Agostino chuckled audibly.  The Chief resumed: 

“You believe, notwithstanding, that all will go well?  The opera will be acted; and you will appear in it?”

“Yes, signore.  I know one who has determined on it, and can do it.”

“Good.  The opera is Camilla?”

She was answering with an affirmative, when Agostino broke in,—­“Camilla!  And honour to whom honour is due!  Let Caesar claim the writing of the libretto, if it be Caesar’s!  It has passed the censorship, signed Agostino Balderini—­a disaffected person out of Piedmont, rendered tame and fangless by a rigorous imprisonment.  The sources of the tale, O ye grave Signori Tedeschi?  The sources are partly to be traced to a neat little French vaudeville, very sparkling—­Camille, or the Husband Asserted; and again to a certain Chronicle that may be mediaeval, may be modern, and is just, as the great Shakespeare would say, ’as you like it.’”

Agostino recited some mock verses, burlesquing the ordinary libretti, and provoked loud laughter from Carlo Ammiani, who was familiar enough with the run of their nonsense.

“Camilla is the bride of Camillo.  I give to her all the brains, which is a modern idea, quite!  He does all the mischief, which is possibly mediaeval.  They have both an enemy, which is mediaeval and modern.  None of them know exactly what they are about; so there you have the modern, the mediaeval, and the antique, all in one.  Finally, my friends, Camilla is something for you to digest at leisure.  The censorship swallowed it at a gulp.  Never was bait so handsomely taken!  At present I have the joy of playing my fish.  On the night of the fifteenth I land him.  Camilla has a mother.  Do you see?  That mother is reported, is generally conceived, as dead.  Do you see further?  Camilla’s first song treats of a dream she has had of that mother.  Our signorina shall not be troubled to favour you with a taste of it, or, by Bacchus and his Indian nymphs, I should speedily behold you jumping like peas in a pan, like trout on a bank!  The earth would be hot under you, verily!  As I was remarking, or meant to be, Camilla and her husband disagree, having agreed to.  ’Tis a plot to deceive Count Orso—­aha?  You are acquainted with Count Orso!  He is Camilla’s antenuptial guardian.  Now you warm to it!  In that condition I leave you.  Perhaps my child here will give you a taste of her voice.  The poetry does much upon reflection, but it has to ripen within you—­a matter of time.  Wed this voice to the poetry, and it finds passage ’twixt your ribs, as on the point of a driven blade.  Do I cry the sweetness and the coolness of my melons?  Not I!  Try them.”

The signorina put her hand out for the scroll he was unfolding, and cast her eyes along bars of music, while Agostino called a “Silenzio tutti!” She sang one verse, and stopped for breath.

Between her dismayed breathings she said to the Chief:—­“Believe me, signore, I can be trusted to sing when the time comes.”