n in front of Antonio's
picture.

"By all the saints!" cried Antonio, as he leapt to his feet, and,
forgetful of his unhappiness, burst out into a loud laugh, "by all the
saints! that's he! That's Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, whom I was just
describing, that's he to the very T."

"So you see," said Salvator calmly, "that I am already acquainted with
the worthy gentleman who most probably is your bitter enemy. But go
on."

"Signor Pasquale Capuzzi," continued Antonio, "is as rich as Cr[oe]sus,
but at the same time, as I just told you, a sordid miser and an
incurable coxcomb. The best thing about him is that he loves art,
particularly music and painting; but he mixes up so much folly with it
all that even in these things there's no getting on with him. He
considers himself the greatest musical composer in the world, and that
there's not a singer in the Papal choir who can at all approach him.
Accordingly he looks down upon our old Frescobaldi[2.16] with contempt;
and when the Romans talk about the wonderful charm of Ceccarelli's
voice, he informs them that Ceccarelli knows as much about singing as a
pair of top-boots, and that he, Capuzzi, knows which is the right way
to fascinate the public. But as the first singer of the Pope bears the
proud name of Signor Odoardo Ceccarelli di Merania, so our Capuzzi is
greatly delighted when anybody calls him Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di
Senigaglia; for it was in Senigaglia[2.17] that he was born, and the
popular rumour goes that his mother, being startled at sight of a
sea-dog (seal) suddenly rising to the surface, gave birth to him in a
fisherman's boat, and that accounts, it is said, for a good deal of the
sea-cur in his nature. Several years ago he brought out an opera on the
stage, which was fearfully hissed; but that hasn't cured him of his
mania for writing execrable music. Indeed, when he heard Francesco
Cavalli's[2.18] opera _Le Nozze di Feti e di Peleo_, he swore that the
composer had filched the sublimest of the thoughts from his own
immortal works, for which he was near being thrashed and even stabbed.
He still has a craze for singing arias, and accompanies his hideous
squalling on a wretched jarring, jangling guitar, all out of tune. His
faithful Pylades is an ill-bred dwarfish eunuch, whom the Romans call
Pitichinaccio. There is a third member of the company--guess who it
is?--Why, none other than the Pyramid Doctor, who kicks up a noise like
a melancholy ass and yet fanci