As if to add strength to his words, Herr von Kirchstein crushed the winegla.s.s he held in his hand, amid the applause of his comrades.

"Bravo!" they cried.

Count Hermann looked proudly about and said:

"Only as late as yesterday I had an opportunity to show the Milanese who is master here."

"Tell us, comrade; tell us all about it," came from all sides.

"Well, last evening, about six o'clock, I was going across the Piazza Fontana, when two confounded Italians--a lady about forty years of age, dressed in deep mourning, and a young sixteen-year-old boy--approached me. They took one side of the pavement and did not stir to let me pa.s.s.

I was walking along smoking a cigar, and did not look up; the lady did not move, and you can understand--"

The count made a gesture signifying that the lady had lost her balance, and, amid the coa.r.s.e laughter of his comrades, he continued:

"I went ahead, but the young b.o.o.by ran after me, cursed me, and tore my cigar out of my mouth. I drew my sword, but the woman clutched my arm and cried: 'You killed the father on the 3d of January, on the Corsa dei Servi--spare the son.'

"With my sword," continued Count Hermann, "I struck the woman over the hands until she let go of my arm, and then I broke the young fellow's skull. The people crowded around, and the police arrived, to whom I told the affair."

"Did the dastardly wretch lie dead on the ground?" asked a young officer.

"No, the police took him away; but after the explanations I gave, I think he must be tried at once; in urgent cases a criminal can be hanged inside of twenty-four hours."

"Antonio Balbini was strangled this morning, and nailed to the wall of the prison," said a deep voice, suddenly.

Every one turned toward the speaker, who continued in a calm voice:

"As I tell you, Count Hermann--nailed to the wall. Ah, we have splendid methods here to humiliate the mob. About eight days ago two traitors were fried in hot oil, and if they are to be buried alive _a la proviguere_--"

"What is that?" asked a captain, sipping sorbet.

"What? You don't know what that is?" said the first speaker, in hard metallic tones. "One would think you had just come from another world."

The speaker was an Italian, about thirty years of age, of extraordinary beauty. Deep black, sparkling eyes lighted up the finely-chiselled features, and perfect white teeth looked from under the fresh rosy lips and raven black mustache.

The Marquis Aslitta was since two months in Milan, and, as was said, had formerly lived at Naples. He carefully refrained from meeting his countrymen, and appeared to be a faithful servant of foreign tyrants.

While he spoke the officers appeared to feel uncomfortable, and if they laughed, it sounded forced and unnatural.

"To come back to the _proviguere_," said Aslitta, laughing loudly. "The prisoners are chained, their legs are broken, and they are hurled head foremost into a pit about four feet deep. Then the pit is filled with dirt, leaving the legs exposed up to the knees. It recalls little trees and looks comical."

Aslitta laughed again; but, singular thing, the laugh sounded like long-drawn sobs.

Count Hermann felt his hair stand on end.

"Let us play cards," he proposed; but before his comrades could say anything, a thunderous noise came from the direction of the Scala, mingled with loud cries.

"Long live La Luciola! Long live Italy!"

The officers hurried out. As soon as the hall was cleared, Aslitta strode toward Major Bartolomeo, and whispered in his ear:

"To-night in the little house on the Porta Tessina."

CHAPTER XXII

THE QUEEN OF FLOWERS

The Italians have always been born musicians, and in Milan, too, there are plenty of artists. Among the latter, Maestro Ticellini occupied the first place. He had a great deal of talent, wrote charming cavatinas, and his songs were much sought after. He had not composed an opera as yet; and what was the cause of this? Simply because he could find no fitting libretto; the strict censorship always had something to say, and the most innocent verses were looked upon as an insult to his majesty, the emperor.

Since a few weeks Ticellini was in a state of great excitement. Salvani, the impresario of the Scala and a friend of Ticellini, had engaged La Luciola, the star of the opera at Naples, for Milan, and the maestro had not been able to find a libretto.

