hat she was no longer sure
whether she did know the exact nature of her mission, the words of which
she had faithfully transmitted as having been alone confided to her. It
was with chagrin that she saw Pericles put his fore-finger on a salient
dimple of the countess's cheek when he welcomed them. He puffed and
blew like one working simultaneously at bugle and big drum on hearing
an allusion to Victoria. The mention of the name of that abominable
traitress was interdicted at Villa Ricciardi, he said; she had dragged
him at two armies' tails to find his right senses at last: Pericles
was cured of his passion for her at last. He had been mad, but he was
cured--and so forth, in the old strain. His preparations for a private
operatic performance diverted him from these fierce incriminations,
and he tripped busily from spot to spot, conducting the ladies over the
tumbled lower floors of the spacious villa, and calling their admiration
on the desolation of the scene. Then they went up to the maestro's room.
Pericles became deeply considerate for the master's privacy. "He is my
slave; the man has ruined himself for la Vittoria; but I respect the
impersonation of art," he said under his breath to the ladies as they
stood at the door; "hark!" The piano was touched, and the voice of
Irma di Karski broke out in a shrill crescendo. Rocco Ricci within gave
tongue to the vehement damnatory dance of Pericles outside. Rocco
struck his piano again encouragingly for a second attempt, but Irma
was sobbing. She was heard to say: "This is the fifteenth time you have
pulled me down in one morning. You hate me; you do; you hate me." Rocco
ran his fingers across the keys, and again struck the octave for Irma.
Pericles wiped his forehead, when, impenitent and unteachable, she took
the notes in the manner of a cock. He thumped at the door violently and
entered.

"Excellent! horrid! brava! abominable! beautiful! My Irma, you have
reached the skies. You ascend like a firework, and crown yourself at the
top. No more to-day; but descend at your leisure, my dear, and we will
try to mount again by-and-by, and not so fast, if you please. Ha!
your voice is a racehorse. You will learn to ride him with temper and
judgement, and you will go. Not so, my Rocco? Irma, you want repose, my
dear. One thing I guarantee to you--you will please the public. It is a
minor thing that you should please me."

Countess d'Isorella led Irma away, and had to bear with many