Now again the hot fit of his love was in the ascendant.  Never had Bianca more thoroughly captivated him.  Never had it seemed to him less possible to live without her.  What to him were all these dull and empty blockheads for whom be had hitherto lived, and who were now—­the foul fiend seize them!—­sharing with him the delight of seeing and hearing her for the last time.  Yes, it should be for the last time.  He would make her his, all his own; and carry her far away from all that could remind either her or himself of their past lives.  And then a scowl of displeasure came over his face as his glance lighted on his nephew’s noisy and unrestrained manifestations of enthusiastic admiration.

Presently, towards the end of the first act, came the duet between Amina and her lover, who has been made causelessly jealous, and Bianca sang the pretty lines—­

     “Son, mio bene, del zeffiro amante,
     Perche ad esso il tuo nome confido. 
     Amo il sol, perche teco il divido,
     Amo il rio, perche l’onda ti da,”

with a sweetness of expression perfectly irresistible.  The Marchese in his corner, half-shrouded from the observation of the house by the curtain, which, though undrawn, hung down by the side of the box, but fully facing the stage, was perfectly aware that the singer had specially addressed herself to him; and he felt the full force of the loving rebuke for the unreasonable displeasure he had so recently manifested in her dressing-room.  His heart went out towards her; and he felt that if it were to be done that moment, he could have led her to the altar in the face of all Christendom.

At the end of the act the plaudits were again vociferous, and four times was the smiling and triumphant Diva compelled by the calls and clamour of her worshippers to return before the curtain to receive their applause and salute them in return for it.  The Marchese Ludovico again loudly and enthusiastically joined in these manifestations; and then, when they were over, and the noise in the house had subsided, he quietly slipped out of the box, and springing up the stairs which communicated with the upper tier of boxes, entered that occupied by Paolina and the Signora Orsola Steno.

“What did you think of that, Paolina mia?” he said, sitting down by her side, and making the action of applauding with his hands, as he spoke.  “Did you ever hear a thing more charmingly sung?  Is she not divine?”

“There is no mistaking your opinion on the point, at all events, amico mio.  I never saw anybody manifest such unbounded admiration as you did just now.  But the Diva was not thinking of you, I can tell you,” said Paolina, with just the slightest possible flavour of pique in her tone.

“Thinking of me; I should imagine not indeed.  But what upon earth have you got into that dear little head of yours, my Paolina?  Did not you think both singing and acting very fine?”

“Certainly I think her voice is perhaps the finest I ever heard in my life; and she is no doubt a great actress—­a very great actress; but—­she is not simpatica to me.  I don’t know why, but—­somehow or other—­I don’t like her.”