and repeated in a low voice:—"Thirty ducats! thirty ducats for such a master-piece!"
Then, fixing his eyes upon the artist:
"But do you know, master Salvator, that you have cruelly treated me?"
"Thirty ducats!" answered the painter.
"But," added Capuzzi, "you have outraged me in an unworthy manner!"
"Forty ducats," continued Salvator, "and I promise you not to think any more about it, provided you find it agreeable to subscribe to a trifling condition. You are, master Pasquale Capuzzi de Senegaglia, the greatest composer in Italy, and more than that, the most exquisite singer in the universe. I have heard with enthusiasm the grand scene from the opera of Le Nozze di Teti et Peleo, of which that miserable Francesco Cavalli has stolen the divine melody: will you, whilst I put the spinet in order again, sing us that scene? I shall owe you, on my part, an eternal gratitude for it."
Pasquale Capuzzi so well enjoyed this astounding eulogium, that his whole physiognomy was distorted by an ineffable grimace; the muscles of his thin face were puffed out, and his infinitely little red eyes sparkled under a convulsion of the optic nerve, which gave to his looks an expression of satisfied malice that no words could describe.
"But, I am," said he to Salvator, "your very humble servant, for you appear yourself to be in possession of a most exquisite musical taste; your tact in matters of harmony announces the most severe study, and I believe that art would make enormous progress, if the wits of Rome would take your judgment for a guide. Listen, signor painter, listen to my favorite air; I am not lavish of my compositions, but you are capable of appreciating them, and I will treat you like a friend."
Salvator, taken in his snare, prayed God in his heart, to make him deaf at least for that day.
"You load me with joy at the honor," answered he with an inward suffering, worthy of this lie.
