Benevolo stared in astonishment.
"I have grown somewhat since the affair at Salerno," said the artist, laughing, and clapping his stout sides. "Ah! I forgot; you had good reason for being displeased with me. The fifteen ducats—and that heavy trunk of mine—that gave you trouble for nothing! It ought to have been ransomed long ago; but I waited to do it with my pay as a tragedian. I wanted to prove your prediction untrue! He drew out a paper from his pocket-book, and presented it.
"Here is an order for twelve hundred francs."
Signor Benevolo stammered a refusal. He could not accept so large a gift.
"Take it, friend. It is your just due! Principal and interest you know. My fortune has grown apace with my embonpoint."
"You are a noble fellow!" cried the ex-manager, grasping his hand. "Now, do me another favor, and tell me your real name. The one you act under is assumed, of course!"
"No, it is the same—Lablache."
"Lablache! Are you a Frenchman, then?"
"My father was a Frenchman: he fled from Marseilles at the time of the revolution. I was born in Naples. Are you satisfied?"
"I thought from the beginning," said Benevolo, "you were a nobleman in disguise. I know you, now, for a monarch in art."