Francilla ceased. She closed the album, rose hastily, and went to the window. I was deeply affected, and was leaving the room quietly. But she turned round, and, bidding me stay, went and seated herself at the piano. The song was a melancholy one, sung with wonderful expression and feeling. It was a farewell to the dead.
My friend Pixis came into the room at its close, and asked what it was we were so mournful about.
I replied, "Francilla has been telling me of Bellini's unhappy love for Malibran."
"Do not believe a word of it!" cried Pixis, laughing. "She will get you up a fine romance on that chapter."
I had my doubts of its truth; yet the fact is indisputable that Bellini was always in love.
Here the pretty artist, Maschinka Schneider, came in, and the conversation was of the representation of the Capuletti, already announced. I gave advice as to improvements in the arrangement of the scenes.
I could not help remembering the sad tale my little friend had told me. I thought of it again when, a year afterward, I read in the newspapers that Malibran had died at Manchester, on the 23d of September, the same day on which Bellini had expired a year before.