Dozens of text books had been sent back by the censor; the subjects out of the old and new history were looked down upon, because in all of them allusions were made to tyrants and oppressed people, and while La Luciola achieved triumphs each evening in the operas of Bellini and Donizetti, Ticellini grew desperate.

One night as he returned to his home in the Via de Monte an unexpected surprise awaited him. His faithful servant stood in front of the door and triumphantly waved a roll of paper before his eyes. Ticellini indifferently unrolled the package, but suddenly he broke into a cry of joy. He held a libretto in his trembling hands.

Shutting himself in his room, Ticellini flew over the ma.n.u.script. He did not notice that the binding which held the libretto was tricolored. And yet they were the Italian colors, white, green and red, the tricolor which was looked down upon.

The t.i.tle already pleased the maestro. It was "The Queen of Flowers."

The verses were very lucid and melodious, and the subject agreeable. The queen of flowers was the rose, which loved a pink, whereas the pink was enamored of a daisy. After many entanglings the allegory closed with the union of the pink and the daisy, and the rose generously blessed the bond. All was joy and happiness, and as soon as Ticellini had finished reading, he began to compose.

The part of the daisy was made for the high soprano of La Luciola, the pink must be sung by Signor Tino, the celebrated baritone, and Signora Ronita, the famous contralto, would secure triumphs as the rose. The subordinate characters were soon filled, and the next morning, when Ticellini breathlessly hurried to Salvani, he was in a position to lay the outline of the opera before him.

Salvani, of course, was at first distrustful, but after he a.s.sured himself that there was nothing treasonable in it, he put the ma.n.u.script in his pocket and went to see the censor.

The censor received Salvani cordially, and taking his ominous red pencil in his hand, he glanced over the libretto. But no matter how much he sought, he could not find a single libellous sentence, and at the end of an hour Salvani was able to bring his friend the news that the performance of the opera was allowed.

Ticellini was overjoyed; he worked night and day, and at the end of a week he appeared before Salvani, waving the completed score triumphantly in the air.

While the two friends were sitting at the piano, and Ticellini marked several songs and duets, a knock was heard.

"No one can enter," said Salvani, springing up; "we wish to be alone."

"Oh, how polite!" exclaimed a clear, bright voice, and as Salvani and Ticellini looked up in surprise they uttered a cry of astonishment:

"Luciola!"

La Luciola was very beautiful. She was slim and tall, about twenty-seven years of age, with beautiful black hair and finely-formed features. Her almond-shaped eyes were likewise dark, but had a phosph.o.r.escent gleam, which gave her the name of Luciola, or the fire-fly. She was dressed in a red satin dress, and wore a jaunty black felt hat. There was quite a romantic legend connected with the pretty girl: no one knew from what country she came, since she spoke all the European tongues with equal facility, and steadfastly refused to say a word about the land of her birth. She possessed the elegance of a Parisian, the grace of a Creole, and the vivacity of an Italian. Her real name was unknown. She was called the heroine of several romantic adventures, though no one could say which one of her numerous admirers she preferred. La Luciola appeared to have no heart.

Very often La Luciola, dressed in men's clothes, would cross the Neapolitan plains, accompanied by her only friend, a tender, tall blonde. The latter was just as modest as La Luciola was audacious, and she clung to the proud Amazon like the ivy to the oak.

A few days before her departure from Naples, a Croatian officer had insulted her, and instead of asking a gentleman of her acquaintance to revenge the coa.r.s.e remark, she herself sought the ruffian, dressed in men's clothes, and boxed his ears as he sat in a cafe. Amid the laughter of his comrades the officer left the cafe, and La Luciola triumphed.

Such was the person upon whom the fate of the new opera depended, for she reigned supreme at the Scala, and Salvani as well as Ticellini knew this.

While they were both meditating how to secure the Luciola in the easiest way, the songstress said: