There is really no time for it, as della Seggiola would have informed any one save the Prince. Twelve o'clock has struck, but he does not mention that fact to Zino. Hungry and resigned, he sits down beside the piano, his hands clasped upon his stomach, his eyes fixed upon the tips of his boots stretched out before him, prepared to endure the blessed duo for the fourth time. But what is this? He listens eagerly, all present listen, all eyes are riveted upon the Prince, from whose lips there flows such melody as we expect only from the greatest Italian singers.
Without paying any further attention to Zerlina, della Seggiola inquires at the close of the duo,--
"Do you sing the serenade also?"
"À peu près," says Zino, whereupon the Fuhrwesen strikes the first notes of the accompaniment, and he sings it.
The singers of the new high-art school, the interpreters of Wagner, curse out the notes at their auditors; Prince Zino smiles them at his hearers, and the strong infusion of irony in his smile only heightens the effect of his style.
Erect but unstudied in attitude, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his head slightly thrown back, he is the veritable personification of the gay, thoughtless bon-vivant, Mozart's Don Giovanni as the master created him.
As he ends, Miss Frazer, bathed in tears, rushes up to him with both hands held out, exclaiming, "Merci! merci!"
Stella, laughing, claps applause, and Signor Trevisiani gazes at him as if he longed to learn his art. But della Seggiola asks,--
"Where did you learn to sing, mon Prince?"
"Everywhere."