“Ah, the little Natalushka!” said Calabressa, eagerly.  “Will she go?  Do you think she will go? Ma foi, it is not often I have the chance of taking such a beautiful creature to the opera, if she will go!  What must I do?”

“You will have to go and beg her to be kind to you.  Say you have the box—­you need not mention how:  ask if she will escort you, she and Madame Potecki.  Say it is a kindness:  she cannot help doing a kindness.”

“There you are right, monsieur:  do not I see it in her eyes? can I not hear it in her voice?”

“Well, that you must do at once, before she goes out for her walk at noon.”

“To go out walking on a day like this?”

“She will go out, nevertheless; and you must go and intercept her, and pray her to do you this kindness.”

“Apres?”

“You must come to me again, and we will get an English evening costume for you somehow.  Then, two bouquets; I will get those for you, and send them to them to the box to await you.”

“But you yourself, monsieur; will you not be of the party?”

“Perhaps you had better say nothing about me, signore; for one is so busy nowadays.  But if I come into the stalls; if I see you and the ladies in the box, then I shall permit myself to call upon you; do you understand?”

“Parfaitement,” said Calabressa, gravely.  Then he laughed slightly.  “Ah, monsieur, you English are not good diplomatists.  I perceive that you wish to say more; that you are afraid to say more; that you are anxious and a little bit demure, like a girl.  What you wish is this, is it not:  if I say to Madame Potecki, ’Madame, I am a stranger; will you show me the promenade, that I may behold the costumes of the beautiful English ladies?’ madame answers, ‘Willingly.’  We go to see the costumes of the beautiful English ladies.  Why should you come?  You would not leave the young lady all alone in the box?”

“Calabressa,” he said, frankly, “I am going away to-morrow morning:  do you understand that?”

Calabressa bowed gravely.

“To comprehend that is easy.  Allons, let us play out the little plot for the amusement of that rogue of a Natalushka.  And if she does not thank me—­eh bien! perhaps her papa will:  who knows?”

Before the overture began that evening, Brand was in his seat in the stalls; and he had scarcely sat down when he knew, rather than saw, that certain figures were coming into the box which he had been covertly watching.  The opera was Fidelio—­that beautiful story of a wife’s devotion and courage, and reward.  As he sat and listened, he knew she was listening too; and he could almost have believed it was her own voice that was pleading so eloquently with the jailer to let the poor prisoner see the light of day for a few minutes in the garden.  Would not that have been her prayer, too, in similar circumstances?  Then Leonora, disguised as a youth, is forced to assist in the digging of her own husband’s grave, Pizarro enters; the unhappy prisoners are driven back to their cells and chains, and Leonora can only call down the vengeance of Heaven on the head of the tyrant.