concocting a dish
which smiles on my fancy.

"And they always know it, the rascals! They know, I can promise
you, whether I or my wife has stood over the fire. And what is the
consequence? Of sixty-odd customers whom I used to see at my table every
day when I first started in this wretched place, I now see twenty on an
average, and give them credit for the most part. The Piedmontese, the
Savoyards, have deserted, but the connoisseurs, the true Italians,
remain. And there is no sacrifice that I would not make for them. I
often give them a dinner for five and twenty sous which has cost me
double."

Signore Giardini's speech had such a full flavor of Neapolitan cunning
that the Count was delighted, and could have fancied himself at
Gerolamo's.

"Since that is the case, my good friend," said he familiarly to the
cook, "and since chance and your confidence have let me into the secret
of your daily sacrifices, allow me to pay double."

As he spoke Andrea spun a forty-franc piece on the stove, out of which
Giardini solemnly gave him two francs and fifty centimes in change, not
without a certain ceremonious mystery that amused him hugely.

"In a few minutes now," the man added, "you will see your _donnina_.
I will seat you next the husband, and if you wish to stand in his good
graces, talk about music. I have invited every one for the evening, poor
things. Being New Year's Day, I am treating the company to a dish in
which I believe I have surpassed myself."

Signor Giardini's voice was drowned by the noisy greetings of the
guests, who streamed in two and two, or one at a time, after the manner
of tables-d'hote. Giardini stayed by the Count, playing the showman by
telling him who the company were. He tried by his witticisms to bring
a smile to the lips of a man who, as his Neapolitan instinct told him,
might be a wealthy patron to turn to good account.

"This one," said he, "is a poor composer who would like to rise
from song-writing to opera, and cannot. He blames the managers,
music-sellers,--everybody, in fact, but himself, and he has no worse
enemy. You can see--what a florid complexion, what self-conceit, how
little firmness in his features! he is made to write ballads. The
man who is with him and looks like a match-hawker, is a great music
celebrity--Gigelmi, the greatest Italian conductor known; but he has
gone deaf, and is ending his days in penury, deprived of all that made
it tolerable. Ah! here comes our gre