Well, at last I was back in Milan, much to my satisfaction, as after the strange adventures I had met with in Verona that city became positively hateful to me. Two months had elapsed since the affair of the Palazzo Morone had come to an end, and during that time two marriages in connection therewith had been celebrated--that of Beltrami with the Contessa Morone, at Rome; and that of Guiseppe Pallanza with Signorina Bianca, at Milan. True to his promise, Guiseppe had forfeited his engagement at the Ezzelino, much to the wrath of the impresario, and had rested quietly since at Milan, passing most of his time with Bianca, who was now in a state of high glee preparing for her marriage.

It took place at the church of St. Stefano, in Milan, and out of consideration for the great age of the Maestro it was a very quiet affair, I being the only one present beyond the Angello household, but that was at the urgent request of both Bianca and her husband, who never forgot the services I had rendered them at Verona.

Thanks to my dexterity, Bianca never discovered the truth, and fully believed that Guiseppe had been kept a prisoner at the Palazzo Morone by some enemy who had lured him thither, by means of the letter purporting to come from a dying friend. At first, considering the weak way in which Guiseppe had acted, I did not consider that he deserved his good fortune in marrying such a charming girl as the Signorina, but during the time that preceded the marriage he was so devoted to her in every way, and apparently so remorseful for his amorous folly, that I quite forgave him his momentary infidelity. It was a very pretty wedding, the bride and bridegroom making a handsome couple, and when the ceremony was ended Signor and Signora Pallanza went to spend the honeymoon of a few days at Monza, and I was left alone in Milan.

Guiseppe had obtained an engagement at the Madrid Opera House, and on their return from Monza the young couple were to start almost immediately for Spain, leaving the Maestro under the tender care of Petronella. The old man's health had been failing sadly of late, and I doubted very much whether Bianca would find him alive on her return to Italy, seeing how frail he was in every respect.

Now that he was deprived of his right hand by the marriage of his granddaughter, the Maestro decided to give up teaching, at which decision I was profoundly sorry, as only having been with him a year I had still many things to learn in the art of vocalisation. There was, unfortunately, no one else with whom I could study the same system, for Paolo Angello taught the old, pure Italian method, of which he was the last exponent; and I infinitely preferred the round sonorous notes which his training produced to the shouting, colourless style of present-day singing, which curses the voice with a perpetual tremolo. The elaborate fioriture school of Pasta, Grisi, Ronconi, and Malibran has almost entirely passed away, and in its place what have we in Italy?--nothing but the present abominable fortissimo singing, without grace, sweetness, steadiness, or colour. The old Italian operas were composed not so much as stage performances as to show off the beauty, execution and brilliancy of the voice, while this new school of music-drama; designed principally for dramatic effect, is interpreted by singers who rely but little on the perfection of the vocal organ, and pride themselves not so much on the individual colouring of a single number as on the general broad effect of the whole. Fortunately, however, by incessant work during my one year under Angello, I had acquired a pretty good idea of his system of vocalisation, and hoped, by cautious industry in following out his hard and fast rules, to perfect my singing in accordance with his severely pure method.

Of the Marchese Beltrami and his wife I heard but little, save through the medium of the papers, as except one letter announcing his marriage with the Contessa, and thanking me for my attention to his interests, this ungrateful Luigi had not written to me. I consoled myself with philosophical reflections on the hollowness of friendship, when one day, towards the end of July, I was astonished to receive a visit from the Marchese.

Pallanza and his wife had returned to Milan, and were making preparations for their departure, which was now near at hand. I had just come back from a visit to the Maestro with whom they were staying, and was writing letters in my bedroom, when Beltrami's card was brought to me, upon which I ordered him to be shown into the room in which I was scribbling, so as to secure perfect privacy during our conversation.

In those days of poverty I lived like a cat on the tiles, up four flights of stairs just under the roof, and my one room served me for everything,--that is, as dining-room, reception-salon, and sleeping chamber. I took my meals at a sufficiently good restaurant near at hand, but otherwise the whole of my indoor life was bounded by the four walls of that small apartment, which contained an ingenious bed made to look like a sofa during the day, a wardrobe, a wash-stand, and a diminutive piano of German manufacture hired by myself. Yet, as Beranger sings, "One is happy in a garret at twenty years of age," and I think the days spent in that dingy Milanese eyry were among the most delightful of my life. I was young, enthusiastic, not badly off for a poor man, and devoted to my art, so I used to strum chords on that small piano while I practised my voice, act operatic scenes in front of the looking glass, and dream impossible dreams of applausive multitudes, of recklessly-generous impresarios, and of a career like that of the kings of song.

Then I had a view--a delightful view--of the red-roofed houses of Milan, seen from the window, with here and there a tall factory chimney, the slender tower of a church from whence sounded the jangling bells which used to irritate me, at least, every quarter of an hour, and just a glimpse of the white miracle of the great Duomo, rising like a fairy creation of milky lacework against the deeply blue sky. Even a vision of green trees I obtained by craning my head round the corner of the window, and when it was fine weather I looked at my roof-top view while enjoying a pipe, but when it rained--oh! heavens, Milan was as dreary as London in a fog, and the blue skies of Italy became a fable of inventive minds. The intense heat changed to humid cold, and then I used to shut out this deceptive city of the Visconti by closing my window, and, retreating to the piano, practise exercises with a voice rendered, I am afraid, rather gruff by the chill terra-cotta floor and the damp atmosphere.

It was in this poor but honest abode, as the novelists say, that I received Belt............