, looking down at her husband with a mingled expression of pity and disgust.
The Count, with the help of his servant, picked up Gambara and laid him on his bed.